Where The Heart Is: Issue # III (Draft) (Patreon)

Where The Heart Is: Issue # III

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10 Years Ago

Homelander's gaze remained fixated on Vogelbaum, the familiar bitter undertones of the scientist’s voice coupled with the weight of a heavy past. What gives him the right?

"Then what is the point? That my son doesn't have powers?" He barked, voice tinged with an anxious note that didn't suit the powerful figure he cut.

Vogelbaum's face twisted into an expression that was half exhaustion, half concern. "That your boy, something about makes him a goddamn black hole for V, John. That's what it's all about. A normal man, A normal child gets an uncalibrated dose of V, and they might end up weird, or, well..." he trailed off, choosing his words with care, "a little retarded. Or they just...explode. Right then as there. Simple as that." Vogelbaum clapped his hands as if to punctuate his words. “All we have to deal with is cleanup.”

He took a deep breath, his shoulders shivering, seemingly from more than just old age, and directed his suddenly sharp gaze onto the superhuman sitting across from him. "Your boy, though, the things we could learn from him, Johnny…”

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. A suffocating warmth crept in as Vogelbaum’s throat tightened, words caught as his mouth went arid.

Homelander’s cool façade slipped, the twenty-year-old’s fury evident as his eyes gleamed a dangerous red. "You're not sticking my son in a lab,” he said, each word dripping with venom.

"That's not…"

"You want to turn him into one of your little Expendables?" Homelander's voice scaled higher, windows trembling with its force. "Pale little gremlins being poked and prodded till they're so used to it they don't even flinch, barely seeing the light of day? Like me?"

"O-of course not.” Vogelbaum visibly flinched, his hands up in a placating gesture. "Calm down, Johnny. That wasn't my intention. I would never… It was just... just thinking out loud, okay? Just relax."

Homelander’s menacing stare didn’t waver. Deep breaths, Johnny. Remember what you promised yourself.

Vogelbaum, desperate to defuse the situation, sighed, "When I see the results of subjects being raised without their mothers... It's disastrous, John. They turn aggressive, and sometimes just... hateful." His eyes darted to Homelander, an insinuation hanging in the air.

Homelander tensed, fingers that could slide through titanium like butter clenching into fists. He remembered those sterile white hallways, the scientists behind thick glass, always watching. He was their prize pure-bred, and now, Vogelbaum dared to compare him to some... aggressive dog.

"It’s like dogs, you know," Vogelbaum tried to explain further, "When you cross-breed them, sometimes you end up with a masterpiece. But even that perfection is not enough. Without the right environment, the right care... they end up ruined."

John’s gaze was icy. "Are you saying I'm ruined?"

Vogelbaum hesitated, regret evident in his eyes. "I've always worried about you, Johnny. Growing up in that lab. Without a mother. Without... love."

A muscle twitched in Homelander’s jaw, the walls of Vogelbaum's opulent study suddenly feeling like a cage. He had power, but there were moments, especially around Vogelbaum, when he felt that same powerless child all over again. Not again. Not with my son.

His red gaze locked onto Vogelbaum’s flinching brown. The message was clear: no one would ever lay a hand on his boy. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Homelander met the old man's gaze with a steely resolve, red fading back to blue as his livid expression slid into a smirk. “And yet, I turned out great, didn’t I? I made myself the man I am, better than you ever could.”

Jonah, visibly uncomfortable, cleared his throat. "Surprisingly so," he conceded, adjusting his glasses as he leaned forward in his chair. “The thing is, with our methods, you… you could have been much worse. When I think about what it's done to you, and what you could have done to everyone else… I’m sorry for what we did, at least.”

Sorry? Now? After all these years? John scoffed, smirk still firmly in place. “I don't want your fucking apology, old man. Not after you raised me like a goddamn lab rat, and kept me away from my father. Certainly not after you sent him six feet under because you couldn’t do your research on some fucking supervillains.”

Homelander’s face was a mask of cool detachment, but every word was a knife-edge of emotion. "You know, for a long time, I despised everything. Vought. The lab. You.” He leaned in, voice low. “But it's been years since that hell, and honestly? I can't even bother with the anger anymore."

But that was a lie.

Every glance Vogelbaum gave him, every word the man uttered, it stoked the fires of a rage he could barely contain. The thought of searing a hole through the man's skull flashes through his mind every moment his eyes are on him. Sometimes, it's all he can think about, the idea more appealing than anything else.

