Chapter 3: Vought tower finds our
The dawn light over New York City felt like an accusation. Annie stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the Vought Tower common room, her reflection a pale ghost overlaid on the waking grid of streets below. She hadn’t slept. The text from Butcher was a live wire in her brain, sizzling and sparking, making a mockery of the calm she was supposed to project.
Maeve’s coffee machine hissed in the background, a violent, aggressive sound. “Stop staring like a haunted doll,” Maeve muttered, not looking up from where she was viciously stabbing the brew button. “He’ll smell the anxiety on you.”
“He can’t actually smell anxiety,” Annie said, her voice thin.
“He can smell the cortisol, the sweat, the lie. It’s all the same to him.” Maeve finally got a cup, sliding it across the quartz countertop. “Drink. Smile. You’re just tired from a long night of… saving kittens or whatever the hell we’re supposed to do in our spare time.”
The elevator dinged softly. Both women froze for a microsecond, then forced their bodies into casual poses. Homelander strode into the common room, the morning sun glinting off his perfect hair, his cape swaying with a practiced, heroic sweep. The air in the room changed, becoming heavier, charged.
“Ladies,” he said, his smile a brilliant, manufactured thing. He headed straight for the news screen, flicking it on with a thought. “Big day. Quarterly ratings are in. The ‘Boy of Tomorrow’ special tested through the roof. Parents love it. Advertisers are creaming themselves.” He turned, leaning against the console, his eyes sweeping over them. “You both look… tense.”
Annie’s heart hammered against her ribs. He knows. He has to know. She took a gulp of scalding coffee to give her mouth something to do.
“Just a disagreement,” Maeve drawled, picking at a flaw in her nail polish. “Annie thinks my new leggings are morally gray because they’re made from recycled plastic bottles. I think they make my ass look fantastic. An existential standoff.”
Homelander’s laugh was a short, sharp bark. “Well, I’m team Maeve on that one.” His gaze lingered on Annie. “Everything alright, Starlight? You’re quiet.”
“Fine,” she chirped, the word too high. “Just… planning a community outreach thing. For kids. Lots of logistics.”
“Admirable,” he said, the word flat. His eyes didn’t leave her face, probing, searching for a crack. The moment stretched, thin and deadly. Then he looked back at the screen, where a blonde news anchor was cheerfully discussing his latest philanthropic venture. “Carry on.”
The day was a marathon of excruciating normalcy. A script read-through for a new Vought+ animated series where Homelander voiced himself. A photo shoot for a new line of “Seven”-themed activewear. Through it all, Annie smiled until her cheeks ached, laughed at inane jokes, and nodded at marketing proposals. She felt like a shell, a polished mannequin with a screaming void inside. Maeve was her anchor, a steady, cynical presence who would step in with a cutting remark whenever Annie’s responses grew a beat too slow.
By late afternoon, the exhaustion was a physical weight. They were in one of the smaller conference rooms, debriefing with Ashley and A-Train on the day’s PR schedule. Ashley was a live wire of nervous energy, her heels clicking a rapid staccato on the floor as she paced. A-Train slouched in a chair, scrolling through his phone, visibly bored.
“The key takeaway,” Ashley said, “is synergy. Homelander’s ‘legacy’ narrative, A-Train’s comeback tour, Starlight’s ‘heart of gold’ angle, Maeve’s… rugged individualism. It all weaves together into a tapestry of brand excellence.”
“A tapestry,” Maeve repeated, deadpan. “Thrilling.”
Annie’s phone, face-up on the gleaming conference table, buzzed. A notification slid onto the screen.
It was a news alert. The headline was innocuous: Rural County Reports Unexplained Static on Emergency Bands.
But beneath it, visible for a full three seconds before the screen went dark, was the previous message. Butcher’s text. The one she’d read a thousand times, the one she’d forgotten to properly close out of.
At safe house w/ Stan. H preg. Homelander.
Annie’s blood turned to ice. She snatched the phone up, fumbling, her thumb smearing against the screen as she tried to wake it and lock it simultaneously.
It was too late.
Ashley had stopped pacing. A-Train’s scrolling had ceased. The room’s atmosphere, once filled with Ashley’s vapid corporate-speak, had vanished, replaced by a thick, deafening silence.
