Chapter 6 - Fallout

Vought Convention Center, New York

Evening, Saturday, May 17, 2003

Nathan stepped down from the statue's base as the crowd's applause began to disperse into murmurs of conversation. He kept his face composed, projecting calm confidence despite the rush of adrenaline coursing through him. The demonstration had gone perfectly, and judging by the awe-struck faces in the audience, he had hit every note he wanted to. The Repulsor Technology, the flight, the speech—it all came together seamlessly. Now came the next phase.

A young woman broke through the throng, reaching the barricade, her microphone clutched tightly in one hand and a determined look in her eyes. Nathan recognized her as the VNN reporter he'd noticed earlier, sharp and focused.

Nathan decided to approach and waved off the private security dressed to look like Vought employees. To be fair, the company did think they were hired by Vought.

"Mr. Greene," she called her tone carefully professional but tinged with urgency. "Mia Carter, VNN. That was... incredible. Do you have time for a few questions?"

Nathan allowed himself a polite smile. "I'm afraid I'm short on time, Ms. Carter. But here—" He reached into his suit pocket and handed her a small, professionally designed card. "You can schedule an interview by calling this number."

Mia raised an eyebrow as she glanced at the card, her expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. "A six-year-old with a business card? That's a first."

Nathan chuckled softly, glancing toward the crowd, which was beginning to shift and part. He could already see his parents storming in his direction. Eleanor was following behind them. At least she'd been able to run interference until the presentation was over. "They're useful," he replied smoothly.

Before Mia could continue, Nathan's mother's voice rang out. "NATHANIEL GREENE!"

Nathan flinched. He glanced back at Mia. "Excuse me," he said with a small nod. "Duty calls."

As he turned toward his parents, he made a mental note to address the situation later. He had more important things to handle right now, like his angry mother who was trying to force her way through guards. He waved his hand to let them know it was fine to let her through and got ready to face the music.

Jessica Bradley lingered in the courtyard with her family, her gaze fixed on the projection of Earth from the rocket's onboard camera. The planet's surface lit up like a Christmas tree from the many lights of cities and towns below. Jessica wasn't awestruck—she didn't do awe. She was intrigued. Her fingers left hand tapped absently against the edge of her thigh while her right held on to her father's arm.

"It shouldn't work," she muttered under her breath. "The thrust-to-weight ratio, the energy density—none of it makes sense."

The Repulsor Engine design intrigued her most. Compact, efficient, and entirely unlike anything she'd read about in her scavenging trips to the library. The rocket's size should have made orbital velocity impossible, yet the live feed left no room for doubt. She ran through physical formulas in her head, trying to reverse-engineer the impossible.

Jessica turned her head down, scanning the dispersing crowd. She hoped to speak with Nathan, to ask him the questions bouncing through her mind. How did you do it? What's your power source? How do you stabilize at Mach 8? But by that time the boy was already being shouted at by a woman in her late twenties, with auburn hair. Based on their similar facial features, she must be Nathan's mother. A man whose hair and eyes matched the brown of Nathan's own stood nearby scowling with his arms crossed, while an older woman tried to speak over Nathan's angry mother to calm her down. Probably best not to get involved yet.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned away. She knew who he was now, and he'd contacted her before. They could find each other again.

It was a bit disturbing though. The only way that rocket could have worked was if Nathan had technology decades maybe almost a century more advanced than anyone else. Nathan Greene wasn't just smart—he was operating in a league entirely his own. If he could do this at his age, what else was possible?

She stopped for a moment as she realized she was actually having fun thinking about it. It had been a long time since she last had fun. She grinned.

The Pentagon, Arlington County, Virginia

Sunday, May 18, 2003

Grace Mallory stepped into the secure meeting room, her heels clicking against the polished floor as the quiet hum of murmured conversations ceased. The room was spartan in the extreme—walls of steel over reinforced concrete. At the center, a long, polished table dominated the space, surrounded by some of the most powerful figures in the United States military and intelligence apparatus.

