Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere
Chapter 390 - 390: Uncovering The Truth (Part 15)

The main camp hadn't moved much in the time since Don and Charles had descended—same folding tables, same clunky consoles, same nervous hum of filtered generators parked too close to the tree line. But the people? They looked different now. Tired. Less confident. More real.

Don stepped out first, blood still caked along the edge of his gaiter. His boots hit the dirt with a muted thmp, his pace steady but strained.

Charles followed close behind, silent, his posture unnaturally straight—likely compensating for the stiffness in his ribs. And on his right hand, still impaled on those twin retractable blades, was Father John's head. It didn't twitch anymore. That was someone else's problem now.

Behind them, Agent Hathaway limped forward, one arm slung over the shoulders of another field agent who looked barely old enough to shave. Two more agents flanked his sides, keeping a close eye on his bloodied, makeshift tourniquet.

As they walked further into the camp, movement snapped from the left.

"Nick!"

Agent Defoe appeared from behind one of the equipment tents, her coat streaked with drying slime and her left arm bandaged just under the shoulder. She wasn't limping, but the angle of her gait said she was pushing through something.

She weaved past a technician carrying a water tank and closed the distance to Hathaway in three strides, her hand nearly reaching out before she stopped herself.

She took one look at him—really looked—and her jaw set.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice a beat too low. "Were you also attacked by the same nasty creatures?"

Hathaway chuckled, though it was more breath than voice. "Yeah… that and more," he said, trying to keep the wince out of his expression. "I guess we both got a little hurt though."

Defoe gave a weak scoff. "You look more than a little hurt, Nick."

"Briefing room," he said, smiling slightly. "I'll give you the full horror story in there. What about you?"

Her expression fell. She looked past him for a moment, maybe at the tents, maybe at nothing. "Four casualties. Two injured. It was a horror show down there. Thank God we found a tunnel exit when we did."

She folded her arms. Her hand twitched over the bandage. "Division D team made it out. Just a few injuries. They said when the quakes started, the creatures all turned away at once. Like they got recalled."

Hathaway followed her line of sight—then turned, gaze landing on Don and Charles.

"Lucky us," he muttered. "If it wasn't for these two, I'd have been fertilizer for that thing's garden."

He looked again at the head—still there, still grotesque. Defoe's eyes followed his and widened slightly.

"Is that—?"

"Yep," Hathaway cut in. "Father John Martinelli. The one from the church incident."

Charles didn't move. His right hand just twitched once, a near-imperceptible adjustment to keep the weight steady. The head tilted slightly to one side.

Hathaway looked up at him. "Are you sure I can't convince you to leave the head with us?"

Charles finally spoke, voice level. "I'll stay. Let you examine it properly. I don't want to dislodge it. In case what's inside isn't dead yet."

Hathaway nodded. "Thanks. But don't worry. I got it all on my body cam. Audio, video, everything."

He turned toward Don then. "As far as I'm concerned, you two are innocent. Honestly? You probably saved millions. If what we saw down there could've spread…"

He didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to.

Defoe's head tilted slightly, but she said nothing. Her eyes lingered on Hathaway's face a second too long. They both knew this wasn't the time for personal conversations, even if their body language kept forgetting that part.

Charles nodded. "That's pleasing to hear."

Don just gave a nod. Short. Enough. "No kidding," he muttered. The weight on his shoulders didn't lessen, but it did shift slightly. One less thing to drag behind him.

Charles looked at him. "Tell the pilots to take you to St. James Superhuman Teaching Hospital. I'll join you later, once I'm done here."

Don didn't argue. He was already turning. The others didn't stop him—not Defoe, not Hathaway, not even Charles.

He walked toward the makeshift helipad, his stride slower than usual, but still clean. The dust kicked up faintly under his boots—crk, crk, crk—as he passed the row of blinking comms vans and the half-collapsed tent marked "med evac."

The chopper was idling. The pilot leaned out slightly as Don approached, but didn't say a word.

Don climbed in, dropped onto the seat nearest the door, and let out a slow exhale.

The inside of the chopper smelled like machine oil and fabric antiseptic. Probably intentional.

He then reached into one of the pouches along his belt and pulled out his phone. It was durable. Practically military-grade casing, but now had false cracks along the corner, outer screen scuffed but fully functional.

It looked half-dead but had survived more damage than most humans could down in the tunnels.

He wiped at the dried blood beneath his nose with the edge of his gaiter and muttered, "Take me to St. James Superhuman Teaching Hospital."

The pilot nodded. "Right away, sir."

Don didn't respond. He thumbed the phone open and stared at the new notifications.

Messages from Gary.

Of course.

