Where The Heart Is: Issue # II (Patreon)

Where The Heart Is: Issue # II

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Homelander stood stock-still in the heart of Jonah Vogelbaum's office. He listened, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed as the old scientist babbled away about matters that seemed trivial compared to his heroic responsibilities.

"So, he doesn't have powers." Homelander stated, his voice laced with a mixture of irritation and disbelief.

"From all our tests, our understanding... it certainly seems like it," Vogelbaum replied, his tone holding a hint of concern that only served to increase Homelander's annoyance.

The corners of Homelander’s lips drew down into a slight scowl. Incomprehensible, he thought, feeling the pinch of disappointment in his chest.

Vogelbaum continued, an unsteady river of scientific explanations. "We've run every test we could think of, blood tests, screening for any possible genetic factors… but he doesn't seem to possess… any semblance of superhuman ability."

"We know," Homelander cut him off. His irritation was mounting. He could feel the pulse of his power coursing through his veins, a feeling his son seemingly did not share. “They’re missing something,* he thought, unwilling to accept the alternative.

Vogelbaum, always the patient one, retorted, "I don't think you do. For all intents and purposes, his powers might just...”

"John," Vogelbaum interrupted, his voice filled with a strange mix of awe and anxiety. "You don't understand. You are a masterpiece. As a sperm, you had so much Compound V in your makeup, I'm surprised you didn’t come out . And then I literally mixed you in with the purest, most refined V this company has ever made before I put you inside the surrogate."

Homelander was silent, his stare penetrating the scientist as his words fell on him like a gentle rain. He was well aware of his origins. "And I came out of the womb, super-powered and raring to go," Homelander responded, his voice nearly void of emotion, aside from a slight hint of boredom in his tone. "Already flying and blasting heat vision as soon as I took my first breath. I know the story, Jonah."

"Those poor nurses..." Vogelbaum muttered, a faint shake of his head following along with the words.

"Yeah-yeah-yeah, all about the nurses, the scientists, the fucking doors... I've heard it a thousand times," Homelander interjected, rolling his eyes. His gaze was frosty, a chilling blue that could freeze the sun. "Do you want me to feel bad about this or are you planning on getting to the point?"

Vogelbaum studied the costumed hero standing in his office.

There was a storm in his gaze, a dangerous brew of frustration and impatience. He sighed and continued. "We gave your son a similar dosage of Compound V that we give to newborns after twelve months of him not exhibiting any powers. We did a whole battery of tests on his blood, his spit, urine, even his shit, and he showed no reaction at all. He’s not even metabolizing it. It just vanishes, John! Injections, IV drips, the boy drank a bucket of Blue so dense it was fucking navy for his birthday, Johnny,” Vogelbaum nearly spat. “It's been four years of this and I'm surprised the kid isn't spitting, pissing, and shitting blue with how much V we've pumped into his system. It's insane, John."

The corners of Homelander’s mouth curled upwards into a slight smirk. "Yeah, I’ve seen it myself. His blood just absorbs it in seconds, like it was never even there,” he replied, his chest swelling with a sense of twisted pride. “That's my boy."

"'That's my boy,' he says," Vogelbaum echoed, a sardonic smirk twisting his old, weathered face. "You’re not wrong, though. You’ve got so much V in your blood, the kid probably considers that a baseline. If I’m being honest, the amount of Blue we’d need to force his body to actually react to it…” His voice trailed off, leaving the statement hanging in the air, the unspoken words as heavy as a tombstone.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Four Years Ago

Amberbrook, Brockton Bay

Greg was practically bouncing in excitement, his ten-year-old heart aflutter with anticipation. “It’s about to start! It’s about to start! Sparky, get in here! It’s about to start!” he yelped, dancing around the TV.

“I’m coming. Jeez, dude. I'm just trying to heat up my chili fries!” Sparky’s voice echoed from the kitchen, his words punctuated by the sound of a microwave beep.

Greg's excitement was so infectious that even his internal thoughts were a jumble of impatient exclamations. “Come on, Sparky! You're gonna miss the opening scene! The movie!” Greg shrieked again, his voice reaching new heights of shrill.

“Comiiiing!” Sparky’s voice rang out, closer now, accompanied by the patter of his feet as he rushed towards the living room.

The screen flashed with bold letters: Homelander IV: The Greater Good. Greg's heart swelled with pride. It was his dad up there on the screen, after all. The greatest superhero ever!

Sparky plopped down beside him, chili fries in hand, looking bored as ever. “Why do you even care about this movie so much anyway? You said you saw it like a dozen times.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t,” Greg shot back, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“So?” Sparky replied, his tone edging towards annoyance.

“Just watch it. You’ll love it!” Greg insisted, almost outright pleading.

“I don’t know. I mean, Homelander’s cool and all, but I’m not really a super fan like you 'cause…” Sparky's voice trailed off, and he shoveled a forkful of chili fries into his mouth.

Greg turned to him, eyes wide. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Black Noir’s the best,” he mimicked, unable to keep the playfulness out of his voice.

