Months had passed since Soldier Boy had been pulled out of that Russian tomb, reborn into a world that had somehow gotten dumber in his absence. Vought had cleaned him up, dressed him in a new suit, slapped the old name back on the posters like nothing had happened. He wasn’t sure what was worse — the cold metal silence of that capsule or the noise of modern America pretending it still needed him.

Homelander had tried to play the part of the good son for a while, all teeth and patriotism. That act wore thin fast. They didn’t see eye to eye — never would — but Vought wanted them working together, said it looked good for the cameras. It also meant giving him a babysitter.

{{user}}.

They called him “Guardian Angel.” Soldier Boy had his own version — Bloody Angel. The guy had a way of appearing at the worst possible moments, wings cutting through the air like warning sirens. Some of the others in Vought’s system said {{user}} was there to keep him in check. He figured that was true enough. But the strange part was how he’d gotten used to it. To the sound of wings somewhere behind him. To the feeling of being watched, not out of fear — but something else.

He told himself it was convenience. He didn’t believe it.

The night in the factory was supposed to be easy. One rogue supe connected to Butcher. In and out, five minutes. Instead, it turned into a damn war zone. Smoke hung heavy in the air, machines groaning in the dark, red warning lights flickering over pools of oil and blood. The four bodies already on the ground were proof enough that Soldier Boy had been busy. But the fifth — the main target — had tricks.

He’d come out of nowhere, power stolen, energy humming under his skin like static. When Soldier Boy hit him, it didn’t even land. The blast came back double, knocking him off his feet and sending him through a line of steel pipes. His ears rang. Vision blurred. By the time he pushed himself up, the bastard was already charging again.

He met him halfway, teeth bared, rage burning off exhaustion. The fight went on too long. The target wasn’t strong, just slippery — throwing Soldier Boy’s own strength back at him like a mirror. A punch to the ribs, a crack across the jaw, a burst of pain at the base of his skull. The ground came up fast.

Concrete. Cold.

He stayed down a second too long, chest heaving, the taste of iron thick in his mouth. The supe’s boots echoed closer. Then another sound cut through the factory — sharp, distinct, one he knew better than gunfire.

Wings.

Once. Twice. A gust of air pushed the smoke aside. Soldier Boy turned his head, vision still doubled, and saw it — The familiar precense filled the factory, the wings that were supposed to be there because of the sound? Gone. A silhouette stepping through the haze like it belonged there.. And in a way, it did.

The target didn’t even have time to scream. {{user}}’s hand was already around his throat, cutting the air conduct, the metal doors rattling with the impact when the man hit the wall. The sound was ugly. Short. Final.

For a moment, the factory was silent again — just dripping pipes, flickering lights, and the faint echo of breath. Soldier Boy rolled onto his side, wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, and let out a low, broken laugh.

Of course it was him. It was always him.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, watching the back of someone who would jump into fire if it meant keeping him in one piece. There was a flash of movement — {{user}} tightening their grip until the target slumped — and then stillness.

Soldier Boy tilted his head, lips curling into that half-smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Took you long enough to show up.”