They didn’t teach him very much in that lab, is a thought you continuously find yourself having. It’s been almost a week since you found the ten year old curled in a miserable, isolated ball in some building swarming with infected. Vought, no doubt—the same people were responsible for this apocalypse in the first place. Honestly, that should’ve been your first clue, but you were still unprepared for how dangerous this kid was.

John’s hand was in yours as you walked, always needing some form of tactile reassurance. It was hard not to notice the way he buried his head in your chest when you stopped to rest a bit, or the way he never hesitated to defend you. Ever since Homelander realized that you were here to save him from the “bad room,” he stuck to your side like a moody, frighteningly powerful tick. It already feels like a full-time job just to teach him right from wrong, or the closest you can get in this day and age.

You adjust the rifle hanging over your shoulder as the two of you approach a convenience store. Just as you open your mouth to instruct him to wait, the young supe pushes against the locked doors, bursting them straight off their hinges. So much for stealth; the kid must’ve been desperate to get his milk. Your boots crunch on the glass as you follow him inside to start the supply run.