Prolog(The Boys)

"And the winner of Mr. Olympia 1978 is Bane Butler! A truly impressive and formidable figure the world has never seen before. A breathtaking embodiment of human potential, a body that looks like it belongs to a superhero," echoed the voice from the television. The recording, made years ago, played on an endless loop.

The man sitting in front of the screen ran his trembling fingers over it, as if trying to grasp something that would never return. The man in the video had been a dazzling bodybuilder, a multiple-time Olympia champion, basking in glory and wealth. And now, he sat in an old, dusty room, his massive beer belly resting on his lap, his eyes hollow and lifeless.

Bodybuilding had soared in popularity only to crash just as fast. Superheroes became the idols, the ones the masses worshipped, while men with muscles were discarded, no longer needed in a world that offered more perfect, godlike physiques.

His career had crumbled. He was left with nothing. His health was wrecked by steroids; he had sacrificed everything for victory, only for those very victories to destroy him. Joint pain, constant heart problems every penny he had left went toward survival. Now, he had nothing.

With rage, he hurled an empty beer bottle at the television, shattering the screen. Like a child, he broke down, sobbing as he realized what had become of his life. Not long ago, he had been at the top now, he was nothing.

A sudden knock at the door snapped him out of it.

Trying to pull himself together, Bane wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing away tears and snot, then fumbled for his crutches. Several herniated discs, multiple spinal surgeries it had all left him crippled, unable to walk without support. He strained to move an arm, then one leg, then the other, dragging himself toward the door.

The knocking and ringing continued.

At last, he reached it, unlatched the lock, and opened the door. Two men in formal suits stood before him. The stench from the apartment made them instinctively recoil, their faces twitching in discomfort.

"Bane Butler?" asked the one standing closer. He tried to keep his composure, but there was a hint of unease in his voice.

"Yeah, that's me," Bane rasped.

"We have an offer for you. From Vought."

That name alone made Bane tighten his grip on the crutches. It was because of those bastards that he had ended up in this mess.

"Go to hell, you fucking scumbags," he spat bitterly.

"Please, mind your language," the guest continued, unshaken. "Be reasonable. We have an offer you're unlikely to refuse. You are Mr. Olympia, after all, aren't you? We have a chance for you. A chance to climb back to the top."

The last words hung in the air. Bane narrowed his eyes, studying the strangers.

"What do you mean?" he asked. More than anything in the world, he wanted his body back. To step onto the stage again, to shut everyone up, to prove what he was worth.

"Let's just say" the stranger spoke calmly, deliberately, "medical research that will allow you to become what you were always meant to be."

Bane barely hesitated.

"I'm in," the words left his lips before he even processed them.

He didn't care that it was Vought. Even if those bastards were doing God knows what with their superheroes, it didn't matter to him. Everything he had was already gone. His wife and kids had left, abandoning him in this broken body, in which every day was agony.

The moment he said "I'm in," the stranger handed him papers and a pen. The deal was sealed. Bane signed without hesitation.

*************

"AAAAAAAHHHHH!"

A terrifying scream echoed through the laboratory.

On the operating table writhed a monster there was no other way to describe him. His muscles swelled, pulsating as if alive. They had grown to an unnatural size, grotesque in their enormity. Dozens of tubes were connected to his body, pumping in unknown fluids.

A month had passed since Bane had fallen into Vought's hands. They had set out to create a new type of steroid enhanced, modified, perfected by their proprietary formulas. But the results exceeded all expectations literally. The experiment had turned a man into a monster of flesh and power.

Metal beams bent beneath his hands, and the reinforced restraints meant to hold him creaked under the strain, barely keeping him contained.

"AAAAAAHHHH!"

Another beastly roar thundered through the lab. Metal groaned under his fingers, breaking apart as if it were plastic. One arm tore free, then the other.

Bane ripped off the restraints binding his body and stood to his full height.

"Mr. Bane, are you conscious?" The only words the scientist could manage as he stepped back, too afraid to stand near the abomination they had created.

"Am I conscious?" Bane's voice was low, vibrating through the air. "I've never felt more alive. At last, I have become what I was meant to be. But tell me, do I really need these damn tubes on my back?"

"Yes, they are necessary," the scientist answered hastily. "They are made from reinforced materials and cannot be accidentally damaged. They deliver the compound that maintains your form and keeps your blood filled with essential substances. Without them, it won't work."

Bane frowned.

"They ruin my appearance. I must look flawless."

"We'll fix it, refine it," the scientist nodded nervously. "You will be the embodiment of perfection."

What else could he say? They had already noticed Bane's emotional state was unstable his vitals fluctuated wildly. Who knew if, in the next moment, he would tear them all apart?

But Bane was no longer listening. He was staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He felt like a god.