Thursday, 9:12 AM.
Vought Headquarters, Manhattan.
The coffee machine in the Archives Department had broken down again.
Or strictly speaking, it hadn’t broken down completely.
It was simply refusing, in a stubbornly passive-aggressive manner, to dispense anything resembling liquid coffee.
A layer of dark brown sludge collected at the bottom of the glass pot while the internal machinery gurgled noisily, like an old veteran employee holding back a curse in a conference room.
Kevin Brown stood before the coffee machine and slapped it twice.
No effect.
He slapped it twice more.
Still nothing.
Finally, the machine hissed out a tiny cloud of steam.
Kevin stepped back half a pace, his face deadpan.
“It’s threatening me.” A female colleague nearby said without raising her head, “Congratulations.
A piece of equipment finally takes you seriously.” A few stifled chuckles echoed across the bullpen.
Lynn Zhou sat at his cubicle, a paper cup of black coffee purchased from downstairs resting beside his hand.
The store logo was printed on the side of the cup.
The flavor remained consistent.
Consistently terrible.
But at least it was liquid.
It provided caffeine.
And unlike the Archives coffee machine, it wasn’t trying to stage a labor union strike during business hours.
He logged into his computer.
ID badge login.
System authentication.
Email loaded.
A series of internal notifications popped up in the bottom right corner of the screen: [Promotional asset review for Starlight’s onboarding passed second round.] [The Seven new member press conference schedule updated.] [Hero Management Dept Reminder: Recent requests for file access must comply with clearance protocols.] [Legal Dept: All departments are required to standardize using the new Incident Description Template.] Lynn’s gaze paused on the last notification.
*Incident Description Template.* He clicked it open.
A new standardized phrasing document popped up.
The page title was beautifully polished: *Guidelines for Optimized Language in Public Safety Incident Communications.* Below it was a reference table.
“Accidental Casualties” -> Recommended replacement: “Unforeseen Public Loss.” “Hero Operational Error” -> Recommended replacement: “Tactical Variance Under High-Pressure Conditions.” “Collateral Damage” / “Accidental Harm” -> Recommended replacement: “Non-Target Contact.” “Compensation” -> Recommended replacement: “Family Support Plan.” “Witness Non-Disclosure Agreement” -> Recommended replacement: “Privacy Protection and Emotional Recovery Agreement.” Lynn scrolled down.
Every line was squeaky clean.
Clean as if it had just been scrubbed with disinfectant.
He picked up his coffee and took a sip.
The bitterness lingered at the back of his tongue.
Vought was indeed exceptional at cleaning up.
Not necessarily cleaning up the crime scene, but definitely cleaning up the language.
He saved the template to his “Vought Internal Observations” folder and timestamped it.
[Language System Update: The company likely anticipates an uptick in public safety incidents, or is standardizing terminology for a specific high-risk event class.] After finishing, he added another line: [Priority tracking required for high-speed mobility heroes.] High-speed mobility heroes.
A-Train.
According to the original storyline timeline, the death of Robin, Hughie’s girlfriend, would happen very soon.
That was the initiating spark of The Boys’ core plotline.
For Hughie, it was the instant his world shattered.
For Vought, it was likely just another public safety incident requiring lowball settlement offers, language tweaks, and sealed records.
For Lynn, however, it was a pivotal node.
Could he stop it?
In theory, he knew the event was coming.
The problem was, knowing the plot did not equal having the coordinates, exact time, scene details, or tactical capability.
New York was too big.
A-Train was too fast.
Right now, he was just an archivist—no system, no combat power, no team, no credible channel.
If he recklessly called the police or sent an anonymous warning, not only would he fail to stop it, but he might also prematurely expose his abnormal knowledge of future events.
More realistically— He hadn’t even resolved his own debt crisis yet.
A guy about to be crushed by debt collectors had no business trying to save the world.
However, once the event occurred, he could leverage his status as a Vought employee to get first-hand access to internal handling procedures.
He could track: – Which department handled media suppression; – Which lawyer took charge of the settlement; – A-Train’s internal state; – Whether Vought had made contact with Hughie; – When Butcher would intervene; – Whether the original plot was advancing on schedule.
That was the proper way to use a transmigrator’s advantage.
Not yelling “I know the plot!” and rushing out to die.
Rather, while everyone else treated the accident as a mere accident, he already knew it marked the beginning of a chain reaction.
Lynn typed out a new document title.
[Mainline Monitoring: A-Train / Hughie Incident] Below it sat a single line for now: “Awaiting trigger.” He stared at those two words for two seconds before closing the file.
Just then, a thick stack of folders slammed down onto his desk with a thud.
Lynn looked up.
Kevin stood beside him, wearing his familiar half-apologetic, completely insincere smile.
“Lynn, do me a favor.” Here it comes.
The daily workplace task refresh.
Lynn glanced at the stack of documents.
The cover read: *The Deep — Atlantic City Aquarium Charity Event Complaint Archival* Stuck on the bottom was a yellow sticky note: *Initial draft required before 11:00 AM today.* Lynn glanced at the task ID in the bottom right corner.
Task Owner: Kevin Brown.
He didn’t speak immediately.
