He opened his task list again and got back to his own assignment.
His main task for the day was archiving a batch of historical incident files.
They didn’t involve core secrets, but covered a random assortment of cases.
A C-tier hero knocking over a food cart while chasing a mugger on a commercial street.
A local hero forgetting to turn off product placement while livestreaming a rescue.
A rookie with fire powers causing a small blaze during an endorsement shoot for barbecue sauce.
And a summary of complaints concerning The Deep.
When Lynn saw the filename, his fingers paused.
The Deep’s aquarium event file that Kevin had tried to pawn off on him earlier was just a complaint archive with low security clearance.
However, some of the information in the summary was worth reading.
He clicked it open.
[Hero: The Deep] [Event Type: Public Charity Event Follow-Up Complaint] [Location: Atlantic City Aquarium] [Complaint Summary: Chaotic event organization, inappropriate anthropomorphic remarks regarding marine life, altercation with venue management, suspected unauthorized entry into the backstage aquarium maintenance area.] [Internal Processing Recommendation: Downgrade to “communication misunderstanding”; public dissemination not recommended.] Below it was an evaluation from the Marketing Department.
[The Deep’s public image has fluctuated significantly of late, and his brand positioning lacks stability.
His strategic value within The Seven is limited, though he retains a degree of marketing potential for family and environmental campaigns.] Lynn stared at the words “strategic value…
is limited.” This was extremely useful.
In the public eye, The Deep was a member of The Seven, an exalted superhero.
Inside Vought, however, he was far from core.
In fact, his standing was downright awkward.
When Starlight eventually faced The Deep, if she assumed his membership in The Seven conferred absolute authority, she would be far more easily coerced.
But if she knew in advance that The Deep was not nearly so untouchable…
She might find the nerve to refuse him.
The problem was, Lynn couldn’t just walk up and tell Starlight: “Watch out for The Deep.
He’ll cross the line.” That would be absurdly suspicious.
He didn’t even formally know Starlight yet.
Still, he could find a natural opportunity to drop a subtle workplace tip.
Not to play hero saving the damsel.
Not to lay his cards on the table.
Just to drop a small pebble into her mind.
So that at the critical moment, she would remember: Some gods were made of cardboard.
Lynn noted the summary on The Deep in his private document.
[The Deep: High public title, low internal leverage.
Usable as material for a defensive warning to Starlight.
Note: Do not reveal foreknowledge.] With that recorded, he closed his private file and went back to work.
At 10:58 AM.
Kevin finally finished his initial draft of The Deep’s complaint archive.
When he uploaded the file to the system, his face was as dark as dregs at the bottom of a coffee machine.
Two minutes later, a ping sounded from Martha’s office.
She reviewed the file, her brows knotting.
“Kevin.” Kevin looked up.
“What is it?” “This format is wrong.
You used the old incident description template.” Kevin froze.
“The template was updated just this morning.” Martha remained impassive.
“Which means you should have checked it this morning.” Someone in the bullpen couldn’t hold back a quiet cough.
Kevin looked as if he wanted to stuff himself into the printer and reboot.
Lynn didn’t laugh.
He was a professional.
He merely lowered his head and took a sip of coffee.
And casually added a line to his observation log: [Kevin: Relies on scapegoating, low procedural awareness.
Risk level: Low; Utility value: Medium.] Archivists don’t hold grudges.
Archivists just archive.
At 12:20 PM.
Lynn took his sandwich to the employee breakroom.
The breakroom was near the side of the building; its windows were small, but offered a glimpse of a Manhattan street corner.
Traffic surged below.
Yellow cabs crawled through the shadows of the skyscrapers like a cluster of anxious beetles.
A television mounted on the wall was playing a news channel partnered with Vought.
A female anchor was describing the follow-up plans for Starlight joining The Seven in a sweet, polished voice.
The broadcast cut to an interview snippet.
Starlight stood before the camera wearing her newly assigned suit, which she hadn’t fully adjusted to yet.
Her smile was a bit nervous, though she tried hard to appear natural.
“I’ve always believed that with power comes responsibility.
Joining The Seven is the most important opportunity of my life.” Beside him, an employee eating a salad said, “She actually looks like she believes what she’s saying.” Another replied, “Rookies.
They all go through this phase.” Lynn remained silent.
He looked at Starlight on the screen.
There really was a spark in her eyes.
Not the artificial lighting staged by PR.
It was real.
That was exceedingly rare at Vought.
And exceedingly dangerous.
Because the thing this company excelled at most was grinding real things down until they were shaped for retail shelves.
When the news ended, the screen cut to a commercial.
Homelander stood among a group of children, leaning down to sign an autograph for a little boy.
The background music was sickeningly warm.
The tagline sounded: “A true hero is always by your side.” Chewing on his sandwich, Lynn thought expressionlessly: Indeed.
Sometimes so close you don’t even have time to run away.
Before lunch ended, he received a text message.
It was from Daniel.
“Tomorrow night at eight.
Don’t be late.
