Where The Heart Is: Issue # IV (Patreon)

Where The Heart Is: Issue # IV

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Grace Wilhelm felt the dull throb of music echoing through her shoes, pulsating with the bass as it filled the space behind the stage. The soft murmurs of her teammates blended in the background, like whispers of a memory she was still trying to hold onto. Her heart carried the weight of days gone by as she paced back and forth, back when her hair was still a constant natural blonde, untouched by stress or the surge of powers.

She remembered how she felt then, with her uncle's hand holding hers, guiding her through simpler times. Now her hair glowed an ethereal white, a reminder of her powers everytime her mind even went in that direction.

Her gaze roamed over her teammates, the G-Men. Blue Line adjusted his visor, Spectra’s eyes darted around nervously, and Nubia’s face was placid, the calm before her storm. Their uniforms were too tight, too flashy – costumes made to attract and entertain.

Labels like ‘orphans’ and ‘runaways’ were a lie spoon-fed to a world that loved underdog stories. All of them rounded up by Paul Godolkin, the magnanimous billionaire acting to spread his wealth in a wholesome way to children that appreciated his love. But Grace knew the truth – they weren’t lost; they were taken.

Out of all of them, she was the one that could recall their tales of stolen innocence and interrupted dreams, save for Nubia.

Nubia, with her fierce eyes and commanding aura, was a girl bought with cold hard cash.

That was a story in itself.

Nubia was quiet about her past, much like the rest of the team. They didn’t talk about much before Godolkin, as if trying to forget they weren’t always his “children”.

This isn’t us. This is all lies, she mused, but it felt as if there was a giant rift separating her thoughts from reality. The man might have put them on a stage, all smiles and showmanship, but he couldn’t hide the fear and unease that lurked in their eyes. Her friends – were they really her friends – seemed lost in their roles. Some appeared to relish the attention, while others, like Grace, just went through the motions.

She could almost laugh at the irony. They were heroes, or at least, that's what everyone called them. Can’t even save ourselves.

Suddenly, the announcer’s enthusiastic voice boomed over the loudspeakers, dragging her out of her thoughts and back to reality. “...nd nooooooow, preeesenting… the G-MEEEEEEEN!!!!”

She had to put on the act, like everyone else.

The stage beckoned, and they had no choice but to answer its call. As she joined the others, each step felt heavy, like trudging through a swamp of mixed emotions. A slight shift of annoyance made its way to the surface as Nubia jostled past her, the other girl’s shoulder knocking her off course as she shot back a flat look.

Grace returned the expression only to shake her head a moment later as she kept moving. With a deep breath, she ran out with her teammates onto the wooden stage, the crowd’s cheers nearly deafening. It felt so surreal, standing there with the other G-Men, listening to the applause meant for them but felt so far away.

Come on, Grace, she thought to herself. Play your part.

The wooden stage beneath their feet seemed to resonate with the heartbeat of the expectant crowd, a sea of upturned faces waiting to be wowed. To them, the G-Men were nothing more than a show – teenagers in costumes playing superheroes. They didn’t see the scars, the pain, or the lost dreams beneath those flashy outfits.

She took her central position, her hands outstretched in front of her with a silvery-white telekinetic light show that was all spark and no substance. She could feel the eyes on her, judging, expecting, wanting more as to her right, Blue Line, ever the showman, sent a beam of blue energy soaring into the sky,  the crowd gasping in amazement.

Nubia floated elegantly, the nimbus of storm clouds swirling around her like a crown, while Divine, with his angelic visage, flexed his impressive wings to the crowd’s delight. Groundhawk, always the beast, snarled and displayed his bludgeoning hands, while Spectra playfully walked on air. Critter, poor Critter, hidden behind his furry facade, grunted and bellowed, playing his part even as embarrassment tinged his every action.

It's all so fake, isn't it? Grace thought.

As she channeled her telekinesis, creating a display of lights, she caught glimpses of young faces in the crowd. They looked at her with wonder and awe. It felt so conflicting; on one hand, she felt empowered, and on the other, she felt like a fraud.

They have no idea.

The applause grew louder, the cheers almost deafening as she found herself forcing a smile for the thousands of eyes upon her. They don’t even know what heroes are. The thought sprung to mind, bitter and dark.

Always an act, isn't it? The backdrop of middle America, where superheroes became less of a myth and more of a traveling circus. All this for a practice run for a brand-new hero. She'd heard it said that companies tested their products in these remote towns. Grace found the idea both amusing and insulting. Guess we're just another prototype to them.

