Chapter Text
(The house is warped by time, eroded like a sea-eaten stone. The hallways are dark and endless, wallpaper peeling and cockled, ceiling sunken in. Earving races down a stretch of cavernous hallway, his socked feet slipping over rotted-wood floors. Terror grips him, cold claws around his spine. His father's voice bellows behind him and echoes ahead of him, and his mind is empty but for one towering thought: Hide.)
Noir has been summoned to Mr. Edgar's office, and his legs carry him there with urgent strides. It's been months since Mr. Edgar last called upon him like this, his last real mission, when he was dropped from a helicopter over Omsk with instructions to rip out the heart of the man whose file Mr. Edgar gave him. Lately Noir's “missions” have all been scripted, staged saves and interviews where all that's asked of him is that he sits still and nods or shakes his head in response to questions, usually to a tinny uproar of canned laughter.
They set buildings on fire and have him extinguish them, sometimes after pulling a faux-frightened actor from the flames. They have him stop robberies, only for the robber to ask for his autograph afterward, revealed to have been an agent of Vought all along. None of it is real anymore; none of it hurts.
Yesterday Noir filmed the last scene of what is to be, the director told him, the first entry of something called a “VCU.” Noir is excited to see himself in a movie, even if he can never remove his mask or speak again. He enjoys these easy, bloodless days, and prefers cheering crowds to terrified, fleeing targets. Soldier Boy (“You’re not good enough.”) has been gone for a long time now, and Noir is happy. He's supposed to be safe, but the thought of another real mission upturns his painless new world like a snow globe in the hands of a monster, shaking it hard.
Noir doesn't want to hurt anyone, or be hurt. He's important now, and everyone here at the Tower treats him as if he's something precious, worth more than just grunt work. They smile at him, and ask him if he's hungry, and there are parties. He can't talk to them or show them how they make him smile, too, but he doesn't want all of this to end.
“Aw, Earving. Nothing's ending,” Buster Beaver says, walking beside Noir. Millie Mare and Eddie Eagle join him, falling into step with their bouncing cartoon gaits. “Everything’s gonna be A-okay, pal!”
“Are you sure?” Millie asks with a distressed whinny. “Mister Edgar sounded sorta mad, didn't he, over the intercom?”
Noir doesn't whimper, can't, but a wave of worry floods his rib cage, spurring his heart into a harried sprint. Mr. Edgar sounded impatient, at the very least.
“Nonsense,” Eddie says. “Don't you listen to Nervous Nellie over there, Earving. You know you haven't done anything wrong!”
“That's true!” Buster agrees. He reaches for Noir's hand, squeezing it tightly, and Noir is glad for this as they approach Mr. Edgar’s office. The door is beside a window overlooking the city, eighty-two floors and a thousand feet above it all. Noir stops to look down for a while, certain he'd rather brave that fall than Mr. Edgar's potential disappointment. “Earving, it’s really okay!” Buster tells him, tugging on his hand. “So what if it's another mission? You'll get it done, easy! What's one more, anyway? Isn't it worth it?”
It is worth it. Noir releases Buster, knowing this is something he has to do alone, and brings his fist up to knock once on Mr. Edgar’s fancy wooden door.
“Come in,” Mr. Edgar calls mildly.
“Good luck, Earving! We'll be right here when you come out, whatever happens,” Buster says, smiling when Noir looks back. “Always.”
(Earving comes to a closet and scrambles to cram himself inside, into the corner where he might be safe.) Noir opens the door, breathing deeply, and closes it behind him after he steps inside. Mr. Edgar's office is almost the size of Noir's apartment, furnished with things so new-smelling and expensive-looking, Noir would never dare to touch any of them. The chairs are all soft leather, and the desk is the same fancy wood as the door. Mr. Edgar sits at his desk, unsmiling when Noir comes to stand before him, hands clasped behind his back so Mr. Edgar won't see how he trembles.
“Noir,” Mr. Edgar says. His voice never gives anything away, as flat in pride as it is in anger. “A decision has been made regarding Project Homelander.”
Noir nods, a shudder traveling through him; he prefers not to think about Project Homelander.
“It has reached an age where we believe its strength can be accurately assessed,” Mr. Edgar says. His hands rest neatly on his tidy desktop, between stacks of paper and mesh pen containers. “Additionally, it can now retain long-term memories. It can be taught, and the most valuable lesson an asset can learn is, of course, obedience. Report to Doctor Vogelbaum in the basement laboratory, where you will receive further instructions. Thank you.”
