Homelander led me down to a lower floor, one that buzzed with the frantic energy of a media company. "This is where the magic happens," he said, waving a hand at the glass-walled offices and editing suites. "Where we make heroes."
He stopped outside a door marked Public Relations - Special Projects. "Your new home away from home. And your new babysitter."
He pushed the door open. Sitting behind a cluttered desk, frantically typing on a laptop, was a woman I recognized. Grace Mallory. Former CIA, now the head of Vought's "special projects"—a euphemism for cleaning up their messes.
She looked up, her sharp eyes taking me in with a single, dismissive glance. She looked tired, and deeply unimpressed.
"Grace," Homelander said, his tone shifting to one of mocking deference. "Meet your new problem child. Try not to let him kill anyone we like."
Mallory's lips tightened. "Homelander. I was told I was getting a new asset, not a walking PR nightmare."
"They're the same thing, darling," he said with a smirk. He turned to me. "Grace here will teach you how to play nice. She'll be your point of contact. Your mission control. Don't screw it up."
With a final, smug look, Homelander turned and strode away, leaving me alone with the woman who had once hunted Billy Butcher.
Mallory waited until he was gone before she spoke. "Sit," she said, pointing to a chair.
I sat. The office was a stark contrast to Edgar's. It was functional, filled with files and monitors, a place of work, not intimidation.
"Let's get one thing straight," she began, closing her laptop. "I don't like you. I don't trust you. And I know this is a shit-show waiting to happen. But Edgar thinks you're useful, so you're my problem now. You will follow my orders to the letter. You will not use your powers unless I authorize it. You will not speak to the press unless I write the script. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," I said.
"Good." She opened a folder and slid a photograph across the desk. It showed a man in his fifties, with a kind face and a professor's tweed jacket. "This is Dr. Evan Fletcher. A brilliant biochemist. He's been… vocal about Vought's environmental pollution from our Compound V production facilities. He's planning to release a damaging report tomorrow."
I looked from the photo to her. "And my assignment is?"
"To persuade him to be quiet," she said, her voice utterly devoid of emotion.
"Persuade him how?"
She met my gaze, her own steady and cold. "That's up to you. Use your hypnotic powers. Threaten him. Bribe him. I don't care. But the report does not get released. This is your test, Alex. A simple, clean operation. No bodies. No property damage. Just results. Show me you can be the tool Edgar wants you to be."
My first assignment. Not to fight a rogue Supe. Not to save anyone. To silence a whistleblower. To protect Vought's secrets.
It was the first step on a very dark path. The path Homelander and Edgar wanted me to walk. To prove my loyalty, I had to become the monster they believed me to be.
I picked up the photograph. Dr. Fletcher looked like a good man.
"When do I start?" I asked, my voice a hollow echo in the tiny office.
Mallory allowed herself a thin, grim smile. "Right now."