Running from Himself 2-3: Stan Edgar (Patreon)

The 99th floor of Vought Tower was a space reserved for beings the average man spoke about like modern Olympians.

Earth's Most Mighty, according to his marketing department's breathless copy. They were so proud of that particular phrase, weren't they? 

Today the might in question was considerably more substantial than whatever theatrical performance the Seven typically provided for the cameras. Where else would men like this meet other than a cathedral consecrated to the unholy trinity of capital, power, and fear that was the Seven’s meeting room?

Yet around the table today sat a different pantheon. 

Around the table sat his current audience. One side housed a carefully selected subset of Vought's board, their Savile Row tailoring serving as armor. Across from them, the highest echelons of the Department of Defense had arranged themselves with that rigid military bearing that suggested competence while delivering its opposite.

"So, if I’m hearing this right," Secretary of Defense Bob Singer continued, his voice carrying the distinct gravel of a vaguely Southern career politician too used to shouting over committee hearings. "I missed a perfectly good steak dinner with the Joint Chiefs, shifted my whole day getting my ass up here from the Capitol, just for you to sit here and tell me that not only has some rogue element managed to get their hands on Compound V,” The man held up a small vial of red liquid like a prosecutor presenting evidence to a jury, “but now a bunch of random chicanos are cooking it like crack in a fucking basement?"

Rogue element. It was almost enough to make him laugh. If you only knew, Singer. Stan Edgar didn't so much as glance at the object in Singer’s hands, having seen enough samples of it by now to scrub any iota of surprise from his system. His gaze remained unwavering, posture immaculate, voice steady enough to set a metronome to.

Clicking his teeth, Singer dropped the vial on the table with the emphasis of a man that confused bluster with gravitas.

"It certainly seems that way, Mr. Secretary," the CEO answered back, tone as calm as if quarterly earnings were the topic of the day. "The chicanos you speak of are calling it Rojo, from what our intelligence has gathered. Apt enough, considering it’s… unique coloration." 

With grace that was as insulting as it was deliberate, Edgar's fingers found the genuine Compound V in his jacket pocket, the vial's familiar weight settling against his palm before he placed it beside Singer's evidence. Eighty years of biochemical engineering versus what appeared to be contaminated blood samples from a veterinary clinic. The chunky particulates clinging to the red vial’s sides told their own story.

"So, not quite our proprietary formula," Edgar continued on smoothly. "But still, an unfortunate and… vigorous proliferation."

Morrison's chest hardware clinked softly as he leaned forward from the other side of the table, all that decorative metal failing to compensate for the shade of red on his face that suggested hypertension in a man his age. "Unfortunate? My office has confirmed three separate incidents in the last seventy-two hours, and that's just what we can verify. A supe setting a used car depot on fire in Queens. Another one tore the roof off an armored car in Baltimore like it was a goddamn sardine can. We’ve got credible reports of them as far down as Florida, for Christ's sake. If the fucking Cubans get their hands on this…" 

Morrison's imagination had apparently reached its operational limits as the General cut himself off, jaw tight enough to crack a molar as his face cycled through expressions as quickly as it did colors. "We're looking at a new Cold War fought with demigods, and you're sitting here talking about 'proliferation'."

Demigods. Edgar’s pointer finger drummed slowly against the file in front of him as he mulled over the word, a single controlled release of the amusement building in his chest.

"He’s right. This ain't 'unfortunate,' Stan." Singer bit out each and every syllable like the man was still chewing one of his prize cigars. "We’re sittin’ on a fuckin' powder keg, fuse lit and shoved up our collective holes.”Stan let out a low hum, closing his eyes for a moment. “Quite the visual, Secretary.”“And now fucking MS-13 of all people,” the Secretary had yet to finish, still going strong as his finger jabbed at the table, “are running around with the biggest weapon of mass destruction since Oppenheimer got off his ass and decided to put his name in the fucking books.”“Latin Kings, actually.”Singer’s eyebrow rose above his glasses. “What?”“Latin Kings,” Edgar repeated, opening the folder in front of him. “If you turn to page three in the proceedings, you’ll see the gang in question is known as the Latin Kings.”“Fuckin’ illegals, whatever,” Singer brushed off Stan’s correction. “And just like our dear departed Madelyn Stillwell,  I suppose you're going to tell me you have no idea how they got their hands on it."

Edgar let the silence sit for a few seconds, well aware every eye in the room was on him. Well, he’s certainly worked up,

"Our dear departed Vice President of Hero Management was known for a great many things, Mr. Secretary," he finally said, the slightest hint of condescension in his tone. "But she was rarely known for being wrong. Misguided, why not? But rarely wrong.”

“But what ab-”

“We at Vought do not have any idea how this Rojo spread,” Edgar continued on, not willing to let Singer build up steam again, the other man very much like a bull that way. “However, we are not willing to overlook the possibility of an inside job, hence the immediate initiation of a comprehensive internal investigation."