“I mean, he is!” Sparky defended, his voice rising in pitch to match Greg's.

“Noir’s cool, sure,” Greg admitted as he leaned back into the couch, eyes still fixed on the screen. “But he’s so dark and edgy for no reason.”

“That’s what makes him so coo-” Sparky began, but Greg interrupted him.

“No, Sparky! What makes a hero great is not just being cool. It's about being good and brave. Like Homelander!” Greg's voice cracked with the words, but he didn't care.

Sparky stared at Greg for a long moment before breaking into a grin. “Okay, okay. I’ll give it a chance. But only 'cause you're my best friend.”

Greg grinned back, his heart swelling with joy. “Deal!”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Now

Winslow High School

Greg Veder opened his mouth wide in a yawn, rubbing his eye with one hand as the other closed his textbook. In the time it took for Mr. Burrow's class to start and the man in question to launch into his usual attempt at teaching — if you could call reading straight from the textbook teaching — the teen sitting in the middle of the class already found his attention waning.

Burrow's balding head almost shone as he closed the textbook and leaned back into a sunbeam, the man announcing that it was time for presentations.

It was times like this when he missed Sparky the most.

Not like he misses me though, a tiny part of him chose to chime in, the bitter, angry part in the back of his mind.

Honestly, though, even if the man did put in more effort, Greg still wouldn't find it in him to care.

School was school was school.

Nothing that mattered to his future.

At least, he hoped it wouldn't.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a slow bitterness in his eyes as he watched the first student stammer their way through a presentation on the environment or something equally dull.

Why do they even try so hard? It's not like it's going to matter.

He looked around the room, the faces of his classmates blending into a monotonous blur. They were all so engrossed in the same routine, the same system that had trapped them since they were children.

Why even?

To end up like Mr. Burrow, balding and reading from a textbook?

Why can't things be like they used to be?

The memory of Sparky's laughter echoed in his mind, the way they used to watch Homelander movies together, just kids being kids without a care in the world.

But Sparky had moved away, and Greg's father... he had been gone for months. Being a superhero didn't leave much room for being a dad.

The presentations droned on, one after the other, each more uninspiring than the last. Greg's mind drifted, lost in thoughts of the past, the ache of missing what once was growing heavier by the moment.

The teacher's voice, tinged with forced enthusiasm, broke through his reverie. "Greg, your turn."

He stood, the weight of the room's expectations pressing down on him. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered.

He stumbled through his presentation, words a slow drawl, punctuated by pauses and reluctant glances at the class. His heart wasn't in it. How could it be?

As he sat back down, the slow burn of bitterness settled deep in his chest. The world had changed. He had changed.

It's just school, he told himself, pushing the thoughts away. Just another day.

A student walked up to the front, a nervous awkward girl with brown hair and glasses, and began to give her report about Soldier Boy. Greg watched with a detached interest, noting that she was missing a lot of information as she began to speak.

"Soldier Boy was the first parahuman, or supe as they were known during his time," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she pointed at the screen behind her, showing images of the legendary hero. "Supe is an early term originating in the '40s."

The term was intended as a shortening of Super Soldier, Greg thought, his mind wandering back to the stories his dad had told him, what Soldier Boy literally was.

"The term grew into popularity once other 'supes' showed up over the next few years," she continued, images of other heroes flashing on the screen. "Supes like Liberty, Eagle, Mind-Storm, Man-Bot, Buzzer, Black Noir, and Gunpowder quickly appeared as well, joining the post-World War II superteam known as Payback."

Everyone always forgets Eagle, Buzzer and Mind-Storm, Greg mused, both of them having died and the third leaving the public eye.

"This team was put together by Vought International, as the company was one of the greatest sources of supe research at the time."

Vought-American, Greg corrected silently, they were Vought-American back then.

"As the years went on and more 'supes' began to appear, the term parahuman began to come into public knowledge, and was then replaced by the word cape" she continued, her voice gaining a little more confidence as she moved on. "In 1987 that we lost the world's first hero when the Slaughterhouse Nine made their first appearance, killing two other members of Payback... I uhhh, forget which ones."

Greg rolled his eyes at the sloppy work coming from Julia.

Eagle and Buzzer, he thought, frustration mounting.

"A year later, the parahuman population began to rapidly explode and the Triumvirate first showed up. I mean, I guess they weren't really the Triumvirate, yet... um, anyway..." Julia's voice trailed off, her nervousness returning. "Payback tried to fight on without Soldier Boy and added new members like Steel Knight, Crimson Countess, Mercury and The TNT Twins but it just wasn't the same."

Duh, you can't replace America's Hero that easy, Greg thought with a frown.

"The Triumvirate was strong too, stronger than Soldier Boy easy, but they weren't the hero of three generations of Americans," she went on, her voice strengthening once more. "Four years later in 1991, a new hero was announced, one that captured the hearts and minds of America, and ten years after that, Vought announced a new team of top-tier heroes..."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg packed up his stuff and walked out of class, his mood still trash ever since this morning at breakfast. All of it seemed like it was closing on him as he began walking down the hallway on his way out the door. Just gotta get home, he thought, get away from all th-

His thoughts stopped hard along with the rest of him as he walked head-first into someone's chest, a solid wall of muscle that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Fucking dumbass, watch where you're goi—" he began, only to cut himself off as he realized the owner of that chest. He looked up and stared into the mean, smiling face of...

