Butterflies

Chapter 25

In the dark it's almost invisible. The tears running down strangers eyes, dropping down to the candles at their feet. You begin to mistake them with shadows, and in a way that's what they are, void of any hope, waiting to join those they have lost. Black coats and dresses, shaking palms that refuse to touch the fading memories encased in photographs. We become emotionless when they're gone, those people we love so desperately. Why change the expression on our face when there is no one there to warm it any longer? Butcher reminded himself of a time he thought Becca was dead as he passed the grievers. Images of faces and drawings covered the barrier to the building, rows of candles pushing them further away.

A hood covered his eyes as he blocked eye contact, his eyebrows creased as he read the messages from little boys to their mothers, and hearts with kisses covering the images. When he reached her he paused, the woman herself going over each letter and statement. She looked up to him with a faint scowl on her lips and he shifted to the other side of her.

"I ever tell you about my recurring dream?" Grace spoke, "I'm on stage, alone, at Carnegie Hall. The audience is made up of every poor bastard who got killed by the superheroes."

"What are they doing?"

"Nothing. They're all just watching me," she answered, "waiting for me to do something."

Briefly turning his gaze to the ground, Butcher sighed, "we hit a dead end on Raynor. I'm sorry."

"Christ I don't want to hear sorry," Grace scoffed, "sorry's not an option. We can't have anonymous skull-exploding assassins walking around. What if they hit the speaker next? Or the president?"

Letting Butcher reflect, Grace reach into her bag and pulled out a file. Another lead from the many she had ties to, decorated in brown paper like any other letter. He took it from her hand and opened it.

"Liberty?" A small poster of a wide smiling blonde with a red hood covering half her face like a mask, "you mentioned her before."

"Second-tier Supe, active in the '70s. She was all over Susan's private server," she explained, "get Marvin to talk to this liberty. Violet too. Address on the back. North Carolina," he flipped the page to get a closer read.

"All right. See what we can find."

"I also have the address to a clinic, non profit, not linked to any government proceedings or Vought," she said, "for Violet."

"Thank you," he put the envelope in his pocket and lightly smiled to her, "I might actually be doing a good thing for once."

Smiling herself, Grace's eyes flicked back to the wall, and he prepared himself to leave, brushing past her. He knew he did not have the words to truly help Violet, to help her understand what she's gone through, but a professional did. If only he could be there to hold her hand.

"Wait," Grace interrupted his thoughts, pulling out a third bit of information, "I found Becca. Or, at least, our best guess where she is. Vought facility, armed to the teeth. Won't be easy."

He was in disbelief, "we had a deal. I didn't come through."

"Jesus Butcher, I'm just giving it to you," her voice stammered, "it's my fault you stopped searching for her. I put a target on Homelander's back, pointed you right at him, and convinced you to use Violet for it. I didn't know Becca was still... It'd be good to have one less person in that audience staring at me."

His eyes softened as he took the paper, taking in her words but not saying anything back. He could help Violet, and save Becca, his chest tightening at the thought of both of them. But how much of his future fitted both of them, or even one of them. He had no certain path anymore, not one person he wanted to be with more. The idea of helping Violet, to see her glow like she did the first night he met her again, was enough for him to keep pushing, and then there was Becca. To see her, hold her again, was different entirely.