Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Hydro Form
“Queen Maeve of The Seven and Homelander heroically saved lives once again today. On the streets of Brooklyn, they intercepted a hijacked armored truck, then stayed to take photos with a group of very lucky fans.”
(Photo op upstairs)
...
Homelander and Queen Maeve appeared on the TV.
Beside them, several fans were happily posing for pictures.
Damien Lee sat slumped on the couch with a cigarette between his lips, next to a Beagle wearing the deadest, most defeated look imaginable.
“See? See that? It’s always him. TV, newspapers, the internet.”
“Hell, even when I’m watching porn, he’s in the damn sidebar ads.”
“I’m seriously afraid that one day at work, I’ll pull a condom out of my drawer and his face’ll be printed on the damn wrapper.”
Beside him, Bibira nodded in agreement.
“Exactly. I’m just trying to eat, and even the dog food ads are all him.”
“He doesn’t even eat dog food. What the hell does he know? He’s just a giant baby.”
“We’re better than him.”
“Damn right.”
“Damn right, my ass. You’d be lucky if you were worth one hair off Homelander’s balls.”
“Keep running your mouth and forget about dog food tonight.”
“Master, I’m sorry.”
...
This was Damien’s third year since transmigrating into The Boys universe.
In the world of The Boys, superheroes were no longer aliens or people enhanced by advanced technology. They were “products” created through human experimentation with [Compound V], designed to make money.
Under the careful packaging and total control of Vought International, the towering giant of the superhero entertainment industry, superheroes had become national idols with massive followings. They were Vought’s cash cows.
But these superheroes were nowhere near as shiny and clean as they looked on-screen. Behind the scenes, most of them were wrapped up in every filthy, rotten thing imaginable.
Drugs, prostitution, treating human life like trash. You name it, they did it.
Basically, ninety percent of the superheroes in this world were complete pieces of shit.
Like other novel protagonists, Damien had received a system the moment he transmigrated.
The system was called the [Annual Superpowers Blind Box System].
The name sounded pretty impressive, but Damien had spent the last two years cursing it out in his head.
The rules were simple. He could draw one Superpower per year, the draw was irreversible, the ability had no consumption cost, and its strength depended on mental strength and imagination.
Sounds perfect, right?
It would have been, if he hadn’t drawn “Super Sexual Ability” in the first year and “Dog Language” in the second...
When Damien first arrived in this world, Vought happened to be holding open auditions for new heroes.
Relying on the people-reading skills he had picked up from corporate life before transmigrating, plus a good-looking face, he somehow forced his way into the finals.
He had been hoping the system would give him Heat Vision or a body of steel. Instead, the first year’s blind box gave him “Super Sexual Ability.”
Aside from satisfying a few rich women in Vought’s upper management, what the hell was that supposed to do in a fight between Supes?
Was he supposed to drop his pants and beat someone to death with it?
The second year, Damien had been full of hope.
Then he drew “Dog Language.”
So he adopted Bibira.
He had thought it would be a peaceful, happy life with one man and one pet.
Instead, this Beagle learned none of the good habits, picked up every bad one, and even copied Damien’s explosive way of talking.
During the day, it followed Damien around screwing off. At night, it stayed home whining.
Because of that, Damien had gotten more than a few complaints from the neighbors.
But as time passed, this deadbeat Beagle became the only one he could really talk to.
On top of that, whenever Damien was broke and desperate, Bibira could always find the trash can with the most food in it.
In a way, the two of them really did count as brothers who had been through hardship together.
With those two special skills, plus his extremely high emotional intelligence, Damien somehow managed to carve out a place for himself at Vought International as The Seven’s hidden eighth member.
That’s right, the eighth member. After all, it was perfectly normal for The Seven to have eight people.
No codename, no uniform. On the surface, he was just a pretty face coasting on his persona, specifically responsible for cleaning up The Seven’s messes and handling internal PR.
Damien stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Bibira, what’s the date today?”
The Beagle rolled his eyes, skillfully picked up the hookah beside him, and started puffing away.
“The fifth. Your utilities are due.”
“Still making money as a gigolo tonight?”
Damien stood up, his eyes sharpening.
“What kind of bullshit is that? You can’t call that being a gigolo. Labor is glorious. Do you understand that or not?”
“Today marks exactly three years since I transmigrated.”
The system panel popped up right on time.
[Annual Blind Box is ready. Do you wish to draw?]
Damien took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together.