She took a moment to assess the room, her sharp eyes flicking over each face. General Richard Mathers, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat at the head of the table. His silver hair and stern expression gave him an air of gravitas, and his penetrating gaze locked on her the moment she entered. Beside him was the Vice Chairman, General Theodore Whitmore, a no-nonsense man known for his meticulous attention to detail.

The Army, Marine Corps, Navy, Air Force, and National Guard Bureau chiefs filled the seats along one side, their uniforms immaculate, their expressions varying between impatience and curiosity. At the far end sat Secretary of Homeland Security Thomas Westfield, a recent political appointee for the newly formed department.

Scattered among the remaining chairs were the Directors of DARPA, the Defense Contract Management Agency (DCMA), National Intelligence, the Central Intelligence Agency—her own boss, Director Alan Garrett—and representatives from the NSA and DIA. In a corner of the room, almost blending into the shadows, sat the General Counsel of the Department of Defense, a wiry man with keen eyes and a perpetual frown.

Mallory adjusted her posture, her usual calm mask firmly in place, as she moved to an open seat near the middle. She wasn't the one who had called this meeting, but she had worked tirelessly to ensure everyone in this room would be there. It was a delicate balancing act—one she'd had to perform with precision.

As she sat down, all eyes turned to her. Some were curious, others skeptical, and a few downright hostile. Mallory met their gazes without flinching, her face unreadable.

General Mathers cleared his throat, the room falling into a tense silence. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his deep voice commanding attention, "we're here to discuss the events of last night. Specifically, the launch that took place at the Vought Convention Center in New York. Deputy Director Mallory, I believe you're here to explain."

Before Mallory could open her mouth, Secretary Westfield leaned forward, his face red with frustration. "Explain? What's there to explain? A missile was launched from U.S. soil without authorization. That's a breach of national security, and—"

General Mathers's sharp voice cut him off. "Westfield, sit down and hold your comments until it's your turn. I will not tolerate interruptions in this meeting."

Westfield scowled but sank back into his seat, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms.

The Chairman turned back to Mallory, his expression stern but patient. "Deputy Director, you have the floor. Start explaining."

Mallory took a measured breath before speaking. "Thank you, General." She swept her gaze across the room, ensuring she had everyone's attention. "To begin, the event in question was not a missile launch. It was a rocket—launched as part of a demonstration by a CIA asset named Nathan Greene."

Her words hung in the air for a moment, the room's collective tension palpable. Finally, General Whitmore raised an eyebrow. "A CIA asset? Are you telling us a civilian is responsible for this?"

"Not a civilian, General," Mallory clarified. "Nathan Greene is a six-year-old boy with an intellect that surpasses even the brightest minds in our scientific community. His capabilities are... unique, and he's already revolutionizing several classified projects under CIA oversight."

The incredulous stares she received from some of the room's occupants were expected. Mallory pressed on, her tone even. "Nathan is no ordinary child. His cognitive abilities are unparalleled, and his inventions have the potential to change the landscape of modern warfare, intelligence, space exploration, and everyday life."

Director Garrett shot her a glare that could have cut through steel. "Even I only found out about it last night." His voice was low and dangerous.

"I kept the information compartmentalized," Mallory replied coolly, refusing to let his anger faze her. "The fewer people who knew about Nathan, the better. His safety—and the security of his work—depends on it."

"Unbelievable," Garrett muttered, shaking his head.

Dr. Evelyn Hardwick, the Director of DARPA, narrowed her eyes. "You're claiming a six-year-old developed technology beyond anything DARPA has seen, including advanced propulsion systems? Do you have proof?"

"He was five when he started working for us, and three when he first reached out, but yes," Mallory said. Rising from her seat, she walked to the side table where she'd left a sleek black briefcase. She opened it and began distributing manila folders to everyone around the table. "Inside these folders, you'll find documentation on Nathan Greene, his work, and the specific contributions he's made to classified projects."

General Mathers opened his folder, and as he flipped through the pages, his stern expression became unreadable. One by one, the others followed suit, their disbelief giving way to stunned silence as they absorbed the contents.