Opportunity doesn’t wait.” Attached below was a dropped location pin.
An alleyway behind a bar in Brooklyn.
Lynn stared at the message without replying.
He simply took a screenshot of the location and saved it to Daniel’s file.
Then he created a new entry: [Friday Meeting Forecast] [Opponent’s Objective: Secondary deception or coercion to sign new documents.] [Risk Level: High.] [Response Strategy: Do not escalate conflict voluntarily; maintain escape routes; establish opponent’s illegal acts; self-preservation if necessary.] He paused when writing those last words.
Self-preservation.
The term was mild.
And broad.
In Vought templates, “non-target contact” could mean collateral damage.
In his archive, “self-preservation” could encompass a great deal as well.
At 3:40 PM.
The Archives Department received an internal cross-checking email from Hero Management.
Subject line: [Synchronization of Recent Activity Logs for Speedster-Type Heroes] Lynn’s eyes locked onto it instantly.
He opened the email.
The contents were brief.
Requesting Archives to assist in verifying A-Train’s recent commercial events, training schedules, public appearances, and city action logs, ensuring the PR division’s timeline remained consistent.
Attached was a summary of A-Train’s itinerary.
Lynn opened it.
It was packed with event times, locations, commercial shoots, training facilities, media interviews, and endorsement schedules.
His fingers lightly scrolled the mouse.
A-Train had been extremely busy lately.
And there were several abnormal gaps between scheduled events.
Not long.
But they were there.
Lynn stared at those gaps, his eyes slowly darkening.
In the original story, when A-Train ran through Robin, he was under high pressure related to Compound V.
If the timeline hadn’t shifted, that accident was imminent.
He couldn’t be certain of the exact day or street.
But he knew the main storyline’s first domino was about to fall.
Lynn saved the attachment to his authorized working directory, taking care not to copy sensitive files beyond his security level.
Afterward, he logged only high-level summary information in his private document: [Gaps detected in A-Train’s recent activity logs.] [Monitor for public safety incidents, new settlement agreements, and names related to Hughie Campbell / Robin.] [Once a “speedster non-target contact” file appears, main plot trigger is confirmed.] When he finished, he paused for a moment and added one more line: [The debt issue must be resolved prior to this.
Otherwise, ineligible to play.] He closed the document and looked up through the glass wall of the office at the hallway outside.
A few marketing employees hurried past, holding promotional materials for Starlight.
In the distance, the elevator doors slid open.
A squad of security personnel in black suits stepped out.
They surrounded a tall, broad-shouldered figure.
Blonde hair.
Blue suit.
Red cape.
Homelander.
He merely walked past the far end of the corridor.
He didn’t pause.
He didn’t glance toward Archives.
Yet the bullpen went almost instantly silent.
The clicking of keyboards stopped.
The chatter ceased.
Even Kevin sat up a bit straighter.
Through the glass wall, Homelander wore a warm, gentle smile as he tilted his head to listen to a staffer reporting something beside him.
He looked perfect.
Powerful.
Affable.
Like a savior stepped right out of a commercial.
Lynn sat at his desk, his breathing steady.
Only his fingers curled tightly beneath the desk.
This was his first time seeing Homelander in person.
Not on a poster.
Not on a screen.
Not in plot memories.
It was a living, breathing Homelander, standing inside the very same building.
In an instant, Lynn realized with terrifying clarity: All of his documents, analyses, procedures, and strategies were like paper in front of this man.
Paper could be useful.
Paper could pass along information.
Paper could store evidence.
But paper couldn’t stop laser vision.
Homelander passed by.
His red cape flashed past the glass wall.
The office remained quiet for a few seconds before noise slowly resumed.
Someone whispered, “God, he’s even taller in person than on TV.” Another added, “I almost forgot to breathe.” Kevin muttered under his breath, “He wouldn’t come to Archives, right?” Nobody answered.
Lynn lowered his head, staring at the task list on his monitor.
A moment later, he created a new file in his private directory.
The title was simple.
[Homelander] He didn’t write much.
Just the first line: [Direct confrontation impossible.] Second: [Every plan must assume hyper-sensory perception, emotional instability, and capacity for extreme violence.] Third: [Current phase: Avoid entering his line of sight.] Fourth: [Must grow stronger.] After writing these four lines, he saved the file.
Outside the office window, Manhattan sunlight struck the glass curtain wall of the Vought building, reflecting a blinding white glare.
Lynn looked at his reflection in the monitor.
An ordinary archivist.
Wearing a cheap dress shirt.
Sitting at an ordinary cubicle.
A cold coffee and half an unfinished sandwich sitting beside his hand.
Yet inside his computer, dossier upon dossier was slowly taking shape.
Daniel.
Vought.
The Deep.
A-Train.
Starlight.
Homelander.
Plus a main plot entry awaiting trigger.
He closed all private documents.
And reopened his work portal.
At 4:00 PM sharp.
The Archives Department printer jammed again.
This time, nobody laughed.
Because everyone was busy.
And Lynn knew that the truly chaotic days were yet to come.