He had kept his head down for two whole years. For two years, he had played Homelander’s go-to emotional support guy. Whenever Homelander had a breakdown, he either went to Madelyn or to Damien. At this point, Damien was damn near Homelander’s personal therapist.
If he drew “Cat Language” or “Hair Regrowth” today, Damien was ready to throw himself off the top floor of Vought and hit the pavement elbow-first.
“Draw!”
A flash of gold lit up the panel.
[Draw successful.]
[Ability acquired: Hydro Form.]
[Ability description: The host can transform any part of their body, or their entire body, into liquid water, becoming immune to the vast majority of physical attacks. The host can manipulate external water sources. Ability strength increases with proficiency.]
Damien froze.
He looked down at his hands.
With a single thought, his right palm instantly dissolved, turning into a stream of clear water that splashed onto the carpet.
Bibira jumped back in fright, his fur standing on end.
“Holy shit! Did you piss out of your hand?”
Damien ignored the stupid dog.
“I really need to think about making you a stray.”
The water on the floor seemed alive as it flowed upward against gravity, crawling back along his pant leg and gathering at his wrist, where it reformed into a flesh-and-blood hand.
No pain.
No delay.
Physical immunity.
In this world of Supes who could punch through buildings like it was nothing, what did physical immunity mean?
It meant Homelander’s fist hitting him would be like punching the Pacific Ocean.
It meant A-Train slamming into him at top speed would do nothing but splash up a burst of water.
The corner of Damien’s mouth curled up into a slightly unhinged grin.
Three years. Did anyone know how hard those three years had been for Damien?
For three years, he had played the obedient little bitch, giving Homelander daily counseling, listening to Queen Maeve vent, and watching dolphin documentaries with The Deep.
Now, he finally had the capital to flip the damn table.
....
Chapter 2: Good Buddy Homelander
Damien controlled his right hand, turning it from an arm into droplets of water, then into a sharp blade, and finally into a lifelike water lily.
No delay. It moved as naturally as his own arm.
Bibira crouched on the coffee table, one paw pressed against the hookah as he blew a smoke ring.
“So what the hell can you even do with that ability?”
“Now that you mention it, I did just think of something... Sometimes you really do need a little water.”
Damien shot him a look and was just about to start cursing him out.
Crash.
The floor-to-ceiling window by the balcony shattered with a thunderous blast.
A violent gust of wind swept into the living room, carrying shards of glass with it.
Bibira let out a terrified yelp and scrambled under the couch, leaving only a wildly trembling dog tail sticking out.
A red-and-blue figure hovered outside the balcony.
Homelander.
He was wearing his signature Stars and Stripes uniform, his blond hair slightly mussed by the wind.
He did not use the door. He simply descended from the sky, stepped through the broken glass, and walked into the living room.
Damien remained seated on the couch. He did not get up. He did not even brush the glass off himself.
He glanced at Homelander’s face.
That old “friendly” smile of his was long gone.
Right now, Homelander’s eyes were rimmed red, the corners of his mouth were turned down, and the muscles in his jaw were tight.
That was the look he got before killing someone.
Damien’s voice stayed calm as he pointed at the couch beside him.
“John.”
“Sit.”
“Take a wild guess what my door is for.”
Homelander did not sit, and he did not answer the question.
He strode right up to Damien and stared down at him.
His chest rose and fell violently as he kept taking deep, ragged breaths.
Homelander gritted his teeth, his voice forced out from deep in his throat.
“What the fuck are they?”
“A bunch of ants. And that goddamn fat bastard. He wanted an autograph so badly he put his filthy, ketchup-covered hands on my cape. My cape!”
He swung his arm hard, and the solid wood dining table in front of him exploded with a crash, sending splinters flying everywhere.
Under the couch, Bibira let out a muffled whimper.
Damien stood up and walked into the kitchen, then smoothly took a bottle of specially supplied pure milk from the fridge.
“Where’s Madelyn? What did she say?”
“Her?”
Homelander sneered, his eyes instinctively drifting to the milk in Damien’s hand.
“She blamed me for not smiling for the cameras. She blamed me for scaring that fat guy.”
“All she cares about is the company’s stock price and those disgusting polling numbers. She doesn’t give a shit what I think!”
Damien poured the milk into a glass, put it in the microwave, and set it to thirty-seven degrees.
Leaning against the wall, Damien spoke gently.
“You’re this world’s hero, John. Of course they don’t understand you.”
The microwave dinged.
Damien walked over with the warm milk and handed it to Homelander.
Homelander stared at the glass, and the violence in his eyes eased a little.
