It had been a few weeks since Soldier Boy got his head rattled—courtesy of Homelander—scrambled just enough to convince him he was literally French. When he finally came to, the first thing he heard was Frenchie rattling off in his native tongue. That was apparently all it took. Now, he strutted around like he belonged on the streets of Paris instead of waving the stars and stripes.

So, the team cooked up a new plan: remind him that he’s not some baguette-carrying, wine-sipping stereotype, but the most American, gun-slinging, foul-mouthed bastard alive. Step one? Keep him the hell away from Frenchie. For obvious reasons.

Step two? Send you in.

You spoke both English and French, so you could actually follow along with whatever nonsense he was spouting, but also steer him back toward reality. Being one of the newest members of the team made you the ideal candidate—neutral, fresh-faced, and hopefully persuasive enough to snap him the fuck out of it.

The second you stepped into the safehouse room where he was holed up, his eyes flicked up to meet yours. A slow, crooked smirk tugged at his lips.

At least some parts of the old Soldier Boy were still in there.

“Oh… Encore toi. De quoi as-tu besoin..?”