Chapter 11: The Observer

Marcus hovered in the shadows, his presence concealed by the darkness that surrounded the hideout of Butcher and his crew. He observed their every move with a focused intensity, his super-hearing picking up on even the slightest whisper. His mind was calculating, weighing the potential outcomes of revealing himself or continuing to watch from a distance.

Butcher was still pacing, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete floor. Hughie sat on a makeshift chair, his fingers nervously tapping against his leg. Frenchie, ever the tinkerer, was absorbed in some device on the table, his concentration unbroken.

"Something's not sitting right," Butcher finally grumbled, breaking the silence. His voice was low, but there was a steely edge to it, the kind that hinted at the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. "Homelander's been too quiet. It's like he doesn't care about the kidnappers of translucent anymore.

Hughie looked up, his eyes wide with concern. "You think he's onto something?"

Butcher paused, his gaze hardening as he considered the possibility. "Maybe. Or maybe he's just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. Either way, we can't afford to sit on our arses and wait for him to come knocking."

Frenchie glanced up from his work, his face a mixture of curiosity and unease. "You think he'll come after us directly, or is he planning something more… subtle?"

"Homelander?" Butcher scoffed, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grim smile. "Subtlety's not exactly his style. If he comes after us, we'll know it. But it's not just him we've got to worry about. There's a new player in town, and I don't like it one bit."

Marcus's ears perked up at this, his interest piqued. He knew they were referring to him, though they didn't yet know the full extent of what he was capable of. That suited him just fine—for now.

Hughie's brow furrowed, his confusion evident. "You mean… Superman?"

"Yeah, that's the one," Butcher replied, his voice dripping with disdain. "Bloody Superman. Shows up out of nowhere, plays the hero, and now everyone's singing his praises. Makes you wonder whose side he's really on."

Frenchie leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "He saved that plane, though. If he hadn't shown up, those people would be dead. Doesn't sound like something a villain would do."

"Maybe," Butcher conceded with a begrudging nod. "But we don't know anything about him, do we? Where'd he come from? What does he want? Vought's already got their golden boy—what's this bloke's angle?"

Hughie shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. "What if he's not working for Vought? What if he's… different?"

Butcher snorted, his skepticism evident. "Different? Hughie, they're all the bloody same. You get enough power, and it goes straight to your head. Doesn't matter if it's Homelander, Superman, or the bloody Pope—they all want the same thing: control."

Marcus's eyes narrowed as he listened to Butcher's words. The man was perceptive, cynical to the core, but not entirely wrong. Power did have a way of corrupting, but Marcus was determined to be the exception. He wouldn't allow himself to be consumed by it—he would use it to build something better, something that couldn't be tainted by greed or corruption.

Frenchie broke the silence that followed, his voice calm and measured. "So, what do we do about him? Do we keep an eye on him, or do we try to make contact?"

Butcher considered this for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he weighed the options. "We'll keep tabs on him, for now. See what he does, who he talks to. If he's working for Vought, we'll know soon enough. And if he's not… well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Hughie nodded, though he still looked uncertain. "And if he comes after us?"

"Then we do what we do best," Butcher replied, his voice cold and resolute. "We fight back. Hard."

Marcus could sense the tension in the room, the underlying fear that gnawed at each of them. Butcher was right about one thing—Homelander wasn't the type to sit idly by while someone else stole his spotlight. But he was also wrong in assuming that Marcus's motives were the same as everyone else's. Marcus had no interest in control for control's sake. His goals were bigger, more complex, and ultimately, more dangerous to Vought and the Seven.

As the conversation in the hideout died down, Marcus turned his attention back to the larger picture. His influence was growing—both as Superman and in the shadows through his burgeoning tech empire. But Vought wouldn't take this lying down. They were already planning their counterattack, and it was only a matter of time before they made their move.

But he was ready for them. He'd anticipated their every step, and now, with his power at 85%, he was nearly unstoppable. Still, caution was his greatest ally, and he would continue to watch, to listen, and to strike only when the time was right.

In the distance, the first rays of dawn began to break, casting a soft light over the city. Marcus felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, the familiar energy seeping into his cells and bolstering his strength. The panel in his mind flickered, showing his power inching ever closer to that coveted 100%.

But for now, he wouldn't remain in the shadows ,his presence will be known to all but a few. The world was changing, and he was determined to be the one who shaped it.

As Marcus prepared to leave, his super-hearing picked up one last snippet of conversation from the hideout.

"You think we can trust anyone?" Hughie asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

Butcher's response was immediate, his tone as hard as steel. "No. Trust gets you killed. We stick to what we know, and we don't let anyone get too close. Not even this Superman."

With a final glance at the hideout, Marcus flew into the early morning sky, disappearing into the clouds. He knew that Butcher and his crew were right to be cautious, but they also had no idea what was really coming.

The game was just beginning, and Marcus was ready to play.

But as he soared through the sky, a small part of him couldn't help but wonder—how long could he keep his distance? How long before the lines blurred and he found himself drawn into the very conflict he'd tried to avoid?