And the longer the old man keeps moving his mouth, the stronger that thought grows.

"I never wanted to push you like that, John,” Vogelbaum spoke up again, the old man seeming to pick up on the mounting tension. “In fact, after your father… after he left us, I wanted to give you something more than horrible memories of that lab."

Homelander’s lips curved in a mocking grin. "Quite the job you did there, Vogelbaum. You know I haven't had any flashbacks in one… two… three whole years now. Imagine that, three whole years. We should throw a party." Despite his attempt at humor, the intensity in his gaze remained unyielding.

"We were wrong, John," Vogelbaum's voice quivered, his face solemn. "I pushed too hard. I know, and I regret it."

"Wow wow wowie wow," Homelander responded, a humorless laugh spilling out of him. "There you go again, old man. I swear everytime we have these little chats, you pull this card out of the deck like it's somehow going to work its magic. I mean," the blond superhero shook his head, "they call me the American Superman but even I don't have this much dedication."

Vogelbaum’s frail hands twitched. "I simply want to apologize."

"And once again, I simply don't care."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

As the sun began its descent, painting the Midwest skies in brilliant hues of orange and red, Homelander soared high. The wind whipped through his hair, and the weight of the world faded. Each streak of his flight was a blazing ribbon of justice in the sky.

First, a barn on the edge of Ohio, ablaze in fire, the screams of a trapped family echoing in the distance. It took mere seconds for him to descend, tearing through the inferno, beams of heat from his eyes, creating an escape route. He cradled a little girl, shielding her from the flames, and returned her to the embrace of her tearful parents. "Always remember," he said, pausing for effect, a hint of pride gleaming in his eyes, "Heroes never let go."

Next, he saw a failing parachute in Indiana. A skydiver spiraling helplessly, terror evident in every wild flap of his limbs. Shooting through the air, Homelander caught him just inches above the ground, setting him gently on a soft patch of grass. As the skydiver gasped, Homelander leaned close, "Keep aiming high. Just make sure your gear's checked first."

Propelling himself into the sky, he shot forward like a bullet, piercing the blue expanse above. In mere moments, he arrived at a small-town fair. A roller coaster had derailed, the front car hanging precariously over the edge, children and parents screaming in terror. Without missing a beat, Homelander caught the front car and set it safely on the ground, looking up at the grateful crowd. "Always wear your seatbelt," he grinned, flying away before they could shower him with thanks.

He shot to the skies again, the world unspooling beneath him like a vibrant tapestry. He reveled in the rush of wind against his skin, the joy of flight, and the satisfaction of a hero's duty. Every save, every life, was another tick on the ledger of his heroism. He was Vought's golden boy, the apex of their creation. If I can feel even a fraction of the gratitude they have for me, I'll truly be the hero I aim to be, he mused, almost convincing himself.

Then, his senses pulled him to a burning building in a cityscape. The flames roared defiantly, but Homelander was faster, snatching people from their windows and balconies, dropping them safely on the ground. To a small child, eyes wide with terror, he whispered, "Don't worry, little one. This is what a hero does," before darting back to the fire.

Further south in Philadelphia, a construction crane had gone haywire, dangling a heavy load precariously over a bustling street. Cars screeched to a halt, and people scattered in panic. Like a blur, Homelander shot forward, catching the load in one hand and steadying the crane with the other. "Always ensure your equipment is up to code," he shouted up to the awestruck construction workers. Then, in a flash, he was off again.

Even as he saved lives, the world around him seemed to slow. His eyes caught glimpses of mundane life — a mother scolding her child, lovers sharing an intimate moment — these fleeting vignettes of human existence that often went unnoticed. It was this raw, vibrant tapestry of life that Homelander felt compelled to protect.

But as he coursed over the patchwork fields and weaving rivers, a longing bubbled up inside him, piercing through his heroic veneer. He hadn't seen them in so long, their faces becoming distant memories.

Every save edged him closer to the East Coast, to them. The family he hadn’t known he could miss so fiercely.

Floating high, he let himself pause, savoring the tranquil evening view. It was in these moments of stillness, with the world stretched out beneath him, that he felt truly free.