General Davis, the Air Force Chief of Staff, was the first to speak, his grizzled face skeptical. "This propulsion system—Repulsor Technology—how does it work?"

Mallory gestured to a projector on a wheeled table, which she had set up earlier. With a click of a button, it displayed a series of detailed slides. The first was a schematic of the Repulsor Engine, its intricate design labelled and annotated.

"The Repulsor Engine doesn't rely on traditional combustion or jet propulsion," Mallory explained. "Instead, it uses fuel to power a reaction which manipulates quantum fields to convert excess electrons into muons, which are then channelled into a plasma stream and emitted to provide thrust. It's cleaner, more efficient, and scalable for a wide range of applications. The only limitation is that it doesn't work out of atmosphere, but it can be used to launch a vehicle at orbital velocity."

Hardwick shook her head, still processing the implications. "Even if this is real, how does a child develop something this advanced? And why is the CIA involved?"

Mallory took a deep breath. "Nathan first contacted me on January 15th, 2000, through a series of encrypted emails routed through ghost servers. He used military-grade encryption, some of which he had designed himself. His message included designs for an advanced cryptographic system far beyond anything we had at the time." She pressed a button on the remote she had for the projector, and it showed a picture of a software architecture that was meaningless to most of the people in the room.

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "He didn't just send us the design. He sent us step-by-step instructions on how to build and implement it—and a series of tests to prove that it worked."

A murmur swept through the room, disbelief and curiosity mingling among the gathered officials.

General Mathers flipped through his folder, scanning the printed emails. "And you verified this?" His tone was skeptical but measured.

"We did," Mallory said firmly. "The design was tested and confirmed by our own analysts. Within weeks, the system was deployed for high-priority communications. It's now our primary defence for classified transmissions. His work alone has saved us billions in research and development."

Director of the NSA, Elizabeth Warner—a sharp-featured woman with short silver hair and a reputation for her razor-sharp intuition—suddenly straightened in her chair. Her piercing gaze locked onto Mallory, and she tapped her pen against the table, a wry smile curling her lips.

"That's how you did it," she said, her voice cutting through the room's ambient tension like a scalpel.

The attention of the room shifted to her.

"Did what?" General Whitmore asked, confused.

Elizabeth turned her eyes toward Mallory, her tone laced with a mix of accusation and begrudging admiration. "For the last couple of years, the CIA's been unusually good at hiding its tracks. And not just hiding—finding ours. Every time we thought we were close to getting a peek at what you were doing, we'd be set back another month."

Mallory didn't flinch. She simply raised an eyebrow, her expression cool. "Correct."

The room chuckled softly, but Elizabeth wasn't deterred. "Oh, don't get me wrong, Deputy Director. I'm impressed. And a little insulted. You could've shared the wealth, you know."

"Not to worry," Mallory said. "Each of your folders contains a CD ROM with a full copy of the security program and architecture, as well as specific gifts for each of you." Many around the table looked intrigued and turned to the appropriate page, finding the sleeved disks.

Elizabeth smirked, leaning back in her chair.

The Director of National Intelligence chuckled quietly from the far end of the table. She was well aware that the agencies under her purview played these kinds of games. They weren't supposed to, but it was good practice for all of them.

Dr. Hardwick leaned forward, her brow furrowed as she examined the documents. "Back on topic, these emails—he wasn't just sending raw data. These are full-fledged proposals, complete with risk assessments and potential countermeasures."

Mallory nodded. "Yes, Dr. Hardwick. He writes with a level of precision and foresight that surpasses most seasoned professionals."

Director Garrett, still somewhat unhappy, tapped his pen on the table. "And when did you realize who you were dealing with? When did you discover this was a child?"

Mallory managed to hide a wince, "Nathan arranged the first face-to-face meeting."

...

"So, to clarify," Mathers stated, "the boy is a super-abled genius that has been running circles around not only his parents, but also his teachers, and the US Government since he was three?!

"That's correct sir," Mallory conceded.

The room erupted in a mixture of disbelief, incredulous laughter, and worry.

