What does peacetime entail for "The Boys"? The premiere of the third season largely revolves around addressing this question, delving into what transpired over the preceding dozen months and exploring whether a fragile truce can persist merely on the basis of mutually assured destruction's looming threat.
From the episode's onset, it becomes evident that this ceasefire is but a fleeting respite—if it indeed exists at all. In fact, "Payback" exudes the tranquility that precedes a tempest. Much of the narrative unfolds through conversations and character development, chronicling how each character's year has progressed. Only two souls meet their demise within this installment (a remarkably low body count for this series), and neither individual held prominence prior to this episode.
However, let us delve into these two fatalities, for they constitute two of the episode's most indelible moments, transcending mere spectacle. The first occurs at a penthouse bash hosted by Termite (Brett Geddes), an Ant-Man-like shrinking superhero who has been the Boys' quarry on a mission. He makes his entrance by showcasing a party trick—having sex with a Barbie doll amidst a crowd of cheering admirers. Yet, this visual fades in comparison to what transpires subsequently, when Termite adjourns to the bedroom with his lover.
There's no sense in delaying the inevitable, so let's plunge into the narrative (no pun intended): At his lover's behest, Termite shrinks and slips through his urethra, caressing the inner lining of his penis as he winds his way toward the prostate. It appears to be mutually enjoyable until Termite sneezes, instantaneously reverting to his normal size—and fatally wounding his partner, whose lower torso now lies as a puddle of goo upon the floor. Following a playful altercation with Frenchie, Termite is eventually scooped up by Butcher into a cocaine baggie, triggering an overdose from which he narrowly escapes.
Creative violence is the lifeblood of this series, particularly when it intersects with sexuality, so one can envision the writers' room erupting in laughter as they conceptualized each beat of this scene. Beyond its shock factor, however, this subplot serves as a helpful illustration of "The Boys'" current state of affairs. Firstly, it clarifies the chain of command: Butcher, for the first time, finds himself accountable to Hughie, who acts as an intermediary with his boss, Representative and FBSA director Victoria Neuman. Given Butcher's characteristic antics, Neuman has had to apologize profusely for his actions over the past year, even if his methods yield results.
And as Hughie is inherently Hughie, he doesn't second-guess the notion of something being too good to be true. Despite his lofty pretensions about the groundbreaking work he and Neuman have undertaken — and let's be honest, they have indeed contributed to a dramatic decline in "suit collateral" — the affluent and famous continue to skate by unscathed. Perhaps Vought is content to dispose of a few rotten apples here and there, but they retain the power to halt their fall whenever it suits their whims. This becomes painstakingly clear with Termite, who is spared jail time and public exposure when Vought strikes a lucrative brand endorsement deal.
Neuman is an accessory to the hush-hush burial of the episode's first demise. Yet, she bears direct responsibility for the chaotic and graphic second death: Tony, a long-time friend who affectionately addresses her as "Nadia" and yearns for her to unveil their shared history at "Red River." As always, she summons a team to eradicate every vestige of the incident — but this time, Hughie, who had come to view her as a bonafide friend, witnesses the entire harrowing scene.
It's refreshing to see the colossal secret about Hughie's new supervisor unveiled so prematurely rather than after several episodes of tedious suspense. Hughie commences the episode on a high note, revered in the office for his pivotal role in vanquishing Stormfront and his public romance with Starlight. However, by episode's end, he comes to terms with how much of his work was merely a diversion, how numerous concessions he's made to collaborate with someone no more virtuous than Vought. Even his relationship begins to falter: he's visibly growing envious of Annie's ex-boyfriend Alex, aka "Supersonic," a super-powered pop star vying for a spot in The Seven on American Hero. And Hughie can't refrain from casting a judgmental eye when Annie breaks the news that she's been appointed co-captain of The Seven.
There's much to admire about Starlight's transformation, particularly the implication that despite the ideals she purports to uphold, a part of her still yearns for power and adoration. "Consider what this could signify for millions of girls," she urges Hughie, momentarily forgetting their ultimate objective. Yet, she isn't entirely incorrect when she calls out Hughie's pettiness and the double standard faced by women ascending the corporate ladder. And gaining an upper hand over Homelander is always advantageous, especially if she gets to fill the vacant spots in The Seven herself.
Well, unless Homelander embarks on a rampage first. Though the Seven, alongside Starlight, now command unprecedented respect, Homelander finds himself under the public microscope, courtesy of his Nazi girlfriend Stormfront being exposed. Merely asserting on television, “I’m just as human as all the rest of you,” isn’t sufficient this time around; what’s required of the captain is a strategic retreat, paving the way for Starlight to rebuild trust and reignite the inspiration he once ignited within people. Yet, retreating is an art Homelander hasn't mastered. Instead, he unleashes his fury on A-Train, ridicules him for gaining weight, and nearly kills him when A-Train dares to retort. At least he has the burnt, barely surviving Stormfront to serve as his emotional punching bag whenever the urge strikes.
In "Payback," Queen Maeve remains relatively silent, though her concern for Homelander's escalating erratic behavior is palpable. In a clandestine meeting with Butcher, she unveils a weapon believed to have terminated Soldier Boy, Vought's inaugural superhero, in 1984—a death widely misconstrued as a nuclear meltdown sacrifice. If this weapon possessed the might to slay Soldier Boy, could it possibly fell Homelander too? Maeve even extends Butcher a temporary dose of Compound V, still in its experimental stages and being readied by Stan Edgar for military sales. Though it's in the testing phase, the Boys may have no alternative; sans their own superpowers, they'd likely stand no chance against Payback, Soldier Boy's vintage squad.
Butcher's encounter with Maeve stands as one of the most pivotal moments in the premiere, offering a glimpse into the season's narrative trajectory. However, the subsequent scene, where Homelander pays a visit, proves even more intriguing. Unsurprisingly, Butcher refuses to divulge the whereabouts of Ryan, Becca's son, to Homelander. Over the year Ryan spent in isolation with Boys founder Grace Mallory, Butcher has forged a strong bond with the child. Despite Butcher's dread of mirroring his father's footsteps, he's evolving into an unexpectedly commendable parent himself.
Homelander and Butcher engage in a raw, unfiltered dialogue, a conversation only possible between two individuals who harbor a mutual, overt disdain for one another. Neither hesitates to voice their exhaustion with the higher-ups they serve — Homelander, sidelined by Starlight's shine and Edgar's indifference, while Butcher is shackled by Neuman's opposition to the brutal war tactics he knows inside out. Yet, in this unrecognized wartime scenario, where denial pervades, they find common ground in this grim realization.
The wealthy and influential puppeteers who finance this conflict are content to perpetuate it, preserving the status quo where neither side gains nor loses territory. A stalemate that serves no one's fancy. United by this shared understanding, Homelander and Butcher pledge allegiance to their preferred brands of warfare: a scorched-earth strategy, with only one victor emerging from the ashes.
It's intriguing to witness Homelander, sculpted into the very emblem of the Vought system, standing in opposition to it. Perhaps the so-called peacetime that Vought and Neuman so diligently strive to uphold isn't peace at all; it's merely stagnation, a false lullaby. Each low-tier superhero rounded up "nonviolently" by The Boys signifies a minor concession, but collectively, they amount to an monumental compromise: an unspoken endorsement of a vast, profit-driven machine that conceals countless murders and sexual assaults beneath a veneer of heroism, indulging in bigotry in private.
Peacetime is a relic of the past, or perhaps it never truly existed to begin with.
