– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

11 YEARS AGO

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Years of torture was enough to break any man, even a superhuman.

Jonathan Veder would eat his own fucking cape if Vought somehow didn't know that, considering the gaggle of scientists that called the place home.

Doing that to a child… To him?

For what?

To see how strong he was?

How much he could take?

The limits of his powers?

To simply beat the weakness out of him?

John resisted the urge to let out a sigh, eyes closed as he forced a smile onto his face, one that quickly became a real one on its own as he prepared himself for the present he had decided to give himself for his eighteenth birthday. Hours before his first real debut to the wider world in front of an army of press, he walked…

Not flown.

Not ran.

He had walked into Vought Tower.

Strolled, even.

"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk…" He sang the words with a wild vibrant smile as he moved into the building, his stride purposeful, confident more than anything. "I'm a woman's man, no time to talk…"

Some might argue he was outright strutting.

He chose to ignore those someones.

Whatever the specific wording, he was on his feet and moving.

Past the labs.

Past the monitoring department.

Into the training areas.

He knew who he was looking for.

He had seen the man from miles and miles away, his vision keen enough to see past barriers even at that distance if he bothered to focus it. He had never told his father about him, never allowed Soldier Boy to hear him complain about the beatings the older supe had put him through in the guise of training before he reached double digits. The man's powers let him inflict pain far exceeding his strength, strong enough to leave him unable to fight back at that age.

He hadn't been strong enough then.

To take care of it himself, that is.

Now, though…

"Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born…" Jonathan Veder flexed his fingers inside his thick red gloves as he sang. He formed them into tight fists at his sides as he strode through the tower with a smile on his face.

Simply walking up to the man had done the first part, really. "Now it's alright, it's okay. You can look the other way."

For some reason, despite the cheerful tone of Johnny's song, fear had quickly spread across the big burly man in black body armor in the middle of the training room as he spotted the teenage supe's bright blue eyes and blond hair. The man's expression as Johnny approached him with a warm grin on his face could only be described as pure horror.

It was almost the perfect revenge.

Almost.

"Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother, you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive."

John had held back.

Killing would be too easy, anyway. He wanted this to be a lesson, not in strength, but in restraint. In the end, the beating lasted a good five minutes.

Every person in the training hall, Supe or Blank, simply watched on in horror as their nigh-indestructible trainer had blood drawn with every blow. Said blood stained the boxing ring, the walls, the floors, and even the bodies of some unlucky onlookers, likely scaring them even more.

Part of the fear likely came about from the fact that he had yet to stop singing or smiling throughout all of it, but that was also part of the fun, really.

"Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', and we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive."

Five long minutes to release nearly a decade of frustration and rage at the one person he knew could survive even a fraction of what he wanted to inflict. Unluckily for Bulwark, the superhuman combat trainer was still aware after all of it. The man's powers wouldn't allow him the sweet release of unconsciousness, so he simply had to suffer as a twitching, bleeding, broken mess until Vought's staff eventually got over their terror of him and attempted to do some sort of medical care as Homelander stood over them.

It felt good, John mused, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Fuckin' cathartic, even.

But even past that brief moment of satisfaction, the question still lingered in his mind.

The why of it all.

He had pondered it for years, even spent hours simply hanging in orbit to allow his brain the complete silence it needed to actually think.

What did Vought gain from putting me through that? he wondered, his brow furrowing slightly. What was the fuckin' point?

He had gone over it a million times in his head all those years, trying to make sense of the torture disguised as training.

With his dad, it was obvious.

It was all the man knew.

He was doing it out of love, out of care, and never hurt John in anyway he knew he felt was too far.

But Vought… Vought just kept pushing.

Was it to toughen him up? To break him down and rebuild him in their image? To see how far they could push him before he snapped?

Or maybe, a darker part of his mind whispered, they just enjoyed watching me suffer. Seeing how much pain they could inflict on the most powerful being on the planet they had some measure of control over.

John shook his head, trying to push the thought away. No, there had to be a reason. A purpose behind the madness. Vought was many things - manipulative, ruthless, even cruel at times - but they weren't sadists.

At least, he didn't think they were.

So why, then? The question continued to plague him, an itch he couldn't quite scratch. What was the endgame?

He had asked Vogelbaum once, back when he was still a kid, still naive enough to think the old man might give him a straight answer. But the scientist had simply smiled that infuriatingly cryptic smile of his and told him it was for his own good.

That it would make him stronger, better, more prepared for the challenges ahead.