Dismissed, Noir leaves the office swiftly and heads for the elevator with his friends in tow. He's curious, but doesn't expect explanations so much as bare orders. It's not his place to understand these things. He couldn't if he tried, even if it was all slowly explained to him; his brain is broken and bad. It's been broken and bad since the Bad Day. (“I'm the only star on this team, and if any of you try to outshine me…”)
“What?” Fiona Fox asks in her high, squeaking voice. She's with them now, too, along with Carrie Canary and Benny Bluejay, who swoop into the elevator just before the doors close.
“That's not true at all! Who told you that?” Buster seems alarmed, frowning and bristling.
Noir just shrugs. He's not so stupid that he fails to realize the pieces he's missing. He knows he's less of a person than a tool, and he strives to be a useful tool for Mr. Edgar, who he owes for his new happiness. Mr. Edgar saw something worth having in Noir, saved him from Soldier Boy, and didn't cast him aside afterward the way he did the other Payback heroes. Noir can't tell Mr. Edgar “thank you” verbally, so he must demonstrate his gratitude through obedience.
Noir's stomach lurches as the elevator descends, sinking quickly. Dread wraps around him, coiled and contracting, a snake under his armor. He knows only bits and pieces of what Project Homelander entails, but those bits and pieces make a picture he doesn't like looking at. The child is Soldier Boy's, and though Noir has never seen it, he imagines it as a freshly hatched monster that will grow to fill its father's shoes as Noir's tormentor. Noir thinks he understands what Mr. Edgar meant by assessing its strength and teaching it obedience, and Noir finds he has no objections to this mission.
“Oh, Earving, that's awful!” Buster says, ears and tail wilting. “No one's born evil. All children deserve to be safe and happy!”
(The door is kicked open, and large hands reach into the closet to grab Earving and haul him out by his shirt collar. He thrashes and cries, and in the murky shade of his memory, his father's shape is nothing short of nightmarish, hunched and snarling, reeking of smoke. Earving used to think his father could breathe fire, not like friendly story-book dragons but like that unutterable evil Father Johnson warned about at Sunday school.)
A miniature Soldier Boy, Noir envisions nervously, with black, hateful eyes.
Dr. Vogelbaum and a woman Noir doesn't recognize are waiting when the doors open. The dread-snake finally strikes; it sinks its teeth into Noir's neck at the sight of them, injecting him with sharp, stinging fear. Noir spent a few weeks here after Soldier Boy went away and Payback was disbanded, submitting to a series of tests overseen by Dr. Vogelbaum. They hurt.
“That won't happen again. It was just that once,” Eddie says, sounding certain of this. Noir isn't so sure.
“Black Noir, good afternoon,” the woman says, stepping forward to meet Noir when he leaves the elevator. She's smiling. “I’m Doctor Findley, Doctor Vogelbaum's new lab assistant. I look forward to working with you.” She puts out her hand, and Noir cringes from her. “Oh,” she says, frowning now.
“It’s not you, Barbara,” Dr. Vogelbaum says, touching her shoulder. “Noir here is practically lobotomized. His brain scans are quite shocking: extensive, irreversible damage to his frontal lobe. Essentially, he has all the social complexity of a fried egg.”
Millie gasps. Carrie and Benny chirp unhappily.
“Hey, mister, if you can't say anything nice, don't say nothing at all,” Buster says, scolding.
“Earving has plenty of friends!” Eddie ruffles up his feathers.
Noir isn't offended. He remembers what his brains looked like when they were knocked loose from his skull, sizzling on the hood of that car — just like eggs in a hot pan; Dr. Vogelbaum is right.
“I see.” Dr. Findley adjusts her glasses on her nose, studying Noir as if through a microscope.
“Don't listen to them, Earving,” Fiona says. She scoffs, crossing her arms and turning her back to them. “There's nothing wrong with you.”
The doctors aren't wrong, but Noir is glad he has his friends to defend him. He can't wait to get this whole thing over with, so they can all go back to his apartment and color in front of the TV until bedtime.
“Well, come on,” Dr. Vogelbaum says. Noir follows him and Dr. Findley through the lab, which seems smaller than he remembers. (Earving walks quickly to the room at the end of a long, twisted hallway. The baby is crying inside, and it's up to him to save the day, because Dad is asleep and won't wake up for anything.) “John turned nine recently —” Dr. Vogelbaum pauses, and smiles. “That's our nickname for the Project. Not very creative, I know, but we weren't sure at first that he would even survive infancy. We were wary of becoming too attached.”
