Chapter 48 : Rehabilitation (1)
Mark sat on one of the couches inside the Boys’ hideout looking completely exhausted.
His hair was a mess, with several sections sticking out in different directions thanks to Kimiko repeatedly grabbing fistfuls of it whenever he got close enough.
At one point she had nearly ripped some of it out entirely while he was trying to convince her that he wasn’t her enemy.
The conversation had not been productive.
Eventually he had resorted to a far simpler solution: food.
More specifically, food filled with enough sleeping medication to knock her out for several hours.
Mark had stayed outside the room until he was absolutely certain she had eaten it. Only after she finally fell asleep had he allowed himself to relax.
Now he was paying the price. With a tired sigh, he opened a book he had picked up earlier, How to Learn Japanese. Mark stared at the page, and the page stared back.
After several seconds of mutual disappointment, he closed the book and tossed it onto the table.
"Nope. At least English only has twenty-six letters. Whoever designed this language was clearly trying to win some kind of competition."
The sound of a door opening interrupted his suffering.
Butcher walked into the room carrying his phone with an expression that suggested somebody had personally insulted him. Without a word, he shoved the screen directly in front of Mark’s face.
"Oi. What the fuck is this?"
Mark looked at the phone, then at Butcher.
"...That’s a phone."
Butcher stared at him.
"Did you steal that observation from a five-year-old?"
"The shape gave it away."
"Fucking cunt."
Butcher pushed the screen even closer.
The display showed news coverage of Flight 37 along with several clear images of Mark flying in front of the aircraft. His entire face was visible and there wasn’t even an attempt at a disguise.
"You mind explaining why you’re doing public superhero bollocks with your face on display?" Butcher asked. "Most people try not to get themselves identified."
Mark barely glanced at the screen before reaching for the Japanese book again.
"I don’t care. I saved a plane full of people. That’s generally considered a good thing."
"But your identity—"
"What about it?"
Mark opened the book and immediately regretted it. The symbols still looked like somebody had dropped a box of puzzles onto the page.
"People know my face now," he said with a shrug. "Not exactly the end of the world."
Butcher continued staring at him as though waiting for the punchline.
None came.
Mark genuinely didn’t seem concerned.
That somehow made the situation even more irritating.
"You’re a weird bastard."
"Probably."
Five seconds later Mark shut the book again.
"Seriously, who approved this language?"
About twenty minutes later, the door to the hideout opened and Mother’s Milk, Frenchie, and Hughie walked inside.
Frenchie immediately noticed the book in Mark’s hands. After watching him carry a passenger jet across the Atlantic on live television, seeing him quietly reading on a couch felt strangely normal by comparison.
"You are learning Japanese?" Frenchie asked.
Mark looked up for a moment before silently pointing toward the closed room down the hallway.
Frenchie followed his finger.
Mother’s Milk followed it too.
Neither of them understood what one thing had to do with the other.
"What does learning Japanese have to do with that door?" M.M. asked.
Mark stared at him for a second.
"Everything."
That answer somehow explained absolutely nothing.
With a growing sense of concern, M.M. walked over and opened the door.
The moment he looked inside, he immediately stepped backward.
The female supe from the warehouse was asleep on the bed.
The same woman who had broken bones, crushed skulls, and turned several armed guards into corpses without slowing down.
M.M. slowly closed the door before turning toward Mark.
"What the hell is that woman doing here?"
Frenchie immediately moved past him and opened the door himself.
His reaction wasn’t much better.
The warehouse fight was still fresh in his mind. It wasn’t every day someone ripped through a room full of armed men like a wild animal. Even by the standards of their profession, Kimiko had left an impression.
Frenchie quietly shut the door again.
"Mon Dieu."
Hughie looked between them.
"Is that the super-powered murder woman?"
"Yes," M.M. answered.
"The one who almost killed us?"
"Yes."
Mother’s Milk pointed toward the room.
"Why is she here?"
Mark closed the Japanese book and set it aside.
"She’s in danger, so I helped her."
M.M. stared at him.
"What about the danger she brings to us? Did you think about that?"
Mark looked him up and down before frowning in genuine disappointment.
"I didn’t expect behind all that muscle there was a scared little boy."
The room became very quiet.
Frenchie suddenly found the conversation fascinating.
Hughie looked away.
Mother’s Milk looked like he was considering violence.
"A scared little boy?"
"That’s what I said."
M.M. pointed toward the door.
"That woman is a walking disaster."
Mark shrugged.
"She’s my responsibility now."
"No, she isn’t."
Mark leaned back into the couch.
"Look, it’s not like what we’re doing here is public service. We investigate Vought, break into places we’re not supposed to be, steal classified information, and spend half our lives attracting problems."
He gestured toward the closed room.
"This is just another problem."
The annoying part was that M.M. couldn’t immediately argue with that.
Frenchie remained thoughtful.
Unlike Mother’s Milk, he wasn’t focused on the danger. He kept thinking about the holding cell beneath the warehouse, the restraints, and the way she had reacted after escaping.
"She was imprisoned," Frenchie said quietly. "People do not lock someone in a cage underground unless they want something from them."
Mark pointed at him.
"See? Frenchie gets it."
Frenchie ignored him.
"There is a story there."
Mother’s Milk rubbed his forehead.
Of course Frenchie was already sympathizing with the dangerous mystery woman.
That was the most Frenchie thing Frenchie had ever done.
Looking at the two of them, M.M. got the uncomfortable feeling that the argument had already been settled before he walked through the door.
"Did Butcher agree to this?" M.M. asked.
Mark frowned.
"Is Butcher our dad or something? Since when do we need his permission for everything?" he replied.
*****
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