(Two in the morning, far from the city)
It had been a while since he'd been running from the men of Vought.
He was being chased no matter where he went, and he didn't even know how they knew exactly where he was going—because even he didn't know where he was going. So how did they know?
Well, that didn't matter right now, because he was already far from the big city, heading onto highways that led God knows where.
He was walking along the edge of a dark highway.
He thought it was a good idea to get away from the city. To be honest, he had nowhere to go.
After walking for a few hours and passing some buildings—car dealerships, mechanic shops, that kind of thing that sat along the highway—he found a gas station that was open 24 hours. It was lit up and seemed to be working.
"Are they open?" V-25 asked himself, looking at it from a distance.
After that, he shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a white piece of paper with a phone number on it.
He was already exhausted, and people kept coming after him trying to capture him. What did he have to lose by making that call?
"I hope they have a phone… and clothes," he murmured as he walked.
When he got closer to the station, the outside area with the pumps was empty, with no one around, while the inside—the little shop—was lit up.
It was one of those mixed gas stations that sold all kinds of things besides gas: candy, drinks, magazines, some clothes, that sort of everyday useful stuff.
Looking like a homeless guy after so much fighting, he really needed to change clothes.
Before going inside, he noticed a motorcycle parked outside—probably belonging to an employee. He didn't think much of it at first.
He went in.
(Ding)
The first thing he looked at when he entered were the candy bars and popcorn bags spread around the store.
He couldn't help but drool a little—he was starving.
He also noticed the trucker clothes hanging for sale.
"Can I help you?" someone asked in a monotone voice.
He heard the voice and turned to look.
It was the gas station clerk, standing behind the counter chewing gum. He was wearing the station's uniform, had a sleepy face, and looked bored—like he hated his job so much that anyone could tell just by his expression.
"I… I need to make a call. Do you have a phone I can borrow?" V-25 asked.
The clerk, in the same monotone voice, ignored the question and said:
"What happened to you… just get back from the war?"
"Almost," V-25 replied.
The clerk raised an eyebrow and said:
"Don't wanna tell me? Let me guess then. You went to a party you didn't want to go to, but got kinda forced into it, things didn't go very well, you somehow got humiliated by some big jerk, and then had to walk all the way home," he said, almost like he was remembering the past.
V-25 looked thoughtful.
Hey man, did that happen to you? Poor guy, he thought.
"Y-yeah… almost that. You got most of it right," V-25 said.
"Yeah, I figured. Young people usually mess up. I'll lend you my phone, but tell me who you're calling," the clerk said.
"I'm calling my… uh… my parents," V-25 said.
"And what's your name?" the clerk asked.
"My name?"
"Yeah, your name. Don't remember your own name? Damn, that party must've been good," the clerk said, a little envious.
"Of course I remember my name, it's… James," V-25 said.
The clerk didn't seem fully convinced, but let it go.
"Cool. You can use it. Just don't steal it," he said, handing over the phone.
"I won't… thanks," V-25 said, taking the phone.
He pulled the paper out of his pocket again, dialed the number, and waited.
"Just a minute," "James" said, stepping away.
"All good, my man," the clerk replied.
He went outside with the phone and waited for Frenchie to answer.
Meanwhile, far from there, inside a car that was completely beat up, parked in a lot, there were three guys inside who, at a glance, looked like they might be part of a gay group.
They were sleeping, but woke up when one of them got a call.
Frenchie's phone rang, and he was the first to wake up, followed by the others, curious.
Still half-asleep, he picked up the phone and asked in his accent:
"Who is it?" Frenchie asked, not really convinced the call was for him, since the number was unknown.
He waited and heard a voice.
"It's the guy from before. You helped me, and you said you could help me again—that I could call whenever I needed help."
Frenchie, sleepy and unfocused, realized who it was, jumped up immediately, and leaned forward.
"Mon cœur? It's you?" he asked.
"It's me. I still don't know your name, by the way," V-25 said.
"My name? All my friends call me Frenchie," he replied.
Inside the car, Butcher and MM woke up.
"Who the hell is it?" Butcher asked.
"This better be important, Frenchie. If you woke us up to talk to one of your hookers, I swear I'll throw your phone out of this car," MM said.
"It's him," Frenchie replied.
Butcher and MM understood immediately.
"What does he want?" Butcher asked.
"He wants our help," Frenchie said.
"And how the hell are we supposed to help him?" Butcher said, very politely.
"I don't know, that was your idea, Frenchie," MM said.
"Grace can help him. I can't, but she can," Frenchie said.
"Frenchie, I've been followed all night by a bunch of lunatics from some organization. Can you help me, whoever these guys are?" V-25 asked.
"Of course, mon cœur, but let me think first, okay? Just a second," Frenchie said.
"Alright," V-25 replied. To be honest, he could hear the conversation of the other two in the car, but he didn't really care.
"Why should we help this little bastard, Frenchie? What do we get out of it?" Butcher said.
Before Frenchie could answer, another voice replied to Butcher's question.
"Well… if you help me, I'll be in your debt. I'll owe you a favor—plus my gratitude, of course."
"A favor…" Butcher murmured, analyzing the situation.
