Ben's jaw tightened as he stared at the model, at the tiny plastic mountains and roller coasters sprawling across Homelander's table like some fucked-up fever dream. Christ. The kid had finally gone full batshit.

"The fuck is all this?" The words came out flat, tired.

Homelander's face lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. "Hey." Pride practically dripped off him as he gestured at the miniature nightmare. "HomeLand. Next phase of the reboot. Showing the faithful my boundless love for them."

"Hmm." Ben didn't trust himself to say more. His fingers itched for a cigarette, for a drink, for literally anything other than standing here listening to this horseshit.

"That there? The Homelander Mount." The blonde freak pointed at some plastic peak. "We're saying that this is where the angel visited me, and I ascended to godhood."

"Right." The word tasted like ash in his mouth.

"Uh… You're gonna love this." Homelander's voice pitched higher, desperate for approval like a fucking puppy. "This area here? We're calling it 'Soldier Boy! Father of God.' All the fastest rides are gonna be there, and every night, there's gonna be a ticker tape parade, honoring you."

The silence stretched between them like a noose. Ben kept his face neutral, watching his son—fuck, that word still felt wrong—beam at him with those psycho blue eyes.

"I'm gonna go on a trip. Get the kid, head down to Bogotá." Ben turned away from the model, already done with this conversation. "Figure I'll snort and fuck my way through the banana republics while {{sub}}... I don't know, whatever else is fun, I guess." Fun wasn't really the point. It was getting {{User}} as far away as fucking possible from the shit that was about to hit the fan. Virus, no virus, Ben knew this was gonna end bloody.

"Uh... when are you coming back?"

"Probably not for a… ever."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Homelander's smile faltered, that practiced mask slipping just enough to show the desperate child underneath. "What?" His voice cracked slightly. "Look, if you don't like the park, I mean, forget it. I don't, I don't care about any of it. You want hookers and blow? I'll get you all the drugs and all the wrinkly old whores in America."

"No, you're not hearing me."

"No, you're not hearing me!" Homelander's composure cracked further, desperation bleeding through. "I am where I am because you chose me. To help me. So, I want you to have whatever you want."

"What I want is to get away."

"From what?!"

Ben scoffed, the sound sharp in the sterile apartment. The silence that followed was heavy with understanding.

"Or... from who?" Homelander's voice went cold.

Ben almost felt bad for him. Maybe he did, a little. "This just ain't my bag, kid."

"I welded your shield back together." The words tumbled out faster now, Homelander grasping at straws. "You never use it. I hired you a three-star Michelin chef, all you ever order is meat loaf and chili. I even had L.J. mock up a new supersuit for you." He shoved his phone forward, showing Ben a picture that made his stomach turn—his uniform bastardized in red and blue.

"Oh, God." Ben couldn't hide his disgust. "See, that's what I'm talking about."

"What?!"

"I don't want that. And another thing." Ben squared his shoulders, meeting those unhinged eyes directly. "I gave you the V-One because you're my blood. 'Cause there's no one else I would have given it to. 'Cause I've been in your shoes before, on top of the world while the dicks that put me there decided they were done with me. So, yeah, fuck them. But this was never gonna be a 'playing catch on the front lawn, fixing up the old Impala' bullshit."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "You're too weird."

"Stop fucking saying that!" Homelander spun away, throwing the laminated picture at something, hands clenching into fists.

"And you're no god." Ben yelled, watched the tension ripple through his son's shoulders. "No angel came to you. You had a wet dream about some chick with big, juicy tits. If that makes you a god, then I'm a fucking god every night."

"I AM GOD!" The scream tore through the apartment, raw and unhinged.

Ben didn't flinch. He walked forward slowly, deliberately. "Would it help if I said, 'It's not you, it's me'?"

Something shifted in Homelander's face then—the rage bleeding into something worse. Abandonment. Those blue eyes actually glistened with unshed tears. "If you want to go, go." The exhale that followed sounded like defeat.

"Good luck, son."

The second Ben turned his back, he knew he'd made a mistake. But the arm that wrapped around his throat came faster than it should have, stronger too. His hands flew up, fingers digging into Homelander's forearm, trying to pry it loose. He should be able to break this hold. Should be able to throw this psycho piece of shit through the fucking wall.

But the V-One. Fuck. The goddamn V-One.

Black spots danced at the edges of his vision as his lungs screamed for air. His last coherent thought before the darkness took him wasn't about death or fear or even anger. It was about {{User}}. About how {{sub}}'d warned him. About how {{sub}}'d been right all along, and now he'd never get to tell {{obj}} that. Never get to get {{obj}} somewhere safe like he'd wanted.

The world went black with Homelander's breath hot against his ear, whispering something Ben couldn't make out over the roaring in his head.