Ashley’s eyes were wide, her mouth a small, perfect ‘o’. She looked from the phone in Annie’s trembling hand to Annie’s horror-stricken face. A-Train slowly sat up straight, placing his own phone down on the table with a deliberate click. His expression was unreadable.
“What,” Ashley whispered, the word barely audible, “was that?”
“Nothing,” Annie blurted, her voice cracking. “A wrong number. A spam thing. It’s—”
“Cut the shit, Starlight,” A-Train said, his voice low. No anger. Just cold, sharp focus. “H. That’s Hughie Campbell. The one who hangs with Butcher.” He looked at Maeve, whose face had become a careful mask. “Preg. Pregnant. Homelander.” He let the final name hang, the implications assembling themselves with terrifying clarity in the quiet room.
Ashley made a small, choked sound, like a whimper trapped in her throat. She took a stumbling step back, hitting the edge of the table. “No. No, no, no. That’s not… that can’t be a real text. That’s a joke. A deepfake. A…” She was spiraling, her professional composure dissolving into raw, animal panic. “If he finds out… if the public finds out…”
“Where’s the safe house?” A-Train asked, ignoring Ashley’s meltdown. His eyes were locked on Annie.
“I don’t know,” Annie lied.
“Bullshit. You got the text. Butcher’s trusting you with it. He sent it for a reason.” A-Train’s logic was merciless. “Stan Edgar’s involved? Jesus.” He ran a hand over his face. “This isn’t a scandal. This is a strategic nuclear device.”
“We have to tell him,” Ashley gasped, hyperventilating. “We have to go to Homelander right now and tell him everything, and maybe he’ll… he’ll understand we’re loyal…”
Maeve moved then, so fast it made Ashley flinch. She didn’t get up, just leaned forward, her arms on the table. “Think about what you’re saying, Ashley. You want to walk up to the most unstable person on the planet and tell him he knocked up a nobody from the Boys? A girl who hates him? You want to be the messenger for that?”
Ashley stared, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.
“He won’t be grateful,” Maeve continued, her voice a venomous whisper. “He’ll be humiliated. Then he’ll be furious. And he will not shoot the messenger. He will dismantle the messenger. Atom by atom. And anyone standing next to her.”
The color drained completely from Ashley’s face. The truth of it was inescapable.
A-Train nodded slowly, absorbing Maeve’s words. “She’s right. This isn’t loyalty. This is suicide.” He looked at Annie, his gaze calculating. “Butcher’s an asshole, but he’s not stupid. If he’s with Edgar, they have a plan. Or at least, a bunker. Going to Homelander blows up everything. Including us.”
“So what do we do?” Annie asked, her voice small. The pretense was gone.
“We do nothing,” A-Train said firmly. “We saw nothing. We know nothing. That text doesn’t exist.”
“But he’ll find out eventually!” Ashley wailed, quieter now, crushed by the futility of it all.
“Maybe,” Maeve said. “And when he does, it won’t be because we handed him the information on a plate. We’ll have deniability. We’ll be just as shocked as everyone else.”
A long, heavy silence filled the room. The distant hum of the tower’s HVAC was the only sound. Four people, bound not by loyalty or friendship, but by a shared, primal fear.
Ashley finally gave a tiny, desperate nod, her body slumping in defeat. A-Train let out a long breath. “Alright then. Consensus. This meeting was about PR synergy for Q3. That’s all anyone remembers.”
He stood up, pocketing his phone. He gave Annie one last, hard look. “Lock your phone, Starlight. And for God’s sake, get a grip. Your face is a billboard.”
He left, the door hissing shut behind him. Ashley followed a moment later, moving like a sleepwalker, her earlier energy utterly spent.
Annie slumped back in her chair, a tremble starting deep in her core. Maeve reached over and pried the phone from her white-knuckled grip, firmly hitting the lock button.
“See?” Maeve said, her voice rough with a fatigue that went beyond physical. “Teamwork.”
“Teamwork.”
The word echoed in the sterile quiet of the conference room, a bitter punchline. Maeve stood, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. “You should go home. Actually sleep. You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”
Annie could only nod, the motion jerky. Her fingers still tingled with the phantom buzz of the phone. The elevator ride down felt interminable, a descent into a deeper kind of silence. The city outside her taxi window was a blur of indifferent light.
She didn’t go home. She walked, aimlessly, for blocks, the cool evening air doing nothing to clear the static in her head. H preg.