The news was disseminated by Vought International’s public relations department.
A single photo.
There was no descriptive text, no press release, no announcement of a press conference.
Just a photo posted on Vought International’s official Twitter account.
The resolution was low.
It was clearly captured by some surveillance recording.
In the image, a man in a brown-green jacket stands on the rooftop of an apartment building in Brooklyn, with the gray-blue dawn sky of New York in the background.
Only three-quarters of his profile was visible, but that was enough.
That jawline, that shoulder-to-width ratio, that posture of standing with one hand in his pocket was identical to the one seen in the black-and-white documentary footage playing on a loop at the Vought History Museum.
The photo was posted exactly at seven in the morning, and by eight, Twitter’s servers had crashed.
In just one hour, the servers were flooded with over eight million quote retweets.
Led by TikTok.
All platforms were spreading the same phrase exponentially: “Soldier Boy is back.”
The Nasdaq giant screen in Times Square, New York, urgently changed its content.
They replaced the day’s stock data with an old photograph of Soldier Boy provided by the Vought Museum.
In 1944, on the beaches of Normandy, he carried that iconic diamond-shaped shield with the bald eagle, while the sky behind him was filled with burning landing craft and anti-aircraft fire.
Below the black-and-white photograph, a line of gold-stamped characters was displayed:
“The legend returns.
Soldier Boy’s return to Vought International is confirmed.”
More and more people gathered in the square.
Some raised their phones to take photos of the giant screen.
Some made video calls to their parents, crying in front of the screen.
Others ran out of their hotel rooms in their pajamas.
A veteran in his sixties, wearing a faded old military uniform with some tarnished medals pinned to his chest, stood directly beneath the giant screen.
He looked up at the black-and-white photograph, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, his lips trembling as he repeated over and over:
“I saw him when I was a kid, I saw him in a parade when I was a kid…”
CNN interrupted its regular morning news program.
A female anchor on MSNBC said to the camera with reddened eyes:
“The significance of this for America cannot be described in words.”
Several Fox News commentators reached an unusual consensus.
They used the headline “The Greatest Comeback of the Century,” with a font size that almost filled the entire screen.
And the central figure of this carnival had already arrived on the street.
He was going to find someone.
The Upper East Side of New York, an old-style apartment building, well-maintained but not excessively ostentatious.
The doorman was an elderly Italian man in his sixties who glanced at Benjamin and stepped aside without asking a single question.
The door opened.
The Legend — the former Senior Vice President of Vought International, the man who once ran the entire Supervisory Affairs Department.
At this moment, this old legend lived in this apartment filled with old posters, ancient film reels, and expired magazines.
It was two in the afternoon and he wore a bathrobe covered in pills, with a martini in his hand.
He looked much older than Benjamin remembered.
“Good God.”
The Legend stared at Benjamin in the doorway, his martini glass trembling, the liquid almost spilling.
“What they said on Twitter is true.”
“Didn’t you unfollow me on Twitter?”
“Yeah, and then I made a burner account.”
The Legend stepped aside to let him in.
“Come in and talk.
After all, you’re America’s first hero.
Don’t let people notice you.”
The interior of the apartment seemed much larger than from the hallway.
The walls were covered with movie posters; some were originals, others were signed, and others were out-of-print editions that even the Vought Museum might not have in its archives.
Benjamin stood in the center of the living room, his gaze sweeping across those posters.
His own face stared back at him from different angles.
War propaganda posters from the forties, recruitment ads from the fifties, and a comic book cover with poor print quality.
“You haven’t changed a bit since the posters.”
The Legend closed the door, leaned against the frame, and examined Benjamin from head to toe.
The Legend was silent for two seconds.
“How did you know I kept them?”
“Because you’re The Legend.”
Benjamin said:
“You couldn’t have thrown my suit in the trash.”
The Legend took a sip of his martini and said nothing.
He went into the bedroom, came out a moment later, and was carrying a garment bag in his hand.
He placed the item on the sofa.
Inside was the following: a dark green suit, with a white star emblem on the chest and scratches of varying depths on the shoulder pad.
The fabric felt a little stiff, but it was preserved almost perfectly; even the metal parts of the wrist buckles had been polished to a shine.
Then there was the shield, although only Soldier Boy could hold it; The Legend couldn’t lift it.
The shield was engraved with a bald eagle with outstretched wings, Soldier Boy’s weapon.
The edges were slightly worn, but not a single rivet was missing.
He arrived at the place where the shield was stored.
Benjamin reached out, hooked his fingers through the inner leather straps, lifted the shield, slid his arm through the straps, and twisted his wrist.
The shield cut through the air with a low whistle.
The Legend watched the scene, a complex expression on his face.
“You killed Black Noir last night,” he said, although his tone didn’t sound like a question.
“My son killed him.”
“What’s the difference?”
The Legend picked up his martini glass again and sat down on the sofa.
“Stan Edgar called me this morning.
Guess what he told me?”
“Tell me.”
“He said you’ll be working at Vought International tomorrow.
Executive Director of the Department of Superhero Affairs.