The wind brushed against his iconic flag cape as he took a momentary glance at the world below. For a split second, it felt like he could see everything.

Then it hit him.

A sound, distant but unmistakable.

Shouldn't be hearing that, he frowned for a moment. He had trained his senses years ago, perfecting them, so they wouldn't be a constant barrage of noise and interruption. Like switching off a light, he'd shut out the world around him, unless he actively tuned in. This ability was second nature now, but sometimes, just sometimes, something pierced through.

The sort of sound he had conditioned himself to ignore, to filter out unless he needed to tap into it. It was so automatic that he had nearly forgotten the range of his abilities.

But today, that sound jarred him.

With urgency flooding his veins, Homelander shot towards the sound, leaving the world he was saving moments ago in a blur. There was an accident below, a car crash that he'd been about to prevent, lives he could have saved. But in that moment, the pull of that distant cry overrode every other instinct.

A truck hurtled towards a minivan, its brakes failing.

The collision was brutal.

Metal twisted, glass shattered, and flames engulfed the scene in an orange glow as The truck’s front end buried itself into the van's side, snuffing out the lives of four passengers instantly. A man's head hit the dashboard with a sickening thud. A mother, clutching a child, was pierced by a rogue metal bar. A teenage boy, thrown out of the window, lay motionless in a pool of blood. An older man's chest caved in, the life fleeing from his eyes.

Those left inside would not survive much longer, their whimpers and cries slowly fading.

But Homelander didn't see this. He was long gone, the sound barrier breaking over and over again with repeated sharp cracks as he hurtled forward, his blood pounding in his ears. The very air around him seared with friction, a testament to the speeds he was reaching.

He flew fast, faster, and even faster again. Faster than he’d moved in years, the world nearly blurred in his field of vision as he flew fast enough the sheer speed would have long torn the skin off a normal human’s bones.

Homelander's descent into the heart of Brockton Bay was like a shadow gliding over the cracked streets, the roughness of life laid bare before him. The scream that drew him in had faded, but the gravity of its source seemed to saturate the air, pulling him towards the center of an alley.

As his feet touched down, displacing the musty air mingled with other city odors, he felt a sense of dislocation. For a second, the city's clamor – its distant traffic noises, murmurs, and stray gusts of wind – faded, replaced by a piercing silence.

The scene before him was haunting: the walls of the alley were sprayed in vibrant patterns of blood, mirroring the shocking red graffiti he'd sometimes see sprayed across the city. The familiar metallic scent of blood, laced with notes of fear and pain, was potent enough to leave him breathless.

It's everywhere. His vision, sharp and unrelenting, caught every detail.

Blood dripped from a fire escape above, creating a slow rhythm that echoed in the otherwise silent alleyway. Puddles of the deep red liquid splashed beneath his boots, painting them a grim hue. The drips from the wall hadn't yet formed crusty edges, the blood still too fresh. It painted a hellish picture of its last frenzied moments.

He could tell from the intense smells, varying in intensity and hormonal spikes, that these had been young boys. Teenagers. The thought twisted something inside him.

At the far end, a figure leaned against a chain link fence, strands of blond hair matted and dark with blood. The boy's clothing was stained, evidence of the macabre scene surrounding him. His frame shook, his extended arm pointing to something unseen. But it was the eyes, those wide, tear-filled eyes, that captured Homelander the most. They were the very mirror of his soul, at times when he felt lost or uncertain.

This can't be.

As Homelander moved closer, each step weighed by the gravity of realization, the figure’s face came into clarity. And what he saw took his breath away. Those eyes…

My boy. My own.

Homelander, the beacon of hope for many, the force to be reckoned with, felt a rush of vulnerability.

“Greg,” his voice, usually so strong and commanding, came out as a gentle whisper.

The boy’s sobs were the only sound for what felt like an eternity. Homelander closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Greg, pulling him close. He felt the wetness of his tears, the tremors of his body, the pain of his heart.

“Hey,” he murmured into his son's ear, with the faintest hint of a sad smile. “It’s okay. I've waited so long for this moment, even if I never wanted it to be like this.”

Greg’s cries grew louder, a raw outpour of emotion. The hero just held on tighter, finding a connection amid the chaos, bridging the years of distance and misunderstanding. They stood like that, father and son, two beings in a world that often didn’t make sense.

You're just like me.