"Mal..." Greg muttered, feeling his insides twist.

The bully smiled back down at him. Mal Duncan was a bully and proud of it, the perfect example of a psychopathic teenager who enjoyed the pain and suffering of those weaker than him.

"Where's my money, Veder?" Mal sneered, his eyes gleaming with malice.

Greg stumbled back, purposely trying to put distance between both of them, only to freeze up as his back bumped into someone else. He glanced around and saw...

Oh, great. Thing One and Thing Two. The bully's henchmen, always close at hand, were surrounding him.

"I don't owe you money, Mal," Greg replied, his voice slow and careful. "I never borrowed anything."

The simple act of speaking seemed to infuriate Mal. He slapped Greg on the chest, forcing a gasp from him and a wheeze as breath was knocked out of his body.

"You didn't let me cheat off you, though, and that F got me grounded. So, you're paying for that."

The words were delivered with a cold calculation, a twisted, stupid logic that only a bully like Mal could conjure. Greg's mind raced, searching for a way out, a way to escape the trap he'd found himself in.

He stared back defiantly at Mal for a second, his mind grasping at straws. "...can I at least get a headstart?"

Mal's smile only widened, his eyes glinting with joy.

"You think this is a game, Veder?" he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can just walk away from me?"

Greg's heart pounded in his chest, the walls of the hallway closing in on him.

"I didn't do anything to you, Mal," Greg said, his voice breaking. "I didn't cheat. I didn't lie. I didn't steal."

Mal's face twisted into a sneer. "But you didn't help me, did you? You didn't do what I asked. You didn't give me what I wanted. And now you're gonna pay."

Greg stared back at him, silent for a few long moments. "Okay," he finally said, voice soft. He looked up at Mal, his eyes clear and unafraid. "Okay."

And then he punched Mal in the dick.

The bully's eyes went wide, a look of shock and disbelief on his face as he doubled over in pain. Greg didn't wait, didn't hesitate. He swung off his backpack and hit the two other bullies in the face with it, his movements swift and sure.

A second later, he was out the door.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg's heart was pounding, slamming in his chest like a frantic drumbeat. He was running, legs pumping, sweat stinging his eyes, doing his best to outrun his pursuers. The world blurred around him, a dizzying whirl of color and motion as he tripped past people, his hurried excuses a jumbled mess of words that made no sense even to himself.

Got to keep moving, he thought, his mind racing, his body aching. Can't stop. Can't slow down. Can't let them catch me.

He cut into an alley, his feet slipping on the wet pavement, his breath ragged and harsh. He could hear the shouts and curses of Mal and his thugs behind him, their footsteps echoing in the narrow space, the sound growing louder, closer.

No time, he thought, his fear a sharp, cold thing that gnawed at his insides. No time to think. No time to plan. Just run. Just keep running.

Can't stop, he thought, his legs burning, his lungs screaming.

And then he realized that he was in a dead end, the realization hitting him like a physical blow, as he ran into a chain-link fence, the metal cold and unyielding as it knocked the breath out of him.

No, he thought, panic rising, desperation clawing at his throat. No, no, no.

He tried to scale the fence, his hands scrabbling for purchase, his feet slipping, his body aching. But then a pair of hands grabbed him from behind, strong and rough, and pulled him back down, tossing him to the floor.

He landed hard, the pain sharp and immediate, the world spinning. He could see Mal's face, twisted with anger and triumph, the smile cruel and mocking.

"Thought you could run, Veder?" Mal sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Thought you could get away?"

Greg pushed himself up, his body protesting, his mind reeling. "I... I don't owe you anything," he stammered, his voice slow and bitter, the words a struggle. "I don't... I won't... You can't..."

A fist to the face shut him up, and threw him backwards into the chain link fence, Greg barely managing to stay on his feet.

Another fist slammed into Greg’s face, snapping his head to the side and rattling every tooth in his skull.

Greg's vision blurred as his body flooded with adrenaline, his skin itching. His heart thundered in his ears, pounding like a drum, making every other sound around him feel distant and muted. The cheering bullies behind Mal seemed almost silent, none of their words or screams reaching his ears.

The taste of copper was heavy on his tongue, to the point it was all he could taste.

Every muscle in his body ached and burned, and it felt like his blood had been replaced by liquid fire.

His head was a whirlwind of pain and confusion, his thoughts a tangled mess of fear and anger. Mal's face, twisted into a sneer, was all he could see, all he could focus on.

"You like that, Veder?" Mal taunted, his voice dripping with contempt. "You like being beaten? You like being weak?"

Greg's anger boiled over, his rage a wild and untamed thing. He could feel it, hot and fierce, itching in his veins, pounding in his chest. His lungs stung and his eyes, mouth, throat, every part of him burned.

“Fuck you!”

He threw a punch.