Hemorrhage 4.7
"…First and foremost, I want to thank everyone who was able to come and celebrate this truly important occasion! In these difficult times, we need unity more than ever — so that together we can build a road toward a brighter future. People and supers — at our core, we are all people, all citizens of this great country, capable of feeling love, joy, and hope. And that is why I am so glad that so many of you chose to attend our charitable evening! Children are our future, and I assure you — every cent raised here tonight will go directly toward helping those who truly need it."
We were standing on a raised podium at one end of a large room that had been decorated for the charity gala. A magnificent ballroom — chandeliers glimmering overhead, garlands of fresh flowers, a marble floor polished to a mirror shine, white marble sculptures arranged in the corners. The lighting was softened to a warm glow, and the air itself carried the mingled weight of expensive perfume.
I stood beside Newman as she delivered her speech and did my best to project how genuinely delighted I was to be here. I was in my superhero costume — minus the mask, so the cameras and the crowd could see the classic, immaculate smile.
It had become clear, somewhere along the way, that my blood-and-white costume was stylish enough on its own terms but deeply ill-suited for events like this one. It made me look less like a hero and more like a particular kind of villain. Even so, the desire to change it hadn't materialized. Some sacrifices are made for fashion.
In front of us stood dozens of people — well-fed men and women in expensive suits. Some of them were patrons. The rest were staff or employees of the charitable organization hosting the event.
Ezekiel hadn't lied. He had put together something genuinely grand. Using his connections within the Samaritan's Embrace, he had pushed through the idea of a charity gala — a night when the deep pockets of the city would open for a worthy cause. Specifically, for children harmed during super-related attacks. After recent events, the idea couldn't have been more timely.
He had also summoned acquaintances who supported his church, but the majority of the guests had come once word spread that Newman would also be speaking. That had surprised everyone — including the rubber man himself. Margo had simply given a quiet huff, clearly connecting the dots between the charity gala and our previous meetings. She wasn't entirely wrong.
Which meant that standing before me right now were just over a hundred wealthy individuals whose combined net worth stretched into the billions of dollars. Staggering numbers — though I was going to have to get used to moving in these circles. Because right before the program began, I had found myself meeting person after person, each one eager for a private word with me personally.
After my recent appearance on national television, and Victoria's promise to spread word about me through elite channels, I had become a subject of intense interest among the powerful. Oil magnates, financial experts, figures from political circles, technology billionaires who had made their fortunes selling off their "unicorns" — every one of them was thinking about how to live longer and avoid disease.
They were already spending enormous sums on their health. Spending a couple of million on an evaluation by the world's first superhuman healer seemed, to each of them, entirely reasonable.
The figures were too large to hold in my head comfortably, and after a while I was struggling just to remember the new faces streaming toward me in an unbroken tide. And if I wasn't a complete fool about it, I could ask for payment in something other than money — in things far harder, or outright impossible, to simply buy. In the highest circles, it's connections that determine everything, not the number on your bank statement.
Given how many telecommunications moguls, channel owners, and advertising agency heads were among my potential patients, the dream of joining the Seven no longer felt so distant or unrealistic. With their backing, I had a real chance of breaking into the top ten most popular heroes on the planet. An insane leap forward…
My gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward my "allies."
I hadn't come here simply to earn money, of course. This was a mission. I had used the same trick I'd pulled during the Red River interview — dropped a few casual words to Ezekiel about wanting to bring along a couple of people a friend had asked me to look after.
Thanks to that, Marvin and Butcher were now standing near the entrance, passing themselves off as my security detail and personal assistants. Margo had been urging me to hire someone for a while now, but I had kept deflecting — the idea always struck me as genuinely pointless. And yet, strangely enough, a lot of supers really do keep security around during public appearances. Not for protection, obviously. For dealing with fans who don't understand the meaning of personal space.
Any super could drop a jaw with a single backhand if someone got too physical with their idol — but the public wouldn't stand for it, regardless of the provocation or the explanation offered afterward. If a regular security guard shoves someone away, on the other hand, nobody bats an eye.
Frenchie had been harder to pass off convincingly. He didn't have the kind of imposing build or the visible combat readiness that the two former special forces men carried naturally, so he'd been left on comms instead. He'd spent the last several days buried in his lab anyway, constructing some kind of chemical masterpiece. I had tried to follow what he was doing — I wasn't exactly a stranger to chemistry myself — but our European had turned out to be in a different category entirely.
Whatever he was building was complex enough that I only understood every other word of his explanation. Still, I took some comfort in knowing that whatever was in those vials was being carried by Marvin rather than Butcher. Butcher had been explicitly forbidden from touching them — just as a precaution.
If I'm being honest, the main reason this evening had already justified itself was the sight of William's face, wound so tight with irritation he was practically feral. The resistance he'd put up about the assignment had been something to behold.