Bullshit, John thought, his lips twisting into a smile that was once again forced. It was all bullshit.

Even now, standing over the man who had participated in so much of his suffering, he still couldn't quite bring himself to voice the question aloud. To demand the truth, the real reason behind the years of pain and torment.

Maybe I don't want to know, he admitted to himself, the thought a bitter pill to swallow. Maybe some things are better left in the dark.

And yet, the question lingered, an ever-present shadow in the back of his mind as he stared the broken man down.

It just made no sense.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage... the latest... and might I say greatest hero Vought has had the chance to work with since Soldier Boy... The H-"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

NOW

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Homelander's eyes were focused on the streets below, as they often were. The world beneath him was always far more interesting than the boring bureaucracy that filled every inch of the Seven Tower. No one ever really understood why he was often either here, standing at the window, or on the roof itself, hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at the city sprawled out before him.

They just don't get it, he mused, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. That was fair, he supposed; they weren't really supposed to. Even Maeve, with all her perceptiveness, didn't quite grasp the appeal. Sure, she could see the view from up here, but to her, it was just people. Tiny, insignificant specks going about their daily lives, unaware of the watchful eyes above.

But to Homelander, it was something else entirely.

Looking down at the world from this vantage point was one of his guilty pleasures, a secret indulgence he never brought up, not with most people. They tended to take it the wrong way, especially coming from someone with his powers and position. He could almost hear the whispers, the murmurs of concern that would inevitably follow such an admission.

Megalomania, they'd say, eyeing him warily. Control issues. A god complex. He'd been through the mandatory childhood therapy sessions, the endless tests designed to root out any hint of instability or delusions of grandeur. But the results had always come back negative, much to everyone's surprise - and perhaps disappointment.

Small minds, Homelander thought with a slight scoff, always jumping to the worst conclusion. As if he saw the people below as mere ants, insignificant creatures to be crushed under his boot or incinerated with a blast of his heat vision. It was a ridiculous notion, born of fear and anxiety rather than any true understanding of his character.

No, it wasn't anything as insipidly psychotic as that.

What drew him to this spot, time and again, was something far simpler, far more profound. Standing here, high above the bustling streets and towering skyscrapers, he felt a deep connection to the world he'd sworn to protect. It made it all feel real, tangible in a way that being down on the ground simply couldn't match.

It felt... Homelander took in a slight breath, his eyes fluttering closed as he tuned out the distant sounds of the city below. ...right.

The soft hiss of the door opening behind him pulled him from his thoughts, but he didn't turn around immediately, his gaze still fixed on the view beyond the window, the city sprawling out before him like a glittering tapestry. They're late, he mused, a flicker of annoyance sparking in his chest. But what else is new? "Hello, Deep," he called out, his tone casual, almost distracted, the irritation simmering beneath the surface fading away.

After a few more seconds, Homelander finally turned to face his teammate, his hands still clasped behind his back, a soft smile playing across his features, the expression slowly spreading up to reach his eyes as it became more real. Gotta play nice, he reminded himself, the thought a familiar mantra. For the team.

The Deep stood at the entrance of the Seven's meeting room, decked out in his signature dark green supersuit accentuated with orange, the material clinging to every sculpted muscle of his amphibious form with the stark exception of the window exposing his abs, the sight almost comical in its absurdity. These designs, I swear to God, why does Vought care so much about sex appeal? Homelander wondered, not for the first time. We're supposed to be super-soldiers for Christ's sake.

"Homelander!... how are you, sir?" the Deep asked, the boisterous sea-man running a hand through his chin-length brown hair as he stepped further into the room, imposing silver trident in hand, the weapon gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Homelander nodded, his smile widening slightly, the gesture a well-practiced one. "We are. Everyone's just running a bit late." As usual, he added silently, the words bitter on his tongue.

The Deep frowned, scratching at his thick beard as he made his way towards his assigned seat at the Vought logo-shaped table, the action making him look more like a confused caveman than a superhero. "I see..."

"My fault, really," Homelander admitted, pulling out his own chair and settling into it with a sigh, the leather creaking under his weight. Gotta take the blame, like a good leader, he thought, the responsibility weighing heavy on his shoulders. "Last-minute, you know."

"Homelander, no, don't s-" the Deep began, but Homelander waved off his concern, the gesture sharp and dismissive.

"No, I should have known better," he insisted, leaning back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrests. I'm the leader, it is on me. "We're busy people, we have to be. Maeve has her charities. Marathon's training his sidekicks. Noir..." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, his brow furrowing. What the hell does Noir actually do?

