And So It Goes

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8: Down the Wrong Rabbit Hole

Helena's office at Vought had everything she needed to be productive. A large computer monitor and accompanying laptop and tablet, a printer and scanner, several filing cabinets, a mini-fridge and a hidden shelf stocked with alcohol for schmoozing with corporate reps. She even had an espresso maker, which brewed the perfect blend of frothy hot coffee.

She stared at the Styrofoam cup on her desk, watched the steam coil up and dissipate into the air. For the life of her, she couldn't make herself drink it.

Her cell phone rang, and though she checked to see who it was, she didn't have it in her to answer it. Sighing, she screened the call. Yet as soon as she set down one phone, another sounded to life. It was her office phone, however, and this call she couldn't screen.

"Mr. Edgar," she greeted.

"Please come up to my office," he said. "There is an issue I'd like to discuss."

What else could she do but drag herself out of the chair, leaving her coffee behind.

The halls were busy with movement today. Dozens of Vought employees blissfully unaware that one of their supes had almost executed three men in her apartment just yesterday. While those events were imprinted on her skin beneath a layer of makeup, they were more pressing on her mind—particularly the way Butcher hesitated at the end, one hand on her front door as he looked back at her over his shoulder.

Anyway, Helena was dimly grateful that she didn't run into any of the other remaining Seven; from what Ashley had told her this morning, Homelander and Stormfront were getting along much better than expected.

That can't be fucking good. She hadn't yet met Stormfront personally, but Helena had seen enough to know that she didn't want to.

Though once she reached the top floor, Helena evacuated all thoughts of Stormfront, Homelander and Black Noir, and even the memory of Butcher's reluctant face out her mind. Taking in a slow, deep breath, she entered her boss's large, yet oddly minimalistic office. Stan Edgar greeted her with a cordial nod, and they sat across from each other at the plush seating area of sofas and professional lounge chairs.

"Are you well this morning? I understand the events of last night were likely challenging for you, but you did well," asked Stan. He crossed his legs, folding his hands on his lap. Helena did the same.

"Thank you, sir," she replied. "I'm just fine."

"Good," he said. "Though unfortunately, I must ask something more of you today."

Helena perked up at his tone. "Has something happened?"

"As you know, we face the possibility of being opened up to more public scrutiny due to Compound V," said Stan. "I'm hearing talk of…inquiries being made."

"Inquiries?" Helena asked. Stan regarded her with that stone look of his, but she knew if there was one thing that moved him, it was a threat to Vought's internal security, the threat of more exposure.

"For a Congress hearing, in three days. Victoria Neuman, FBI, CIA, the Secretary of Defense—they mean to take us to task," he said. His dark eyes, and his tone, became more ominous. "There are sharks in the water, Miss Flores. We have to make sure our loose ends are properly tightened."

Helena frowned as a nervous flutter ran through her insides, stopping and lingering in her chest. "What exactly do you need me to do?"

"I'm sending you on a noon flight out to Connecticut," Stan said. "It's time for us to properly speak with Dr. Vogelbaum."

Helena didn't call Butcher.

Oh, how she was tempted, but after yesterday she just couldn't take the risk. Plus, she was on a company plane being escorted by professional security. Regardless of what the man might say, or warn her not to do, she couldn't fuck up this opportunity.

The flight to Connecticut was blessedly short, though she gave into the temptation to down not one Old Fashioned, but two, complete with black cherries. The bourbon simultaneously burned and soothed down her throat, and gave her a little boost to steady the anxiety dwelling in her chest. Hopefully, it would be enough.

Jonah Vogelbaum's estate was massive. Helena could only imagine the kind of money the doctor had retired with, but clearly it was Old White Man money. Inside the hedge and mortar gate, the main house's interior could only be described as palatial, with its high-vaulted ceilings, sophisticated décor in paintings and fine pottery, and large, ornate light fixtures in every room.

The housekeeper, Geoffrey, let her in, but it was Sonia, Vogelbaum's daughter, who led her to the man himself. He was waiting for her, sat in his wheelchair with a cup of tea.

"Good afternoon. Stan told me you'd be coming," he said, shaking her hand cordially. Though she had a feeling he wasn't thrilled to see her. "I should've expected it would be this quick."

"Yes, well I don't want to take up too much of your time. I'm Helena Flores," Helena said.