Being an opener for another hero, a supposedly “greater” hero, wasn't Grace's idea of fun. The idea felt condescending, like they were the side act for a much-anticipated main show. It seemed so clinical, so business-like, as if superheroes were just another product to be marketed and tested.

Are any of the heroes even real? Lost in her thoughts, Grace momentarily lost control of her practiced smile. A tiny frown threatened to creep in as she wondered: Or are they all just fakes like u-

Her thought was interrupted as a loud sound, almost like a thunderclap, broke through the atmosphere. She, along with her teammates and the crowd, instinctively looked up at the sky. Was it going to rain? she thought. But the skies were a clear blue, cloudless and beautiful.

Yet, another thunderous sound echoed, drawing all eyes skyward again. Someone from the crowd cried out loudly, “What is that?”

“Look! Up in the sky!” Someone else yelled, their finger pointing up. Grace’s eyes widened as she caught a blur race past again in the opposite direction.

A young child, not more than seven, chimed in with a curious voice, “It’s a bird!”

A teenager, probably Grace’s age, shouted back, “No! It’s a plane!” as it sped past again, even slower.

Grace strained her eyes to catch a glimpse. And then she saw it.

It wasn’t a bird or a plane.

The figure slowed down even further, beginning a looping downward path towards them.

No… her jaw slackened.

The figure descended, every rotation of his descent drawing more gasps from the audience. He wore a blue bodysuit with contrasting white piping, the design sleek and powerful. And then there was the emblem. A vivid red, eagle-like emblem stamped on his chest. The red boots, the matching gloves, the belt — they all gave him an air of authority. But it was the fluttering cape, a bright shade of red, that seemed to scream power.

His bright blonde hair seemed to reflect the sun's rays, creating an almost halo-like effect. Oh my God… Grace thought, her heart throbbing in a way she didn't recognize.

She wasn’t one to be star-struck, but something about him left her, quite literally, open-mouthed.

And then the grand announcement, “Laaaaadiessss and gentlemen, I give to you… The HOMELANDEEEEEEEER!”

Her heart raced, an uninvited blush creeping onto her face. Damn it, why is he having this effect on me? she chastised herself. This was the epitome of superhero theatrics, and yet, it worked. It definitely worked on her.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

John Veder hovered above the bustling Midwest fair, looking every inch the young superhero, while deep inside he felt every bit the unsure teenager. This was all so sudden. He hadn't asked for any of this, not from Vought, not from Vogelbaum, not from anyone. The roar of the crowd, the flashy posters with his face, the shiny suit that felt too tight in places...

Down on the wooden stage, young superheroes from the G-Men squad gave him sideway glances, their faces a mix of envy and curiosity. But John's superhuman gaze was fixed on the eager faces of the crowd below. Each smile, each cheer, it was all for him— at least that’s what Vought wanted him to believe.

The sunlight bathed the fairground, turning candy wrappers into sparkling gems and the giant Ferris wheel into a gleaming monument. But inside John, shadows loomed. The world saw The Homelander, the next big thing after Soldier Boy. But he... I just miss my dad.

He cleared his throat, every teenage squeak eliminated by Vought's coaching, "Hi there," he began, his voice echoing effortlessly over the thrum of the fair. "I'm...The Homelander." He paused, memories of his father flooding in. "You might remember my dad, Soldier Boy. He was..." John swallowed hard, "unfairly taken from us. By real monsters."

He felt the burning behind his eyes, his heat vision threatening to make itself known as anger and grief spiked for a moment.

Silence blanketed the fair, even the Ferris wheel seemed to stop its eternal turn.

Then, from the back, a slow clap began, growing louder until the entire crowd was cheering at the top of their lungs. They're cheering for dad, not me. Each cheer was a reminder of the shoes he was expected to fill.

A gust of wind played with his hair, making the golden locks dance like flames. It reminded him of all those nights when he would fly alongside his dad as the man ran, racing through the stars. The sheer power they held between them. And now, he was alone with that power.

"I remember," he continued, forcing himself to hold back tears, "when he would race me on foot, how he was always so happy to see me fly. He'd always tell me about responsibility, about how power is nothing without control." He looked around, taking in the faces of the crowd, "I want to be the hero he believed I could be."

A chorus of applause erupted. Kids hoisted onto their parents' shoulders wearing Homelander masks, teens with their chunky cameras clicking away, trying to capture this new hero.

