And So It Goes
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4: Level Zero
"Miss Flores, where is Homelander?"
Helena's white-knuckle grip on her tablet just barely kept her from throwing her coffee at the production assistant. She took a sip from it to steady her nerves, even though it was scalding on her tongue.
"Chris, if you ask me that one more time, this coffee's going up your ass," she snapped. She was, admittedly, not much of a people-person. That had always been Becca, which was why marketing had been such a good fit for her. Or so Helena had thought.
"If I knew where he was," she said, more evenly, "he would be here."
Again, supes were whores. But they were also entitled whores, so fuck the schedule she'd painstakingly mapped out for her day to make sure she got to every single event lined up for what was left of the Seven. Thankfully the Deep had been relocated to the Midwest following his public apology, and Starlight was refusing to do any PR shit anyway. This left Helena with Maeve, Black Noir, A-Train, and Homelander to deal with until Stillwell hired a new PR team lead.
As of right now, however, Homelander's tardiness for this commercial was already causing her undue stress. He should've been here two hours ago.
It made her suspicious. Homelander often took issue with his lines, and with Stillwell and Mr. Edgar's vision for his brand clashing with his own arrogance, but he always showed up. He knew how maintaining his image worked, and he took even the smallest shoots like this seriously.
What the fuck is he up to? she wondered. Lips pursing, she downed another long sip of her coffee and addressed the crew.
"All right, wrap it up. We're going to have to reschedule," she said. "Maeve has a bank robbery in half an hour. Be ready in Midtown and I'll meet you all there."
Just then, a call came in on her cell from Madelyn. Helena sighed, and picked up.
"Yes, ma'am—"
"I need you back at the office," Madelyn said. "Homelander is calling a meeting with the Seven."
Oh, Jesus. Helena bit back a groan. Part of being Madelyn's eyes and ears meant that "Vought" was always watching, no matter if the supes knew it or not. Butcher's words of warning filtered through her mind again.
What makes you think they ain't checkin' up on you?
She passed A-Train, or rather, he passed her on the way back to her office. It was practically a closet compared to Madelyn's office across the hall. Logging into her desktop, Helena quickly accessed the camera feed that monitored the Seven's main conference room. She knew Madelyn was busy in a meeting with Mr. Edgar: a common reason she typically put Helena on the task of monitoring.
Homelander welcomed A-Train into the hall, but that soon devolved into him berating the remaining members of the Seven. Erratic, unreliable, sloppy, he accused of them, and Helena rolled her eyes at the irony. Just this morning he'd bailed on his responsibilities, and in the past week alone had gone off-the-cuff at the Expo and caused a clusterfuck of problems.
"I mean, we're not even the Seven anymore. We're down to five, and dropping like flies…but at least I know why," he said, a grin growing on his face.
Helena leaned in towards her computer, her eyes wide and unblinking as he exposed Hughie Campbell—the boyfriend of the woman A-Train ran straight through a few months ago; the guy Starlight had been dating the past few weeks, and one of the men who helped kill Translucent.
"Fuck!" Helena hissed. She fumbled for her purse, for the burner phone safely tucked away in one of the inner pockets. With terribly shaking fingers she texted Butcher.
They know, Billy. Homelander burned Hughie. I think you're next.
The message sent, and she let out an uneasy breath. She continued watching the scene with the supes unfold. Maeve, surprisingly, stood up for Starlight, diffusing the tension between her and Homelander for being "used" by Hughie. A-Train looked angry and hyped as fuck as he zoomed out of the meeting, but Helena focused on Homelander. Once he left the conference room, she had a feeling she knew where he was headed next.
Helena pushed past the anxiety in her chest, and plugged in a few codes into her computer that she'd learned to memorize. She had a good photographic memory.
She tapped into the cameras in Madelyn's office and listened closely once Homelander breezed in. They chatted about the results of her successful string of meetings, until he (not so smoothly) changed the subject.
"Hey, do you remember that marketing girl?"
Helena sucked in a gasp.
"No, no, about seven, eight years ago," he continued. "Becca."
Madelyn Stillwell seemed hard-pressed to remember a Becca Butcher, claiming she didn't know the woman was missing and presumed dead by the police. Suicide.
Never did Homelander mention why that might've been, and Madelyn eventually tried to tempt him with a private night in together if she hired a babysitter to watch her son.
The entire exchange—dancing around lies and omissions, having to visualize the possibility of these two getting down in her office—made Helena physically ill.
