The weeks following the "Believe" Expo Massacre were a masterclass in corporate propaganda. Vought sculpted it from raw fear and public fascination. The "Z-Drug Crisis," as they had christened it, was a work of cynical genius. It was the perfect invisible enemy, a shadowy cartel of supervillains cooking up a Supe-killing poison in a secret lab somewhere. It was terrifying, it was vague, and it was completely fabricated.
From the sterile comfort of my command center, I watched it all play in glorious high definition. I saw focus groups reacting to mock-ups of the "Z-Drug" logo. I saw Vought's marketing department A/B testing different taglines for their new anti-drug campaign. And I saw the crown jewel of their strategy. Homelander, floating in front of an American flag, his expression a perfect blend of paternal concern and divine disappointment.
"There's a new poison on our streets," he said, his voice echoing with synthetic sincerity. "A cowardly weapon designed to attack us, to attack the very heroes who keep you safe. But I want to promise you this. We will hunt down these merchants of death, and we will bring them to justice."
The public ate it up with a spoon. Vought's stock soared to an all-time high. They had successfully turned their greatest security failure into their most profitable marketing campaign.
[You gotta hand it to them, they're good,] the System's voice commented as I watched the PSA for the tenth time. [Turning a mass murder into a PR win? That's a Tier 1 corporate power right there. You really should have asked for a cut.]
"Their success is my success," I replied, leaning back in my chair. "The more they chase this Z-Drug phantom, the less they're looking for me. Their circus provides the perfect cover for my work."
My days were spent in the private gym, mastering the feel of my new abilities. Cryokinesis was about controlling energy, about understanding thermodynamics on an instinctual level. I learned to flash freeze a thrown projectile, to create razor sharp sculptures of ice from the moisture, and to coat my own skin in a near-impenetrable layer of organic ice armor.
My shapeshifting was an infinitely potent tool. I spent hours in front of a full-length mirror in the training room, practicing its nuances. I would pull up photos and videos of random people from the internet, news anchors, actors, politicians, ordinary people in street interviews and focus on replicating them.
I felt a liquid sensation as my bones shortened or lengthened, my facial structure re-forming, my vocal cords tightening or loosening to match a new voice. At first, the results were crude, like a wax sculpture left too close to a fire. But with each transformation, my control became more precise. I learned to mimic their posture, their common mannerisms, and the exact cadence of their speech. I was becoming a perfect mimic, a living ghost capable of wearing any face I chose.
My new primary interest was an abandoned warehouse down by the docks, a place I had located by tracking Billy Butcher's known associates. Using my Size Alteration power, I had slipped inside days ago and planted a series of microscopic listening devices and cameras. From there, I had hacked their phones, their laptops, and every digital account they owned.
Butcher, Frenchie and their new recruit, Hughie Campbell. They were a surprisingly effective little crew. They were a wrench in Vought's finely tuned machine, and that made them a potential asset. Or a potential liability. I hadn't decided which yet.
[I'm voting liability,] the System chimed in. [These guys are amateurs. They rely on brute force and righteous anger. Your work is surgical, while theirs is more like a sledgehammer, a very loud, very messy sledgehammer]
"Their methods are crude," I agreed, my eyes glued to the live feed. "But their results... their results are interesting."
I watched the events unfold from the comfort of my penthouse. I saw Frenchie explaining the weakness of Translucent's carbon metamaterial skin. I saw their desperate attempts to find a way to kill him, their frustration mounting with each failed idea. I saw them stuff C4 up his ass.
Translucent's invisibility, granted by his carbon skin, was a strong option for many of my future operations. What could be more valuable than the power to become truly invisible. It was the perfect complement to my Size Alteration, a massive upgrade to my stealth capabilities. And Butcher's crew was doing all the hard work of capturing and containing him for me.
Butcher's plan was clear. He wanted to blood Hughie, to force the kid to cross that final line and become a killer like him. If Hughie killed Translucent, he would be bound to Butcher's crusade forever.
And my plan was simple. Let them do the hard part while I stayed invisible and patient. Wait for the right moment, intercept the kill, and take the power for myself. Then disappear, leaving them to deal with the messy aftermath.
A few days later, the camera I'd hacked inside Vought Tower caught something interesting. Translucent was absent from another meeting. Homelander went straight to the security room and ordered the staff to locate him using the tracker implanted in his body.
After getting the location, Homelander flew straight toward their base, following the signal. He began searching the surrounding area. Inside the hideout, Butcher and Frenchie heard the loud crack of a sonic boom. When they checked the cameras and saw Homelander nearby, they panicked.
They quickly made a plan. Butcher and Frenchie would go outside to distract Homelander before his search inevitably led back to them.
They left Hughie behind to guard the cage and keep an eye on Translucent.
Taking advantage of the distraction, I parked my untraceable sedan a few blocks from their base. Then, in the quiet solitude of the car, I shrank.
I slipped out through the door seal. I was an almost invisible speck on the grimy sidewalk. I dodged the heavy footsteps of pedestrians, crossed the jagged cracks in the pavement, and finally reached the front door of "Gitmo on the cheap," as Butcher so eloquently called it.
I slid under the door and began the long descent into the basement.
I found a perch in the shadows behind a stack of discarded computer monitors, with a clear view of everything.
There was a crude but effective cage. Inside it was Translucent, naked and almost invisible. And there, sitting on a rickety chair, was Hughie Campbell. He looked pale, his hands shaking as he stared at the red button on the detonator resting on the table in front of him.