"And you didn't think to tell us any of this earlier?" Westfield accused. "How do you know he's not a threat? He should be locked up right now!"

Most of the generals in the room nodded along with Westfield. While Dr. Hardwick, General Davis, and the General Council stood up to object. Their objections seemed to waver between moral, legal, and ethical concerns.

BANG!

Everyone shut up as General Mathers slapped his hand down onto the table a little too firmly. "Enough!"

He glared around the table for any further sign of dissent, then turned to Mallory.

"Grace, I've known you a long time. I know you're not one to make reckless or stupid decisions," he paused, "not without very good reason at least. So why?"

She looked him straight in the eye, "Vought."

The older occupants of the room, those in the know, shared looks of understanding and resignation. The younger ones, like Westfield, just looked confused.

Mallory looked to Director Garrett, who nodded, then she went on, pressing the forward button on her remote several times until it showed a title, Operation Charly. "If you turn to page 15 of your folders, you see the details of the last combat mission superheroes were allowed to participate in."

...

"By the end of the end of the mission, 116+ good men were dead, as well as Swatto and Soldier Boy. The latter's body was stolen by the Russians, presumably for experimentation," Mallory finished.

All of the faces in the room were either shocked or grim.

"If you keep turning the pages you'll see other incidents which Vought and their so-called heroes have been involved in over the years, before and after Operation Charly." She began listing them off, "Frederick Vought's nazi ties, Liberty's connection to multiple racially motivated homicides, the Kent State Shootings, the Kennedy Assassination, Mindstorm leaving 16 men to die of dehydration, Homelander blowing up a chemical plant, and hundreds of smaller incidents involving death, dismemberment or other forms of destruction since then."

Silence.

"Vought has been directly connected with multiple cases of bribery, extortion, corruption, sabotage, political assassinations and more," she went on. "We have records going back decades, but we've either never had enough evidence, or we've been too scared to make a move because of their living weapons."

Several people in the room winced, knowing exactly what she was talking about. How exactly were they supposed to fight someone like Soldier Boy or god forbid Homelander? A nuke might not even be enough for that. The intelligence agencies were even more terrified of the ones who could teleport, shapeshift, or read minds. They were a nightmare for any security apparatus.

Mallory, seeing that she had made her point, said, "We need something like B.C.L. Red. Something that can let us put down Vought's attack dogs when we need to."

The generals nodded along, while the intelligence operatives looked speculative. Mallory could practically see the lightbulb going off above Dr. Hardwick's head.

"That's where young Mr. Greene comes in, isn't it?" the DARPA Director asked.

"Yes," Mallory said. "One of the first designs Nathan sent to me through our early contact was for a fully functional railgun, capable of launching a projectile with a muzzle velocity of Mach 11." She used the remote again to change the slide so that it now showed the schematic of the weapon and its mounting array.

Admiral Jonathan Hayes, Chief of Naval Operations, shot up from his chair, his usually composed demeanour replaced with eager intensity. "A railgun capable of Mach 11?" he asked, leaning forward. "What are its power requirements? Effective range? Could it be mounted on a ship?"

Mallory kept her tone steady. "Admiral, the design specifies a range of approximately 150 miles, with no noticeable wear and tear per shot. It's designed to be modular, so yes, it could be mounted on a ship. Power requirements are high but manageable with the right integration."

"Have you tested it?" Hayes pressed.

"Not yet," Mallory admitted. "For obvious reasons. But the schematics suggest it could fire multiple shots without significant damage to the weapon or its housing."

Hayes looked at the diagram on the wall, his mind already racing through the possibilities. Mallory nodded toward his folder. "Admiral, the details and simulations are in the file and on the accompanying disk."

He sat back down, flipping through his folder eagerly. "And against Homelander?" he asked.

Mallory's expression grew grim. "Unlikely to kill him. But it might bruise him. And that's more than anything else we've ever had."

She could see that she was starting to win the room over.

"Nathan is continuing to develop weapons and defence systems, but in the meantime, Nathan insisted on giving each of you something to tide you over." She changed the slide again, now showing the designs for two fighter jets, side by side. "These are the designs for the F-22 Raptor and F-35 Lightning, modified to use repulsor engines..."