All three of them seemed to have the same idea.
"No. Don't even think about it, you two," Butcher said.
"You thought the same thing, Butcher," MM said.
"It's not safe. Not reliable. If we do this, we're breaking the basic idea of our little group."
"Screw the rules. Nothing else is gonna work against that guy, but this might," Frenchie said.
"We still don't know if he can handle it," Butcher said.
"Uh… exactly what are you guys talking about?" V-25 asked.
"It's nothing big, mon cœur. Just something we were thinking that maybe you could help us with…" Frenchie replied.
"And what would that be?" V-25 asked.
Butcher was blunt.
"If you help us kill Homelander," he said.
"Kill? You want me to kill someone?" V-25 asked.
"Yeah, quick job. Simple thing. Real easy. No big deal," Butcher replied.
V-25's head spun. He had killed before and hadn't liked it, but he would do it if necessary. Killing someone who hadn't attacked him first felt wrong.
"I can't kill an innocent person who hasn't done anything to me. Why would I do that?" he said.
"Then you don't get our help," Butcher replied flatly.
"This Homelander… he's an actor? What is he?" V-25 asked.
"Almost. He's an asshole who deserves to be dead. That's the deal. We help you, you kill Homelander for us."
"I'm not killing an innocent guy," V-25 said.
"Innocent? If that's the problem, mon cœur, don't worry. He's not innocent. He's a terrible person—one who deserves to be dead," Frenchie said.
V-25 thought it over. He was tired and figured he'd say whatever it took to get their help.
"Alright, fine. I'll help you—but on one condition. I won't kill him unless I judge that he deserves it. Is that okay with you?" he asked.
Butcher and the others exchanged looks. Frenchie and MM nodded for Butcher to agree.
"Fine. I accept your terms. But if you're lying or plotting something against us, know that it'll be very bad for you," Butcher said.
"Alright," V-25 replied, not very intimidated.
Butcher handed the phone back to Frenchie.
"Listen, mon cœur. I'm gonna call someone who can help us—she'll help you. But you'll have to wait a bit. It won't take long if everything goes right and she answers," Frenchie said.
"Okay, but don't take too long. There are probably more people coming after me," V-25 said.
"Okay, okay. Wait. I'll call you back. Don't disappear, mon cœur."
Frenchie hung up and immediately called Grace.
Meanwhile, back at the gas station, V-25 waited outside.
The clerk stepped out and asked:
"Done already?"
"Not yet… technically yes, but not really."
"Glad it worked out for you, my man. Your ride coming to pick you up?" the clerk asked.
V-25 gave him an honest look, then glanced at the motorcycle and replied:
"Yeah. My ride's already on the way."
Meanwhile, at Grace's house, she was asleep when she got a call.
It was a familiar number—Frenchie.
She answered, hoping it wasn't anything serious, when he said:
"It's him, Grace. He wants our help, and I told him you could help him. We made a deal: we help him, and in return he helps us kill Homelander."
Grace, still sleepy, widened her eyes immediately.
"What? You said I'd help someone without even asking me what kind of help it would be?"
"I did," Frenchie replied.
"Are you crazy, Frenchie? You can't do that," Grace said.
"Sorry, but it's true. There's not much I can do, but you can."
Grace sighed and asked:
"What does he want?"
"Vought is after him—you already know that. But he says no matter where he goes, they always find him," Frenchie said.
Grace thought it through and understood immediately.
"A tracker. They must've put a tracker in his body. As long as it's there, they can always find him. Vought does that to all the supers they have—he must have one too."
"A tracker? How didn't I think of that before? You're a genius, Grace," Frenchie said, already hanging up.
"Wait, Frenchie, wait," Grace said, trying to warn him it wouldn't be that simple—but he hung up before she could.
Back at the gas station.
The phone rang, and V-25 answered.
"A tracker, mon cœur. They put a tracker in you. That's how they know where you are and where you're going," Frenchie said.
"A tracker? But when?" V-25 murmured.
Then he remembered—maybe when he'd been unconscious.
"Shit. Thanks, Frenchie. I'm gonna hang up and take the tracker out."
He hung up.
He went back into the store and asked the clerk:
"Do you have a knife I can borrow?" he asked.
"A knife? What do you need a knife for? You're not gonna go around stabbing people, right? Or kill me?" the clerk asked.
"Of course not. I just have a small problem. Uh… my underwear…"
"I don't wanna know… here, take the knife," the clerk said, making a disgusted face.
"Thanks," V-25 said, taking it.
He went to the bathroom. Once inside, he took off his shirt in front of the mirror.
He took the chance to look at his new body.
He was skinny, around 16 years old, relatively short for his age—but he could still grow, probably would now that he was a supe.
His hair was brown and long, reaching down to his neck.
He kind of looked like the Winter Soldier.
He spent some time searching for the tracker. After a while, he found it.
It was in his neck. He could clearly feel the chip under his skin when he touched it.
"Shit… fuck, this is gonna hurt," he murmured.
He pressed the knife against his neck, squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed.
But to his surprise—no blood, no pain.
Instead, the knife's tip bent.
"Shit… how am I supposed to get this thing out now?" he muttered.