“But it's progressing better than we ever dreamed.” Dr. Findley beams at Dr. Vogelbaum.
“That's right. You see, we're currently in the process of testing his abilities,” Dr. Vogelbaum says. Noir frowns, abrading the scars around his mouth against the mesh of his mask. “So far we've subjected him to extreme heat and cold. We've found that he's remarkably resilient to both. He can't be drowned, either, and he's invulnerable to every type of bullet we've shot him with. What I want to observe now is his reaction to physical trauma at the hands of another enhanced person.”
“I don't like this. Aren't they talking about a child?” Buster asks. “A little boy?”
They come to a stop in front of a metal, windowless door. Noir stares at them, waiting, and something terrible unfolds in his gut, like the ground has dropped out from beneath him.
“All we need you to do is beat him, essentially, until we tell you to stop,” Dr. Findley says, as though there's nothing unreasonable or otherwise abnormal about this. Dr. Vogelbaum says nothing, quietly in agreement.
“Earving.” Buster's voice is hard with distress, no longer the playful show voice that comforts Noir when the world feels too serious. “Don't do this. You know this is wrong. This… This isn't worth it.”
Dr. Vogelbaum drags open the heavy door, motioning for Noir to enter, and Noir goes, leaving his friends and their concerns behind. It's not his place to question orders, only to obey them. Good, bad, wrong, right — none of it matters. It didn't matter in May when Noir drenched himself in a Russian councilman’s blood. What matters is not being punished. Buster was right before: it is worth it.
The door snaps shut behind Noir, and he casts his wary eyes around the small, empty white room, its padded walls, metal floor and fluorescent overhead lights. The only thing of note here is the boy. He's nine years old, according to Dr. Vogelbaum, but he looks younger, with huge watery-blue eyes staring out a pale, gaunt face. He's sitting in a tight ball in the far corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest, clutching a blue blanket and watching Noir with unblinking terror. He looks nothing at all like Soldier Boy, or any other monster.
(She screams for him as he approaches the crib, pudgy hands reaching over the bars to grab at him, needing him. It's frightening to be needed this much.)
The look on the boy's face, John's face, strikes Noir low in his stomach. Suddenly the lights are very bright, and loud, buzzing and crackling in his ears; he feels as if he's been living in stasis since the Bad Day, a specimen suspended in fluids, and he's only now waking up.
Noir approaches slowly, and John holds his blanket up over his face like a shield against Noir's impending attack. His arms are very thin, Noir notices, and he's wearing a hospital gown, a long white shirt and nothing else. His legs are just as stick-thin as his arms, bony knees knocking together as he trembles, bare feet pointed inward. Noir doesn't want to hit him, won't hit him, can't. Noir looks around the room again, all this sterile, searing emptiness.
Something changes in him, broken pieces snapping painfully back into place, and like that he knows what he has to do.
He marches back to the door and throws it open. Dr. Findley is there, moving her mouth, screaming, but she stops when he takes her by the throat and tosses her aside, sending her crashing into the wall. Noir reaches for Dr. Vogelbaum next, but he runs, and Noir is immediately distracted by a swarm of more scientists, all wielding needles and tranquilizers. Noir makes quick work of them, and a mess, but that's okay; he won't be here to have to clean it up.
Alarms are blaring by the time Noir is finished, flashing red and near deafening, and Noir remembers that Dr. Vogelbaum got away. He must have triggered them, and reinforcements are probably on their way down here. Noir returns to John's cell, anxious for how little time he has, how much he's risking.
John is standing now, his back pressed to the wall, staring, mouth hanging open around distraught little gasps.
“Be gentle,” Buster says. He was waiting in the cell, hiding from the blood spray. The others have disappeared; they don't like to watch that part. “He's so scared. He needs to know you won't hurt him.”
(Earving lifts her under her arms, swinging her out of the crib and onto his hip, and it feels like she's slotted into her predestined place, close to him where she belongs.) Noir offers his hand, and surprising him, John runs to him. It's strange, but Noir's surprise is gone when John jumps into his arms, latching onto him with a desperate little cry. It feels right. Noir carries John past the carnage and to the elevator, John's skinny arms locked around his shoulders, ankles crossed behind his waist. John is bigger than the child that claws through the mud of Noir's riverbed memory, but he clings just as tightly, cries just as loudly into Noir's shoulder.
