Chapter Text
This might not go the way you’re scripting it at all.
An echoing thought that’s been in orbit around Billy Butcher’s mind one too many times. Not that it’s ever stopped him from cooking up another brilliant scheme at the whiff of a new lead.
But this plan? This was practically a walk in the park compared to everything else. Subjectively speaking, ‘course.
Frenchie’s connection to Little Nina and her Kremlin piss boys, along with a ‘generous offering’ from the CIA and Kimiko being a good little gun, served them a way into Mother Russia, and the lab holding the supe-killing weapon Queen Maeve told Butcher about on a silver platter. Now all they gotta do is find this big, bad missile, bomb, or whatever the fuck, smuggle it back to the States to finish Supercunt once and for all, and Bob’s the bloke who buggers your auntie.
Simple.
Now, would he have preferred accomplishing all of this without being V’ed up? Sure, but isn’t the logical argument that ‘it’s better to be safe than sorry’ true? This was a Russian base they were infiltrating after all. Everything could go tits up faster than you can say ‘vodka.’
And it did. Of course it fuckin did. Because this was a Russian base they were infiltrating after all.
And would ya guess what the bloomin supe juice did? It saved their arses, that’s what. The flack he and Hughie got from the others may have been deserved because the green gunk, y’know, temporarily turned them into freaks, but would it’ve really killed any ‘em to show a wee bit of gratitude? A blind man could see they all woulda been jammy brown bread if he wasn't bulletproof, and Hughie able to Houdini out of his jumpsuit and teleport across the room.
Anyway, once he got his usual finger wag and bollocking from the Boys, they split to continue their search for clues. Butcher’s was the rather conspicuously large container standing in the centre of the room. Looking it over, he couldn’t find anything indicating how to manually open the large panel. No handles, locks, or keypads. And well, if the hatch was remotely controlled, that must mean he had some white coat’s magnum opus on his hands.
Bingo then.
Easy as lifting the lid off a can of sardines, he tore off the panel and tossed it aside. The ringing clank brought all movement and sounds to a full stop. Smoky vapours and cold air seeped out, blending with the tension and silence.
Butcher peered into the fog when a dim light came on, exposing a dark silhouette in the haze. What he expected to find was the anti-supe jackpot, B.C.L-RED. Some diabolical, larger than life weapon of mass destruction. Maybe a bazooka the size of Love Sausage’s on-the-nose eponym, or a laser gun that made Tek Knight’s artillery look like Nerf guns slapped on an Amazing Party Store costume.
Instead, there was breathing. Something alive. Preserved in time and darkness.
As the vapours cleared, he could make out a figure—a man—strapped down, wired and patched up, oxygen mask covering his lower face. Then tired eyes cracked open, revealing deep, haunted green, and recognition smacked Butcher over the head. A breath of awe escaped him. His heart sped as logic and reason fought with what he was seeing. It shouldn’t be possible by any means, and yet here he was, in the flesh.
“Soldier Boy.”
The world’s first superhero, thought to have been blown to bits in Ohio in ‘84—by the very weapon they were searching for no less—was standing before them in a fume chamber.
Alive, awake, and now moving.
Without a hint of strain, Soldier Boy snapped out of his bondage like it were nothing but a brittle rubber band, then removed the mask before ripping off the monitoring patches and wires. Butcher backed away from the newly awakened supe as he slowly stepped out the chamber.
Naked, damp, and disoriented, as if reborn.
The tension grew. Thick enough that Butcher bet he could’ve reached out and wrapped it around himself like a cloak, but something lurked underneath that made his brain tick. He sniffed, brow knitted.
A smell. Faint, but sharp. Muddled, as if blocked.
Somethin’s wrong.
Suspicion crossed his face as Soldier Boy grunted, sluggishly turning to Frenchie.
“It’s okay,” Frenchie whispered, left hand faltering between holding his pistol and appeasing Soldier Boy as if he were a provoked animal.
Then Butcher’s ears perked up at a sound. Rumbling, coming from below. His gaze fell. Tremors shot up through his feet as the ground vibrated. A red glow from his peripheral brought his focus back to Soldier Boy.
Time sped up. Everything happened so fast.
The supe’s body tensed. Bulging arms flexed, veins protruding as his chest glowed brighter and brighter. Then like a flood crashing through a dam, that muddled smell broke through. Butcher’s stomach sank as pungent odours seeped into the air, heavy and metallic, as if rising from the depths of a sweltering factory.
Smoke. Melted iron. Burning flesh. Boiling blood.