If they get me now, she thought, I'll be worse off than Becca.
This time she really did vomit: into the small waste basket beside her desk. When there was nothing left to heave and she spat out the last of it, Helena carefully wiped away involuntary tears from her face so her mascara wouldn't smudge. She washed out her mouth with a bottle of water left on her desk, fixed her lipstick, and tied up her mess of humidity-frizzed hair away from her face before she checked both of her phones.
No reply from Butcher yet…but there was still something she could do.
So she watched Madelyn, after Homelander ran off to do God knows what. She watched until the woman finally left for the day, so that Helena could gather her courage, and break into her boss's office.
Eight years ago, Helena had known something was wrong.
Becca usually insisted on meeting up for coffee in the morning and lunch when their busy schedules allowed, but for two weeks, Helena could barely get two minutes from the woman. Her best friend was withdrawn, quiet and contemplative.
But that wasn't Becca. She was the sunny one, upbeat and downright fucking cheerful to Helena's dry, but playful snark. Becca was the one to pull her out of her moods with that simple, funny way of hers, often getting her to admit who had stepped on her toes that day.
Here, Helena found herself unable to do the same for Becca. Something was wrong, and she didn't know what the fuck to do.
The last time she saw Becca Butcher was in the Vought building. As Helena came out of her office to drop off a report, Becca was coming out of Madelyn's office with the woman herself. Becca's eyes were downcast, and she barely offered Helena a smile as they swiftly walked by, eventually disappearing down the hall and around the corner.
Propelled by something she couldn't name, Helena followed them. She heard the elevators going, and she stood there and watched as the numbers lit up in descending order. Down and down, below the lobby even. Helena's brow furrowed with confusion.
It stopped at Level 0.
The basement floor. It was considered restricted access for holding some offices and firewall servers, and the onsite R&D lab.
Helena pushed the button for the next elevator and took the plunge, down to Level 0. Her fob key granted her access, surprisingly, and she listened for the sound of Madelyn's heels as she made her way around the maze of white halls and chrome metal doors.
Turning the corner, she caught sight of Madelyn's blonde hair, and she flattened herself against the wall before they spotted her. She listened carefully but didn't hear Becca at all. She only heard her boss's voice trail off before the door was shut.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Vogelbaum…"
In the chaos that had followed after Becca's disappearance, and Stillwell's thinly veiled threats, Helena had never seriously revisited that memory. Dr. Jonah Vogelbaum, she read the file pulled up from an archive database she wouldn't have been able to access from her own computer. Luckily, Madelyn's desktop had access to everything, and Helena was good at memorizing. Passcodes were no exception.
Retired Vought scientist, she surmised. Specialized in biogenetics.
"What the fuck," she muttered. His current location was unknown, or just not recorded here, but this didn't tell her what Becca had to do with all this. Helena delved further. If they knew what Homelander had done, and wanted to pay Becca off for her silence with an NDA like they tried to do with Hughie, maybe she had demanded protection from Homelander. But why wouldn't they let Billy go with her?
And it still didn't explain Vogelbaum's inclusion. Still, it gave Helena a start, a reason to rethink the entire assumption that Becca was dead at all. Sweet Jesus.
She'd have to look for transfer papers, safe houses, transportation, payoffs, anything that could help her piece together the puzzle of what happened eight years ago.
Damn it, I'm gunna be here awhile. Helena sighed. Yet inside she burned with a new purpose, and maybe, the smallest bit of hope.
Butcher was having a shit day.
Shit week really, having his home ransacked and bank accounts frozen, bumming in a basement below a pawnshop with a half a room full of people who hated his fucking guts, and finally having to give up all his leverage—the sample of Compound V—over to Raynor. He owed it to M.M. to make sure what happened to Mallory wouldn't happen to M.M.'s family, but it still rankled knowing he'd been close to burning Homelander.
Close, but no cigar. Now, the CIA had everything they needed, and they refused to pull the trigger because of one fucking supe terrorist. To top it all off, Hughie nearly offed himself going to visit his supe girlfriend. He didn't even appreciate the lengths Butcher went to save his sorry ass.
Butcher glanced over at the passenger seat at his brooding companion, and he rolled his eyes. "What's this, the fuckin' silent treatment?"
Hughie was oddly stubborn, with his lips pressed in a thin line. Butcher's phone rang, disturbing the otherwise tense silence. He shook his head and held the phone to his ear since this piece of shit car didn't have Bluetooth capabilities.
