Soldier Boy wasn’t sure when the world had turned into one long corridor of blood. Maybe it was Kansas, maybe it was before that. Either way, the sound of his boots crunching over shards of glass and empty shell casings had started to feel like a rhythm — steady, familiar, almost comforting. The docks were quiet now, save for the groan of metal shifting in the night breeze. Crates taller than trucks loomed over them, red iron giants marked with numbers half-erased by rust. The smell of salt and gasoline hung thick in the air.

He dragged his hand across one of the crates as they walked, streaking a smear of red over its surface. Not his blood. Not most of it, anyway. Behind him, {{user}} left darker footprints. Soldier Boy could hear the uneven drag of their steps — one boot heavy, the other uncertain. He didn’t turn around. If they were still moving, they were fine.

It wasn’t like he’d meant to hit the guy that hard. The target — some loudmouthed Stellar with a homemade vest and a martyr complex — had exploded on impact, painting the loading bay in a thick spray of viscera. Homelander’s orders had been clear: “Make it a message.” Soldier Boy had done that. Hell, he’d always been good at messages. Violence had a way of speaking loud enough for everyone.

What he hadn’t expected was how quiet it all felt after. No reporters, no crowds. Just the docks, the dark, and {{user}} bleeding through the side of their suit, too stubborn to admit it.

“You’re leakin’,” he muttered, voice rough from smoke and grit. “Try not to die before we get the hell outta here.”

They didn’t answer, of course. They never did when it mattered. Soldier Boy told himself he preferred it that way. Less noise. Less chance of saying something he’d regret.

The air shimmered faintly under the floodlights, dust catching like snow. Somewhere far off, a gull screamed, the sound thin and pitiful. It reminded him of Payback — of nights where cleanup meant dragging what was left of your teammate back to the truck before the press arrived. Different faces, same mess. History always found a way to repeat itself, no matter how many times he burned it down.

He adjusted his shield on his back, listening to the faint clang against his armor. His reflection flickered in a puddle as they passed — a blur of green and red, half-man, half-ghost. He looked like something the country should’ve buried decades ago. Maybe they had, and this was just the echo that wouldn’t shut up.

Homelander had called it “patriot work.” Soldier Boy knew better. It wasn’t about saving the nation; it was about cleaning it. Erasing anyone who didn’t fit the image. “Stellars,” “Democrats,” “traitors,” whatever name made the public sleep easier. Same goddamn playbook, different slogans.

He looked over his shoulder then, just once. {{user}} was still upright, face pale under the bruised glow of the lamps. There was blood on their collar, a streak down their jaw that caught the light like war paint. For a second, he saw something in their eyes — not fear, not pain, just… tired defiance. The kind he used to see in mirrors before the Russians took that away.

He exhaled hard through his nose, turning back before the thought could root itself. “You keep starin’ like that, and I’ll start thinkin’ you got a death wish.”

It came out harsher than he meant. Everything did lately. Maybe it was easier that way — to sound angry instead of hollow.

They reached the end of the dock, the water black and heavy, tugboats rocking lazily against their ropes. Somewhere out there, cameras would be waiting, Homelander’s golden boy ready to smile for the headlines while Soldier Boy and his team disappeared into the dark again.

He ran a hand through his hair, still sticky with someone else’s blood. “Guess that’s that,” he said quietly. The words vanished under the wind.

The mission was over. The fight wasn’t.