The next day, I found myself in the back of a tinted SUV, heading toward a Vought-sponsored "community outreach" event at a city park. Sitting across from me was A-Train, a.k.a. Reggie, decked out in his full blue-and-white supersuit, earbuds in, ignoring me completely.
The tension was thick enough to slice. He knew what I was. He knew I'd killed his former teammate, Popclaw. He also knew I was now, officially, his new "partner." Homelander's idea of a joke, no doubt.
Our "handler" for the day was a Vought publicist, a relentlessly cheerful man named Chad who kept trying to get us to rehearse our "banter."
"Okay, guys, so when you get out of the car, A-Train, you give Mazahs a little playful shove, like 'Hey, try and keep up, slowpoke!' And Mazahs, you give a cool, confident smile. We're going for 'friendly rivalry.' The fans will eat it up!"
A-Train grunted, not taking his earbuds out. I stared out the window.
The event was a surreal spectacle. Hundreds of kids and their parents, screaming as we stepped out of the SUV. A-Train put on his TV smile, a brilliant, fake thing, and went through the motions—signing autographs, taking selfies, using his speed to do pointless, flashy tricks like arranging a mountain of cans into a pyramid in half a second.
I followed, a silent, looming presence. My role was to be the "strong, silent type." I shook hands, nodded, and let the kids stare at the black energy still faintly crackling around my hands. They were equal parts terrified and fascinated.
During a lull, A-Train sidled up to me, his smile never wavering for the cameras.
"Look, man," he muttered under his breath. "I don't know what your game is, and I don't care. You stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours. We do this little dance for the cameras, and we go our separate ways. Capiche?"
"Understood," I said, my voice low.
"Good. Because let's be clear," he said, his eyes hardening behind the smile. "What happened to Popclaw... we're not cool. We'll never be cool. This is strictly business."
Before I could respond, a commotion erupted near the stage. A man, his face twisted with rage, broke through the security cordon. He wasn't armed with a gun; he was holding up a sign that read VOUGHT KILLED MY SON.
"Murderers!" he screamed, pointing a shaking finger at A-Train. "You and your Compound V! You killed my boy!"
Security guards moved to tackle him, but A-Train held up a hand. He strutted toward the man, the picture of condescending calm.
"Sir, I understand you're upset," A-Train said, his voice amplified by the PA system. "But this is a family event. Let's talk about this rationally."
"Rationally? My son is dead because of your poison!" the man sobbed.
A-Train's smile was a razor blade. "I'm sorry for your loss. But you can't believe every conspiracy theory you read on the internet. Now, why don't you let these nice security guards help you find some... professional help?"
It was disgusting. A blatant, public gaslighting of a grieving father. The crowd was eating it up, cheering A-Train for his "compassion."
I stood there, forced to be a prop in this grotesque performance. This was Vought's "heroism." This was the system I was now a part of.
As the man was dragged away, weeping, A-Train turned back to the crowd, waving. He glanced at me, and I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—not remorse, but a sharp, cynical satisfaction. He'd won. He'd protected the brand.
The event continued, but the air had changed. The joyful cheers now felt like a mockery. I had spent weeks worrying about the big, dramatic tests—the fights, the assassinations. But this... this slow, soul-crushing complicity in everyday evil... this was the real danger. This was how they broke you. Not with a punch, but with a smile.
As we got back into the SUV, A-Train put his earbuds back in and closed his eyes, completely unaffected. I looked at my reflection in the tinted window. The man staring back was wearing a Vought-approved suit and had just helped silence a victim.
The cage wasn't just made of bars anymore. The bars were starting to feel comfortable.