"I know who you are, Miss Flores." He gestured for her to sit on the couch opposite him, and she obliged. "And I know why you're here. Victoria Neuman's becoming a veritable pain in your ass, isn't she?"

"The Congresswoman's persistent, but Vought is more than prepared for this fight," Helena said. She took no enjoyment in stating that fact, but it was the truth, nonetheless. Vogelbaum knew this song and dance; she could see it in his eyes, in his patient, relaxed posture. He probably thought he knew every word that was about to come out of her mouth.

If she were here to do what she was supposed to do, then he would be right. But Vogelbaum knew Vought. He didn't know Helena.

"I'm supposed to remind you of your NDA. That you can't disclose to any potentially interested parties, anything you worked on with Vought. Be it Compound V, or Homelander himself. I'm supposed to threaten you without saying anything legally threatening," she said. "But I've waited a long time to meet you, Doctor Vogelbaum. Today, I want to talk to about something else."

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit. He set down his tea on the coffee table between them and folded his hands in his lap. He seemed to be more interested in what she had to say, but wary too.

"Whatever that may be, I doubt I'll be able help you. I've been retired for a very long time," he said.

Sonia's arrival interrupted Helena before she could reply.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to ask if you'd like coffee or tea, Miss Flores," she asked.

Helena shook her head. "Neither, thank you."

"Thank you, dear. We should be fine." Vogelbaum offered his daughter a small smile that had all the warmth of a father, hidden under a layer of polite stoicism for his guest.

Helena then watched Sonia leave. She looked to be in her late 30s, pretty, with a kind face. Helena knew Vogelbaum's currently wheelchair-bound condition was a recent one, around the time that Madelyn Stillwell had been killed, and Homelander had discovered Becca. It didn't take a genius detective to deduce what had happened there. Though she could also guess what could make him clam up now.

"Your daughter is an attorney, isn't she?" she asked.

"Yes."

"A good one too. I read a couple of her depositions." Helena tilted her head. "Her practice is in New York, yet she's here, answering your door and catering to your guests."

"She's been staying with me since my accident," Vogelbaum said flatly.

A sore spot for him then. Family always was, in her experience.

Just then, the phone in the pocket of her blazer felt a tad heavier. The weight of five missed calls, this month alone.

"I, um…I don't see my family much anymore," Helena confessed. She stared down at her own folded hands. "Not because I'm worried someone might hurt them one day, because of the nature of what I do. What I'm exposed to. That could happen anytime, anywhere I tried to go, I suspect."

Vogelbaum took a moment to watch her. Maybe he was trying to decide where this conversation was headed. "Then what are you afraid of?"

"I'm ashamed," she said. "For everything I've seen, and done nothing about it. I've told myself that what choices I make can't matter, or make a difference…so yeah, I'm fucking terrified. That they'll take one look at me and say…no. That's not our daughter."

Beyond her guilt about Becca, or Billy Butcher, or anyone in between, this was part of what kept her up at night. Every day she entered her office, stepped into a meeting with Stan Edgar, or smiled and shook hands with money-grubbing crooks and businessmen and murderers, she sacrificed another small piece of herself.

At least when Madelyn was alive, she had only been the assistant. The records keeper, a watchful eye. She hadn't had to put her bare hands into the mud and come home every night trailing dirt. By the end of this, whatever this crusade against Vought was, she was afraid there would be nothing left.

Helena raised her head and stared directly into Vogelbaum's blue eyes that looked so much like Homelander's. "Does Sonia know who you are, doctor?"

His impassive mask finally slipped a little; his lips turned down into a tired frown.

"What do you want from me, Miss Flores?"

"What's his weakness?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You know exactly who and what I'm talking about. What the fuck is his weakness?" she pressed. She didn't realize there were tears slipping down her face, not until her fingers came away wet from her cheek. "You put that psychotic bastard together. How do you take him apart?"

Her voice echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet and nearly empty room. Vogelbaum became unreadable again, and she knew she had lost.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Flores, but I can't help you today," he said. "Geoffrey will safely see you out."

Helena quickly wiped her face dry and looked away, flushing with embarrassment, and disappointment, and most of all with shame.

Becca felt rage like she'd never felt before, staring at the mild crater of disturbed dirt and grass in her front lawn. Homelander was visiting more often, now with that bitch Stormfront in tow, making Becca nervous in an entirely different (but no less dangerous) way.