"Mornin', love," he drawled. "'Bout time you answered my fuckin' calls."
"I'm sorry, I've been busy," Helena replied. She sounded honest, and tuckered out. "I take it you got my text though?"
"Yeah, we're just peachy, being wanted by the feds, Vought, CIA, and whoever the fuck else wants to tango with the boys," Butcher said wryly. There was a heavy sigh on the other line.
"God, I'm sorry. That's fucking…I can't even imagine what you guys are going through…I am working on something though," she said, lowering her voice down to a husky whisper. It wasn't an unattractive sound in his ear, but he focused on listening intently. "Something important…I'm gunna need a little time."
"Wanna tell me what's so important?" he said. She hesitated, and by now even Hughie's attention was piqued.
"I don't want to say until I know for sure, but I'll call you if anything changes," she said. "Be safe, all of you."
Every instinct told Butcher to press her for answers, but since they were getting close to Grace Mallory's estate, he reluctantly let it go. He would have time to check on Helena later.
"All right, Hel. Keep me posted," he agreed, and hung up the phone. Hughie measured him with an incredulous look.
"So, Annie you hate, but this woman you trust? She works for Vought, with Stillwell and Homelander. It's the same fucking thing!" Hughie said.
"It's not," Butcher said, but Hughie spoke over him.
"It is," Hughie insisted. "You just like her because she knew Becca. And you. Before you got…like this."
Butcher kept his calm, despite the twinge of irritation rolling under his skin. Maybe a part of that wasn't too far from the truth. Helena Flores had loved his wife, no matter what he thought of her staying at Vought. She wasn't risking her life just because he'd shown up and tried to manipulate her.
And she cared about what happened to them all, people she hadn't even met. That one was hard for Butcher to wrap his mind around, but maybe he understood now why she and Becca had been friends.
"I keep tellin' ya what I've been saying for months, Hughie, but I'll tell ya why it's different," Butcher said. "Starlight would'a turned you in. She sees you as a murdering criminal, who lied to her the whole while you were together."
"And you haven't been lying to your Vought friend?" Hughie accused. "Pretending you give a shit about her, as long as it gets you closer to nailing Homelander."
Butcher shot him a glare, and let his intimidating silence be a warning as they approached the large black gates of Mallory's estate. He wouldn't realize until much later that they hadn't just been talking about Helena.
She smoothed a hand over her hair for the umpteenth time. Getting her natural curls to smooth out into waves was always a challenge, but she'd attempted it for this Vought-hosted charity fundraiser she was expected to attend.
Normally she would appreciate the chance to put on a nice dress, especially the free gourmet food and top-shelf booze, but not even her third champagne could temper her frayed nerves. Her purse buzzed, startling her only a little. She finished her conversation with a fellow employee and moved away from the bar so she could check her phone.
It wasn't her cell.
Her 007 phone buzzed insistently, but she very well couldn't pick it up here. She let it go to voicemail before she opened up her texts—predictably from Butcher.
Is Homelander giving it to Stillwell?
Nausea pulled at her stomach again, but she shoved it down with a sip of her drink.
Why the fuck is that relevant? she texted back. His response was quicker than usual.
Where are you now?
Her brows furrowed in suspicion. At a Vought gala pounding champagne. Why?
Stay at the party as long as you have to, then go straight home.
It was odd not hearing him curse, even over text. He must have been pressed for time. She bit her lip, her anxiety returning. We need to talk ASAP.
His response surprised her. Don't have time to chat just now. Best put a pin in it for later.
Normally he was chomping at the bit for whatever information she could give him, especially since she'd been purposefully vague earlier this afternoon. She just didn't want to get his hopes up if she was wrong. But now that she'd found the evidence, now that she knew the truth…
I'm serious! Don't do anything stupid yet. I need to tell you—
"Helena! I'm surprised you're still here." One of the guys from marketing greeted her with a corny clinking of their champagne glasses, distracting her from sending out the text. He'd been asking her out for months, and she inwardly cursed at letting him get the drop on her.
"Yes, well, it's good alcohol," she smiled tightly. What the fuck was his name? John…Jason?
She stared past him and noticed Homelander approaching Madelyn. They spoke with their bodies close to one another, almost intimate. Soon though, her face changed from pleasant to serious, almost perturbed.
What the fuck are they gossiping about?
"Helena, you okay?" said Jake-something. She blinked, her gaze shifting between Jared and her boss walking towards the main building with Homelander on her heels.
"Sorry, think I left something up in my office," she lied. "Have a good rest of your evening!"