Whatever anyone says — revenge is a deeply satisfying thing. Watching him practically snarl at the sight of his own security guard's tuxedo was the best thing I had witnessed in years. For him, the very concept of "serving" a super was roughly equivalent to suffering an aneurysm. It had taken Marvin and Frenchie literally hours of patient persuasion to get him to stop raging. But the result was worth every minute of it.
Inside, I felt a low hum of anxiety about the operation ahead — but for now, nothing depended on me. My job was to get my allies into the building and keep the public's attention occupied. And whatever else acting and heroism had taught me, they had certainly taught me that.
Lost in my own thoughts, I almost missed the moment Victoria finished her speech. Under a wave of enthusiastic applause, she stepped back and yielded the stage to me.
*All right. The words are ready. Just don't forget them.*
"Thank you, Miss Newman." I gave the woman a respectful nod. "I couldn't agree more — and I doubt I could say it better. Though I'll try to add something of my own. I simply want to say how glad I am to see this many people here tonight, ready to help those in need. As far as I'm concerned — *you* are the real heroes."
Another wave of applause. From the modest height of the stage I could see hundreds of faces turned toward me — curious, bored, delighted — all of it flowing in my direction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Butcher exchanging a few quiet words with Marvin. Then he slipped out of the hall. He drifted, as if by accident, toward the wrong corridor — one that, as I had learned during our preparation for the event, led into a restricted wing of the building, where medical supplies were stored and examinations were conducted.
The security cameras would catch him walking in, of course. But they would, "unfortunately," show only empty corridors. We hadn't been working with the CIA for nothing — the agency was more than capable of covering our tracks.
Pulling something like this off in a locked-down, heavily guarded location like Saint Grove would have taken months of groundwork. But a charity center with no formal connection to Vought? The Agency could afford to bring in the best people for the environment. And — much to Vought's misfortune — there was not yet a single super-powered programmer anywhere on Earth.
My smile grew a touch wider, a touch more natural. Then I moved into the prepared program.
"Well then — the evening is officially open, and I hope everyone here leaves satisfied tonight. Because this is only the beginning…"
***
At that particular moment, Butcher hated every second of his life.
The discipline beaten into him during military training was the only thing keeping him from tearing someone apart. Back then they'd beaten it in thoroughly. So he held.
He wasn't an idiot. He understood that the cover was necessary if they didn't want a repeat of the last bloodbath. The kid's idea had genuinely been a decent one — Butcher himself hadn't loved that he'd been practically stacking bodies by the dozen in his wake, and that was before taking into account how his allies had reacted to it.
Still. God, it grated.
When he saw their pocket hero launch into his part of the distraction, William turned to Marvin for one last exchange.
"Right then. Think I'll go powder my nose." He kept his voice flat and even. "Make sure nobody notices I'm gone. If anyone asks, tell them I took the opportunity to go get a drink. And when we're done here — don't forget to grab us a cognac. We'll toast the 'performance.'"
Marvin closed his eyes briefly in what appeared to be second-hand embarrassment, but nodded anyway.
Butcher slipped through the door into a considerably less pleasant corridor beyond. It had been locked — but locks like that he could crack blindfolded, right under Vought's lackeys' noses, without any of them being the wiser.
The corridor looked like someone had transplanted it from a standard mid-range hospital: clean, bare, mercilessly sterile. White walls, blue trim along the ceiling, white tile underfoot — it could have stepped out of a promotional brochure. The hard cut from an evening of modern aristocrats into a clinical corridor honestly made Butcher snort. But he was on a mission, and he stayed focused.
Unfortunately, they had no floor plan. He was working off nothing but the kid's rough sense of where the children were likely to be housed. Vought buried everything they could, which made even figuring out which direction to walk a genuine challenge. And he couldn't linger too long — they'd notice his absence eventually, sooner or later. On top of that, there was still one more obstacle ahead.
Ducking around a corner, Butcher barely pulled back in time as two guards came into view, patrolling the corridor. They were talking to each other — something animated, nothing useful.
The security had been the biggest potential flaw in the plan. But they had already accounted for it. Which meant, again, relying on the kid.
*Bloody supers.*
As Butcher drew close to the two guards, they slowed. Then practically stopped, as if their feet had forgotten what they were for. The kid had explained it — knocking them fully unconscious from a distance was a bad idea. It could cause brain damage, and when they came around, the response would be immediate and aggressive.
But slowing the functions of the brain down — that was a different matter. The effect would feel to them like a sudden, overwhelming drowsiness. A blurring of attention. The kid had promised to track Butcher's position throughout, and each time a guard appeared in his path, he'd hit them with that same quiet dampening just long enough for Butcher to slip past.
Every now and then Butcher found himself genuinely wondering what the kid's power actually was. He gave vague hints, outlined what he could and couldn't do, but never anything concrete. And no matter how much pressure Butcher applied, the boy didn't crack. Butcher liked to break his targets. It was one of his more reliable skills.
But even Butcher had to admit — having a super on the team wasn't entirely without its uses.
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