In fact, he decided to voice the question. "What does Noir get up to these days?"

The Deep frowned slightly, cupping his chin as he considered the question, the action making him look like a discount version of The Thinker. "I think he's taken up origami now," he offered after a moment, his tone uncertain. "Can't be entirely sure, but whatever it is, he masters it and moves on, I know that."

Homelander tilted his head, a look of mild surprise crossing his features, his eyebrows rising. Origami? Really? "True, he always seems very busy," he mused, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears. Busy with what, though? "We should spend more time with Noir. See how he spends his day. We could learn something from the old-timer, you know." Maybe figure out what the hell he's up to.

"Would he let us?" the Deep asked, sounding skeptical, his lips twisting into a dubious frown.

A scoff escaped Homelander's lips, the sound harsh and grating. "I think he'd be glad to have the company, honestly." Or he'd stare till we left, he thought, tilting his head to the side. Hard to tell with him.

As the Deep nodded in agreement, another thought popped into Homelander's head, the question slipping out before he could stop it. "What does Jack get up to, you think?" Probably something stupid, he mused, picturing the orange-skinned man's usual antics.

The Deep raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Now that's a question."

Another set of footsteps filled the room, echoing down from the hallway, the sound jarring in the relative quiet. "My ears are tingling, someone must be talking about me," A slightly raspy yet resonant voice sounded out, the words dripping with sarcasm.

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The Deep held back a laugh, nearly snorting as both he and Homelander looked up to greet their teammate as he walked in, amusement and exasperation mingling on their faces. "You don't have ears, Jackson."

"I do got ears, ya dunce," Jack from Jupiter shot back, the pale orange-skinned bald man stepping into the Seven's office, his tone indignant. Despite his words, he had a slight smile on his face, a newspaper rolled up under his arm as his long red cape trailed behind him, the fabric swishing against the floor. Out of all the Seven, his costume was the most... intricate, intended to play up his supposedly alien nature, the design a mess of clashing colors and patterns.

Like a walking traffic cone, Homelander thought, biting back a smirk. Despite his looks, the man was as far from an extraterrestrial as one could get. No, Jackson Moore was simply one of the few recipients of Compound V that received both incredible powers and a severely altered appearance.

Although considering the man's from Boston, I can see why one would assume he was at least a bit inhuman, Homelander mused, laughing to himself.

Jack dropped his newspaper on the table as he took a seat next to the Deep, shooting the man a look that rang with disdain, his lip curling. "They're just retractable, ya idjit," he demonstrated, the organs retracting and extending in quick succession, the sight both fascinating and unsettling. "'Cause of the sensitivity."

Homelander held back the urge to clear his throat loudly as the two badgered each other, the back and forth all too normal for both of them. Just another day in paradise, he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips. For all Jack from Jupiter presented himself as a stoic, wise Esper class hero, the man was as crass and irritable as they came, his abrasive personality a stark contrast to his supposed otherworldly origins.

"Maybe, retract them less then," Deep shot back playfully, the boisterous sea dweller laughing as his teammate glared, the sound echoing off the walls of the meeting room. "You look like a cue ball all the time, man!"

Deep's always a yapper, Homelander mused, his gaze flicking over the aquatic hero's costume and general appearance, taking in the silver trident, the somewhat long hair, and the well-maintained beard that managed to hold the impression of a noble aquatic lord standing in front of the cameras. But all it takes is a long enough conversation with the cameras off to tell that the man's not exactly the brightest bulb on the Seven, to be honest.

Well-intentioned and good at what he did, sure, but not exactly a deep thinker, pun fully intended.

Homelander cracked a smile at that, the expression growing as another figure walked into the room, the man's steps so silent that even he barely caught them, a testament to the newcomer's skill. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the fossil," America's Favorite Hero said with a grin, his tone teasing. "What, don't tell me it took a paleontologist to get you out of bed this morning, old timer?"

Black Noir tilted his head to face the blond man opposite him as he walked forward, the man's shoulders shuffling slightly with each step, the motion almost imperceptible. He seemed to almost ignore Homelander's words judging from the lack of response or even a wave of acknowledgment, but anyone who knew him knew the man might as well have been clutching his stomach in laughter, the silence just as much a part of his persona as the all-black costume and the mask that hid his features.

