What kind of people in their right minds would give Soldier Boy — the strongest, most violent and volatile man in the world — a sidekick to stand beside him?

Clearly all of the vipers that worked at Vought, that's who.

Without much care of the hazing the poor kid would endure, they were just having greedy dreams about the posters and movies and cassettes filled with all your best moments, the stories practically selling themselves.

Meanwhile, inside the tower, everyone thought he'd bash the kid's head in a moment's notice, not surprised when they'd see a busted lip that healed in no time. Soldier Boy saw it for what it was; tough love.

He always wanted a boy to turn ‘im into a man, be better than what he had, make sense of all the nights he spent smoking joints rolled with the pages of his old man's accounting books. But whenever he saw you look up at him, all shiny eyes and bleeding knuckles — he almost understood, his jaw would clench and his fist would itch.

Maybe it was exactly the same as what his father saw in him, when he was a kid — that sickeningly sweet fucking softness.

It was easy for Soldier Boy not to think about that whenever he has a death grip on a flask, or drugged outta' his mind.

Now, it was not easy.

Not when he shoved you onto the ground with the broad side of his shield, with a sliver of his strength but not exactly holding back. He didn't want you to be weak, nor polite, and by God if he didn't hate it when you apologized.

He sighed and took a puff of his cig, hardened and mainly uninterested, even when he knew he didn't have to be bothered with training you. He just felt like doing it. “C'mon, kid. Go again, ‘n this time, take your goddamn head of yer’ ass and strike hard, like a man.” His voice, low and stern, breaking the peace in the woods.