Frenchie’s eyes widened as Soldier Boy shook and hesitantly raised his gun to shoot.
Move, you tosser! Butcher shouted in his head; tongue and body frozen in bewilderment. In shock. In disgust.
Just as a primal, agonized yell ripped through Soldier Boy, Kimiko shoved Frenchie out the way, and in a wink a thunderous roar boomed as white-hot flames burst from Soldier Boy’s chest and blasted her through the wall. As dust flew and cement crumbled, Butcher swallowed, eyes glued on Kimiko’s still form.
Jesus fuckin Christ, had that been Frenchie...
On his next inhale, a burning sensation shot up his nose and straight into his skull hot as a bullet fresh out a gun barrel.
“Fuck—ing—hell!” He muttered through coughs.
Smouldering odours engulfed the room, contaminated the air like smoke. Everything from his chest up burned. He might as well’ve drank brake fluid, snorted kerosene, and ate a lit match. Pinching the bridge of his nose and hissing through his teeth, heat stormed through his body hard and fast, like his first shot of V24.
His Alpha. It was raving like a feral mutt against only the devil knows what.
Blinking back tears, Butcher checked on Hughie and M.M.
Growling, M.M vigorously rubbed his eyes and face. His skin looked wet, like he was sweating buckets, while raw fury and a feeling Butcher hesitated to give a name poured from his glands: heavy, bitter notes that brought scalding hot water and trembling, weak knees to mind. Though unpleasant to Butcher’s senses, it wasn’t nearly as bad as whatever Soldier Boy expelled. Butcher wondered if he subconsciously did the same thing. Likely.
Meanwhile Hughie’s head swivelled at the two of them like some spooked owl. The spitting image of a gawkin twit, as usual. Nothing outta the ordinary about it, but for some reason Butcher could just twat him one right about now. Maybe start by ripping those stupid peepers straight outta his skull. Blood pumping, heart pounding in his ears, sharp traces of excitement congealed in his veins like bloodclots ready to burst—
Fucksake, Billy what's wrong with you, son?
A hand flew up to his head and gripped the roots of his hair.
Get a hold of yourself! You don't wanna do that shit… ‘Least not just ‘cause Hughie is bein Hughie.
But just like its master, his Alpha managed to get the last word on the matter, and when it noticed Hughie was still staring, it snapped: “The fuck’re you lookin at?”
Hughie’s face scrunched up like Butcher grew another head. In a way, he sorta did.
“Wha-I, I just—I’m wondering if you two are okay. Are you?”
“Oh yeah,” Butcher strained with gritted teeth. “A dog with two bloody tails, I am.”
“Uh, well, do, do you know what happened? After Soldier Boy did...” He shook his head, puffed out a disbelieving breath. “Whatever the hell that was, you guys just started freaking out.”
Butcher breathed deeply through his nose. No metallic zest of nerves. No salty adrenaline. Not even a spicy whiff of irritation. That’s a Gamma for ya, lucky bastard. He exhaled.
“Yeah.” He shrugged, found himself cracking a grin. “Think seein two blokes starkers back to back had me goin barmy for a sec.”
While Hughie rolled his eyes, Butcher snorted, then winced. Placed a hand on his chest, felt the pulsing heat slowly dull, as if pulling back into its roost. Guess the lack of pheromones and bandy words convinced his Alpha to veg-out. Good.
M.M sidled up beside them, breathing heavily as he rubbed his temples. Sweat beads dotted across his hairline and dripped down his face.
Despite himself Butcher asked, “How ‘bout you, mate? I’m sure seein Soldier Boy’s all-American twig and berries had you throwin a right wobbly.”
“Shut. The fuck. Up.” M.M ground out, scowling. A fire flickered in his eyes, warning Butcher to watch what he says next, because he might get an order of knuckle sandwich.
Tempted to crack another funny for the hell of it—ragin Alpha or not, when did he ever step down from a challenge?—an echoing cry stopped him short.
“She’s not healing!”
Butcher, Hughie, and M.M looked at each other, the same unspoken thought written clear as day on their faces. Impossible.
They rushed to the mouth of the jagged hole. Butcher grimaced at the scene. Kimiko was now on her back with Frenchie kneeling beside her, pressing against her abdomen. Blood ran down her forehead and soaked her jumpsuit where an iron rod protruded from her stomach. She blinked slowly, eyes bleary with pain. She was losing consciousness.
Frenchie’s head snapped up, voice rising, shaking with panic. “Why does she not heal?”
