– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
The door to the well-lit office slammed open with a resounding bang, the force of the impact reverberating through the room. In strode a fifteen-year-old boy, his tan skin glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights, his chin-length dark brown hair bouncing with each purposeful step. He wore a white and blue jumpsuit with red accents, a vibrant red star emblazoned on his chest, a white soundwave symbol at its center.
But it was the furious scowl etched across his face that truly commanded attention, his features twisted in a mask of rage.
image [https://i.imgur.com/2gieigk.jpeg]
"What the actual fuck, Nederman?" Drummer Boy snarled, his voice almost raw with rage as he fixed his gaze on the room's sole occupant, brown eyes blazing with barely contained fury.
He purposefully ignored the breathtaking view of the New York skyline stretching out behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering skyscrapers and bustling streets nothing more than a blur in his peripheral vision. His focus was solely on the balding Jewish man seated behind the massive wooden desk, the guy's stupid face split in a wide, almost mocking smile, his attitude a visible and stark contrast to the seething teenager in front of him.
"Drummer Boy, Ax, baby, how's my favorite client doing?" the man exclaimed, spreading his arms wide in a grandiose gesture. His portly bulk strained against the confines of his expensive suit, the fabric stretching with each movement, threatening to bust at the seams.
Baby? Is he fucking serious right now? Drummer Boy's blood boiled at the condescending nickname, his fists clenching at his sides. Short nails dug into his palms as he tried to keep himself under control, his entire life falling apart around his ears. "Don't you baby me, Chet," he snapped.
The teenager stepped forward and slammed his hands down on the thick wooden surface of his manager's desk with a visible frown. The impact sent a shockwave through the room, rattling the various awards and plaques adorning the walls, the framed photographs of Chet schmoozing with various celebrities and supes shuddeing where they hung. "This isn't my happy face."
Chet leaned back in his plush leather chair, seemingly unfazed by the display of anger. He casually rolled an unlit cigar between his fingers, the rich scent of tobacco wafting through the air and mixing with the aroma of his overpriced cologne. "What's got you in a mood, kid?" he asked, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant.
Drummer Boy's eye twitched at the man's flippant response, his fury rising with each passing second. A mood? A fucking mood? He could feel his powers thrumming beneath his skin, the urge to unleash a sonic blast growing stronger by the moment. "In a mood? This is not me in a mood, Chet. This is me in a fucking rage!"
The manager simply shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Potato, Potahto."
I swear to God, I'm gonna... Drummer Boy raised his hands from the desk, clenching them tightly by his face as he fought the impulse to throttle the infuriating man. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the storm raging inside him.
After a moment, he lowered his hands back to his sides, his fingers still twitching with barely contained anger. "...why did Management just now tell me I'm being kicked from the band?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, each word dripping with barely contained rage.
Chet leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he regarded the young supe with a more focused look. "Ah, that, yeah…" he said, his tone almost bored, as if discussing nothing more than the weather. "Things happen, you get kicked. You move on to bigger and better things."
Drummer Boy's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he struggled to maintain his composure. Bigger and better things? Is he fucking kidding me? "I'm the fucking face of Super-Sweet. I'm the lead, I'm the voice, I'm the fucking everything. Those shitheads wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me! I moved to New York for this fucking boy band!" he yelled, his voice rising with each word until it was almost a roar, the veins in his neck bulging. "What do you mean I'm being kicked?!"
The portly manager tilted his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes as he studied the seething teenager before him, his gaze almost amused. "You heard that your under-16 record for speed was broken? Some new kid took it the other day, you heard, right?"
The words hit Drummer Boy like a punch to the gut, the air rushing out of his lungs in a sharp exhale. He flinched slightly, the news having hit him surprisingly hard when he first heard it during breakfast that morning, nearly choking on his fucking Frosted Flakes. How couldn't I hear about that?
Breaking that record had been his ticket to the big leagues, the thing that had launched him out of his hometown and into the spotlight in NYC. It had earned him the title of "The Fastest Kid in the World," a major contract with Vought his older brother would have sucked a dick for, and a cushy deal with Super-Sweet that guaranteed him at least a great life as an upper B-lister, a solid star. Hearing that the same record had been shattered just a year later was a bitter pill to swallow, the news drastically overshadowed by the even worse bombshell that had been dropped on him just a few hours later, like a one-two punch to the fucking face..
"Yeah, yeah, the Super Kids Sports Day shit, yeah," Drummer Boy nodded slowly, trying to act like the reminder didn't bother him, no big deal, honestly.
But the truth was, it stung.
It stung like a motherfucker.
"That was yesterday, right? Didn't get a chance to watch it, cus I was busy practicing my fucking choreo." He spat the last few words out, nearly hissing by the end, his voice dripping with something bitter.
