Walking into Vought Tower felt like surrendering. The lobby was a monument to corporate power, all gleaming marble and smiling, vacant-eyed employees. I'd come alone, in my Mazahs form, the black cloak and crackling energy drawing terrified, awe-struck glances. I was a wolf entering a kennel, and every instinct screamed at me to turn back.
A sleek, overly cheerful woman in a pantsuit—another Ashley clone—greeted me at the security checkpoint. "Mr. Mazahs! Homelander and Mr. Edgar are expecting you. Right this way."
Mr. Edgar. Stan Edgar. The real power behind Vought. Homelander was the weapon, but Edgar was the finger on the trigger. This was a deeper level of danger than I'd anticipated.
The elevator ride to the top floor was silent and agonizingly slow. I could feel the weight of the building, the invisible surveillance, the psychic hum of countless Supes. I mentally slammed down my telepathic shields, burying my thoughts and emotions behind layers of borrowed mental fortitude.
The doors slid open onto a corridor of breathtaking opulence, leading to a set of double doors. They opened into an office that wasn't an office; it was a throne room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a god's-eye view of the city. And there, standing by the window, was Homelander.
He wasn't in his full regalia, just a dark blue tactical suit. He looked… relaxed. He turned as I entered, that famous smile not quite reaching his dead eyes.
"So," he said, his voice a smooth, conversational baritone that held an undercurrent of absolute power. "The man of the hour. Or should I say, the monster? Tough to tell the difference these days."
He gestured to a chair opposite a massive obsidian desk. Seated behind the desk was Stan Edgar. He was impeccably dressed, sipping from a porcelain cup. He didn't look up as I entered, his attention fixed on a tablet. He was the calm at the center of the storm, and his indifference was more intimidating than Homelander's posturing.
"Have a seat," Homelander said, still smiling. It was an order, not an invitation.
I sat, the Mazahs form dissipating in a flicker of black energy, leaving me as Alex. It was a calculated risk, a show of… not vulnerability, but a different kind of strength. I was saying I didn't need the costume to face them.
Homelander's smile widened. "Interesting. You clean up okay."
Stan Edgar finally looked up. His gaze was cold, analytical, devoid of any human warmth. He looked at me the way a biologist looks at a promising new specimen.
"Alex," he said, his voice flat. "Let's dispense with the theatrics. You've killed several valuable Vought assets. You've cost this company a significant amount of money and prestige. And now you're here. Explain to me, in simple terms, why I shouldn't have Homelander throw you through that window and be done with it."
The threat was delivered with such casual finality it was more terrifying than any roar.
"Because you can't kill me," I said, my voice steady. I was channeling Compound King's arrogance and Graviton's cold logic. "You can try. It might even work. But the cost would be catastrophic. Or, you can use me. I'm more powerful than any Supe you have on payroll. I'm a strategic asset."
Edgar took another sip of his tea. "An asset with a history of insubordination and murder."
"An asset who understands the new reality," I countered. "The world is changing. You need more than just a smiling face and laser eyes to control it. You need someone who can operate in the shadows. Someone who can solve problems that can't be solved with a press conference."
Homelander chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. "He's got a point, Stan. The kid's got balls. And he's right. Black Noir is… efficient, but he lacks imagination. This one? He's got ambition. I like ambition."
Edgar placed his cup down with precise delicacy. "Ambition is only useful if it's directed. Your 'negotiation' involved a public display of power. That was… bold. But it also makes you a liability. If you join us, there will be rules. Your past actions will be publicly condemned. You will be a redeemed villain, under my personal supervision. Every mission, every public appearance, will be approved by me. You will be a tool, Alex. My tool. Do you understand the difference?"
I understood perfectly. He was offering me a gilded cage. Power, but only the power he allowed me to have. I would be a showpiece and a weapon, my leash held by the most powerful man on the planet.
"I understand," I said, meeting his gaze. "I'm here to be useful."
"Good," Edgar said, a flicker of something—satisfaction?—in his eyes. "Homelander will oversee your… integration. You'll be assigned a handler. Your public debut will be carefully managed. Welcome to Vought, Alex. Don't make me regret this."
He dismissed me with a slight nod, turning his attention back to his tablet. The meeting was over. It had lasted less than five minutes.
Homelander clapped a hand on my shoulder. The grip was firm enough to crush steel. "See? Painless. Now comes the fun part." His smile was a predator's grin. "Time for you to meet the rest of the toys. And your first assignment."
As I followed him out of the office, the door clicking shut behind me, I felt the walls of the cage close in. I was inside. I had my foot in the door.
Now I had to survive long enough to burn the whole place down from the inside.