The Boys: Rise of The Elite

Finally! A tangible solution!

Mosley walked into the anteroom, where his partner along with the other supes waited.

As soon as Mosley showed his face, John contorted his face in annoyance at the fact of his absence. He walked over to Mosley and made eye contact.

"Why were you late," John said in his nasally voice, the pitch raised.

Mosley looked at John, not showing any visible confusion as to why he was late. It was completely unknown what Mosley was up to, but he was about to explain it as clearly as he could to his partner before he got suspicious.

"I was screwed over by traffic," Mosley said.

"Traffic can be a bitch. Lay off him. Its not like he can fly around like I can and sidestep traffic," said a woman's voice.

She walked over to him and shook his hand. Strangely enough, when she was shaking his hand, she made an uncomfortable expression on her face, like she could feel the grip of his hand, even though he was not a supe.

"I am Stormfront. And my, that grip. Men in your generation do not have such a strong grip that I could register, let alone a normal man such as yourself," she said with a smile.

"I am very fit. Fitter than my partner, in fact," replied Mosley with a confident smile.

John could sense something off about the both of them. Stormfront's constant need to avoid eye contact with the other superteams and Mosley's constant need to wear sunglasses indoors. It was almost like he was trying to hide the fact that he was gazing at the women's cleavage or something. And Stormfront just looked like a tiny spoiled, privileged, rich kid who somehow got superpowers from some stroke of luck of being chosen by God. The Slayer, on the other hand, seemed like he was chosen by Satan himself to bring about the apocalypse. However, these supes were not as Vought had advertised them. They all seemed like celebrities, D-list celebrities, trying to go up higher on the roster to earn more money.

And when one of them falls, they will flee from The Slayer in terror like a terrified child who saw their parents eaten by bear on a hiking trip gone bad. John knew of it. He seen the reports from what remains of the Canadian military, the ones who have not defected to Nu England out of fear, died defending their commanding officer, or deserted to be with their families instead of dying for people they did not care about. These people only cared about fame and fortune, and while more was better, it was not worth dying over. Goldman knew that when stronger willed men have cowered before the might of The Slayer and his miltias.

The other powerhouse, a speedster, might be able to fight The Slayer. The guy in the red and blue costume with a bullet on his chest. Goldman could recall that he introduced himself as Super Bullet. That was his superhero name, and Goldman himself was shocked at how lame it sounded. No wonder he was such a B-lister despite his power; his lame name made him unmarketable for any one of Vought's major teams. That was why he flew solo.

With the brief introduction out of the way, they left the anteroom to the dull halls and down the stairs in a single-file formation.

Outside, John smiled, borderline ecstatic that he could smell the clean air that was not awash with the scent of burning corpses or the acrid, charred wood smell of burning buildings. The streets were clean and did not look like something from a post-apocalyptic novel where a large portion of the population had just died. It was better than anything in Canada, and it would remain better for decades or even centuries to come, as the victor was clearly going to be the illegitimate nation of Nu England.

Just when Goldman was taking it all in, a strange man in a fedora and trench coat turned to Mosley and handed him a file. Mosley opened the file and looked at what it had had details of, and all of this had predated The Slayer attack by about three years.