And look where that got me, he thought bitterly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Kicked to the curb like yesterday's trash, all because some no-name kid with a lucky set of legs broke my fucking record.
He did his best to ignore that he was once a no-name kid with those same lucky set of legs.
"Well, it's pretty simple," Nederman began, adjusting his tie with one hand as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He fixed Drummer Boy with a piercing stare, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "Also, I didn't watch the damn thing either. I was at my nephew's Bar Mitzvah. Sent you an invite, you didn't show. Kid's a fan by the way. You disappointed him, disappointed me even."
Drummer Boy's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in a moment of stunned silence as he rememebered. Fuck, the Bar Mitzvah. I completely forgot about that. He stammered, his words stumbling over each other in a rush to escape his lips. "I... I'm sorry?"
Nederman waved a hand dismissively, a harsh, nasally chuckle escaping his throat. It sounded like a bird call, grating and unpleasant. "Eh, no problem. Gave him a card from you and said it was from me. Lil guy said a big ol' thank you, by the way," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he rolled his eyes. "Anyway, it's cus your record was broken."
Drummer Boy's eye twitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He's fucking with me. He has to be.
"You already said that," the kid groaned, his hands raising in front of him as if he were trying to strangle the air itself. "What does it fuckin' matter? I'm way faster than I was a couple years ago. Even back then, I only got it off a technicality cause A-Train was already over 15 when he did the event thing," he admitted, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "The guy's a freak of nature."
It was a bitter truth, but one he had to accept. A-Train was once in-a-lifetime fast, a Mr. Marathon for a new era with a one-hundred-percent true-to-life hard-luck relatable backstory some capes would sacrifice virgins to Satan for.
Honestly, it wasn't that A-Train was the new face of what it meant to be a Racer.
Fuck the insane Tier 6 level speed, even.
Outrunning bullets in the hood before you hit double digits, surviving a drug-addicted mother and escaping gang violence and criminal life? That was pure power and a perfect story Supersonic couldn't match. Not him being just some Hispanic kid from an upper-middle-class suburb who couldn't even speak Spanish. No wonder A-Train never bothered with the Vought Kid stuff, he was too busy being groomed for Godolkin Academy and an entrance into the Seven.
Nederman tilted his head in a slight nod, acknowledging the point, his expression unchanging. "Yeah, well, that's the business, kid. Records are made to be broken."
"That's bullshit and you know it," Drummer Boy snapped back, his voice rising with each word, his face flushing with anger. "I'm the fastest kid in the world, dammit. That's my thing, my brand. And now some no-name nobody comes along and takes that away from me? Just like that?"
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Nederman shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a gesture of indifference. "Welcome to the wonderful world of being a supe, boychik. One day you're on top, the next you're yesterday's news."
Drummer Boy felt his frustration mounting, temper flaring like a spark igniting a pool of gasoline. "Besides," he continued, dropping his arms with an exasperated sigh, "the fuck does that have to do with this? Can the kid sing? Dance? Is he fuckin' replacing me?"
"As far as I know, none of the above," Nederman admitted, his tone almost bored. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Then what the fuck is going on? Drummer Boy's mind raced, his thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion and anger. He could feel his powers thrumming beneath his skin, the urge to lash out growing stronger with each passing second, his fingers twitching with the need to hit something, to break something. "Then what the fuck is gonna happen to me, Nederman?"
The manager let out a slight chuckle, placing the cigar between his teeth. He bit down on it, the sound of tobacco crunching filling the room. "Well, management is putting the kibosh on Super-Sweet. That's a... well, it's a done deal, already" he said, his voice muffled around the cigar.
"What the fuck do you mean, it's a done deal?" the kid demanded, his voice rising to a near-shout again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "They can't just fucking do that. I have a contract, dammit!"
"No point pissing your supersuit over that. It was only ever really a vehicle for your career, anyway." Nederman raised a hand, cutting off Drummer Boy's impending outburst before it could even begin. "They're already planning the red one as the breakout member. He's going to Cali."
Drummer Boy's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in disbelief. "R-redshift?" he questioned, his voice cracking on the name. That talentless hack? They're choosing him over me? "That dickhead can barely sing for shit!"
Nederman shrugged, his expression unchanging. "It don't matter, kid. We'll fix that in post," he replied, biting down on his cigar once more. "He's a pretty face with flashy powers and a bad attitude. Little girls eat that shit up."
Drummer Boy felt like he'd been punched in the gut, the air rushing out of his lungs in a sharp exhale. This can't be happening. This can't be real. "What about me, though?" the kid finally asked again, his voice small and uncertain. "Why is a broken record breaking up my band?"
"Not about the record, baby." Nederman clicked his tongue, the sound sharp and mocking. "It's about who broke it."