With a clearance level higher than Homelander’s.”
The Legend looked over the rims of his reading glasses with a scrutinizing gaze.
“Vought tortured your son, packaged you up and sold you to the Russians, and you’re still going to sit down to dinner with them?”
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
Benjamin leaned the shield against the armrest of the sofa and began to undress.
“Good God.”
The Legend looked at his body, paused.
“They used you as a guinea pig.”
“That’s right, a lab rat for forty years.”
Benjamin put on the suit lining, with slow movements.
“But that’s not the point.
I have something to ask you.
Where is Crimson Countess?”
The Legend’s fingers, holding the martini glass, froze on the rim.
“You didn’t come back to remember the past; you came back to settle scores.”
“It’s to remember the past and also to settle scores.”
Benjamin fastened his chest armor and began buckling his wrist guards: “Give me the address.”
“She’ll run.”
“She can’t run.”
“Even if she runs, with Vought International around, how long can she hold out?”
The Legend was silent.
Then he put down the glass, picked up a pen from the coffee table, and wrote a few lines on the edge of a blank page of an old magazine.
“Vought isn’t all bad people.”
The Legend handed him the paper and said slowly.
Benjamin took the paper, folded it, and put it in the pocket of his suit lining.
He understood what The Legend meant and then said:
“I know, you’re not a bad person, my good-hearted son wouldn’t be either, and there are some ordinary workers, low-level employees, some normal supervisors…”
“So…
I’m going to rebuild a new Vought, not destroy it completely.
They need to know that I’m a superhero, not a villain.”
He hung the shield on his left arm and walked toward the apartment door.
Halfway there, he stopped and turned his head to look at the old man on the sofa: “And my weapons?”
“My weapons.
You couldn’t have just kept the clothes.”
The Legend stared at him for two seconds, walked over to a corner full of cardboard boxes, and rummaged through them for a while.
First he pulled out a M1911 pistol, then the iconic eagle-headed dagger, and some other weapons.
He placed these items one by one on the coffee table.
“I got the ammunition myself.
It still works.” He said: “You owe me four hundred dollars.
For the cost of the ammunition.”
Benjamin slid the dagger into the hidden sheath on the side of his combat boot, tucked the M1911 into the holster on the back of his belt, and slung the Thompson’s strap over his shoulder.
“I feel like you’re a little different, Ben.”
The Legend stared at Benjamin, his eyes flickering slightly.
“Forty years.”
Benjamin straightened up.
“A lot of things change.”
“Yeah,” The Legend murmured to himself, “A lot of things change.”
He just hadn’t expected Benjamin to care so much about that unknown son.
…
…
Sunlight slanted through the dusty window at the end of the apartment hallway, falling on Benjamin’s back.
The dark green shoulder armor of his suit reflected the daylight, emitting a faint, barely visible glow.
With his free left hand, he pushed open the apartment building door, and the autumn wind of New York hit his face.
Vought Tower awaited him in the direction of Manhattan, and the superheroes in the conference room were preparing to accept a rule they had never seen before.
In the distant suburbs of Pennsylvania,
There was still a woman who owed his original self a debt from nearly half a century ago.
But for now.
He was going to Vought International to see his son.
As for Crimson Countess, there was no rush.
He had waited forty years.
A day or two didn’t matter.
…
…
Vought Tower, 42nd floor, main conference room of The Seven.
In the conference room, six members of The Seven had already arrived, while Ashley stood by the conference table, leaning against the wall.
A-Train was sitting in a wheelchair.
Although his knee was almost healed, he insisted on using a wheelchair, arguing that “it makes me look more like a victim.”
He still wore a bulky splint on his right leg.
Due to yesterday’s assassination attempt, A-Train had been very busy with public relations for the past two days.
However, this image might also arouse deep sympathy from some fans for him.
After all, it was only because he was chasing a fugitive that he accidentally ended up like this.
Translucent was sitting at the other end of the long table, not invisible, and looked a little nervous.
The Deep was sitting next to him, with a glass of water in front of him as usual, and his expression was more confused than usual.
He had heard about Black Noir, but didn’t know the details.
All he knew was that after last night, Black Noir’s lounge had been permanently closed and no one had told him why.
Did Black Noir go to Orlando?
The Deep wasn’t very smart, so he didn’t understand.
Queen Maeve was standing by the window, arms crossed, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling frame.
There was only one person who could kill Black Noir…
Queen Maeve thought to herself:
What was that madman going to do now?
Of course…
there was also another person, but that person wasn’t in the company yesterday.
The conference room door opened.
Homelander entered, his cape stirring a small gust of air behind him.
He smiled slightly and walked toward the head of the long table, but didn’t sit down; instead, he stood to the right of the head chair, placing his hand on the back of the chair.
“Everyone.”
Homelander’s voice was clear, with three parts less exaggeration than his usual tone at press conferences and an added layer of solemnity.
“Before today’s agenda begins, I want to introduce someone to you.”
He turned toward the conference room door and extended his hand.
All eyes turned toward that door at the same time.
Everyone knew who was coming.