She brushed past Joe's wounded puppy look of disappointment with only a twinge of guilt. Her mother always said she should be more considerate. Unfortunately, Helena couldn't care less about Jack-what's-his-name, or her careful mask. Not at a time like this, where everything was so close to falling apart—Vought, the CIA, the boys, herself. All of it.
Against her better judgment, and Butcher's warning, she followed the path Madelyn and Homelander had taken to the elevator. She was through the double doors that led back into the main building, halfway to the elevator, when a strong hand curled around her arm and led her down a narrow hall. She yelped in shock and looked to her left, straight up into Butcher's irritated face. "What the hell—"
He opened up a supply closet and steered them inside, shutting the door swiftly behind him. It was cramped with large shelves packed with cleaning products and supplies. Her heel nearly speared into a vacuum cleaner when she tried to back up.
"What're you doing here?" she whisper-yelled. He raised a brow at her.
"Thought I told you to go home, not play Little Miss fuckin' Detective," Butcher growled. Then he belatedly took her in: the red dress to match her wine-red lipstick, the tall black heels and long brown hair falling down her back.
"Well this is a helluva look," he remarked. She blushed under his gaze, craning her neck up to meet it. The top of her head barely reached his chin, and her chest nearly brushed his with how little space there was to move in here. The air between them became warm with their shared breaths, but in that moment, every other thought fell out of her head except for how it felt to be this close to a man who looked at her like he was half-starved.
At the same time, he seemed at war with himself, debating something in his head. Here and now though, she at least could finally be honest with herself.
Unconsciously her eyes flitted from his turbulent hazel ones, to his lips. Her hands burned to travel the firm planes of his chest. Helena wanted to raise up on her toes, lengthen her neck and press her lips to whatever she could reach, leaving the claiming marks of her lipstick with each new discovery. She wanted to know what that thick beard felt like against her cheek, along her neck, followed by several other places.
That last thought made her blush deeply, along with the warm feeling coiling in her lower belly.
Something of her thoughts must've shown on her face, because Butcher's lips tugged at a smirk. "Just what're you thinkin' about?"
Her voice failed her when she felt his hand move along her waist, wandering to the small of her back. His fingers brushed the soft ends of her hair, then met the edge of her dress along the curve of her spine. Helena barely restrained a shudder at that sensual touch sending sparks over her skin and down between her legs.
Ooh shit, broke her thoughts, as she realized that he'd encouraged her to close the space between them, and now her own roving hand was on his arm pulling him into her and his smart mouth was within devouring range—
Until a hot spire of guilt and panic made her stamp out the pleasurable flutter in her chest. She quickly released his arm and planted a firm palm against his chest.
"Don't go after Homelander yet," she blurted out.
Butcher paused, then his demeanor changed as he seemed to remember himself, why he was here in the first place. Clearing his throat, his hand fell away from her and he (was that reluctantly?) provided her a bit of breathing room.
"Well, certainly not here," he said. Back to business. "Not with the blonde cunt already with her, can I?"
Her? Helena was confused, until she wasn't. Her eyes widened. "You're going after Stillwell."
He smirked, and already had one hand on the edge of the door. "Wait here, like a good girl. Im sure the janitor'll be 'round at some point to let ya out."
"You fucking suicidal moron, listen to me!" She reached to grab his hand, but he braced her shoulder to prevent her from following him out. Before she could stop him, he shut the door which locked automatically. Without her fob key, she couldn't get out.
He dangled that key along with her cell phone in the glass window between them.
"Wait!" she shouted at him through the glass and pounded on the door. But with a flash of a grin, he was gone. She called after him desperately. "Becca's alive, you fucking idiot!"
Precious seconds ticked by, but he never came back. He hadn't heard her. Gripping tightly at her hair, Helena paced the supply closet and scrubbed at her face. Her fingers came away wet with tears. Eventually, she let her back hit the door and slumped down to the floor. Raw guilt and despair claimed her as she dropped her head into her hands.
If Butcher didn't want her coming after him, his warpath to hurting Homelander, then she knew. He didn't think he was going to make it out alive.
Stupid fucking idiot.
But, if she hadn't been so fucking stupid and selfish moments ago, she could've stopped him.
They didn't find her until the next morning, indeed when the janitor came in at 7am to start mopping the floors. Soon after she learned what was already hot on the news: a man named William Butcher broke into the home of Vought Senior Vice President Madelyn Stillwell, and murdered her in cold blood.