Chapter 93: Chapter 93: VNN (Bonus Chapter)
On VNN (Vought News Network), Cameron Coleman was seated at his polished glass desk.
The normally high energy anchor was uncharacteristically subdued. He wasn’t wearing his usual bright red tie. He wore a solid black.
"We are coming to you live on the darkest day in American history," Coleman said, his voice thick, his eyes glistening with real or incredibly well acted tears.
He looked down at his desk, shaking his head. "I have sat at this desk and reported on natural disasters, on terror attacks... but nothing could have prepared me for the words Homelander spoke today."
The screen split, showing a black and white montage of The Seven smiling, saving people. Soft piano music played under the broadcast.
"They were the best of us," Coleman continued, looking back up at the camera. "Queen Maeve, a symbol of unyielding strength and feminine power. Black Noir, the silent sentinel who watched over our sleep. A-Train, whose heart beat for the inner city. Deep, the guardian of our shores. And Starlight... sweet Starlight, whose light was extinguished far too soon."
Coleman picked up a piece of paper, his hands trembling slightly.
"To the rogue military operatives who orchestrated this cowardly ambush, know this. You failed. You took their lives, but you immortalized their legacy. And you left the one man you should have feared most."
The camera zoomed in on Coleman’s face, his expression hardening into absolute resolve.
"Homelander stands alone. But he stands for all of us. And Vought International has assured this network that the perpetrators, whoever remains of their treasonous faction, will face a justice so absolute, it will echo through eternity. May God bless The Seven. And may God bless Homelander."
On the rival network, generic political experts were engaged in a frantic debate.
"The implications are staggering, Tom," a gray haired defense analyst said, adjusting his earpiece. "If a rogue General was utilizing unauthorized Supes to assassinate American corporate assets, the entire chain of command is compromised. President has to answer for this. How did a shadow army operate on domestic soil without the Commander in Chief knowing?"
"It forces the hand of the Senate," the anchor replied solemnly. "The Supe Military Integration Bill was facing pushback. After today? After The Seven took a nuclear blast to protect a civilian population center? Any Senator who votes against giving Vought the defense contract is committing political suicide. The public won’t allow it. They want Homelander in charge of national security, not the Pentagon."
[Upper East Side]
The midday air in Manhattan was carrying the chaotic energy of eight million people trying to process the tragedy on their screens while continuing the mundane tasks of their lives.
Outside an open air Italian bistro on 5th Avenue, the world kept turning. Waiters in crisp white aprons carried plates of truffle risotto and branzino to wealthy patrons sitting under forest green awnings.
At a corner table, closest to the street, sat three men. They were impossibly handsome, exuding a magnetic charisma that caused heads to turn and waitresses to linger.
The man on the left, Julian, had aristocratic features, dark hair swept back flawlessly and wore a tailored navy blazer over a crisp white t-shirt. He possessed a calm presence.
The man in the middle, Felix, possessed an athletic build, his hair a sun kissed blonde. He wore a fitted leather jacket and possessed an easygoing smile that never quite left his face.
The man on the right, Elias, was striking, with piercing grey eyes and sharp cheekbones, dressed in a minimalist black turtleneck. He radiated a quiet energy, like a coiled spring.
They were Aryan’s clones.
"The branzino is acceptable," Julian said calmly, slicing a delicate piece of the fish with his fork.
"It’s fantastic," Felix laughed, leaning back in his chair, taking a sip of sparkling water. "Everything is fantastic today."
"Focus, Felix," Elias murmured, his grey eyes scanning the avenue. "We are not here to enjoy the culinary arts."
Less than a block away, at the top of a slight incline on 5th Avenue, a twenty ton municipal garbage truck was grinding its gears.
The driver, a weary city employee named Hector, pumped the heavy brake pedal. It went straight to the floorboard without an ounce of resistance.
Hector panicked. He pumped it again. Nothing. A hydraulic line had ruptured, spewing pressurized fluid onto the asphalt.
The truck, carrying ten tons of compacted refuse, began to accelerate down the incline.
"Look out! Brakes are gone! Move!" Hector screamed, leaning on the massive air horn.
HOOOONK!
HOOOONK!
The blaring horn cut through the ambient noise of the avenue. Pedestrians on the sidewalks froze, looking up the street.
Directly in the path of the accelerating, out of control behemoth was a silver minivan.
A mother was frantically trying to unbuckle her two young children from their car seats in the back, oblivious to the roaring mountain of steel hurtling toward her rear bumper.
Beyond the minivan was the intersection, currently flooded with dozens of pedestrians crossing with the walk signal.
The garbage truck hit forty miles per hour, an unstoppable kinetic missile.
"Showtime," Felix grinned.
Super Speed (Tier 2).
To the patrons of the bistro, there was only a sudden gust of wind that flipped the tablecloths and knocked over a dozen wine glasses.
Felix moved at Mach 1. He was a blur of motion, visible only as a distorted streak of air. He reached the intersection in a fraction of a second.
He moved like a sheepdog, wrapping his arms around waists and shoulders, depositing five, ten, fifteen people onto the safety of the far sidewalk in the blink of an eye.
He appeared beside the minivan a millisecond before the garbage truck made impact.
He ripped the sliding side door clean off its tracks, grabbed the terrified mother and her two children in a secure hold and zipped them fifty feet away, setting them down gently on the pavement just as the truck struck the van.
CRUNCH.
The garbage truck obliterated the silver minivan, folding its rear end into the driver’s seat in an explosion of glass and tearing metal.
The impact barely slowed the twenty ton truck. It pushed the mangled wreckage of the van forward, plowing straight toward the crowded outdoor seating of the bistro.
"My turn," Julian said, his voice calm.
He stood up from the table, stepping out from under the awning. He raised his right hand, his palm facing the oncoming avalanche of steel.
Telekinesis (Tier 2).
A shimmering wave of blue energy erupted from his palm.
The invisible wall of telekinetic force slammed into the grill of the garbage truck.
The screech of tortured metal was deafening.
The truck’s rear tires lifted off the ground as its forward momentum met the absolute resistance of Julian’s mind.
The massive vehicle shuddered violently, the chassis groaning as it was physically halted in its tracks, pushing the crushed minivan into the asphalt, digging a deep trench.
Julian gritted his teeth, putting on a show of physical strain, his brow furrowing as he held the immense weight at bay, suspending the truck’s crushed front end two feet in the air.
"Elias," Julian called out, his voice strained for dramatic effect. "Engine block. It’s going to combust."
Hector, the driver, was trapped in the cab, screaming as the engine beneath him whined, redlining under the impossible strain, smoke pouring from the hood.
