The Boys: I Became The Soldier Boy Chapter 15: If Only All of This Were Real

Chapter 15: If Only All of This Were Real

Benjamin looked at him, falling silent for a mont.

The sunlight streaming through the conference room’s floor-to-ceiling windows hit Holander’s blond hair, looking quite beautiful.

Holander was a bit nervous.

Then Benjamin spoke.

"John," he said, "are you wondering why I’m making such a big deal out of petty shit like A-Train running soone over and Translucent peeping?"

Holander’s eyes flickered slightly.

He didn’t speak, but his silence itself was an answer. Yes, he really was thinking about that. He didn’t understand why his father was making such a massive fuss over trivial bullshit. What was the big deal about running soone over? What was the big deal about taking a little peek?

They were superheroes; superheroes were supposed to have superhero immunity. At least, that was what his entire upbringing had taught him. He had done plenty of terrible things to ordinary people, but... Vought had never told him it was wrong.

Benjamin leaned back against his chair. The look he gave Holander turned into disappointnt.

"You’re supposed to be fucking superheroes," Benjamin said, disappointed. "But you’re so goddamn pathetic. So pathetic it’s hard to fucking believe. The Seven—the top superhero team in Arica, the elite of the elite selected through multiple rounds of screening from all the Supes across the country, one-in-a-million talents. And the result?"

"One dopes himself up and runs through people, one peeps in bathrooms, one fucks dolphins, and another spends all day brooding in silence until my son shoves a hand right through his chest. This is the top team in Arica? It’s so fucking disappointing."

He gestured with his hands spread open. "How the hell did you all end up more pathetic and pussy than the last?"

His gaze pierced straight through Holander’s blue eyes. "And you—John. My son. The most powerful Supe on earth. Your problem, in my eyes, is bigger than all of theirs combined."

Holander’s expression froze. The last remaining trace of a smirk vanished from the corner of his mouth, his lips pressing into a hard line. He looked aggrieved.

This was genuine, unadulterated grievance. Like a child publicly called out by a teacher in class—after every single classmate had been chewed out, the teacher singled him out alone just to tell him: your problem is the biggest.

The kid wanted to fight back, wanted to say it wasn’t fair, wanted to say those people did things way worse than him—but he didn’t talk back, because deep down, he vaguely knew his father might be right.

Benjamin stood up, walked over to Holander, reared back his arm, and punched him on the shoulder.

It carried nowhere near the force of the punch on the rooftop, but it was enough to sting. Holander’s shoulder flinched back, his hand rising to clutch the spot. He looked up at Benjamin, his brow furrowed, his expression devoid of anger—only confusion and an even deeper sense of grievance.

"From now on, all Compound V circulating on the black market stops completely," Benjamin said. "I don’t want a single Supe-Terrorist showing up in Arica—no, in any country across the entire globe. I’ve already cleared this with Edgar, and he agreed. And even if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have had a choice."

Holander clutched his shoulder, remaining silent.

Compound V. That was Vought’s lifeblood, the ultimate driving force behind the entire operation from the foundation to the top floor of the tower. Superheroes were the product, and Compound V was the production line. Cutting off black market distribution and halting the creation of Supe-Terrorists would lower the demand for superheroes, aning a massive hit to Vought’s profits.

He parted his lips, wanting to say sothing about Vought’s interests, about how Edgar and the board would react. But then he thought about how Vought had treated him and his father. Selling Soldier Boy to the Russians, torturing him for forty years. Plucking him out of the incubation tank, subjecting him to relentless experintation and torture.

Why should he defy his own father’s orders for the sake of Vought?

Holander’s eyes cleared up. He swallowed his words back down.

But in truth, his confusion hadn’t vanished—what actual harm did the appearance of those Supe-Terrorists cause him or Soldier Boy? What did the deaths of ordinary people have to do with them? He didn’t quite get it, but he chose not to ask. Not out of fear, but because asking might make him look stupid. And maybe get him punched by his father again.

There was one more thing. Holander also wasn’t sure if Soldier Boy was doing this purely to undermine Vought’s interests, or if he was genuinely... a good guy? A good guy with a foul mouth?

Benjamin looked at him, leaning down once more with his hands on his knees, bringing his gaze level with the seated Holander. The gesture felt like a genuine conversation between two people at the exact sa eye level.

Holander looked at the Soldier Boy in front of him.

"Listen, John. You’re a fucking superhero—no, you’re the most powerful fucking superhero in the world. We don’t exist for Vought, and we don’t exist to perform so scripted dynamic in front of the caras. We exist to protect those weak, helpless pussies who can’t protect themselves. Got it?"

Holander’s lips moved slightly. In his entire life, no one had ever said these words to him. Madelyn taught him brand value; Edgar taught him to weigh pros and cons. PR taught him how to deliver lines with heartfelt sincerity on cara. No one had ever told him that his very existence was ant to protect ordinary people without superpowers.

"I know you’re a good boy, John." Benjamin straightened up, extending a hand to pat Holander gently on the shoulder. "You’re not a bad guy. You just never had anyone teach you the right things growing up. It’s not too late to fix it now."

"Good boy." The way the words ca out of Benjamin’s mouth was entirely different from the sterile, printed praise on Vought’s PR sheets.

Holander lowered his head, staring at his hands on his knees.

Benjamin stood up and suggested, "It’s getting late. How about coming down to the cafeteria to grab so dinner with ?"

Holander looked up. Having dinner with his father—the phrase was as foreign to him as the molecular formula of Compound V, yet it held far more weight than any perfect script cooked up by PR.

"Alright." He stood up, falling in behind Benjamin.

Holander followed behind Soldier Boy through the corridor, his cape swaying gently behind him.

When the elevator doors opened, Benjamin stepped in first. Holander followed, turning around to stand properly. The two stood side-by-side against the mirrored walls of the elevator. One in a deep green suit, one in a red cape—similar height, matching silhouettes.

Holander stared at the two side-by-side reflections in the mirror, suddenly rembering sothing.

There was a shoot scheduled for next week. Vought PR had handed him a new script. He hadn’t read through the whole thing yet, but he knew the general gist—he was supposed to stand in a warm, nostalgic old house and introduce his family to the cara. Introduce his grandparents, his mom and dad.

The script specified that his mother would play a soft tune on the piano every night; there had to be a real, vintage piano in the room, with a few ticulously aged family photos resting on the lid. And his father—the script laid it out in detail—was supposed to sit beside him at a workbench, building a model airplane together.

The exact mont he received the script, he had thought: If only all of this were real.

Not a stage set. Not so temporary house thrown together by crew mbers. And certainly not so broken piano and artificially aged photos dug out of the prop departnt by PR. But a real, existing, ordinary family.

But right now, standing in the elevator, Holander looked at the profile of the man in the deep green suit beside him. His father was real. He threw punches, patted shoulders, and said words like "you’re a good boy."

"Can I... grab dinner with you every day? I an, if you’re free. Of course, if you’re busy, I can just eat by myself," Holander asked, shrugging his shoulders slightly to pretend he didn’t care.

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A/n: If you want to read ahead and find out what happens next right away, you can read up to 20 Chapters ahead on my p@tr~on: /ForgottenDaoist (@ = a, link is in my profile).