The meeting went on like that for quite a while, and those present all left looking quite happy with their new toys.

81st Floor, Vought Tower, New York

Morning, Monday, May 18, 2003

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. At the head of the sleek, polished table sat Stan Edgar, CEO of Vought International. His posture was as composed as ever, but his sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept across the faces of the gathered executives and specialists. He tapped his pen on a sheet of paper lying in front of him, next to other files neatly arranged for this meeting.

Madelyn Stillwell, Senior Vice President of Hero Management, sat to his right. She was meticulously dressed, her expression calm, yet her fingers tapped lightly against the arm of her chair. Beside her was Jonah Vogelbaum, Vought's Chief Scientific Officer, his features lined with age and concern.

Richard Brinkerhoff, Vought's expert in super-abled psychology, sat on Mr. Edgar's left, his arms crossed, his notes untouched in front of him. He looked pensive, perhaps recalling the handful of sessions he'd conducted with Nathan when the boy was younger.

Dr. Eun-Ji Kim, Nathan Greene's personal physician, was seated further down from Brinkerhoff, her expression neutral as she clutched a file containing Nathan's medical and developmental records.

Mr. Edgar broke the silence, his tone measured but firm. "Let's get straight to the point. Nathan Greene stole the show last night. Literally and figuratively. While the narrative we've pushed holds—for now—I need answers. First of all, do we know how this happened?"

Madelyn spoke up, "We're still trying to figure out where he got the money, but it seems that he hacked the phone of the event organizer and managed to convince the private security company that he was working for us—"

Mr. Edgar raised his hand, "I meant how did he manage to build the rocket? This is America, any idiot can rig the system in their favour. I want to know where he got the resources to build something like that." He turned to Dr. Kim and raised his eyebrow.

Dr. Kim raised her hand, clearly trying not to look nervous about her report, understandable since it was her fuckup, "Yes, sir. According to his parents, they did not know his plan before he announced it so publically. We sent a team in to investigate his house and look for wherever he built his rocket and engine. We found nothing there, but apparently his parents have been misplacing some of their tools and some assorted parts for a few months. We found them when we investigated the house of his tutor, Ms. Eleanor Tregarth, while she was out. We found a workshop upstairs with the missing tools and some of the parts as well as designs for the engine, and a copy of a patent claim in his name."

"How the hell did a six-year-old get a patent?" Madelyn exclaimed.

"There is no minimum age required to file a patent, I'm afraid," Dr. Kim said.

"Is there any way to claim it as ours?" Madelyn asked.

Dr. Kim replied, "Ma'am, I'm not a lawyer."

Mr. Edgar raised his hand to shut her up, then looked at Madelyn like she was an idiot, "Madelyn. How exactly do you think that court case would go? The boy just very publically introduced the project as his own, so the story already belongs to him."

Madelyn looked ready to rebut that, controlling the media was most of her job after all, but Mr. Edgar went on.

"Additionally, to make a claim, we'd have to explain how we were responsible for the boy's intelligence. He has no known affiliation with us at this time and trying to prove a connection could do more harm than good. The only way we'd be able to make any sort of claim is if we went public with Compound V and announced him as one of our test subjects."

Madelyn closed her mouth and shut up.

Mr. Edgar looked relieved, "Good. Now Madelyn, start with the media."

Madelyn quickly removed the frown from her face and straightened, her voice smooth and assured. "As far as the public is concerned, this was Vought's idea from the start. Nathan was positioned as part of our initiative to nurture young talent, showcasing innovation and promise under our guidance. Coverage has been overwhelmingly positive. Sponsors are pleased, and the narrative is holding strong. However," she paused, her eyes flickering toward Vogelbaum, "we need to be prepared if anyone starts digging deeper. People will have questions."

"I assume you have an interview lined up already," Mr. Edgar stated.

"We were hoping to put him on Coleman's new show," she replied. "But there's also a young reporter, Mia Carter, who was on the scene. She managed to get a business card from him and he agreed to speak with her."

