Chapter 7: Darker Shades of Red

Homelander soared through the night sky, his eyes glowing faintly with the remnants of his heat vision. His heart pounded with unspent fury, his muscles coiled with the rage he had barely contained during the confrontation with that goddamn Superman. Just the thought of it made him clench his fists until his knuckles turned white.

Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Showing up out of nowhere with powers that rivaled his own- no, worse, surpassing them. The way he'd stabilized that plane, the way he'd looked at Homelander with those piercing, self-righteous eyes, as if he were some kind of moral authority. The bastard had made him look weak.

And Homelander could not tolerate weakness. Not in himself, not in anyone else. He was Homelander, the greatest hero the world had ever seen. He was the fucking top dog, and no one-no one-challenged his authority and lived to tell the tale.

As his rage simmered, he descended toward a dingy alleyway on the outskirts of a city. This was one of those places where no one paid attention, where the scum of the earth gathered to do their dirty business. And tonight, they would be his outlet.

He landed with a heavy thud, cracking the pavement beneath his boots. The lowlife thugs, a mix of drug dealers and gangbangers, looked up from their illicit activities, their faces a blend of surprise and fear. They knew who he was-everyone did-but they never expected him to show up here, in this shithole.

"What the hell?" one of them muttered, his eyes wide as saucers. "Homelander?"

Homelander smirked, but it wasn't a smile of amusement. It was the smile of a predator who had cornered its prey. "Evening, gentlemen," he said, his voice oozing with mock cordiality. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. How about we have a little fun?"

The thugs exchanged nervous glances, their hands inching toward their weapons. But Homelander wasn't worried. Guns, knives-none of it mattered. They were as insignificant as insects to him.

"Fuck this!" one of them shouted, pulling out a gun and firing wildly. The bullets slammed into Homelander's chest, crumpling harmlessly against his suit before clattering to the ground.

Homelander looks downs at his chest then locks eye with the guy who fired.

Homelander then smiles . "Nice try." He said.

In a blur of movement, he was upon them. His hand shot out, grabbing the shooter by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The man kicked and struggled, his face turning red as he gasped for air, but Homelander's grip was unyielding.

"You know," Homelander said, his tone conversational as he tightened his grip, "I've had a really shitty day. Some asshole decided he wanted to play hero and make me look bad in front of the whole world. Do you know how that feels?

The thug gurgled, his eyes bulging as he clawed at Homelander's hand. Homelander tilted his head, pretending to listen.

"No? Well, let me tell you, it's like when you're constipated all day, then someone else takes credit for your crap- and it fucking sucks."

With a casual flick of his wrist, he snapped the man's neck, dropping the lifeless body to the ground. The other gang members were frozen in place, their faces pale with terror. They had no illusions about what was coming next.

Homelander turned to the remaining thugs, his eyes glowing with malice. "Now, which one of you wants to go next?"

They didn't stand a chance as they tried to defend themselves with their guns. In a matter of seconds, Homelander cut them down with brutal efficiency, his heat vision slicing through them like butter. He didn't hold back-he wanted them to suffer, to feel the full extent of his wrath.

One of the gang members, a young man barely out of his teens, tried to crawl away, his legs mangled from the blast of Homelander's heat vision. He whimpered, his hands trembling as he dragged himself across the blood-soaked pavement.

Homelander casually strolled over to him, enjoying the sound of the man's desperate breaths. He crouched down beside him, his face a mask of cold indifference.

"Am I not strong?" Homelander asked, his voice devoid of any emotion. It was less a question and more a statement of fact.

The young man looked up at him, his eyes filled with pain and terror. He opened his mouth to plead, but all that came out was a choked sob. He was beyond words, beyond reasoning.

"Please," the man finally managed to whisper, his voice barely audible. The man knowing he won't survive in the hands of Homelander.

"Just... just make it quick."

