Benjamin looked at him and was silent for a moment.
The sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conference room illuminated Homelander’s golden hair, making it look beautiful.
Homelander was a little nervous.
Then Benjamin spoke.
“John,” he said, “do you wonder why I make such a big deal about small things like A-Train hitting people and Translucent peeping?”
Homelander’s eyes flickered slightly.
He didn’t speak, but his silence was the answer itself.
Yes, he was indeed thinking that.
He didn’t understand why his father had to make such a fuss over such trivial matters.
So what if someone got hurt?
So what if someone peeked?
They were superheroes, and superheroes should naturally have immunity.
At least that’s what he had been taught his entire life, and he had done many things that were bad for ordinary people, but…
Vought never told him it was wrong.
Benjamin leaned back in his chair.
The look he gave Homelander turned to disappointment.
“You’re fucking superheroes.”
Benjamin said disappointedly:
“But you’re so fucking pathetic.
So pathetic I can barely believe it.”
“The Seven: the best superhero team in the US, the elite of the elite selected from so many superheroes across the country, one-in-a-million talents.”
“And what’s the result?”
“One hits people while on drugs, another peeps in bathrooms, another fucks dolphins, and another is silent and gloomy all day, just so my son can pat himself on the chest.
Is this America’s best team?”
“It’s fucking disappointing.”
He spread his hands,
“How can you all be so pathetic, so weak?”
His gaze pierced directly through Homelander’s blue eyes,
“And you, John…
my son.
The most powerful superhero in the world.
Your problem, in my opinion, is greater than all of theirs combined.”
Homelander’s expression froze.
The faint smile that had been at the corner of his lips disappeared, and they pressed together into a thin line.
He felt offended.
This was a legitimate complaint.
Like a child criticized by a teacher in front of the whole class; after all the other students had been scolded, the teacher kept him aside to say: Your problem is the most serious.
The child wanted to retort, wanted to say it wasn’t fair, wanted to say that what those people did was much worse than what he did.
But he didn’t retort, because deep down, he vaguely sensed that what his father was saying might be true.
Benjamin stood up, walked over to Homelander, raised his hand, and punched him in the shoulder.
Homelander’s shoulder jerked back; he raised his hand to cover the spot where he had been hit, looked at Benjamin with a frown.
In his expression there was no anger, only confusion and a deep sense of grievance.
“From now on, all Compound V circulation on the black market will be prohibited.”
Benjamin said:
“I don’t want to see any supervillains appearing in America, or in any other country in the world.
I already spoke to Stan Edgar about this and he agreed.
Even if he hadn’t, he would have had to accept it.”
Homelander covered his shoulder, remaining silent.
Compound V.
That was Vought’s lifeline, the ultimate driving force behind everything in this building, from the foundations to the top floor.
Superheroes were the product, and Compound V was the production line.
If the black market was eliminated, no supervillains would be created, the demand for superheroes would fall, leading to a drastic reduction in Vought’s profits.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something.
About Vought’s interests, about Stan Edgar’s and the board’s reactions.
But then he thought about how Vought had treated them, father and son.
They sold Soldier Boy to the Russians and tortured him for forty years.
They dragged him out of the incubation tank, subjected him to constant experiments and torture.
Why should he disobey his father’s orders for Vought?
Homelander’s eyes cleared.
He swallowed those words.
But in reality, his confusion hadn’t disappeared: what real harm had the appearance of those supervillains caused to him and Soldier Boy?
What did the deaths of ordinary people have to do with them?
He didn’t fully understand, but he preferred not to ask.
Not because he was afraid, but because asking might make him look stupid.
And maybe his father would hit him again.
There was one more thing.
Homelander also wasn’t sure if Soldier Boy was trying to sabotage Vought’s interests, or if he really was…
a good person?
A good person who liked to curse?
Benjamin looked at him, leaned forward again, and placed his hands on his knees to lower his line of sight until it was parallel to Homelander’s, who was sitting.
This action felt like a real conversation between two people on the same level.
Homelander looked at Soldier Boy before him.
“Listen, John.
You’re a fucking superhero…”
“No, you’re the fucking most powerful superhero in the world.”
“Our existence isn’t for Vought, isn’t for putting on a show in front of cameras.”
“Our reason for being is to protect those weak people who don’t have the ability to protect themselves, do you understand?”
Homelander’s lips moved.
Madelyn Stillwell taught him about brand value; Stan Edgar taught him to weigh pros and cons.
The PR department taught him to recite his lines with sincerity and emotion in front of the cameras.
No one had ever told him that his existence was about protecting ordinary people, those without superpowers.
“I know you’re a good kid, John.”
Benjamin straightened up, reached out a hand, and gave Homelander a gentle pat on the shoulder.
“You’re not a bad person; you just haven’t been taught right from wrong since you were little.
It’s still not too late to change.”
Good kid.
The way Benjamin said this term was completely different from the praises printed in Vought’s press releases.
Homelander lowered his head, looking at his hands on his knees.
Benjamin stood up and suggested:
“It’s getting late.
Do you want to go to the cafeteria for dinner with me?”
Homelander looked up.
Dinner with his father: this phrase was as unfamiliar to him as the molecular formula of Compound V, but it carried more weight than any perfect slogan designed by the PR department.
“I understand.”
He stood up and followed Benjamin.
Homelander followed Soldier Boy down the hallway, his cape fluttering softly behind him.
When the elevator doors opened, Benjamin entered first, Homelander followed, turned around, and stood correctly.
The two stood side by side against the mirrored wall of the elevator.
One wore a dark green tactical suit, the other a red cape; their heights were similar, their profiles alike.
Homelander stared at the two shadows appearing side by side in the mirror and suddenly remembered something.
Next week there was a filming test.
Vought’s PR department had given him a new script.
He hadn’t finished reading it, but he knew the general content: he was to present his family in front of the camera in an old house decorated with a warm, nostalgic atmosphere.
Introducing his grandfather and his parents.
The script indicated that his mother would play a soft melody on the piano every night, that the room should have a real antique piano, and that some carefully aged family photos should be placed on the piano lid.
And his father, according to the script’s detailed description, had to sit with him on a workbench and build a toy airplane.
The first time he saw the script, he thought: I wish all of this were real.
Not a set.
Not a temporarily built old house.
And certainly not the broken piano or the old photos the PR department pulled from the prop warehouse.
But a real, existing, ordinary family.
But at that moment, standing in the elevator, Homelander observed the profile of the man in the dark green tactical suit beside him in the rearview mirror.
His father was very real; he hit people, patted them on the shoulder, and told them: “You’re a good kid.”
“Can I have dinner with you every day?
I mean, if you have time.”
“Of course, if you’re busy, I can be alone.”
Homelander couldn’t help but ask, shrugging and pretending to be indifferent.