John, feeling overwhelmed, took a deep breath. The sweet scent of cotton candy, the distant laughter from the carousel, the G-Men watching intently; all of it felt both surreal and painfully real.

The enthusiastic roars from the audience began to meld into a blur of sound, as John's vision started to swim. Why do they expect so much from me? I'm not Dad. I can't be.

His voice started to crack, the words stammering out of his mouth. Tears threatened to break free. In the audience, he saw faces start to shift from joyous admiration to confusion.

Suddenly, an unexpected voice broke through the haze of his emotions. Stay strong, John. The voice was calming, soothing.

Startled, he thought, Who?

Don't turn around. I'm the girl with white hair on the stage behind you, she responded.

His superhuman vision darted back, catching sight of her. Silver-white hair gleaming in the sunlight. She looked familiar somehow, and despite the momentary panic, a word fluttered into his thoughts: cute. His face felt warm, the involuntary blush threatening to give away his internal conversation.

Get a grip! he scolded himself.

It's okay, John, the White Queen whispered in his mind. It felt as if she was doing the mental equivalent of brushing his hair back, a comforting hand guiding him. I'm here with you.

John hesitated, his heartbeat loud in his ears, but Grace's voice was steady, a guiding star in the storm of his emotions. He felt a warmth, as if she was mentally hugging him, sheltering him from his spiraling thoughts.

Emboldened, he continued speaking, focusing on Grace's presence in his mind. "My dad... he was a beacon of hope," he said, the words flowing smoother now, "And I strive to be half the man he was."

To the audience, he probably seemed strong, powerful, heroic. But on the inside, he was leaning on the strength of a girl he had only just mentally met.

And he didn’t really mind that.

As he continued, their thoughts intertwined. The exchange was intimate, the two teenagers sharing insecurities, fears, and small moments of joy in a brief span. All the while, John's voice never wavered again.

By the time he finished, the crowd was on its feet, cheering louder than ever. And John? He felt grounded, present, and — for the first time in a long while — not alone.

Thank you, he thought to her.

Grace's mental voice had a soft, teasing lilt. Anytime, hero.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

After stepping down from the stage, John's ears were still buzzing, the adrenaline from the speech leaving a residual hum. But as the G-Men began to disperse, leaving a trail of admiration in their wake, John's eyes darted around, X-Ray vision peering through people and places alike, searching for that shock of white hair. In less than a minute, he found it behind a trailer, the hum of the cotton candy machine a distant soundtrack as he blurred up to meet her.

“My name’s Grace,” she said with a hint of a smile as she caught sight of him, her silver hair catching the light in a mesmerizing dance as the words left her mouth.

John's heart raced.

A moment of vulnerability.

Not as Homelander, but as himself.

He cleared his throat, that sudden rush of nerves tingling down his spine. “I’m Home-... My n-name’s John. John Veder.”

There was a moment, a brief heartbeat of hesitation, and then their lips met. All of Homelander's built bravado melted away, like a facade finally crumbling. They sank down to the ground, the metal of the trailer pressing into John’s back, but he hardly noticed. He was enveloped by a warmth, by a sense of security he hadn't felt in... well, ever. The walls he’d built over the years seemed to crumble, and for a second, he let himself melt into the comfort of Grace's embrace. A touch so unassuming, so gentle, it was almost foreign.

Grace's touch was soft, her fingers tracing patterns on his face as they talked. And talk he did. Words spilled from him, a cascade of pent-up memories and traumas. He told her of the stark, sterile labs at Vought, of the faceless scientists who had prodded, poked, and hurt him. The tubes they’d dunked him into, drowning him just to see if they could; the pummelings from adults with superpowers, 'training' they called it; and the furnace, God, the furnace. His strength, his façade — they faded, melting away to leave just a scared 14-year-old.

The more he spoke, the lighter he felt, like years of chains were being unshackled. He realized, after what felt like hours, that his head was nestled in Grace's lap, her fingers still drawing soothing patterns through his hair. He glanced up, her pale blue eyes reflecting real understanding. “I've just been dumping all my problems on you. I'm sorry."

She gently brushed his hair, her fingers cool and soothing. A gentle smile graced her lips. "No, it's okay, I don't mind."

John sat up, earnestness apparent in his blue eyes. Stubborn as he was, he insisted."No, it's not fair. Tell me about yours."

Grace paled even further, the glow from the cotton candy machine casting eerie shadows on her face. "U-uhhh... we don't have to."

But John wasn't about to back down. Here was someone who'd listened to him, comforted him. Something's up, John thought, he could feel it. "Grace... tell me."