Ryan was confused by it all, and thankfully more wary of Homelander after the incident on the roof. But there was no denying the obvious, no matter how much she had tried over the last eight years: Homelander was Ryan's father, and he wasn't going away any time soon.

Dragging her gaze from the ground to the bright, cloudless, too-perfect sky, she fought the urge to vomit.

"What am I doing here," she breathed.

Tears burned in her eyes, but she forced herself to be still, breathe, release the tension in her tightly closed fists. She wiggled her fingers to rid the ache in them and turned on her heel, heading back into the house.

Ryan was watching a movie in the living room, so Becca took the chance to escape into her room. She caught a glance of herself in the mirror. Even though she looked the same, pale face, blue eyes, light brown hair twisted back in a loose, messy ponytail, she almost didn't recognize herself. It had taken seeing Billy again to remind her of the woman she had been, the woman she had left behind along with their life together.

But while she fucking ached for him, even now, that wasn't her life anymore. Becca was a mother, and if she accomplished nothing else in this life, she would protect her son. She just didn't know if staying in this house—if staying away from Billy—was the right way to do that anymore.

She couldn't know that Homelander would soon take the choice out of her hands.

Just three days later, Helena was summoned to Stan Edgar's office the moment it was announced that Jonah Vogelbaum, Vought's former CSO, would be testifying in the Congressional hearing against the company he'd worked for most of his life.

She was stunned by the news, (and elated), considering her disastrous meeting with the good doctor. But maybe what she'd said had somehow gotten through to him. Or maybe she wasn't the only one to visit Vogelbaum in the past two days.

"It was your job to make sure this didn't happen," Stan said. His face was stony at best, all clipped words and the I'm highly disappointed in you-tone. "With the stellar work you'd been doing this past month, I expected more from you. Now Ashley Barrett has informed me that Starlight is missing. Without her tracker, we won't be able to locate her so easily, if she's still even in the city."

That was also news to her, but she tried not to let it show.

"I'm sorry, sir," Helena said. She almost couldn't meet his stare.

"If Vogelbaum testifies," he said, after a pause, "I wouldn't bother returning to this building."

She froze in shock. When he dismissed her shortly after, she had nothing to say. She took the elevator all the way down to the mid-level, where she found the nearest bathroom and leaned heavily on the counter where the sinks were.

It rankled, to say the least. After everything she'd done, given, sacrificed to this company, this was how little she mattered.

I shouldn't care, she knew. She wasn't here because she wanted to be, but this place had been her life for so long…

Helena was disturbed out of her thoughts by someone loudly popping their lips. She looked to her right, and it was Stormfront. She was reapplying her lipstick, which looked like it had been smudged all the way to her chin. Her short brown hair was just a little bit frizzy in the back. Helena tried not to think about who had probably caused her current appearance.

"Hey," Stormfront greeted. If the act of shrugging was a tone, that was how she sounded.

"Hi." Helena nodded.

"You're the new Stillwell, huh?" Stormfront capped her lipstick and rubbed the remaining smudge from her chin.

Again, Helena nodded, restraining a sigh. She got ready to hold out her hand for the other woman to shake. "You could say that. I'm—"

"I know who you are," the supe replied. Crossing her arms, she turned with her hip leaning against the counter. "You're the one who's about to get the Big Boot from good ole' Stan."

Helena's lips thinned. Any politeness she planned on scrounging up was altogether forgotten. But, she reminded herself, Stormfront was not like the rest of the Seven. She wasn't afraid to be and appear ruthless to the world. Helena still remembered the way she'd brutally killed Kimiko's brother on national TV.

"It's okay." Stormfront shrugged. "Not everyone's cut out for a power position like…whatever it is that you do."

"I've been here for ten years. You've been here a few weeks, and already you are part of the reason this hearing has been able to push forward," Helena pointed out. "If you hate Vought so much, then why are you here?"

Stormfront merely smirked. "You shouldn't swim with sharks if you're afraid of getting bit."

Fucking excuse me? Helena thought. Who did this bitch think she was?

"I'm not afraid," Helena said, sounding as steady as she could be.

"Of course you fucking are." Stormfront's dark eyes weren't as playful as her smile. They were calculating, Helena thought. And she was the one being seized up and toyed with like a mouse in a trap.

