[Welcome Home, Son]
Inside a long-abandoned grocery store.
The last door at the end of the hallway.
The room was small, containing only a bed, a table, and a chair.
There were no photos, no decorations, nor anything else that could help identify the resident.
He closed the door, placed his marker and notepad on the table, pulled off his tactical gloves, and sat down on the edge of the bed in a daze.
His thoughts in a tangled mess, Black Noir leaned against the wall next to the bed and closed his eyes.
The light from the fluorescent bulb flickered through his mask, flashing against his eyelids and making him exceptionally irritable.
It was a brutal, painful memory.
Summer in Nicaragua had been cold and bloody.
The dampness there was thick enough to soften bones.
The sound of boot soles caked in mud crushing shell casings was chillingly eerie.
Having been oppressed by that tyrant for so long, they had joined forces to rebel.
They were going to ship the culprit—the demon who bullied every teammate equally—to the Soviet Union.
Back then, before the mortar smoke in the camp had even cleared, Swatto had already been blown to pieces.
Soldier Boy had just straightened up under a hail of debris from shattered sandbags, his shield still held across his chest, when a scarlet energy beam slashed in from his flank.
*Thud!*
A deafening shriek erupted instantly.
Before Soldier Boy could even grunt, he was sent flying sideways, crashing heavily into the knee-deep mud.
Before he could even get up, Mindstorm’s mind control followed, like an ice pick driving straight into his cerebral cortex.
His vision distorted, his sense of balance was severed, and his ears filled with high-frequency buzzing.
He knelt in the mud, propped up by his shield, and looked up to see his teammates closing in on him from all directions.
Crimson Countess stood on top of an overturned jeep, hands wrapped in lingering scarlet energy, a sneer playing on her lips.
Gunpowder crouched behind an ammo crate, holding a modified grenade launcher.
Mindstorm stood by the campfire in the center of the camp, his eyes rolled back.
The three of them coordinated with exceptional synergy—Crimson Countess suppressed him from a distance, Gunpowder provided cover fire, and Mindstorm severed Soldier Boy’s senses.
This cooperation wasn’t put together on the fly; it was a “grand show” they had secretly rehearsed more than once.
On the simulated training grounds provided by Vought, under a tactical plan personally approved by CEO Edgar, the target was only one: beat the human tank Soldier Boy down and deliver him to the Soviets.
Soldier Boy stood up again with his shield, and Gunpowder’s grenade arrived.
He tilted his head; the grenade grazed his ear and hit the tank armor behind him, blasting a smoking crater.
Crimson Countess took advantage of his suppression to charge an even larger blast.
Her hands drew an arc in the air, the scarlet energy condensing into an expanding orb of light between her palms before she thrust it forward.
Mindstorm added pressure from the side, his mind control draping over Soldier Boy’s head like an invisible net.
Soldier Boy’s mind instantly felt as if it had been shoved into a high-speed blender; his eyes vibrated, and his eardrums buzzed.
The demon spoke.
“You bastards.
Which of you didn’t usually rely on me to stand in front?
Which of you didn’t survive thanks to my shield?
Now look at you, fucking stabbing me in the back together.
Great.
Who gave you the balls…”
Having tanked a massive onslaught from his teammates, Soldier Boy stood up as if nothing had happened, shifting his gaze from Crimson Countess’s face.
He swept his gaze over Gunpowder and Mindstorm, and finally locked onto the direction of the wrecked Sherman tank on the west side of the camp.
“Looks like it’s you.”
Black Noir.
A useless mute who couldn’t even speak properly, a coward who dreamed of being a goddamn Broadway actor, mocked by Soldier Boy his entire career.
Of all this rabble, Black Noir was the one he looked down on the most.
And now, this spineless, weak loser who lived like a sissy actually had the guts to plan all this?
“Just wait, Black Noir,” Soldier Boy spat through his teeth.
“You stupid fucking dog.
You put on a hell of a show.”
With a sudden explosion of movement, Soldier Boy threw off the debris pinning him down, swung his shield with his right hand, and slashed diagonally upward.
The edge of the shield slammed into Crimson Countess’s wrists before she could retract them.
The scarlet light wave was violently cut off before she could unleash it, throwing her entire body backward.
*Thud!*
Her back slammed into the jeep’s hood, the windshield shattering into a spiderweb pattern of cracks spreading from the impact point.
“Aaargh!” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
Gunpowder gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.
But before the grenade could leave the barrel, Soldier Boy had already closed the distance.
Like a charging bull, his shoulder slammed into Gunpowder’s chest, throwing him and his launcher into a pile of ammo crates.
*Crash!*
The wooden crates splintered under the impact, scattering bullets and casings everywhere in the mud.
Mindstorm wanted to use mind control again, but the furious Soldier Boy was single-mindedly focused on killing Black Noir.
His willpower was off the charts, making him impossible to control.
If Mindstorm rushed in blindly with zero combat prowess, facing Soldier Boy would be like slaughtering a chicken—and he would be the chicken.
So he could only watch helplessly as Soldier Boy stalked toward Black Noir’s position.
The demon was coming.
Black Noir—him.
He opened his mouth to say something, but Soldier Boy didn’t give him the chance.
He grabbed him by the back of the neck like a stray cat and dragged him out from behind the tank.
Suffocation hit him hard.
He kicked his legs in desperation, his boot heels plowing two deep trenches in the mud.
The demon carried him for about ten steps, then swung him violently, slamming him against the armor plate of the Sherman tank.
He slid down the armor and collapsed into the mud.
All the air was forced out of his lungs.
He opened his mouth to inhale, but his diaphragm spasmed, drawing in nothing.
Before he could scramble up, the demon grabbed him by his collar, hauled him up again, and pinned him to the tank armor.
