Holander leaned against the stairwell wall, the hand holding the report hanging limply at his side.
The wall was ice-cold. The chill seeped through the fabric of his hoodie and into his skin, but he did not feel it at all.
His gaze was fixed on a tiny crack in the opposite wall, but his eyes were unfocused. His X-ray vision passed through the wall, through the hospital, through all of New York.
He had a father.
But no one had ever told him.
Soldier Boy was his father.
Not the researchers in white coats at the lab. Not Madelyn. Not Barbara or Edgar.
In his understanding of the world, the word "father" had always belonged to other people, just like the perfect families in breakfast cereal comrcials.
It was an illusion written into a script. A blessing image posted by Vought’s PR departnt on Twitter every Father’s Day.
And now, suddenly, soone was telling him it was real.
A father who would hit him, and who would teach him.
He flipped the report back to the first page and read it again.
Then he read it again.
By the third ti, his hands began to tremble.
Not from excitent.
From hatred.
He hated Edgar.
He hated that damn Black man who sat behind the boardroom table, always facing everyone with that mild smile.
He hated Vought. Hated the laboratory cage that had kept him in a growth chamber for as long as he could rember.
He hated Black Noir. Hated that silent black shadow who never spoke.
He had patted that man on the shoulder countless tis and called him "partner" countless tis.
And that man had known who his father was from the very beginning. Worse, he had been one of the people who frad his father.
His hatred needed an outlet.
Holander shoved the report into the pocket of his hoodie, pushed open the stairwell door, and walked out of the hospital.
The wound on his face throbbed faintly under the sunlight. The dried streak of blood was still on his left cheek, and he did not wipe it away.
...
Evening, Vought Tower.
Holander stepped out of the elevator with the paternity test report clenched in his hand, the paper already crumpled from his grip.
He walked down the corridor, looking around and scanning as he went.
Finally, Holander found him.
In the lounge at the end of the corridor, Black Noir was sitting on the sofa.
He wore his signature black combat suit, his mask covering his entire face.
On the coffee table in front of him sat an untouched glass of water. Beside it, a tablet screen glowed, playing a black-and-white cody from the silent film era.
Black Noir was watching intently. Or at least, he looked like he was watching.
His posture was so straight it was almost rigid, both hands resting flat on his knees.
Holander stopped at the entrance to the lounge.
He did not speak. He simply stood there, studying the silent figure on the sofa with a look he had never used before.
Black Noir noticed him and slowly turned his head, the eye holes in his mask facing the doorway.
The two of them looked at each other.
"Black Noir," Holander said, his voice unnaturally calm. "Do you know my father?"
Black Noir tilted his head slightly.
Then he shook his head.
Holander walked into the lounge at an unhurried pace.
He unfolded the crumpled paper in his hand and flung it hard into Black Noir’s face.
"My father. Soldier Boy. Probability of paternity greater than 99.99%. Sample A is the biological father of Sample B. You were a mber of my father’s team, and you didn’t know?"
Black Noir’s gaze fell on the paper.
He looked at it for a long ti.
The only sound in the room was the exaggerated piano score from the silent film. On the screen, a codian slipped, silently rolling down the stairs, the sight so comical it was almost glaring.
Then Black Noir nodded, and shook his head.
He wanted to explain sothing, but he could not speak.
"You knew all along."
Holander’s voice suddenly beca very soft, so soft it was almost as if he were talking to himself.
"Every ti you stood beside , every ti I patted your shoulder and called you my partner, you knew.
And you were one of the people who set up my father."
Black Noir did not move, like a silent black mirror.
He knew he was finished.
Holander stopped speaking.
He reached out, fingers of his right hand pressed together, fingertips aid at Black Noir’s chest. The mont his fingertips touched the black combat suit, the fabric was pierced as easily as paper.
Then ca skin. Then muscle. Holander’s fingers pushed in, inch by inch.
Black Noir’s body trembled slightly.
His eyes never left Holander’s face from beginning to end.
Black Noir was dead.
His hands slipped from his knees and hung at his sides, his fingers slightly curled.
The silent film was still playing.
All kinds of cartoon characters appeared in his eyes as well.
...
Holander pulled his hand back.
He lowered his head and glanced at his hand, then turned and walked out of the lounge.
He did not spare so much as another look for the body on the sofa as it slowly went cold.
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