He took it, tilted his head back, and drained it in one gulp. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and a trace of milk stayed at the corner of his mouth.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
But when he opened them again, he had not calmed down the way he usually did.
He stared hard at Damien, his gaze turning dangerously sharp.
“What about you, Damien?”
“You listen to me complain every day. You pour me milk.”
“Do you think I’m a monster too? Are you like them? Scared of me? Trying to control me?”
With every sentence, Homelander took another step forward.
Damien did not step back.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
Those words seemed to hit one of Homelander’s rawest nerves.
He suddenly lunged, his right hand shooting out as he grabbed Damien by the throat and lifted him into the air.
The immense force instantly crushed down on his windpipe.
In the past, Damien would have immediately used one of his prepared psychological scripts to soothe him, or pretended to be in pain to satisfy Homelander’s need for control.
But today, Damien’s arms hung naturally at his sides as he looked at Homelander calmly.
No struggling.
No fear.
Homelander sensed something was wrong.
His grip tightened, pressing enough force against Damien’s neck to crush steel.
But there was no sound of bones breaking.
Splash.
Homelander suddenly felt his palm close on nothing. Damien’s neck dissolved in his hand, turning into a stream of clear water that slipped through his fingers.
Homelander froze.
With nothing supporting him, Damien dropped back to the floor.
The spilled water moved as if it were alive, rushing upward against gravity and reforming into an intact neck in less than half a second.
Damien rolled his neck, producing a crisp crack.
“You...”
Homelander’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took half a step back.
The next second, blinding red light flared in his eyes.
Hiss.
Two searing red beams shot from Homelander’s eyes and struck Damien’s chest with pinpoint accuracy.
An extreme heat powerful enough to cut through an armored truck erupted.
Damien’s chest was pierced straight through.
But there was no blood.
No charred flesh.
The part struck by the beams instantly turned into boiling vapor.
Thick white mist spread through the living room, blocking everything from view.
The Heat Vision stopped.
Homelander stood in place, chest heaving, staring hard into the white mist in front of him.
The mist dispersed.
Damien was still standing there.
Water rippled along the edges of the gaping hole in his chest. Clear streams quickly gathered and wove together toward the center, filling the empty space in the blink of an eye and restoring his flesh-and-blood body.
Even the shirt on him was perfectly intact, protected within the liquefied form.
Damien took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and bit it between his lips.
He walked up to the stunned Homelander, leaned close to the corner of his eye, where a faint wisp of heat still lingered, and used that leftover warmth to light his cigarette.
He took a deep drag and exhaled smoke.
“Done venting, John?”
Homelander’s whole body jolted. He looked at Damien like he was staring at some completely unfamiliar creature.
“You... you’re a Supe? You lied to me for three years!”
Homelander’s voice rose as anger and the feeling of betrayal surged up inside him.
Damien took the cigarette from his mouth and looked Homelander straight in the eye.
“If I hadn’t hidden it, what do you think Madelyn would’ve done?”
Damien’s voice was low, each word striking directly at Homelander’s weak spot.
“I know how you think.”
Homelander froze. Being lied to felt like shit, but Damien was telling the truth.
Damien patted Homelander on the shoulder and said quietly,
“John, Vought International doesn’t need two uncontrollable gods.”
“I hid my ability because I only wanted to be your brother, not some tool Vought International could use to keep you in check.”
“It’s been three years. Who let you vent when you were hurting? Who calmed you down when you were falling apart...”
Those words were like a surgeon’s scalpel, slicing cleanly through the deepest defenses in Homelander’s heart.
He had no shortage of worshipers. He had no shortage of people who feared him. But what he desperately wanted was an equal. Someone like him.
Someone he could not crush with a casual squeeze. Someone he did not have to tiptoe around with his strength. Someone who stood wholeheartedly on his side.
The anger in Homelander’s eyes vanished.
In its place came a nearly deranged kind of joy.
He suddenly threw both arms around Damien and hugged him tight.
The force was enormous.
Damien felt a sharp pain in his ribs and immediately liquefied his torso to shed the terrifying pressure.
Homelander buried his head against Damien’s shoulder, his voice actually carrying a trace of choking emotion.
“Brother.”
“You don’t break. I finally... I finally don’t have to worry about breaking you.”
Under the couch, Bibira poked out half his dog head and rolled his eyes hard.
Even a freak would look at this and say, yeah, that’s fucking freaky.
The two separated.
The gloom on Homelander’s face was completely gone. He was even wearing the kind of excited smile he only showed during a slaughter.
