Chapter Text
Keep your hands clean.
Hughie just stared at his own hands.
His hands, like the rest of his limbs, were pale, slender, and somewhat awkwardly uncoordinated.
Hughie had been tall since his teenage years, but he wasn’t strong. When he tried to move his limbs, he was like a clumsy little foal.
He had grown accustomed to this clumsiness, just as he had grown accustomed to being ordinary—in a world teeming with superhumans, he was ordinary enough. That didn’t just mean he couldn’t glow or shoot lightning bolts; it also meant stumbling as he walked, bumping into tables and chairs and ending up covered in bruises; sometimes he’d feel dizzy when he stood up, and he’d get nosebleeds when classmates threw basketballs at him.
That’s normal, isn’t it? That’s why the world has hospitals, medicine, bandages, and warm comfort.
But after the superhumans appeared, ordinary people became second-class beings.
He used to take it all for granted.
Before his hands became dirty.
Hughie looked at his hands, his pale fingers pushing a syringe into his vein.
It still burned and hurt just as it did in his memory, like a tube of boiling magma. But he relished this pain; after the pain came the reward, the wonderful outcome was about to arrive.
……
Before him was a crying infant.
He didn’t know how God operated (if He existed), but this was probably like that plot to assassinate the infant Hitler.
Hughie looked out of the cell; everything had come to a standstill.
Only he and the infant wrapped in a blue blanket were still moving.
Hughie himself was even more shocked than the infant—he remembered the collapse of the skyscrapers, the fall of the White House, and Homelander’s body (was he really dead?) being taken away by Stan Edgar.
His time with Stan had taught him a lot about Homelander—things he shouldn’t have known. Like: he was a lab-grown freak, his name was John, and he used to love his little blue blanket.
Hughie couldn’t help but wonder if this had influenced his choice of attire. Anyone who’s studied physics would realize that wearing a cape while flying is downright idiotic. Yet, the last time Hughie saw him, Homelander was draping that red-and-white striped cape over himself like a blanket—over that powerless, mangled, and dying body.
So this really is a “Killing Baby Hitler” theme.
Hughie must have been too drunk when he typed that compound—he’d just left Butcher’s graveyard, where Kimiko and Franchi were buried not far away, alongside M.M. and his family.
He’d killed Butcher with his own hands.
God, he really was that drunk.
Hughie looked at his hands. Was he drunk enough to kill a baby?
The moment he appeared, the child stopped crying and just stared at him. Wrapped in a blanket and sucking his thumb, the child didn’t look the least bit afraid.
Look at this bleak prison—the cold, bare walls, the heavy iron door, the incandescent lights burning all night, the metallic scent, the noise of the basement ventilation system. Even the Son of the Virgin Mary would grow up to be a psychopath in a place like this.
“Hey.” Hughie crouched down and offered a weak greeting. “Are you going to shoot me with a laser?”
The child looked at him, his eyes a blue so vivid they seemed unreal, his hair a pure white-gold.
“Homelander’s bleached hair” was a long-standing rumor—the roots at the sides of his neck were always a deeper brown, while the top of his head shone golden—and many pointed out that it didn’t look natural. So the gossip spread: the superhero who represented all of America was actually dyeing his hair like a fashion-obsessed Valley girl.
Hughie didn’t know where this ranked among all the disgusting things Homelander had done, but the topic certainly sparked a lot of discussion. People were like:
Homelander killed people? Built concentration camps?—Come on, that was just a little punishment and a chance at redemption for wayward Starlight followers.
Homelander dyed his hair blonde? — Oh my god, the whole American Idol thing is a complete and utter lie!
Now Hughie can confirm that he really is a natural blonde—a pale, almost white blonde—and with those blue eyes, he looks like the kind of baby Hitler would kiss.
Speaking of Hitler…
Hughie took a step forward, his heart racing.
Ordinary methods can’t kill Homelander, but what about when he’s this vulnerable?
Hughie’s body had been enhanced too; he could feel it—it was like recovering from a cold and realizing he’d been breathing through a stuffy nose and living with a mountain on his back all along.