The incredulous scoff the Secretary of Defense let out was loud enough to echo out into the open halls of Floor 99. "You're joking. You've said some big ones, but just slapping your dick on the table and calling it a kielbasa is just beyond the pale.”“I don’t see how that is, Secretary,” Stan Edgar answered back, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow at the language. He’d heard far worse in a single day at this tower than this man could manage to come up with in a month.“Investigating yourselves?” Singer shook his head. “Stan, that's not even the fox guarding the henhouse, that's the entire fox den conducting the official inquiry into a mysterious rash of chicken deaths."

"With all due respect, Mr. Secretary," A Vought board member began, a man with the shaky gaze that came when your net worth relied on the good behavior of psychopathic mental infants who could spit ice from… oh, name an orifice, "an internal investigation is the only way to ensure absolute discretion and prevent further leaks. Our security protocols are… robust."

Another general nearly came out of his chair, the man on the far end of one “V” outright bristling with irritation. "Robust? Your premier speedster, a flagship member of The Seven, crashed in a back alley and through a fucking girl last May covered in the stuff. With all due respect, Mr. Keshishian, Vought’s vaunted security’s a goddamn sieve made of Swiss cheese."

Edgar raised a single, calming hand, the gesture silencing the sputtering board member before he could retort. "General Marcus is not wrong," Edgar conceded, willing to be magnanimous where it worked. "There was a failure. A tragic, public, and deeply embarrassing failure. One that we quickly released from connection with the company and the Seven as a whole. But Vought still possesses the most sophisticated security and intelligence apparatus on the planet, second only to yours, of course," he added with a nod to the General that was pure, uncut bullshit. "I assure you, gentlemen. If there is a leak, we will find it. And we will plug it. Permanently."

Singer stared at him, wholly unconvinced. "...Uh-huh. Well, while you're busy plugging your own holes, you realize there ain't a passing chance in hell of us keeping Compound V off the evening news anytime soon with this shitstorm brewing. Your 'Blue' is no longer classified. Nothing to sugarcoat, nothing to argue, you know fucking well that sooner or later, someone's gonna get a clear picture, a surviving witness who talks, and the whole goddamn thing is gonna blow its top."

"Trust me, Mr. Secretary," Edgar said, his composure absolute. "We have contingency plans for that eventuality."

"Trust you," Robert Singer shook his head, a grunt leaving the man’s throat with each and every movement. "That's two jokes in one minute. You're on a roll, Stan. I'm starting to think you're a goddamn comedian."

For the first time, Edgar properly smiled at the other man. 

The expression was thin, cold and it certainly didn't touch his eyes. "On another topic," he said, seamlessly changing lanes. "A prerequisite for our continued cooperation in this matter—and I do believe you'll want our cooperation—will be ensuring the official narrative remains under our control. We would like news of Compound V to be kept quiet until we ourselves are prepared to address it."

"I can't promise that," Singer shot back. "This is a national security situation, Stan. We have protocols and we’re already dealing with this counterfeit. If I have to go to the President—"

Edgar interrupted him, calm voice layered with an underlying edge of steel that could slide through titanium like one of Homelander’s hangnails. "Then you will be faced with nothing else but a panic. You will have riots in the streets and racial violence that would make Kristallnacht look like a disagreement when people realize their immigrant neighbor could suddenly decide to punch through their wall. A little chaos is manageable, Mr. Secretary. National pandemonium is not."

Singer stared, his jaw working silently. The other men at the table were statues. He knew he'd been checkmated. Edgar had just laid out the exact nightmare scenario the Pentagon had been gaming out for a decade.

"...Fine," Singer finally ground out, the word tasting like defeat. "For now." He looked down at the documents in front of him, a thick binder stamped with the Vought logo. "You're requesting deportation rights?"

"A minor addendum to our existing agreement," Edgar said smoothly. "Just for any illegal 'super villains' our operatives detain. A streamlined process to remove these threats from American soil and hand them over to your black sites. It's an issue of efficiency."

Singer’s eyes narrowed. "I thought we were calling them 'super-terrorists' now. That was the whole point of the push after Flight 37. To get your people into the military."

A flicker of genuine amusement crossed Edgar's face. "No, Mr. Secretary, those are for the overseas threats that make it to our borders. A foreign danger. It polls better. The homegrown 'street supes'," he gestured vaguely toward the red vial, "are testing exceptionally well with focus groups as 'super villains'. A domestic crime issue. It’s important to keep the brands separate. One inspires fear and patriotism, the other justifies aggressive policing and urban renewal contracts. Different markets, you see."

The esteemed CEO of one of the world’s most powerful companies allowed himself a pause, the battle already won as his gaze swept the table. "Now," he said, gesturing to a platter of meticulously arranged foodstuffs covered and waiting on the tray by his side. "Veggie frittata?"