"How does that saying go? Some people are wolves, born to make the tough decisions," she said. "Some people are sheep."

"Are supes meant to be wolves in this analogy?" Helena asked, raising a brow. "Or are they the sheep?"

"Even you know," said Stormfront, "not all supes are created equal. Some things are just...meant to be. Or not."

Now what the fuck does that mean? Helena blinked. She felt a hot tingle on the back of her neck, running down her spine in warning.

"You know, I heard you and Homelander had a lil' tiff a few days ago," Stormfront remarked mildly, inspecting her black-painted nails.

Helena's insides turned to ice, but she refused to let it show. She swallowed past that phantom feeling of fingers wrapped around her throat.

"That's none of your business," Helena said. She started towards the bathroom exit, hating that she was fleeing, but she really wasn't prepared to handle whatever this was right now. She also hated the thought of Homelander talking about her, let alone to his new super bitch.

"You'd think you'd know your place here after ten years."

Stormfront's sly remark halted Helena's steps just before she reached the door.

"And what's that? My place." Helena asked. She turned back around.

This time, the supe did shrug.

"Isn't it obvious? Just look at you. Those please, boys, respect me-heels, and the whorey silk blouse," Stormfront said. She eased off the wall and stepped closer. "You're a pencil pusher. A Yes Woman."

She smirked at Helena's growing anger. "A sheep."

This bitch managed to get under Helena's skin in a way that only Homelander had previously managed. A match made in hell.

The foot or so of air between them now fairly crackled with tension, but she refused to look away this time.

"I'm the Senior Vice President of this company's Hero Division," Helena said. "I don't answer to supes. They answer to me, and to Stan Edgar."

Stormfront slipped her lipstick into the gap of cleavage in her uniform. Her answering wink and a smirk as she passed by to the bathroom's exit set Helena's temper ablaze even more.

"Sure they do, hon."

In the pawnshop basement, Butcher's thumb hovered over the call button on his phone. He knew he shouldn't bother. The Congressional hearing was about to begin, and the boys, along with Starlight and her mother, were gathered on the couch with a bowl of popcorn like it was a fucking movie.

Butcher pocketed his phone and stood behind the couch. There wasn't room for him, and he was too amped up to sit down anyway. The camera moved from Congresswoman Victoria Neuman to the crowd. And then there was Helena, sitting behind Homelander and beside the Vought CEO cunt, Stan Edgar.

Butcher had been tempted to call her the past few days. Much as he hated to admit it, without her help, he wouldn't have been able to give Mallory Vogelbaum's address. He wouldn't have been able to visit the bastard himself.

But seeing his father again had thrown a monkey wrench into his subconscious, rattling dark parts of himself that had been kept under a tight lid.

The joke was on him, apparently. Everything he knew was wrong with him was always there, just under his skin. Becca knew it, had always known. He wouldn't trust a man like that either.

So he didn't go back for Becca again, and he didn't call. Now, he watched Jonah Vogelbaum wheel himself through the gap in the crowd, up to the microphone to testify against Vought for corporate fraud, among other allegations. Butcher stared at the man he had threatened, in the worst possible way, and still felt nothing but satisfaction. Vogelbaum had earned this, he thought, and it was his turn to pay.

But before Vogelbaum could begin, the carnage did.

Butcher flinched along with Hughie and the others when the first head exploded. The next was Vogelbaum.

Butcher's eyes opened wide, then darted from one end of the screen to the other as more members of congress and other audience members were killed the same way, blood spraying, bodies wrenching to the floor.

It was utter fucking chaos.

Homelander, the useless cunt, was looking around the room slowly trying to spot the aggressor. People were nearly running over each other in a mad scramble for the exit, but just for a moment, the camera landed on a form crunched low and cowering behind a podium, with her arms cradled over her head.

Butcher recognized those hands, the dark red nails, the shade of her hair.

Then just as suddenly, she was gone. The camera panned back to Victoria Neuman being led out of the room, and finally the feed cut.

A pregnant pause filled the basement.

"Well…what the fuck do we do now?" Hughie choked out.

Butcher stalked away. His palms just caught the weight of his body against the counter of their makeshift kitchen. His fingers bit into the edge as everything in him raged—anger beyond description only fueled with confusion and worry. And the pain that whatever he did, it still wasn't enough.