“We should go celebrate.”
Damien was just about to speak when the phone in his pocket vibrated.
He took it out. A name was displayed on the screen.
Madelyn.
Damien answered and casually put it on speaker.
Madelyn’s cold voice came through with a hint of urgency.
“Lee.”
“Something happened. Translucent is missing.”
“His last known location was near an electronics store. Go check it out first. Don’t alert the media.”
“If necessary, inform the others immediately and clean up everyone who knows.”
The call ended.
Damien looked at the phone screen, the corner of his mouth curving into a cold smile.
The Boys. Hughie Campbell. Billy Butcher.
The plot had finally begun.
Damien tossed the phone onto the couch and turned to look at the excited Homelander.
....
Chapter 3: Waiting for News of a Death
“John, I’ve got something to take care of. Let’s talk about dinner later.”
Homelander shrugged. Since it was Madelyn’s assignment, he did not have much to say.
“Whoosh!”
In an instant, Homelander vanished from Damien’s sight.
Damien watched him fly off and sighed.
“Man, flying must be nice. You’d never be late delivering takeout.”
Bibira was speechless.
“Look at you. You can fly, and the first thing you think of is food delivery?”
“You’re hopeless.”
Damien sat back down on the couch and thought over the direction of the original plot.
Starlight would join The Seven today. The mayor of Baltimore would threaten Vought by exposing Compound V. Homelander would laser the mayor’s plane out of the sky and turn it into an air disaster. Translucent would be kidnapped...
A lot was happening, but none of it was urgent.
Damien had always been good at sorting out priorities.
So what mattered most right now? No question. Having some damn fun first.
Damien changed into another outfit, brought Bibira along, and headed for a place only Supes knew about. The Underground Superhero Nightclub.
The so-called Underground Superhero Nightclub was really an underground club Vought quietly allowed to exist, a place made for Supes to drink, do drugs, screw around, and blow off steam. Only Supes and staff could get in.
Damien naturally had the qualifications to enter, but because his Superpowers used to be so worthless, he only came here when he needed money for living expenses. The rest of the time, he mostly stayed at Vought or at home.
But now, things were completely different. Damien’s current abilities were absolutely top-tier.
Before, Damien had kept his head down and watched every step he took.
Now? Damien just wanted to fuck shit up.
...
Downtown Manhattan, an abandoned underground bomb shelter.
Damien pushed open the heavy metal door. Deafening heavy metal music slammed into him.
Bibira padded along at his feet, dog paws stepping over the carpet as he expertly avoided the scattered syringes and unidentified fluids on the floor.
This was Vought’s silently approved money pit.
The lights were dim, with red and blue lasers sweeping across the booths.
On the sofa to the left, a four-armed Supe had three barely dressed women in his arms.
At the bar on the right, some guy who could breathe fire was using his finger to light a cigar and casually set the bartender’s hair on fire while he was at it, drawing a round of laughter.
Damien walked up to the bar and tapped the counter.
The bartender, wearing heat-resistant gloves, put out the flames on his head and pushed over a glass of whiskey.
“Lee, that fat chick from last time came looking for you. Said you rocked her world and she wants another round.”
Damien took the whiskey, feeling a wave of disgust.
If he had not needed the money, he never would have driven that tank.
“Tell her I’m dead. And tell her not to come looking for me again.”
Bibira jumped onto a barstool, planted his front paws on the counter, and barked.
The bartender rolled his eyes and poured out a bowl of dog food mixed with vodka.
“Give me something fresh. Don’t try to pass off last week’s crap.”
Bibira complained in Dog Language.
Damien did not translate. He just patted the dog’s head.
A gust of wind blasted through.
The glasses on the bar rattled violently, liquor spilling over the rims.
A black man in a blue bodysuit appeared beside Damien.
A-Train.
He grabbed a bottle of tequila from the bar, bit the cap off, and chugged half of it.
A-Train set the bottle down and slammed it onto the counter.
“Hey, Lee.”
He spoke fast, his body twitching in tiny, unconscious jerks.
“Where’s John? You’re not with him?”
Damien lifted his whiskey and took a sip, noticing the twitch at the corner of A-Train’s eye.
“John’s in a good mood today. Didn’t need me.”
“You look like shit. Using again?”
“And how many times have I told you? Don’t drink and run, don’t run and drink.”
A-Train’s expression shifted. He looked around, then lowered his voice.
“Shut the fuck up. Don’t run your mouth. I just finished a run, that’s all. Adrenaline’s still pumping.”