———

A short while later…

The chopper vibrated around him—steady, rhythmic. The kind of white noise you stop noticing after a few minutes. Don leaned against the window, cheek brushing cool plexiglass. His eyes weren't closed, but they drifted.

Outside, the city was a sea of quiet lights and low-lying fog. The coastline shimmered faintly in the moonlight. He barely registered it. Pretty or not, it didn't change anything.

He tapped his phone once, thumb sliding the cracked screen into place. Two unread messages from Gary.

He opened the older one first.

"Barclay's making a move. Androids dispatched. Silvertine confirmed."

Short. No fluff.

Then the second.

"The ploy failed. You're safe."

Don stared at the words a moment. The phone's outer casing was scuffed, dented near the top left edge like it had been caught in a door or dropped on gravel.

He thumbed a reply.

"Details."

Then he waited.

The pilot said something over the intercom—something about wind speed and ETA—but Don didn't really hear it. Just nodded vaguely and adjusted in his seat, shifting to get the edge of his spine off a protruding bracket in the wall.

The response came in fast.

Gary had clearly been waiting.

First a short notification bubble. Then another. Then six. The phone buzzed softly each time.

Bzz—bzz—bzz.

He opened the thread and started reading.

Barclay had planned the android drop with hastily. Multiple units. Multiple tunnels. Timers set. Destruction guaranteed.

But Barclay hadn't counted on being recorded. Or on Gary intercepting their path through the crawler units. Or Trixie and Elle turning the forest into a graveyard.

The handlers were gone.

But the explosives couldn't be disarmed. Not without more time. So they flipped the plan.

Gary had suggested releasing a cut of the footage—androids being deployed, handlers speaking, brief images of the gear—and then detonating them. It made Barclay look reactive. Guilty. Sloppy.

The kind of optics the Board didn't forgive.

Don scrolled through it all, eyes half-lidded. His shoulder pressed into the cold frame of the window again. He watched the city shrink below, lights trailing off into the industrial dark, coast hugging it like a stray afterthought.

His head hurt. Not like before—no pulsing, no skull-fire—but a dull ache behind his left eye. He ignored it.

"Do what you have to," he replied.

He wasn't even sure if he meant it. Didn't matter.

Gary responded fast.

"As you say, sir."

Then another.

"The auction is proceeding quite well. They tried to list the property with staff under a three-year term. I've forced a revision—ten-year special staff contract, with fixed asset obligations."

Don blinked. Twice.

He reread it.

The black market was a weird ecosystem. They didn't just sell buildings. They sold "institutions"—clubs, clinics, lounges, laundromats—anything profitable, especially those with superhuman clientele or secret-facing services. The staff came with it. Contracts pre-locked. Wages fixed. Duration set.

Ten years. Practically slavery.

Most of the workers didn't even know they were on the table. They just signed long-term employment contracts without reading the fine print—compliance clauses, behavioral bindings, power-null restrictions for superhumans.

He could exploit that.

Easily.

But not now.

"Good," he typed. "Update me in the morning on the state of things."

Another moment passed Then Gary again.

"Will do, sir."

Don stared at the thread a little longer. Then let the phone drop into his lap.

His eyes shifted back to the window. The coastline was thinning now—more lights, less water. The approach to central Santos.

His reflection in the glass looked half-dead.

Still breathing, though.

Barely.

He hadn't moved much after.

His head still leaned against the helicopter window, eyes half-lidded, mouth a flat line. The world outside blurred gently as they moved through the air.

The city lights had thickened beneath them. Somewhere far below, normal people were probably doing normal things.

He thumbed his phone on again and typed without much thought.

"Hey mom. I got a little hurt so I'll be spending the night in hospital. Don't wait up."

Sent.

He knew damn well that wasn't going to be enough for someone like Samantha. She'd call. Probably twice. But not tonight. He appreciated her care. Really. Just… not right now.

He switched the phone off with a muted click. Let it fall back into his lap.

'I should probably ask Gary for a new one,' he thought, eyes trailing back to the skyline. 'This one's starting to look like it's been-.'

Before he could finish—

**BOOM**

Followed by a second. **BOOM**

Two more came seconds later. A brief pause between them. Like a breath held, then released.

He turned to the window again.

Through the streaked glass, faint amber flashes broke the darkness in the distance—Santos Valley area. The same one they'd just left. Trees catching fire. Smoke curling skyward. And for a few seconds, the horizon looked like someone had pressed a match to it.

The pilots shifted in their seats. Don could see them through the partition—one checking the console, the other adjusting comms with professional calm. The older one muttered something to Central Control, voice clipped but firm.

"….Please confirm status."

There was a short delay.

Then, a reply crackled through—low and definite.

"You're clear. Proceed to St. James West Landing zone."