Helena hadn't come out of her closet in 24 hours. She was fucked up enough that she didn't eat, only slept between the slew of dresses she never wore anymore, and had woken up some time ago to a five-inch stiletto stabbing her in her in the kidney.

The only phone call she had answered was from her father, and she'd lied to him. Yes, I'm fine. No, I can't go home.

She'd turned off her cell phone by this point, and Stan had mercifully given her Friday off, along with the rest of the weekend to recoup after the hellish Congress hearing. He had offered her a staff psychiatrist, but she turned him down.

What she wanted was darkness, and silence.

Not even Gordo's scratching on the closet door could tempt her out, but she conceded she would have to refill his food bowl sooner or later.

For the fourth time, her 007 phone rang. She couldn't bring herself to turn it off, but she also couldn't bring herself to answer.

When the fifth call rang thirty seconds after, Helena found herself reaching for it. She hesitated, then brought the phone to her ear.

"Helena." His voice rumbled, filling her chest and plucking at the coils of unease wrapped around her heart. "You alive?"

She laughed, choking on a sob at the same time. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks.

"Barely," she admitted. She also heard a thump, and a grunt from Butcher.

"The fuck was that?" she heard from M.M. in the background. It brought a small smile to her face.

Butcher ignored the stinging in his arm, shooting a glare at M.M. Could he not make a call in peace anymore?

He cradled the phone closer to his face, though who was he kidding. There wasn't much privacy to be had here. M.M. went back to organizing his files, but his sharp glance told Butcher he'd be having one ear on the conversation. Frenchie couldn't hide his curiosity either, from where he sat on the couch with Kimiko. Every now and then he glanced over his shoulder.

Butcher rolled his eyes.

He did feel a lance of guilt, hearing Helena try to swallow her tears.

"Sorry, poor choice of words," he mumbled. He tried to ignore the raised brows of surprise shared by M.M. and Frenchie. He'd surprised himself, actually. It wasn't often he apologized for jack shit. He cleared his throat. "What's going on at Vought?"

He heard her sigh heavily. "I don't know. Be careful with Stormfront though. She's too close to Homelander for comfort…she's smarter than him."

He snorted. "Yeah, we got that."

"Edgar gave me today off, but he expects me back by Monday…I don't know if I can do it," she said. He doesn't recognize her voice, that weak trembling.

He wondered if there was a point to her going back. She was their eyes and ears at Vought, but what happened at that hearing was something else entirely. The same supe who killed Raynor had to be hidden somewhere at Vought.

Butcher was willing to kill to bring them down, but he had drawn the line at Hughie, the boys, Becca. Helena had been at risk from the beginning. To make her go back now though…it was, to him, like calling her expendable. A few months ago he would've been okay with that.

"What're you gunna do?" Butcher asked.

Shakily, she sighed. "Do I have a choice?"

Butcher used to think there was only one way for him to move forward: damn everything else, including himself. But he'd made a choice—to save Hughie and the rest of the guys, to stay alive despite almost every cell in his body that craved rest. Defeat. He'd chosen to keep moving forward, just like Becca made her choice.

"You're in or you're out, but you gotta make a decision," Butcher said, and the rest came out before he realized just what he was saying, what he could lose. "Don't let nobody make it for ya."

He should be railroading her, telling her to suck it up so they can get on with the job. He should be using every bit of charm he had left to make sure Helena stayed at Vought and continued giving them the inside scoop there. He just…didn't have it in him this time.

Inwardly, he cursed himself. Already M.M. was perked up, his brows furrowed.

"And if I left Vought for good, where would that leave you?" she asked. "What if I just…hid out somewhere safe for a while, just until this mess with the supe sniper wears down."

Butcher frowned. "Hide out where?"

Her silence was enough of an answer. He sighed.

"If you throw your lot in with us, then you can't go back to Vought. You can't go back to anything, at least for a while," said Butcher. It wasn't a good idea for her to come here to the pawnshop, and yet, it had some merits. For one thing, they'd eat good food for once.

"But you won't be in their bloody three-ring circus while we try to figure out what the flyin' fuck is going on," he said. "Like I said, it's your choice."

She was quiet, long enough then that Butcher started to get impatient. He could feel M.M.'s hard stare burning his back.

