CHAPTER 45: NADIA PULLS THE THREAD
The café in Astoria had become our regular meeting spot—neutral ground, public enough to discourage surveillance, private enough for honest conversation.
I arrived with a folder of evidence I'd prepared overnight: the Liberty photograph, the Myron Hunter file, a timeline connecting Stormfront's "debut" to Liberty's "retirement." Everything sourced through cutouts and dead drops that couldn't be traced back to The Boys.
Nadia was already there, coffee untouched, her own folder open on the table.
"Before you start," she said, "I need to show you something."
She slid a newspaper clipping across the table. Yellowed, brittle, dated 1983. The headline read: "HERO LIBERTY RETIRES FROM PUBLIC SERVICE." Below it, a photograph that made my stomach drop.
The same face. The same exact face as Stormfront.
"Where did you get this?" I asked, and for once I wasn't pretending to be surprised.
"Microfilm archive at the New York Public Library. I've been researching Stormfront's background ever since my 'where was she before' article. The fabricated digital history was obvious—anyone with forensic training could see it. So I started looking analog." She tapped the clipping. "Liberty operated out of the Mid-Atlantic region from 1971 to 1984. No one's seen her since. Until now."
I sat back in my chair.
Nadia had found Liberty independently. Without my guidance. Without The Boys' investigation. She'd pulled the same thread I'd been planning to hand her, and she'd pulled it faster than I expected.
"She's good," I thought. "Too good. I'm not the only one playing a long game here."
"You're saying Stormfront is Liberty," I said carefully.
"I'm saying the resemblance is impossible to ignore. Fifty years, no aging. Either Liberty had a daughter who's her exact physical duplicate, or this is the same woman." Nadia's eyes were sharp, focused. "But I don't have proof. I have a strong visual match and a suspicious timeline. That's not enough to publish."
"What if I had more?"
I opened my folder. The Vought personnel photograph—higher resolution than the newspaper clipping, officially dated. The Myron Hunter file, with internal memos proving Vought covered up the murder. The timeline analysis showing Liberty's "retirement" coinciding with a major PR restructuring at Vought.
Nadia's face went still as she processed the evidence.
"Where did you get this?"
"Vought whistleblower. Someone inside who's tired of burying bodies."
"Can I verify the source?"
"No. But you can verify the documents independently. The personnel photo matches database signatures from the 1970s—Frenchie analyzed the metadata. The Myron Hunter file cross-references with Baltimore police records from 1979. It's real."
She stared at the evidence for a long time. When she looked up, her eyes were different—not the professional skepticism I'd seen before, but something closer to awe.
"If this is real," she said quietly, "it's the biggest story since Compound V. And you just handed it to me."
"Because you'll do it right."
We spent two hours going through the documentation.
Nadia had questions I'd anticipated: chain of custody for the documents, verification methods for the photographs, legal exposure for publishing claims about a living public figure. She had questions I hadn't anticipated too—angles on the story I hadn't considered, potential corroborating sources she'd identified through her own research.
She was building a case that would survive legal challenge. Every detail documented, every claim verified, every potential defense anticipated and countered.
"Two weeks," she said finally. "Maybe less if I can expedite the legal review. I need to verify the Myron Hunter connection independently—if his family is still alive, they deserve to know what I'm about to publish about his death."
"MM—one of my contacts—already committed to reaching out to them. They'll know before the story breaks."
Nadia nodded. Something in her expression softened.
"You're different than I expected," she said. "When I started investigating you, I thought you were another grifter. Someone riding a viral moment for attention." She gestured at the documents spread across the table. "This isn't grifting. This is systematic. You've been building toward something."
"I've been trying to survive. The building came later."
"And what comes after Stormfront falls?"
The question hit harder than I expected. What came after? I had meta-knowledge that extended through multiple seasons of a show I'd watched in another life. I knew about Victoria Neuman, about Soldier Boy, about Homelander's inevitable escalation. The Stormfront exposure was just one battle in a war that would last years.
But I couldn't tell Nadia any of that.
"After Stormfront falls," I said slowly, "there'll be someone else. There's always someone else. Vought is a hydra—cut one head, two more grow back. The goal isn't to kill the hydra. It's to show people that the heads can be cut at all."
Nadia studied my face for a long moment.
"That's either very wise or very naive."
"Probably both."
We parted outside the café, the October wind carrying the smell of distant rain.
"Harley," Nadia said, pausing at the corner. "The honest answer you gave me. About your powers. Is there more you're not telling me?"
"Yes," I thought. "So much more. I'm from another world. I watched your life play out on a screen. I know how this story ends—or how it would have ended, before I arrived to change it."
"There's always more," I said instead. "But I've told you everything that matters."
She nodded, accepting the evasion without pressing.
"Two weeks. I'll be in touch."
She walked away, and I watched her go with the strange certainty that she was the most dangerous person in my life—not because she could hurt me, but because she made honesty feel possible.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: NADIA KAZAN]
[PREVIOUS: CONDITIONAL TRUST]
[CURRENT: DEEP PROFESSIONAL PARTNERSHIP]
[NOTE: MUTUAL RESPECT | SHARED MISSION | HONESTY ASYMMETRY]
The system's assessment was accurate, as usual. We were partners now—real partners, not just information exchanges. But the asymmetry was there too. She was honest with me. I was... strategically honest.
"Is that sustainable?" I wondered. "Can you build something real on a foundation of calculated truth?"
No answer came. The question would have to wait.
Frenchie's message arrived as I reached the subway station.
Frenchie: Compound V shipment moving through Brooklyn docks tomorrow night. Routing paperwork has Stormfront's name on it. Butcher wants eyes.
I stared at the message.
Stormfront was moving V. Not through official Vought channels—the routing paperwork Frenchie had intercepted was from a shell company, the kind of corporate camouflage used for off-books operations. Whatever she was doing with that shipment, Vought's board hadn't approved it.
"Personal project," I thought. "Or something worse."
The meta-knowledge fired: in the show, Stormfront had been involved in creating Supe terrorists—V-juiced extremists loyal to her ideology. The compound in Oregon. Sage Grove. If she was moving V outside Vought's oversight in this timeline too...
I typed a reply.
@HarleyVaughn: I'm in. Send details.
Two weeks until Nadia's article dropped. Tomorrow night, we'd see what Stormfront was hiding in those shipping containers.
One step at a time. Build the case. Gather the evidence. Let the truth do the work.
And hope that the Nazi didn't figure out she was being hunted before the trap could close.
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