His voice had taken on a more insistent tone, and Grace's shoulders sagged. She drew in a shaky breath, and the walls she'd built began to crumble. She hesitated, lips pressed tightly together. But the trust John had shown — vulnerable, raw, and honest — seemed to embolden her.

She took a shaky breath.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Homelander had always believed the G-Men's origin story was much like his own. It was simpler to think of them as another product of Vought's convoluted laboratory experiments. But Grace’s story, her broken voice while sharing it, had punctured that belief.

These weren’t just Vought’s superhumans; they were victims, even worse off than he was.

The rage built up inside him, flaring and volatile, all night. For a brief moment, he considered seeking Vought’s help, getting official clearance to handle this.

But deep down, John knew. They won't help. They probably planned it all. A realization chilling enough to freeze the fury within him momentarily. After all, he was just a lab experiment to them, wasn’t he?

His instincts took over, drowning his thoughts with adrenaline. He waited till the morning, early and bright, till the sun rose into the sky.

As he crashed through the walls of his lab-home and shot up into the sky, he could almost feel the watchful eyes of Vought trailing him, their digital and optical spies capturing every move.

But John was done being a lab rat.

His landing in Westchester County, New York, wasn’t subtle.

The huge 'G' etched into the mansion’s lawn crumbled beneath him. The vibrations from his landing sent tremors that were felt throughout the G-Mansion, drawing out its occupants. A surge of satisfaction pulsed through John. Let them come out. Let them see.

He could hear the younger members murmuring, their expressions a mix of awe and worry. But it was Godolkin, with that smug, all-knowing gaze, who really irked him. So you think you’re better than me? The thoughts rushed in waves.

“Sorry about that,” John said, injecting as much innocence as he could into his voice, trying to channel his inner regular teen. “Still getting used to my landings.”

Godolkin's eyes, dark and probing, settled on John's. The man was tall and thin, his black suit and red tie giving him a look that would have already made him somewhat villainous if Homelander hadn’t known what he did. The dead eyes and flat expression only left him more certain of what he had planned.“Homelander, we weren’t expecting you here. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The sarcastic tone wasn't lost on John. “Just wanted to meet some other heroes my age,” he replied, the facade of cheerfulness contrasting what he felt inside.

“You here to give us some pro-tips on superheroing?” quipped one of the G-Men, Critter, a furry teen that looked like a young sasquatch.

John smirked, “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted some company who understood.” His gaze flitted back to Godolkin, a silent challenge.

Godolkin took a step forward, his expression hardening. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you, Homelander, but we are rather busy toda-”

Johnny cut him off, voice steady, “I’m not here for trouble. Just... clarity.”

Yeah, clarity, he thought, the weight of Grace's stories still fresh in his mind. Let’s make something clear.

A tense silence settled over the mansion grounds. The younger G-Men looked between Godolkin and Homelander, unease evident on their faces.

"Clarity on what, may I ask?" Godolkin's words were smooth, dripping with false sincerity. John almost wanted to roll his eyes, but a familiar face caught his attention.

Beyond Godolkin stood Grace, her face lighting up with recognition and surprise. Next to her was Blue Line, his face a mask of confusion beneath his glowing goggles, edged with a hint of anger. The dynamics between the three were unmistakable. John could tell Grace was caught off guard.

“I wanted to clarify that me and Grace are dating. I’m her boyfriend now.” John's voice was firm but tinged with pride, almost as if he had won some sort of battle.

He'd said it.

Out loud.

To Godolkin.

The world seemed to freeze for a heartbeat.

Godolkin's calculated expression wavered as he cast a side glance towards Grace, his eyes narrowing slightly. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, suddenly vulnerable. "Since when?" he asked, his tone icy.

“Since yesterday.” John replied, trying to sound casual but with the underlying current of 'none of your business.' In the distance, he could hear the distinct sound of Vought's choppers, blades beating through the air at a powerful pace. They're closer than I thought.

“Well, I’m not sure what made the two of you think you could decide that without asking m-” Godolkin started, but John had reached his limit.

“Well, you’re not her father, are you?” He felt himself rise a few inches above the ground, his eyes level with Godolkin's, challenging him.

Godolkin, unfazed by John's show of power, responded, “No, but I am her guardian. It would have been polite to ask my permission first.”

“I don’t believe in asking permission. I prefer asking for forgiveness.” The words tumbled out, laced with scorn and disdain.

Godolkin’s frown deepened, matching the intensity of John's glare. “Well, you're not forgiven, young man.”