Who? Drummer Boy blinked, confusion etched across his features. "Who?"
"Homelander's kid," the manager answered, his voice flat, straight and to the point.
Drummer Boy's mind reeled, his thoughts scattering like leaves in a hurricane. Homelander has a kid? Since when? How did I not know about this? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. "Homelander got a kid?!"
"He does. A kid that broke the under-16 world records in speed, weight-lifting, high jump, and throwing distance." Nederman nodded, his expression unreadable. "And that kid picked you to be on his new junior team of Midwest supes."
Drummer Boy froze, his body going rigid with shock. It was a surprising thing to happen to someone whose brain could often move as fast as his feet. "He... he what? When? Why?" The questions tumbled from his lips in a rush, his voice rising with each word.
The manager leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the armrests. "In order, he picked you, he did it yesterday, and I dunno, kid, you tell me. Top brass says the kid chose you by name."
Chosen by name? By Homelander's kid? Drummer Boy's mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. "Who the fuck is this kid? I never even met Homelander!"
"You think I know? I'm just the messenger here, boychik," the man shook his head. "All I know is what they tell me, and they ain't telling me much."
"But why me?" Drummer Boy raised his hands in confusion. "The fuck does he want with me?"
Nederman shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a gesture of indifference. "Beats me, kid. Maybe he's a fan. Maybe he wants to be friends. Maybe he's gay and just likes your pretty face. Who knows with these types?"
"But I'm not... I mean, I'm not even that fast," Drummer Boy admitted out loud, feeling that twinge of not being number one hitting him in his gut. "Not compared to him, I mean."
"Don't sell yourself short, kid. You're still one of the fastest supes out there, even if you're not the fastest. And besides, speed ain't everything. You got other talents, other skills. Maybe that's what he sees in you."
Drummer Boy shook his head, his mind reeling, trying to make sense of it all. "I don't... I don't know what to say. This is all just so fucking crazy."
"Don't take it from me, kid." Nederman turned his laptop around, his fingers clicking against the keys. He spun it to face Drummer Boy, the screen displaying a video of the race next to a picture of the boy in question. "Just watch."
The man clicked Play.
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
> The stage lights glared down, casting a harsh glow on the podium where Homelander stood. His iconic American flag cape draped over his shoulders, the red, white, and blue a stark contrast against the deep blue and gold of his bodysuit. The bright red boots and gloves completed the ensemble, a striking image of patriotic heroism.
>
> The press conference was in full swing, the murmur of the crowd a constant hum in the background. Reporters jostled for position, their cameras and microphones at the ready, eager to capture every word from the legendary superhero's lips.
>
> "Every single young person in this sports festival has shown incredible potential and more than that, displayed incredible effort," Homelander began finally, the man smiling bright. "But it almost goes without saying that four records and four gold medals in one day is something extraordinary. I have no doubt that today's major winner will continue to make us proud. He has the strength, the courage, and the heart of a true hero. And with the support of Vought and the American people, I know he will achieve great things."
>
> Homelander leaned forward, his hands gripping the sides of the podium. "Now, for a slightly different topic, you may all be wondering why I chose to have this press conference today, at this event," His blue eyes swept over the audience, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
>
> "I've always kept my private life rather secret," he began, his voice deep and resonant, carrying easily over the crowd. "Unlike most of the supes who work with Vought to safeguard our nation, I've never been one to share the details of my personal life with the public."
>
> He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in. The reporters leaned forward, their pens poised over their notepads, their eyes glued to the hero's face.
>
> "While I never wore a mask, I always did my best to keep both lives separate," Homelander continued, his expression growing serious. "But that changes today."
>
> A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd, reporters exchanging glances and whispers.
>
> Homelander turned slightly, gesturing to someone offstage. "I'd like to introduce you all to someone very special to me," he said, his voice softening with emotion. "My wife, Grace."
>
> A woman stepped onto the stage, her white hair styled in a short bob. She was stunningly beautiful, with high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes that seemed to sparkle under the lights. She moved with a graceful elegance, her steps measured and poised as she made her way to Homelander's side.
>
> The hero took her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers as they gave each other both a gentle smile. "Grace is here with me today to honor the winner of the Kids Sports Challenge," he said, his voice swelling with pride.
>
> The crowd erupted in a frenzy of camera flashes and shouted questions. Reporters surged forward, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and curiosity.
>
> Amidst all the hype and cheering and clamor, a young skinny teenager stepped onto the stage, awkward goofy smile beaming bright.
>
> Homelander stretched his arm out to pull him closer, his other arm hugging his wife tight as all three blondes beamed. "And someone my father, Soldier Boy, would be proud to see: my son, Gregory Benjamin Veder, the American Son!"
– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –
"...motherfucker," was all Axel "Sparky" Ramon had to say.