Homelander stared at him for a moment, considering the request. Then, with a sigh that was almost disappointed, he lifted his boot and brought it down on the man's head with a sickening crunch. The body twitched once, then went still, blood pooling around the shattered skull.

Homelander straightened up, brushing a speck of blood off his suit. The rage still burned within him, but it had been tempered by the carnage. It wasn't enough to quench his anger entirely, but it would do for now.

He took to the skies again, leaving the massacre behind. His thoughts were a chaotic swirl of fury and frustration. That fucking Superman -whoever he was-had made a fool of him. And now, the whole world would be buzzing about it.

He could already see the headlines in his mind: "Superman Saves Plane! Homelander Now Has Rival?" The thought made him want to punch something, or someone. He couldn't let this stand. No one outshone Homelander, no one.

As he flew, his superhuman hearing picked up snippets of conversations from the city below. People were already talking about Superman, the videos of the plane rescue spreading like wildfire across social media. They were calling him a hero, a savior. And worst of all, they were comparing him to Homelander.

Superman, he thought bitterly. The nerve of that son of a bitch, wearing that ridiculous cape, acting like he's some kind of goddamn boy scout. He even had the fucking S on his chest, like some cheap knock-off of a comic book character.

He wanted to scream, to unleash his heat vision on the entire city, to burn away every trace of this pretender. But he couldn't. Not yet. Vought wouldn't let him get away with something that big, not without a damn good reason.

He needed to be smart about this. He needed to find a way to crush Superman, to show the world that there was only one true hero, and his name was Homelander.

________________________________________

Meanwhile, back at Vought Tower, the atmosphere was one of shock and disbelief. The top executives, including Madelyn Stillwell, gathered around a large screen in the boardroom, watching the footage of the plane rescue on a loop.

"That's Marcus," one of them said, his voice filled with incredulity. "He used to be one of our staffers. A nobody."

"Not anymore," Madelyn replied, her tone icy. "Now he's Superman. And he just made Homelander look like a fucking joke."

She could barely contain her anger as she watched the footage again. Marcus, in his pristine Superman suit, flying in to save the day while Homelander stood there, doing nothing. It was a PR disaster of epic proportions, one that could seriously damage Vought's carefully crafted image of The Seven.

"We need to handle this, and fast," she continued, her mind already racing with possibilities. "We can't afford to let this Superman overshadow Homelander. If the public starts losing faith in The Seven, our entire operation is at risk."

"What do we do?" one of the executives asked, his voice tinged with panic. "He's clearly got powers on par with Homelander. Maybe even stronger."

Madelyn narrowed her eyes, her mind coldly calculating. "We do what we always do. We destroy his image. We make him the villain."

But they had no idea whom they were dealing with. A man with knowledge of this world and a fuckin' Kryptonian bloodline with the support of a system panel. Jezz, that's quite fucked up.

She turned to the head of Vought's PR department, who had been quietly watching the footage. "I want you to dig up everything we have on Marcus. Every little detail. We'll use it to paint him as a dangerous rogue, someone who's gone mad with power."

The PR head nodded, already scribbling down notes. "We could start by questioning his motives for intervening. Why did he wait until now to reveal himself? Maybe we suggest he's been hiding something, building up his power for some nefarious purpose."

"Good," Madelyn said, her lips curling into a predatory smile. "And start leaking stories to the press. Plant the idea that Superman isn't the hero everyone thinks he is. Make people doubt him, fear him."

Another executive chimed in. "We should also consider bringing in the other members of The Seven. Show them standing united with Homelander. It'll remind people who the real heroes are."

Madelyn nodded. "Do it. And get Homelander on board. He needs to be seen as the leader, the one who's in control."

As the meeting continued, the executives of Vought set their plans into motion. They would use every resource at their disposal to tarnish Superman's image, to turn public opinion against him. Because in the world of Vought, there could be only one narrative-the one they controlled.

And as the sun set on the city, the war between Homelander and Superman had only just begun.