While M.M stepped into his natural element and ordered Frenchie and Hughie to find anything useful in the lab that could stop the bleeding long enough to carry her out, Butcher stepped into the sparsely lit hallway.
Empty. Soldier Boy nowhere in sight.
His jaw clenched, hands curled tight at his sides.
So to recap: no sign of B.C.L-RED, Kimiko may be on the danger list, and the super-fucker responsible for it was out in the wild like a thawed out caveman.
In a nutshell? Another mission turned to glorious shit.
Fuck me rigid.
The back of their speeding van was a high-strung clamour of noise and smells.
The sour funk of old rice festered under the thick tang of blood. Vinegar and sulphur charged Frenchie’s urgent calls to Kimiko. M.M’s strong-brew Earl Grey aura kept them focused while his instructions to Kimiko tethered her to their plane.
On one hand the emotional clusterfuck made Butcher consider hitting the brakes and barfing on the side of the road for five minutes straight, but on the other hand, he wanted to tell Hughie to get off the goddamn window sill so he could roll the window up. All it’d take is a turn down the wrong street and the plods would be on their tail like bloodhounds.
But he had to keep his priorities straight. There was an even more pressing matter on their hands than driving a blasted Dumpster on wheels.
Grip tight on the steering wheel, Butcher shook his head. “Soldier Boy was always a hard bastard. But not like that.”
He riffled through his mental file cabinet but couldn’t find a single story or file on Soldier Boy that matched the freak shitshow they witnessed. The supe had always been commended for his alleged combat and gunmanship, not a fuckin nuclear bomb inside his chest, which means…
“They must’ve done somethin to him,” he said aloud, still in a brown study.
He couldn’t imagine the type of experimentation those Ivan nutters must have done to create it. Or how damned long it must’ve taken. To think, all this time, while America left him in the past, believing him to be dead for decades, he was caged up overseas like a roided out lab rat. Absolutely mental.
And that goddamned stench. Like an oily, overheated car engine with flesh sizzling on the chrome. Never in his life did Butcher know a person could smell like that.
A thought passed—Thank fuck none of us are Omegas—and it gave him an ounce of relief, for what it’s worth.
Hughie was a lone Gamma, completely ignorant to everything the rest of them were aware of; not just now, but on a day-to-day basis. (Just look at him, Butcher glared at Hughie who was riding shotgun, hangin out the window, all la-dee-da in Shangri-La, the fuckin twig.) Both Frenchie and Kimiko were Beta-coded, and so far Frenchie hasn’t mentioned the supe’s pungent onslaught. (Understandable, considering the circumstances…)
So that left him and M.M. Two Alphas, and evidently, the only ones affected.
Thing was, Alphas reacting to one another’s pheromones in and of itself is nothing special. Depending on the conditions, scent communication could be as simple as a light, passive ‘hello, mate’ or an ugly, glaring warning to ‘piss off before we find ourselves in a bloodsheddin barney.’ What Soldier Boy somehow managed to set off in the lab was the latter.
The blast didn’t just ruffle his Alpha’s feathers, like a funny look from a minging cunt on a particularly bad day would. It went from 0 to 100, just like that, ready and raring to crack some skulls. Put one arsehole in bloody traction and have another poor sod’s bollocks for marbles. For no damned reason...
Triggering a reaction reserved specially for heated confrontations as easy as pushing a biological button meant a fucksight of trouble. And he’s willing to bet a monkey that exposure to it would be down right devastating to an Omega. Human or supe.
“What d’you think?” He glanced at M.M in the rearview mirror, as if M.M had been riding along his train of thought.
Silence hung over them as he held Butcher’s reflected gaze, until he said, “It’s over, Butcher. There’s no team left for me to keep together.” His forehead creased as a sour note eked from his pores. “You made sure of that.”
Butcher felt a sharp tug at that. Pushback against M.M’s bitter tone, at the accusation that he failed them as a leader (again). Shoving it back down, his focus returned to the road. He was still calming down from that spike of fury Soldier Boy triggered, and was certain M.M’s doing the same.
‘Sides, it’s true, innit?
M.M and Frenchie called to Kimiko, keeping her away from the light at the end of the tunnel.
(Tea. Acid. Rice.)
Hughie felt the air brush over his arm, Temp-V flowing in his veins.
(Clean. Pure. Innocence.)
Butcher drove in silence, Mallory’s words kept him company.
(Whisky. Tobacco. Ash.)
This might not go the way you’re scripting it at all.
This time he bit back an answer.
“When does it?”