The sneer on John's face was almost automatic. Homelander’s glowing eyes met Godolkin's defiant ones. “Good thing I wasn’t asking you.”

In a split second, the world turned red, and a beam shot out, slicing through the air. The stillness of the morning was shattered.

Silence, once again, reigned over the G-Mansion's grounds. The G-Men looked on in horror, unable to process what just happened.

With a quiet slump, Godolkin’s headless body fell to the ground.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

3 Months Later

He and Grace were on the roof of Vought Tower, staring at the sprawling city below. She seemed... hesitant, a little nervous. Is she okay? Maybe she's just tired, John wondered.

“Johnny… I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, everything faded out. The city sounds below, the cool wind against his face, all of it was replaced by a loud ringing in his ears. The world had shrunk down to him and Grace. “...what?”

---------------------------------

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Inside Vought’s sterile, monolithic tower, Stanford Edgar's office was just as intimidating. Jonah Vogelbaum and Madelyn Stillwell stood across from Edgar’s huge mahogany desk. Their usual confidence was nowhere in sight.

Edgar, normally unflappable, had an angry flush to his face. “HOW DOES HE NOT KNOW WHAT CONDOMS ARE? HOW DID NO ONE COVER THAT?”

Madelyn stuttered, her composed veneer cracking, “W-we… we weren’t aware he was having s-”

“You weren’t aware that a teenage boy would be... would be... you complete imbeciles!?”

---------------------------------

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Back on the rooftop, the weight of Grace's words settled in John's mind. Pregnant? Does that mean...? His thoughts were interrupted as Grace's nervous voice filled the silence.

“You’re pregnant? I’m gonna be a dad?”

Grace simply nodded, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

And just like that, the cloud of confusion and anxiety that had briefly overshadowed him was blown away. The biggest, purest smile John had ever felt spread across his face. He was a bundle of raw, unfiltered emotions. Teenagers, super or not, weren’t exactly pros at handling big news. And this... this was huge.

His sudden surge of happiness was so overwhelming he couldn't contain it. Grace let out a startled yelp as he pulled her into a tight embrace, lifting off the ground. They floated up, the world a blur below them. The rooftop, the city, everything faded away. All that mattered was the two of them, in this shared bubble of pure, untamed joy.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

(14 Years Later)

She heard it.

More accurately, she felt it before she heard it, the signature pulse of her son’s presence. It traveled through the air, settling deep within her, making her head hum with its resonance. It was this kind of unique connection to her family, this psychic tether, that had always kept her close to them, even when they were apart.

He's early, she mused, her practiced poise not allowing her to break step or falter.

The house was awash with the golden hue of the late afternoon sun. It filtered in through the curtains, casting long warm shadows on the kitchen tiles. The aroma of something baking in the oven added to the almost picture-perfect domestic scene. But the voice that followed brought everything to a sudden standstill.

“Mom?”

The back door clicked open and her husband walked in first, his face a canvas of concern and pride. Close behind him was her little boy, looking like he'd walked straight out of a horror film, drenched in red.

Grace's heart leapt to her throat, a surge of primal, maternal fear gripping her. But as she gave him a closer look, relief flooded her; it wasn't his blood. Yet, this realization came with a pang of its own unsettling questions. Whose blood is it? What happened?

She banished her worries momentarily, as she glided over, planting a swift kiss on Homelander's cheek before turning to Greg.

Greg's tense posture eased slightly as she approached, the corners of his eyes crinkling in anticipation of her touch. Grace held him, gore and all, and felt the stress melt from his body. The unconditional embrace, the unspoken reassurance, all of it worked to ground him.

She pulled away slightly, managing to keep her usual playful demeanor. "Well, aren't you a sight? I'm guessing laundry day came early this week." She wiped a smudge of blood off his cheek, her eyebrow raised in mock exasperation.

John, trying to explain, started, "He was simply def-"

But Greg, still wrapped in his mother's comforting presence, interrupted, "It wasn't my fault, Mom. There was this fight and-"

Grace held up a hand, silencing both. Her gaze traveled between them, a mix of sternness and concern. Her voice carried the gentle rhythm of a mother and wife, "One at a time, gentlemen, one at a time. Preferably after a good shower, perhaps?"

Her eyes lingered on her baby boy, taking in every drop of blood, every trace of worry, before glancing up at her husband. She let out a soft sigh and, with a hint of irony, quipped, “So, I’m guessing the secret identity thing is over, then?”