He could squeeze this baby’s neck until he died.
With a flash of thought, he’d already teleported to the baby’s side.
John, Hughie called him silently in his mind.
He was probably only a year old, not yet old enough to speak—my God, he’d never have the chance to know his own name in this lifetime.
Keep your hands clean.
His hands rested on that tender little neck.
A flood of thoughts raced through his mind. The butterfly effect, quantum entanglement, karma… Even without John, Vought would still have created Homelander, wouldn’t he?
But Hughie tightened his grip, just as he had when he killed Butcher.
Billy Butcher, his friend, his brother… His hatred for Homelander was enough to blow up a city. But in the end, he had placed his life in Hughie’s hands.
He didn’t want any more losses.
Hughie thought: for Butcher, for Becca, for his partners. If he wanted to be a bit more hypocritical, he could also say it was for little John’s tragic life that hadn’t even begun yet.
The force he applied could have bent steel, but the baby only let out a faint gurgle.
Hughie tensed, ready to dodge if Homelander fired a laser at him—he’d better be able to dodge it in an instant.
Homelander grabbed his hand.
His mouth opened, and tiny hands clasped his wrist. His eyes flashed with dangerous red beams—and… tears.
He clung to Hughie’s arm with almost all his strength.
The touch of skin made him look so content. Even as excruciating pain shot through his neck, he still pressed his face gently against Hughie’s wrist.
His tears dried on his skin.
…What on earth does he think he’s doing?
Hughie pulled away, gasping for breath.
Homelander… or rather, John, immediately pulled him into his arms. He looked at him with that same wet, expectant gaze he’d had from the moment he appeared, nestling against his chest and holding him with superhuman strength.
His grip was so tight that, without drug-enhanced strength, Hughie’s organs might have been squeezed out.
Hughie only had time to cover himself with the blanket that had fallen off—he hoped the other man wouldn’t remember any of this: the nudity, or the fact that he’d tried to kill him.
Was there any other way?
Steal him away? Take him to a place where no one knew him, to save him from the poison of Vought?
But who knew if Homelander was inherently evil? The extent of his malice…
Soon he could no longer think.
Hughie watched the child’s hand pass right through his body, yet he felt no pain—he had become nothing.
The vision before him vanished.
……
Hughie sat in the abandoned basement where he’d discovered the compound, the smell of dust and mold permeating his entire body, almost making him itch.
A syringe containing a portion of the V compound was still stuck in his arm.
—Was that a dream?
Hughie opened his phone; it was full of messages from Anne.
They had already parted ways.
Sometimes, those who can share the hardships cannot share the joys. There had been too much trauma; just seeing each other inevitably brought back memories of those painful pasts, like watching two birds struggling in asphalt.
The world hadn’t gotten any better, and time hadn’t healed everything yet.Vought was still churning out the next generation of products. Capital is a giant ship adrift on a dead sea.
Anne: Ryan mentioned you today.
Anne: I think he’ll understand someday…
Anne: Hughie, we still love you.
Anne: Please reply and let me know you’re okay.
So was that a dream?
Hughie lifted his shirt; there seemed to be a bruise around his ribs, as if his arm had been wrapped around them, but it quickly faded, like a hallucination.
He opened his phone and searched for “Homelander.”
Six months after his death, discussions about him were still everywhere.
Of course, if Homelander didn’t exist, Ryan wouldn’t exist either; he failed to kill Hitler, and the war still broke out.
At that moment, a photo caught his attention.
It was a promotional photo from when Homelander led the Seven.
It showed two versions of his outfit: one was the promotional uniform, just as he remembered it, with the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the wind.
The other was his “everyday rescue” outfit—though that, too, was just a staged publicity shot.
But this uniform didn’t have a cape.
Hughie felt a shiver run through him. He shifted his body, forgetting the needle was still in his arm, which sent a sharp sting through him.
Hughie glanced at the syringe.
Then, he pushed it in a little further.