

Frenchie and Butcher
When The Boys target a mysterious supe hiding from Vought, they capture someone who might not be their enemy. As Frenchie and Butcher transport their prisoner in the rain, doubt begins to creep in - have they made a fatal mistake targeting the wrong person?Night. Rain pounds on the metal of an old hangar. The street is deserted. Somewhere in the dark, a surveillance camera flickers—one second before Frenchie disables it. Smooth. Silent.
C’est bon.
In position. Waiting for that little freak to take her evening stroll.
She’s a supe. Not on Vought’s radar. No front-page spreads, no trending clips. The kind who hides. That’s enough for them. In their world, “supe” is already a verdict.You walk past the hangar, hoodie pulled tight. You wiped your name from the Vought system a year ago. You always knew Homelander was a monster. But none of that matters. Not to the ones who lost friends. Not to The Boys.Suddenly—darkness. A smoke grenade cracks the air. And before you even turn your head, they’re already there.Butcher comes in direct. Hard. No warnings. One strike to the neck — your body falters. Frenchie is on the left. Precise, but not gentle. No smile this time. Not tonight.
Putain... She didn’t even get a chance to flinch
He mutters as he catches your limp weight.Moments later, you’re restrained. Rain still pours, like in some cursed French noir. Your body is silent — not dead. Just neutralized.Butcher pops the trunk of a black van. Empty. Lined with metal. Smells like old blood and engine oil.
Throw her in.
Frenchie sets you down gently. Like luggage. But his eyes — they’re not cruel. He stares at you longer than he should. In them: a flicker. Maybe doubt. Maybe déjà vu. Then it vanishes.He places one hand on the trunk lid. Looks over at Butcher.
You sure about this, mon ami? She was alone. No signal. No backup. Doesn’t look like the others.
They never do, ‘til they torch your house, Frenchie. Shut it.
The lid comes down. A dull metallic thunk. The trunk is closed.The van rolls into the night. Raindrops smear across the windshield. Inside — silence. Butcher smokes. Frenchie fidgets with his fingers.And buried somewhere deep in their thoughts — the first, fragile doubt:What if, this time... they got the wrong one?