Behind that mask is one of America's oldest fighting heroes, Homelander thought, a flicker of respect sparking in his chest. Three decades of superhuman combat experience. The only person with more than that was... well, he hadn't been with them for a long time. But enough about family...

"Lamplighter, glad you could make it," Homelander called out as another figure entered the room, pulling his thoughts back to the present. The supe in question flashed a smile as he stepped into the meeting room, the flaming lamp that was his namesake held on the bronze-colored staff he regularly kept with him. It's more useful than it seems, really, Homelander mused, eyeing the weapon. The thing's made entirely out of low-grade Voughtanium. Mandatory combat training made sure that the pyrokinetic was a threat in close-range as much as he was at a distance with five hundred pounds in his grip almost at all times.

"You know me, Homelander. I'd never miss one of your meetings," Lamplighter replied, his tone smooth and easy as he settled into his seat, the staff resting against his chair.

As Lamplighter got comfortable, Homelander turned to the rest of them, nodding slowly as he tapped the table with gloved fingers, the sound a dull rhythm against the polished wood. "Seems like we're waiting for Mae-"

"No, you're not!" came the call from the doorway as the Warrior Queen herself stepped through, red hair bouncing as she entered the meeting room of the Seven, her presence commanding attention. The sculpture of the entire team behind her almost seemed to line up perfectly with her silhouette, framing her perfectly in the doorway, a living work of art. Talk about an entrance, Homelander thought, a flicker of appreciation sparking in his chest.

Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders like a molten waterfall, vibrant against her skin as she stared at the gathered men with sharp blue eyes, the color as vivid as the midday sky. She strode forward confidently, clad in her dark blue leotard accented by silver trim, silver bracers, tall silver boots, and one silver shoulder guard contrasting her golden belt and the golden clasp securing her dark blue cape, the ensemble a perfect blend of regal and fierce. "The Queen's right here."

"Is she still talking about herself in the third person?" Jack chimed in over his newspaper, the bald supe rolling his eyes as he telekinetically turned the page, the motion smooth and practiced. "Because I thought that was old and tired when Mr. Fish Sticks over here did it."

"The Deep still thinks speaking in third person is new and fresh," the sea-man said, puffing his chest up, the action making his abs ripple under the window in his suit.

"Not when you do it, Captain Sea Legs," Maeve shot back, sliding into her seat with a smile, her eyes glinting with mischief.

"This saddens the Deep," the aquatic hero replied, his tone exaggeratedly mournful, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout.

"See what I mean," Jack from Jupiter shot back, not even looking up from the Sports section, his attention seemingly focused on the scores and stats printed on the page.

Noir tilted his head in Homelander's direction, making a hand gesture that seemed innocuous but had Homelander holding back a snort, the motion conveying a world of meaning despite its simplicity.

Love these idiots, I can't lie, the leader of the Seven thought, mentally rolling his eyes even as a genuine smile tugged at his lips, the expression hidden from his teammates. Still idiots, though… "Looks like we're only waiting on two mor-"

A blur of red and yellow burst into the room, specially made running shoes coming to a squeaking halt. "Amilateamilateamilatepleasetellmeimnotlate", the voice rushed out at fast-forward, the words blending together into an almost incomprehensible stream of sound that even Homelander barely caught.

A moment later, the figure relaxed and unblurred, the image of the red-headed Mr. Marathon standing there as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, the gesture more for show than anything else. "Sorry about that, guys. Was up in Brampton twenty minutes ago. Forgot to change gears," Marathon said with a lopsided grin on his face.

Typical Marathon, Homelander thought, a mix of amusement and exasperation flashing through his mind.

Mr. Marathon, former sidekick to the original Marathon of the Seven, did not really have the build of a runner, not that the man let that stop him. Standing six-foot-one and weighing over two-hundred pounds in that red and yellow running unitard, the man looked more like a weightlifter than anything else, really, his muscles straining against the fabric with every movement. "Just wanted to make sure I wasn't late?"

Homelander opened his mouth to reassure him but didn't get the chance to speak as someone jumped in first and stole them from his lips, the voice smooth and feminine.

"Don't worry, Marathon, you're not late," came the slightly husky, soothing tone of Madelyn Stillwell, the words dripping with a warmth that Homelander knew was carefully cultivated. The Vought Director of Talent Acquisition came in with a smile on her face that Homelander was slightly annoyed to find was genuine, the expression lighting up her features in a way that made her seem almost approachable. Almost.