"It's…it's okay, Billy," Helena said after a while. "I'll figure it out. I just need some time…call me if anything changes."

Butcher hung up the phone. By the time he turned back around, M.M. was there with his arms crossed.

Butcher raised a sardonic brow. "Yes, Mum?"

"Really, Butcher?" the other man prodded.

Butcher met his eyes, then he didn't.

"It ain't cramped here enough for you?" M.M. gestured around the room. Both Frenchie and Kimiko half-turned from the couch, watching the argument unfold. M.M. prodded further. "You wanna get her killed, runnin' around in this shitshow? She's better off doin' exactly what Vought tells her to do."

Butcher's hand tightened on his phone, the other into a fist, but his smirk was as cavalier as ever. "Fuckin' hell, M.M. You're supposed to be the motherfucker with a heart, right?"

M.M. wasn't fazed by the other man's attempted brush off. "You said it yourself, she has her own stakes in this fight. She might be scared now, but you and I both know she's not gunna stop."

Then, he sighed, relenting a bit.

"Look, I get it. What she went through was fuckin' horrific, and the fact that you care is not as surprising as you want it to be," M.M. said, leveling Butcher with a knowing look. "But why do you feel so responsible for her?"

Butcher didn't give him an answer, but M.M. suspected, after Butcher walked away.

Maybe it's not responsibility. Not entirely, he thought, the longer he watched Butcher's cagey ass stalk up the basement stairs. But something else. A lot more fucking complicated, on some Downton Abbey-telenovela-type shit.

"I don't fuckin' have time for this shit," M.M. grumbled and continued straightening up the place, if only to distract himself from wishing he could call his wife.

After hanging up with Butcher, Helena called Stan Edgar.

"He—"

"I want a week off, from Monday," she demanded. "Actually? No, I want two weeks. I haven't had one damn day off in eight years, and there will always be shit hitting the fan. No less than two is what I deserve, and if you have a problem with that, fire me, Stan."

There was a long pause on the other line, but eventually, her boss's voice returned.

"I see," he said, a wry tone to his voice. Never had she dared speak to him in such a way, and the hand holding the phone to her ear was shaking.

But all he said then was, "Enjoy your time off."

I fucking will, she thought, releasing a sigh after hanging up. If it's the last thing I do.

She would take a damn breath, and then she'd get her head back into the game. She'd return to work as normal, Vought Face in check, and continue looking for ways to bring down the biggest, most vile company in the world.

This time, it's my choice and no one else's.

With a new fire back in her veins, Helena opened her closet door, wilting at the morning sun streaming through her window, and crept out of her own closet feeling altogether like an ass.

She fed Gordo and dragged herself into a shower, then made coffee and enough scrambled eggs to feed an entire family. Eating half and saving the rest, she also made an espresso using her Cuban coffeemaker, letting the smell envelop her apartment and invigorate her before she even tasted it. The smell, the robust and sweet taste with a teaspoon of added sugar, it all reminded her of home.

She spent the rest of the day watching reruns of dumb sitcoms while pretending she didn't see blood cascading down her shower drain in her mind's eye.

It was another couple of days before she had cause to answer her phone again.

"Helena." This time, when Butcher said her name, she didn't know if something was very wrong, or very right.

"What happened?"

"Homelander and Stormfront took Ryan from the house," he said. "We're gettin' the kid back but—"

"Wait, wait," Helena said, "why—how do you know?"

"That's the other thing," he said. She could hear a bit of a smile in his voice. "Becca's here."

For a moment, her sleep-deprived brain didn't exactly compute. It took a couple tries of him calling her name for her to come back to herself.

"Put her on the phone," she said. He told her to hold on, but a few seconds (and his muffled conversation) later, Becca's smooth, bright voice greeted her for the first time in eight years.

"Hel, is that you?"

"You bet your ass, beautiful." Helena laughed, and they both cried. Terrible, stupid, girly tears.

"Don't you dare move," Helena said eventually, sniffling. "I'm going over there."

She heard Butcher's disapproval in the background.

"Billy says it's a bad idea," Becca said, a tinge of worry reflected in her voice.

Helena's mouth curved into a smirk. "Tell him to cram it up his ass. I'll be on my way soon."

"Okay," Becca laughed, still through tears. "I'll be here."