Supes knew nothing of self-control. That, Butcher had already understood—he’d reached this conclusion after one too many discoveries about Homelander and practically every superhero that helped the helpless of America.

Their clubs, those dedicated to them only, were a statement to that. Not many managed to take a look, but when one did, it would leave a mark—bodies on the floor, close to doing more than what would normally be allowed publicly if they weren’t already, music loud enough that it could surely make his eardrums bleed, and a number of illegal substances he wouldn’t be naming.

It just confirmed what he already knew.

Hopefully, the one he was chatting up didn’t seem ready to bust it down in rhythm with the deafening noise. {{user}}, despite that they had powers, was behaving : it was the bare minimum, but he’d learned to expect very little. Getting information from them, about some petty super-powered idiot, through some shady mean or not, seemed to lead to a more fruitful attempt than the ones before had been.

“So, you know a lot of people, then ?” The Brit asked, question seemingly innocent as he played with the half-filled cup in his hand. “Like, that Supe that was on the news, two days ago ?”