The woman in the white blouse and burgundy skirt walked towards the big screens as Marathon blurred into his seat with a smile on his face, her tablet in front of her as she began to adjust things on said screens, her fingers flying over the surface with practiced ease. "Well, today's a wonderful day," Madelyn began, her voice bright and cheery, the words dripping with sincerity that Homelander knew had to be practiced. "I hope you all know why you're here."

"Not... exactly," Maeve chirped, the woman resting her chin on the back of her palm, her elbow propped on the table. She cast a glance in Homelander's direction, spinning her seat around to face her leader, the motion smooth and fluid. "But judging by who called the meeting, I might have an idea. Am I right, John?" she asked, her tone playful.

Homelander nodded slightly, a slight chuckle escaping his lips at Maeve's use of his real name, the sound warm and genuine. She was the only one to ever actually do so, out of all the Seven, the only one who dared to breach that barrier of professionalism and formality. Even long after he made it clear that he was in a relationship, the woman held something of a torch for him that had waxed and waned over the years, likely coinciding with the lows and highs of her own love life.

It was funny.

Predictable, but funny still.

"Right you are, Maggie," he held back a well-meaning eye roll as the twenty-eight year old beamed at the use of her name, her smile wide and bright. She always did like it when I called her that. A little too much, maybe. "It is related to my son."

Homelander's blue eyes met each of the team's in turn, daring any one of them to interrupt and extend this meeting any longer than it absolutely had to be, his gaze sharp and piercing, a silent warning to keep their mouths shut and their questions to themselves. For now, at least.

At the side of the room, Madelyn simply smiled like the cat that caught the canary, her expression a perfect blend of satisfaction and anticipation, her fingers tapping against her tablet in a gentle rhythm.

He stood up, hands going behind the stars and bars of his American flag cape and meeting behind his back as he stared at everyone in the room, his posture straight and tall, his presence commanding, demanding their full attention. "As you all have heard, Teenage Kix is soon to go their separate ways with A-Train's acceptance into the coveted Super Hero track at Godolkin University."

"Whooo!" Marathon cut in, pumping his fist, enthusiasm practically radiating off him in waves. "That's my boy!"

"Thank you, Marathon," Homelander smirked, a hint of amusement coloring his tone, his eyes flickering to the speedster for a brief moment before returning to the rest of the team. Always the proud mentor, he mused, even if his favorite is painfully obvious.

Marathon was a big fan of his "boys", each of the man's sidekicks eager to live up to their mentor's example, their admiration and respect for the speedster clear in every interaction, every training session. A-Train was the man's favorite, unfortunately, as he had effectively trained the boy from childhood alongside A-Train's older brother, both of them as close as they could get without being father and son. Despite how much attention he tried to show the other two, the winner was as clear as the complementary blue and silver in A-Train's costume to Marathon's red and gold.

"Now, with Teenage Kix both aging out and separating, it's clear that we're missing a major team for youth appeal. And G-Next," the blond supe said the name with a click of his tongue, his expression thoughtful, "despite their popularity, are G-Men affiliates and not proper Vought mainlines. As such, with assistance from my son, and Ms. Stillwell, I've put together some ideas for a team of our own… A Young Seven, almost."

"While Young Seven is a great name, Homelander," Madelyn cut in, her voice smooth and honeyed as her smile, "the Hero Management team and I were thinking something more along the lines of…" she tapped her tablet as an image popped up on the screens, the logo rotating slowly on it.

image [https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXcirDu3ZYOkiBGYIDFbKGP2_gd0eWukcyvXv8hjA-8YyGOLBq71nrfrEcrHvjGGQhvCYmQpCjKWRXJztQVpEnxtm04gtDSjU9zYKitKDlQulOQl0hwaa525qccg_xZp2LPWJ91ScEFFfNRGKnFeHddl8QA3?key=6Mu2cXE75q8ZRw7EeyVxLQ]

Homelander stared as the logo filled the wall-to-wall screens, the rest of the team turning around to get a better look, their expressions ranging from curious to intrigued to outright excited. The logo had a V-shaped shield design at the back, segmented into three colors: blue with white stars, blue alone, and a bright red, the colors bold and striking, the design sleek and modern. "Young Americans, huh?"

The stylized letters were bold and integrated into the shield, giving off a very… modern vibe, a look that screamed youth and energy and potential.

Homelander grinned, his eyes bright, his expression one of genuine approval. She's good, he admitted silently, his gaze flickering to Madelyn for a brief moment, taking in her satisfied smile, her eyes glinting with triumph. I'll give her that.

"I like it."