The elevator jostles them as it ascends, and John wails, trembling and terrified, his blanket crushed between his chest and Noir's. Noir's hands know what to do, somehow, soothing over John's back, and his hips know to sway gently. He knows the mission, but he can't hurt the baby. (“Listen to me, Earving,” the woman says. She's breathing hard and bleeding, face cut up and bruised, and Dad is throwing things in another room. Crash, bang. “You look after her, you understand me? You protect her. That's your job.”)
The elevator doors open on the ground floor, and they're met by a dozen guns, but they're both bulletproof. The same can't be said of John's hospital gown, which is in tatters when Noir finally bursts out the doors and onto the streets, dripping blood and staggering down the front steps, into daylight.
“Black Noir!” someone shouts, and a crowd tries to form around them. John is frightened by the attention, his little fingers clawing at the back of Noir's armor. Noir is startled, too, though he usually enjoys being surrounded by friendly faces. He kicks through one of the bodies in his way, and the tide changes in an instant, the wave of people moving away from him instead of toward him, clearing a path, their cheers becoming screams.
“This is really bad. We’ve gotta get out of here!” Buster says, clutching at Noir's leg while Noir looks around, disoriented. He knows stealth, but it's midday, and there are dozens of eyes on him already, a trail of bodies in his clumsy, blood-tracking wake.
“Follow me!” Eddie calls from above them, soaring ahead, and Noir knows exactly where he's flying to.
“Hey!” A young woman shoves out of the Tower, calling to him from the top of the steps. Noir recognizes her as one of Mr. Edgar's assistants: Ms. Stillwell. “Noir, listen to me. Don't do this,” she says, far too calm. “What you saw in the lab was upsetting, I understand, but this is not the way. It's not too late to come home.”
Noir just hoists John higher up on his hip and runs, ducking into an alley and doing his best to disappear. (Earving wedges himself between the dumpster and the building, the baby squirming in his lap. He shushes her whimpers, and together they listen to the wailing sirens, people shouting their names.) He sticks to the shadows, whatever shadows he can find, and doesn't stop until they're tucked away in the safest place he knows: Buster Beaver's.
The building isn't half as magical now as it is in his memories, emptied out and littered with garbage, everything that remains blanketed by a thick layer of dust, but it's a sanctuary all the same. Noir goes straight to the ball pit, vision tunneling, and buries them in it as best he can, only feeling safe when he's sitting up to his waist in familiar multicolored plastic balls. No one will find them here.
John finally unpeels his face from Noir's neck, and he blinks up at Noir, wide-eyed and frowning. Noir wonders why he doesn't speak, if he's like Noir and can't.
“This is crazy!” Millie says, pacing around the arcade, clippety-clopping. “We have to go back!”
“How can we go back to the Tower after that?” Eddie asks. “We can't give that poor kid back to those maniacs. Earving did the right thing.”
“That’s right.” Buster nods.
“They were going to make Earving hit him!” Fiona seems beside herself, and she swats at Carrie and Benny when they swoop anxious laps around her head.
“And now they're going to hit Earving!” Millie says. “Or worse. Our only chance is if we go back and apologize right now!”
“It’s important to always do the right thing, even when other people try to pressure you into doing the wrong one.” Buster's voice is just the way it was in his anti-bullying commercials, sage. “We all know the difference between right and wrong, and we've got to follow that compass inside of us. Just like Earving.”
Millie groans, despairing. “But —”
“No,” Sonny Sheep says sharply, stepping out from behind one of the shattered, empty claw machines. “We're never going back to that place. They treat Earving like a slave, and they torture children. We should have left a long time ago.”
There's some grumbling from Millie, but no further objections. There seldom are on the rare occasions that Sonny speaks; that's that.
Noir smooths down John's hair with his gloved palm, and thumbs some blood speckles from his cheek. John falls asleep in Noir's lap after a while, his blanket clutched to his chest, Noir's hand cupping his face. John is small and warm, and Noir likes holding him, likes the way he smells, soft and sweet. Noir wants to hold him forever.
“Okay, Earving,” Buster says, poking his head into the ball pit. “If we're gonna do this, we'll need supplies. I bet John there is awfully hungry, and he needs clothes. Oh, and we've gotta do something about that tracker in your neck!”
Noir nods, but he can't move while John is sleeping on him, doesn't want to disturb him. They'll just have to wait until John wakes up.