Damien smiled and did not argue.
He knew exactly what kind of shape A-Train was in.
To keep his spot as the fastest man in The Seven, this guy could not function without Compound V anymore. His heart had been overloaded for a long time.
Damien leaned against the bar, his tone casual.
“I saw the news yesterday.”
“Robin? That was her name, right?”
A-Train froze for a second, then spread his hands with exaggerated sympathy.
“Oh, that girl. Jesus, man. A real tragedy.”
He called it a tragedy, but there was not a trace of grief on his face.
“I was chasing down a robber. I was moving too fast.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know she’d be standing in the middle of the street? I couldn’t stop.”
A-Train leaned closer to Damien, lowering his voice with a mocking curl at the corner of his mouth.
“You know what it felt like? Like running through a water balloon full of red paint. Pop. Whole thing just came apart.”
He made an exploding gesture in the air.
“When I stopped, I’d swallowed one of her teeth.”
“Fucking disgusting.”
A-Train burst out laughing before anyone else could, his laugh sharp and grating.
A few Supes in the nearby booth started whooping along with him.
Bibira lifted his head from the dog food bowl and curled his lip in disgust.
Damien watched A-Train laughing like a maniac.
No anger. No pity.
In this world, ordinary people’s lives were worth less than weeds. Even if these Supes killed someone, they would never face any punishment for it.
But the gears of revenge had already started turning. Hughie would never let this go.
Damien raised his glass and clinked it against A-Train’s empty bottle.
“Cheers. To the water balloon.”
Damien smiled.
A-Train laughed even harder, snatched a martini the bartender had just finished mixing, and downed it in one gulp.
“You’re alright, Lee.”
“Everybody says you’re a useless pretty boy, but I know you get us.”
A-Train slapped Damien hard on the shoulder.
A day ago, Damien would have had to grit his teeth and take it.
But now, the muscles in his shoulder instantly liquefied by a fraction of a millimeter, dispersing all the impact before returning to normal just as quickly.
A-Train noticed nothing.
“I gotta go. Got an energy drink commercial to shoot. Those brain-dead directors keep telling me to smile.”
Another gust of wind whipped through.
A-Train vanished, leaving only an empty glass spinning on the bar.
Bibira licked the vodka clean from the bowl and let out a drunken burp.
Bibira cursed in Dog Language.
“That asshole’s gonna die from women or drugs sooner or later.”
Damien set down his glass.
“Not sooner or later. Soon. Someone’s going to break his legs, his heart’s going to fail, and in the end he’ll be nothing but a stray dog.”
Damien’s voice was very soft, soft enough that only Bibira could hear.
He did not need to punish A-Train himself.
The Boys would drag these high-and-mighty heroes off their pedestals and stomp them into the mud.
What Damien had to do was take what belonged to him in the middle of the chaos.
From deep inside the nightclub came a woman’s moans and a man’s loud laughter.
Damien found a secluded booth and sat down.
He took out his phone and looked at the message Madelyn had sent.
“Have you found Translucent yet?”
Damien tapped the screen and replied.
“Still checking. The surveillance near the electronics store was deliberately damaged. I need time.”
Message sent.
Damien tossed his phone onto the table.
Of course he knew where Translucent was.
That pervert who liked hiding naked in women’s bathrooms to peep on people was currently locked inside an electrified metal cage.
Hughie and Butcher were racking their brains for a way to kill him.
Translucent’s skin was made of carbon nanomaterial. Blades could not cut it, guns could not pierce it, and a chainsaw could not saw through it.
But his insides were soft.
Soon, Hughie would shove a C4 charge up Translucent’s ass and press the detonator.
Blood would rain everywhere.
That would be The Boys’ first shot fired at Vought.
And it would be the stepping stone for Damien’s official rise.
The Seven could not be short a member.
Starlight had just joined today, filling the vacancy left by Lamplighter.
If Translucent died, The Seven would have another open seat.
Madelyn needed someone obedient, someone who could keep Homelander steady, and someone who could handle a PR crisis to fill that vacancy.
No one fit better than Damien.
For three years, Damien had carried the empty title of “The Eighth,” with no codename, no merchandise, and no profit share.
He was going to use this chance to turn that empty title into real power.
Bibira jumped onto the sofa and found a comfortable spot beside Damien’s legs.
The Beagle closed his eyes.
“You planning to sit here all night?”
Damien lit a rolled cigarette.
“Waiting for news.”
“What news?”
“News that someone’s dead.”
...