Kevin tapped the document with his finger.
“Something urgent just came up on my end.
Marsha asked me to handle the Marketing Department’s quarterly risk summary first.
You’re familiar with this one, so help me organize it real quick.” Lynn asked, “Did Marsha tell you to reassign it to me?” Kevin blinked.
“Pretty much.
She said we should coordinate within our team.” “Pretty much?” “You know how office work is.
No need to split hairs.” Lynn gave a mild nod.
“Is there an email?” The smile on Kevin’s face stiffened slightly.
“What?” “The email from Marsha asking you to hand it over, or the reassignment record in the task management system.” Kevin’s expression finally shifted.
Not fear—more like annoyance.
The old Lynn would never have asked this.
The old Lynn would have simply accepted it, put his head down, worked through it, and stayed past 7:30 PM fixing formatting for someone else.
“Lynn, don’t be so rigid,” Kevin said, lowering his voice.
“It’s just a small job.
Didn’t you help out yesterday too?” “I helped yesterday,” Lynn said, his tone perfectly even.
“Which is why I need to clarify today, to prevent fuzzy responsibilities from becoming a habit.” Kevin stared at him.
Around them, several colleagues had subtly slowed down their typing.
Office workers possessed a natural instinct for drama.
Especially when the drama involved someone else.
Kevin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“What’s gotten into you lately?” “Standardizing workflow,” Lynn replied.
“Legal just issued the new template.
Hasn’t corporate always emphasized clear boundaries of responsibility?” The phrasing was brilliant.
Because it was wrapped in Vought’s corporate doublespeak.
At Vought, saying “I don’t want to do your work” made it easy to get labeled as uncooperative.
But invoking “responsibility boundaries,” “standardized workflow,” and “risk documentation” changed the game completely.
Corporate leadership loved process.
And corporate leadership feared processes turning around to bite them even more.
Kevin could no longer maintain his smile.
“Are you refusing?” Lynn shook his head.
“No.
I can assist, but I need you to submit an assistance request through the task system specifying the reason for reassignment, deadline, and ultimate responsibility.” He paused, then added: “CC Marsha.” Kevin’s face finally went dark.
“Are you serious?” “Dead serious.” Silence hung over the office for a few seconds.
In the corner, the printer clicked loudly, like a wooden block striking the beat of a miniature office war.
Before Kevin could say anything, the door to the supervisor’s office swung open.
Marsha Green stepped out.
She held a tablet, her eyebrows pinched tight as if she had just reviewed a budget-cut email.
“What’s going on here?” Kevin turned immediately.
“Nothing, Marsha.
Lynn just seems to have a bit of a misunderstanding about our team collaboration workflow.” Lynn didn’t interrupt.
He simply turned the stack of documents slightly so the owner’s name on the cover was clearly visible.
Then he pointed to his computer monitor.
The task management system interface was open right there.
The owner, deadline, and workflow status were plain to see.
His tone remained polite and measured.
“Kevin mentioned he needs my assistance with The Deep’s event complaint archival.
I simply asked him to submit a formal assistance request through the system so that if Marketing or Legal sends it back for revisions later, accountability won’t get blurred.” Marsha looked at the screen.
Then she looked at Kevin.
“This is your task.” Kevin threw up his hands.
“I know, but I still have the quarterly summary.” Marsha asked, “Isn’t the quarterly summary due at 3:00 PM?” Kevin’s jaw twitched.
The air in the bullpen suddenly took on a palpable texture.
The specific texture of “watching someone get busted on the spot while everyone pretends not to notice.” Lynn didn’t look at Kevin.
He took a sip of his coffee.
The coffee had gone cold.
But right now, it tasted pretty good.
Marsha took a deep breath.
“Kevin, finish your own tasks.
If you need assistance, go through the system.” Kevin couldn’t hide his embarrassment.
“Fine.” He reached out to snatch the documents back.
Lynn held down the edge of the folder.
Kevin froze.
Lynn looked up at him with a slight smile.
“Don’t forget to revoke the verbal transfer note in the system.” Kevin glared at him.
“What note?” Lynn turned his desktop work log toward him.
On it was a single, plain line: [09:31 — Kevin Brown placed physical materials for ‘The Deep — Atlantic City Aquarium Charity Event Complaint Archival’ on my desk, requesting verbal assistance.
I requested that he initiate a formal application through the task management system.] No emotion.
No accusation.
Just documentation.
Like an archivist’s record.
And like evidence.
Kevin looked at the line of text, his expression shifting from irritation to grim anger.
Marsha saw it too.
She pushed up her glasses.
“Kevin, take it back.” Kevin grabbed the folder in one swift motion and turned back to his cubicle.
He pulled his chair back so hard it skidded across the carpet.
Typing sounds resumed across the bullpen shortly after.
But the atmosphere had irrevocably changed.
Several colleagues cast occasional glances toward Lynn.
Surprise.
Curiosity.
And a distinct touch of caution.
The old Lynn—the soft touch anyone could dump a stack of papers onto—had suddenly learned to use corporate rules as armor.
No yelling.
No scenes.
No bridge-burning.
Just relentless, unyielding procedure.
Lynn paid no attention to their glances.