This bloodline didn’t just mess with my muscles.
It rewired how I see the world.
I leaned on the balcony rail outside my penthouse and stared at Manhattan — a glittery grid that looked more like a circuit than a city.
Power simmered under my skin: the kind of power that made Homelander back down and landed me a spot in The Seven.
I felt untouchable, at least for a second.
Then I opened the System interface and checked my next milestone.
[Next Upgrade: General Viltrumite Bloodline.] [Cost: 1,000,000 System Points.] One million.
I just hovered there, glaring at that number, glowing blue and smug.
I’d nearly died holding up a commercial jet, tore up my body, and got a lousy fifty thousand points for the effort.
King?
Hardly.
I was barely a pawn, just another grunt in the Viltrumite empire.
Say I marched down to the 99th floor, tore off Homelander’s head, and crowned myself king of Vought right now—what next?
Sure, big payout.
Maybe a hundred thousand points if the System felt generous.
But that would be it.
No Butcher waging war.
No Soldier Boy comeback.
No secret Victoria Neuman operation.
No apocalypse to steal for myself.
Smash the machine too soon and I’d choke off every juicy, timeline-altering event.
I’d be stuck as a so-called Elite Viltrumite, ruling over a pile of corporate ash and paperwork.
I couldn’t wreck Vought, not yet.
I had to squeeze it, let things run their course, and hunt canon events when they’d pay out most.
This was a long con.
I closed the interface, ducked back inside, and headed for the elevator.
Level 42.
Vought Advanced Medical.
The medical wing wasn’t just locked down; it was a bunker.
Still, as soon as the guards spotted my tactical white suit, they were fumbling for their keycards.
I was Vought’s miracle this week.
Inside the recovery room, A-Train lay in a high-tech suspension bed.
Both legs wrapped in carbon braces; I’d broken those, first day on the job.
He looked rough.
Grey, sweaty, eyes flickering around like a trapped animal.
Withdrawal.
When he finally noticed me, the heart monitor leaped.
He clawed backwards, banged his head against the bedframe, hands shaking.
“You,” he choked out, yanking the sheet up as if it could block me.
“You’re that guy—from the street.” “Hello, Reggie.” My voice was steady, polite.
No menace, just raw presence, enough to fill the space.
He shrank.
“What… what do you want?
You already took my legs, man!
Stillwell says you’re on the team now!
Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side?” “We are,” I said, moving around his bed.
No threats, just business.
I reached down under the mattress.
With Viltrumite senses, I’d already heard glass clinking inside the bed’s frame.
I tore the steel panel off, grabbed a black padded case.
A-Train made a strangled sound, pure panic.
I opened the case.
Six vials shimmered inside, blue and glowing.
Compound V, straight from Vought’s labs.
“Give that back,” A-Train begged, tears welling in those bloodshot eyes.
“Please—I need it.
If I don’t heal, I’m out of The Seven.” I plucked a vial, held it to the light.
The liquid buzzed with genetic energy.
“System,” I whispered.
“Process external genetic catalyst.” Stats flickered across my vision.
[Foreign Genetic Material Detected: Compound V (Pure Strain).] [Warning: Consumption by Elite Viltrumite physiology will result in immediate incineration of the chemical.
No physical enhancement possible.] [Alternative Option: Convert unstable genetic energy into System Points.] “Convert one,” I thought.
The liquid vanished—vial intact, just empty.
Points hit my interface.
[Conversion Successful.] [1 Pure Vial of Compound V = 5,000 System Points.] Five thousand for one.
If I took all six, broke his supply chain, I’d rake in thirty thousand points.
But if I did, Butcher would never find V; Hughie would never go down the rabbit hole; The Boys would stall out before the story even started.
I glanced down.
A-Train looked seconds from a meltdown, convinced I’d crush the case or snap his neck.
Instead, I set the box in his lap.
He just stared, dumbfounded.
Brain locked up.
“I’m not turning you in, Reggie,” I said, voice flat.
“Vought’s drug policies aren’t my problem.” “You…
you’re letting me keep it?” His hands trembled above the case.
“I’m keeping you in the game.
Fastest man alive, remember?
Take the V, fix your legs, get back on the streets.
Keep smuggling it to your girlfriend.
Keep everything exactly how it was.” He swallowed.
“Okay.
Yeah.
Yes, sir.
Seriously, thank you.
I won’t cross you, promise.” I leaned in, looked him straight in the eyes.
“Things have changed.
Every week you skim for yourself, you skim one extra vial for me.
Dead drop.
I’ll text the spot.
Miss a drop, and I don’t tell Stillwell—I just come back for your arms.” A-Train nodded so hard I thought he’d sprain his neck, scared enough to stay honest.
“One vial a week,” he gulped.
“No problem.
Can do.” I straightened up, fixed my cuffs.
“Get well soon, A-Train.
The team still needs you.” I left him staring after me and walked back to the elevator.
A gentle ping.
The System delivered its notification.
[Minor Canon Alteration Detected.] [Passive Point Generation Established: Compound V Tax (+5,000/week).] [Major Plotlines preserved for future harvest.] I cracked a smile.
No timeline chaos, but it was clean—a tidy passive cash flow of five thousand points a week, and the story was still on track for Butcher and his crew.
One million points was Everest, yeah.
But I wasn’t just muscle—I was making moves.
Let Vought build their house of cards.
Let Homelander preen.
Let Butcher strike the first match.
When the flames got high enough, I’d swoop in, hijack the ending, and rake in the points.
The long game just started.