Those angry, bloodshot eyes looked down at him from mere inches away.
His voice was raspy, spitting blood-flecked words through gritted teeth.
“They all had a part in this, but they didn’t have the fucking balls.
You did.
You think you’re tough, huh?
You worthless stray, trying to bite back.
Who the fuck do you think you are?”
When the first punch landed, he didn’t even have time to react.
He only felt his entire head go numb, followed by a low, vibrating hum deep inside his skull.
Fragments of teeth rolled in his mouth.
His tongue slipped against broken bone, only able to make wheezing noises.
And again, he was hauled up by the demon.
*Smack!*
Air squeezed through his ruptured trachea, making a sharp whistling sound, but no words could form.
From that punch onward, his vocal cords were crushed, rendering him a mute forever.
And then, time stood still.
He became a disfigured, permanently mute tactical puppet—a “cleaner” who would never achieve his dream of being an actor.
As the memory grew fuzzier, its edges darkened.
Out of the darkness emerged a soft, warm glow, within which stood a few brightly colored cartoon animals.
The first to pop up was a beaver wearing a blue baseball cap, the cap pulled down low, almost covering his eyes.
Next was a pink piglet in overalls, its round belly hanging over the waistband—incredibly cute.
But the eyes of the two cartoon animals looking at Black Noir were filled with immense sadness.
“You look terrible.
Is this…
Soldier Boy?
Earving, why are you remembering this again?”
“Oh, my poor little Noir.”
The pig walked up to Black Noir, clumsily patting his shoulder with its hoof, and said gently, “But Soldier Boy has been dead for years!”
“I saw someone looking for information on Soldier Boy today,” the self in Black Noir’s mind replied.
His voice was as concise as the sentences he usually wrote on cardboards with a marker, but it carried a tremor he didn’t want to admit.
His cartoon form—a lamb wearing a miniature version of the black uniform—stood before the beaver and the pig, his fists clenched tight.
“It’s The Deep.
He went to the archives this morning and dug through the files from 1944.
It was the injection records for Soldier Boy, which also included clinical trial data for V1.”
“Earving, maybe it’s just a misunderstanding.” This story is hosted at g.com.
The beaver’s voice lowered, paw pressing down on his hat.
“Maybe The Deep is just really interested in history.”
“He’s never been interested in history,” Black Noir said without hesitation.
“Then I think you should go check it out.
At least you’ll have an answer in your heart.”
The pink pig pulled its hoof back from Black Noir’s shoulder, its overalls strap sliding down a bit further.
“Go on.
Otherwise, you won’t sleep again tonight.”
Black Noir’s infiltration plan was highly professional.
First, he walked around The Deep’s neighborhood, mapping out every entrance and exit.
One of the front streetlights was broken; its glow only reached the edge of the sidewalk, leaving the porch completely cast in shadow.
The fire escape ladder had rust on it, and two bolts leading to the roof were loose, but the structure was still stable.
The bottom of the ladder was in a camera blind spot.
The camera’s infrared indicator light wasn’t on—either it was broken, or it hadn’t been installed at all.
Black Noir noted these details one by one, then chose the mouth of the alley opposite the fire escape on the side of the apartment building as his observation post.
This spot was perfectly shaded from overhead surveillance by the canopy of an old oak tree, while also offering a clear view of the front door and side windows of The Deep’s apartment.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Just past 1:00 AM, the lights in The Deep’s apartment went out.
A moment later, the side door of the building opened.
The Deep walked out, having changed into dark casual clothes, carrying a manila envelope.
He glanced left and right, let his guard down, and walked toward the street corner.
Black Noir watched his figure disappear around the corner from the shadows, choosing not to follow him.
Following him rashly would only alert him.
If the other party had some trick up his sleeve, it would only make things more troublesome.
What he wanted to investigate was the traces left behind by The Deep.
After ensuring that The Deep’s footsteps had completely vanished, he stepped out from the shadow of the old oak tree.
He slipped to the side of the building, grabbed the metal frame of the fire escape, and scaled it soundlessly.
The rubber soles of his combat boots pressed against the rusty iron steps, but Black Noir controlled his weight to perfection, making not a single sound.
When he climbed to the windowsill of The Deep’s floor, he hooked one hand over the ledge, wedged his other boot into a brick gap protruding less than a centimeter from the wall, and hung suspended in midair.
His other hand drew a shim from his utility pouch.
The window was an old-fashioned double-hung window.
The crescent lock was already loose; he inserted the shim into the gap and popped it open with a gentle nudge.
He pushed the window open and slipped into the hallway like a black ghost.
At the door of The Deep’s apartment.
Black Noir squatted, checking the lock with his gloved fingers.
It was a standard spring latch lock, no security chain installed.
The cylinder was the most common type on the market, easily opened with a twist of his lockpick.
*Click.*
He stood up, pocketed his tools, and closed the door behind him.
Switching on his UV flashlight, he scanned the entire living room.
The apartment was dark, illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the window.
An octopus lay curled up in a tank, its tentacles twitching occasionally.
A stack of papers sat on the coffee table.
Black Noir walked over, looked down, and immediately recognized it as the clinical trial list for Compound V.
One of the names had been circled in red by The Deep, with a question mark scribbled next to it.
He put the list back, stood up, and swept the deep violet beam across the floor, the walls, the sofa, and then the doorframe.
Behind the mask, Black Noir’s pupils constricted.
Under the UV light, a scorched trench showed its full silhouette.
It cracked all the way from the lock down to the bottom of the threshold, the charred edges of wood glowing with a strange dark violet fluorescence under the UV rays.
There were even a few fine cracks on the surrounding wallpaper caused by the shockwave, extending all the way to the ceiling.
This was a big deal.
How could a useless piece of trash like The Deep…
have Heat Vision?