The briefing came just as I predicted. Mallory's expression was unreadable as she laid out the mission.
"The Aerie. A legacy Vought facility. Recently, we've detected anomalous energy signatures. Potential security breach. Homelander is… otherwise engaged with a media tour." The slight pause was deliberate. Edgar was keeping his hammer sheathed. "You will lead a small team to investigate and secure the site. Full diagnostic sweep. This is a quiet one. No press."
The team was a telling mix: Black Noir, the ever-silent watchdog, and a new, young Supe I didn't recognize—a telekinetic named Wraith, clearly Mallory's pick. I was being trusted, but not alone.
The flight to upstate New York was silent. Noir was a statue. Wraith, a kid barely out of his teens, vibrated with nervous energy, stealing glances at me. I was a legend to him, a cautionary tale turned colleague.
The Aerie was exactly as described: a brutalist concrete complex built into the side of a mountain, overgrown and forgotten. It felt old, heavy with secrets. The air itself tasted of static and regret.
We landed at the main entrance. The doors, thick steel, were sealed.
"Wraith," I said. "The lock."
The kid focused, his brow furrowing. I felt the subtle push of his telekinesis against the mechanism. It was strong, but clumsy. I could have done it faster, cleaner. But I was playing a role.
The door groaned open, revealing a dark, dusty corridor. The air that washed out was cold and carried a faint, chemical scent that made the back of my neck prickle. Compound V. Even after decades, its ghost lingered.
"Move in," I commanded. "Noir, take point. Wraith, rear guard. Scan for life signs."
We advanced into the gloom. My enhanced senses painted a picture of abandonment. Dust motes danced in the beams of our lights. Lab equipment sat under sheets, like corpses in a morgue. Butcher's intel was good. This was the place.
According to the schematics Butcher provided, the archive was in Sub-level 3. We reached the central elevator shaft. The car was gone, a yawning black pit below.
"We descend," I said.
I used my gravity control, creating a localized field of low gravity around us. We floated down into the darkness, a surreal procession into the heart of the beast.
Sub-level 3 was different. The dust was thinner. The air had a faint hum of active power. My instincts screamed a warning.
Noir stopped, holding up a gloved hand. He pointed to a nearly invisible laser grid ahead, its source and destination hidden in the walls. State-of-the-art security. This was no forgotten tomb.
"Deactivate it," I ordered Wraith.
He tried, his telekinesis fumbling at the panel. A red light on the wall began to blink. An alarm.
"Shit," the kid whispered.
In a blur of motion, Black Noir had three throwing stars embedded in the panel. The laser grid flickered and died. He'd known exactly where to strike. He'd been here before.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't just a test for me. Noir was here to report on my every move. He was Edgar's true eyes and ears.
We finally reached the archive door—a massive, circular vault of reinforced titanium. It was sealed with a complex bio-metric and keycode lock.
"This is beyond my paygrade," Wraith said, his voice shaky.
"Stand back," I said.
I placed my hands on the cold metal. This was the moment. I reached out with my telepathy, not to the lock, but to the memories of the facility. I pushed, searching for the ghost in the machine, for the memory of the code in the mind of the one who last sealed it.
And I found it. A flash of an old man's hand, gnarled with age, inputting a sequence. *7-3-1-0-5-Charles.*
But as the memory solidified, another one slammed into me, violent and unwelcome. It wasn't mine.
I see him. Frederick Vought. He's proud. He calls me his masterpiece. But his eyes are afraid. He knows what I am. What he made me. The pain of the injections is a fire in my veins. I want to scream, but I am silent. I am always silent.
It was Black Noir's memory.
The shock of it broke my concentration. I staggered back from the door, my head pounding. The psychic echo was so strong, so raw, it felt like my own.
Noir was looking at me, his head tilted. He could feel it. He knew I had touched his past.
"The code is 7-3-1-0-5-Charles," I gasped, reeling from the invasion.
Wraith input the code. The vault door hissed, its locks disengaging with a series of heavy thunks. It slowly swung open, revealing rows upon rows of ancient servers and filing cabinets.
We had reached the heart of the serpent. But as I stepped across the threshold, I knew one thing for certain.
I was not the only one with ghosts. And Black Noir's were far older, and far more dangerous, than mine.