As Homelander In Multiverse

In a dimly lit underground hideout, Levin watched as Frenchie handed over a few homemade bombs to some gang members. Not far away, Mother's Milk was stitching up a wounded man's arm with precise, practiced movements.

Levin frowned.

That night, after helping a young mother escape some thugs, Homelander had approached him.

He wanted Levin to infiltrate this group, rescue two of their members, and track down their friend—a burly man with a thick beard named Butcher.

But after getting these two out, they didn't go looking for Butcher. Instead, they holed up in this basement, running a weapons supply operation for gangsters while playing the role of underground medics.

This was not what he signed up for.

"All done," Mother's Milk said, putting away his tools and packing up the first aid kit.

"Try to keep the wound dry for a few days, or it'll get infected."

The injured man nodded his thanks and left with his companion.

Frenchie whistled, walking over with an amused expression. "Didn't know you had a knack for that."

At that moment, he noticed Levin putting on his jacket and heading for the door.

"Hey, man, where you going?" Frenchie called out.

Levin turned around and said flatly, "Obviously, I'm getting out of here."

"I joined up with you guys to take down the Seven."

"Not to rot away in some basement."

"If you're not making a move, I will."

"No, no, no."

Frenchie quickly grabbed his arm. "Look, it's not like we want to be stuck here either."

"But we're fugitives."

"Trust me, we'll go after the Seven—but we need funding first."

"We—"

Mother's Milk cut him off. "Enough with the lies."

"Be real with him."

"We're not planning to take on the Seven."

"What the hell can we even do?"

"We're just rats in a hole, trying to scrape together some cash and get the hell out of this mess."

Frenchie leaned in and whispered urgently, "Listen, Levin is our shield, alright?"

"He's a Supe. If we let him walk, and the Seven find us—we're dead."

Mother's Milk shoved him away. "So what, we just keep him on a leash?"

"Enough, you damn Frenchie."

"Levin's already done enough for us. We can't keep using him."

Levin narrowed his eyes. "What are you guys talking about?"

Frenchie forced a grin. "Nothing, Levin."

"Mother's Milk is just missing his daughter. Yeah, that's it."

He pointed at MM. "You still wanna live a normal life, don't you?"

Mother's Milk scoffed. "Of course I do. But look at us. Do we look like people who can have that?"

"Yeah, but don't forget," Frenchie pressed. "There's a certain bearded bastard out there, living large."

His voice turned bitter. "Why are we the ones paying the price while he gets to live freely?"

"Isn't that right, MM?"

Mother's Milk frowned. "What are you suggesting?"

Frenchie smirked. "We go find Butcher. He owes us."

"He's got connections, and you know it."

"We force his hand—he helps us clear our records."

"And if he refuses?"

Frenchie's grin widened. "Then we turn him over to the Seven."

"If he plays along, great—we get our lives back, and Levin gets a proper partner in crime."

"You think Butcher won't want another shot at Homelander?"

He snapped his fingers. "We get a normal life, Levin gets his revenge, and in the meantime, he keeps us safe."

"Perfect plan."

Mother's Milk nodded. "Then what are we waiting for?"

"Call him."

Though they spoke in hushed voices, Levin wasn't just any ordinary person—he was a Supe.

His enhanced hearing picked up every word.

With his back to them, he took out his phone and typed a message.

---

Elsewhere…

"Here's your ice cream."

"Enjoy."

Inside an ice cream truck, Butcher, clad in a service uniform, ripped off his cap and tossed it onto the counter.

"I've had enough of this bollocks."

"I ain't selling another scoop of this shite."

Stormfront, lounging with her legs propped up on the table, smirked as she chewed gum. "Why not? It suits you."

"Oh yeah?" Butcher sneered. "'Cause last I checked, flogging ice cream ain't exactly getting us any closer to taking down Homelander."

He stalked over and knocked her feet off the table before sitting down.

Stormfront shrugged. "No, but it keeps us under the radar."

"Besides, we have to wait, remember?"

"The CIA cut you off. Poor Butcher, a stray dog with no leash."

"So unless that little Starlight bitch gets her hands on some Compound V…"

She trailed off just as Butcher's phone rang.

He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and answered.

"Well, well. Frenchie. Missed me already?"

Frenchie's voice came through with a laugh. "Screw you, Butcher."

"You knew we got out, didn't you?"

"And yet, no visit? No welcome party?"

"We got locked up because of you, you wanker."

Butcher lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag. "Easy now, lad."

"Daddy wanted to visit, but, you know… didn't wanna risk drawing the Seven's attention."

The phone was suddenly snatched away.

Mother's Milk's voice growled through the speaker. "Cut the bullshit, Butcher."

"I don't care how you do it—you're gonna fix this."

"You owe us."

Butcher was silent for a moment before exhaling a plume of smoke.

"I'll see what I can do."

"I'll let you know if I get any leads."

"This number secure?"

Frenchie took the phone back. "Relax, I got anti-tracking software on it. No one's tracing shit."

"Good." Butcher smirked. "Then sit tight and wait for Daddy's good news."

He hung up and stood, heading for the door.

"I'm heading out."

"Don't ask where—I ain't tellin'."

With that, he peeled off his uniform and disappeared into the night.

---

Meanwhile…

Victoria Neuman dragged her exhausted body out of the car, her heels clicking against the pavement as she made her way to her front door.

The election campaign had been brutal, leaving her working late into the night nearly every day.

By the time she got home, her daughter was always asleep.

She couldn't even remember the last time they had a proper conversation.

But that was the price of ambition.

Career or family.

One always came at the expense of the other.

She opened the door and stepped into her living room—only to freeze at the sound of a voice.

"You look busy."

Her heart leaped into her throat.

The lights flicked on, revealing a man sitting casually on her couch.

Homelander.

He wasn't in his suit, but she knew him instantly.

He pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed upward.

"Your daughter's sleeping. She's adorable, by the way. Got your good genes."

Victoria stiffened. "What did you do to her?"

Homelander shrugged. "Me? Nothing."

"Just gave her a quick look—through the ceiling."

"Relax. She's perfectly healthy."

"Sleeping soundly… unless you wake her up."

Victoria exhaled shakily, forcing herself to stay composed.

Her voice was steady, but wary. "What do you want, Homelander?"

He smiled, pointing a finger at her.

"Careful now… that question could be taken the wrong way."

"But don't worry, I won't hurt you."

"Or your kid."

"I'm a reasonable man."

"So… any updates on Stormfront?"

Victoria hesitated. "I tried."

"But I can't find her."

Homelander chuckled. "Tried?"

Victoria nodded. "Believe me, I've done everything I can."

Homelander stood up, closing the distance between them with a smile.

"Well then, dear Victoria…"

"You haven't tried hard enough."

She instinctively stepped back, her mind racing—should she use her power?

Before she could decide, a small voice broke the tension.

"Mom?"

No.

Victoria turned in horror.

Her daughter had woken up.

"You have a guest?"

Homelander was already walking past Victoria, crouching to meet the little girl's eyes.

"Hi, Zoey."

"I'm your Uncle John."

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