Mr. Edgar nodded, "Go with the woman. It'll look better than having Coleman try to interrogate a child on live television." His gaze shifted to Vogelbaum. "Jonah. His powers."

Vogelbaum cleared his throat, his voice steady but tinged with discomfort. "Nathan's abilities are entirely intellectual. He is, by all definitions, a super genius. His cognitive capacity, pattern recognition, and problem-solving skills exceed anything we've observed in humans. What he displayed last night—particularly the Repulsor Engine—is proof of that."

Dr. Kim added, her tone clinical, "I've been monitoring Nathan's development since infancy. His intellect emerged early—reading by 18 months, and advanced mathematical concepts by two. Physically, he's unremarkable. No signs of enhanced strength, durability, or agility. He doesn't even have the minor regenerative abilities of the only other super genius we've got, Jessica Bradley. That could change with puberty, but it's unlikely. Nathan was one of the last subjects to receive prenatal exposure to Compound V. Most of those who were given the compound before birth developed a set list of abilities and remained unchanged afterwards."

Mr. Edgar's expression didn't change as he turned to Brinkerhoff. "And his psychology?"

Brinkerhoff leaned forward, his tone contemplative. "I assessed Nathan regularly when he was younger. He's... unique. He processes emotions and social interactions differently—much more maturely than he should even given his intellect. He's highly self-aware and knows how to present himself to achieve desired outcomes. While he's not overtly manipulative, he's undeniably calculating."

"Is he a danger?" Mr. Edgar asked bluntly.

Brinkerhoff hesitated. "Not in the traditional sense. He lacks the instability or selfishness we associate with many super-abled children. Probably because he developed too quickly for his parents to put him through the usual circus before he realized what was going on. But his intellect and independence make him unpredictable. If he perceives us as an obstacle—or irrelevant—he could act accordingly."

Mr. Edgar's eyes narrowed slightly. "Would you say he's more of a threat or an asset?"

Brinkerhoff drummed his fingers against the table, his voice thoughtful. "Nathan is an anomaly. His intellect isolates him, and I suspect that's been true his entire life. While he's not inherently antagonistic, he's also not loyal—not to his parents, not to us. That independence is both his greatest strength and our biggest challenge." He went on, "That intellect could be a gift to us if channelled correctly, but he's smart enough to recognize when he's being pushed and might resent it." He turned to Dr. Vogelbaum, "Could we even use him?"

Jonah looked thoughtful, "Not in the usual way if that's what you're asking. He has no natural invulnerability, so putting him in a suit and having him beat up criminals would just be asking for his parents to sue us when he comes home in a body bag. It might be better to wait and see what he does from here. If he's really that clever, I assume he has some sort of plan. If it's something we can make money off of, we might be able to partner with him on it."

Madelyn leaned forward. "Which is why we need to keep him close. If we maintain control of the narrative—and him—he can be an invaluable asset. But if he feels we're stifling him..."

Mr. Edgar's voice cut through. "We're not here to stifle him. We're here to decide how to integrate him into our operations effectively. Dr. Kim, what's his relationship with his parents like?"

"They're overwhelmed," Kim replied succinctly. "His intellect has always set him apart, and they're aware they're out of their depth. They rely heavily on my guidance, as well as on Nathan's apparent willingness to comply with their expectations. But that compliance is... performative. Nathan humours them."

Mr. Edgar nodded thoughtfully, tapping a pen against the table. "Then we use that. Support the parents, offer them resources, and emphasize how much we value their son. Ensure they stay reliant on us. Madelyn, continue cultivating the public image. Brinkerhoff, you'll resume regular assessments. Vogelbaum, Kim—keep me updated on his progress."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Nathan Greene is a potential game-changer. But he's also a risk. We need to ensure he sees Vought not as an obstacle—but as an ally. Dismissed."

As the room emptied, Mr. Edgar lingered, gazing out at the city skyline. He knew brilliance could be an asset—but it could also be a weapon. And he intended to ensure Nathan Greene was one they wielded, not one they faced.

Greene Family Home, Poughkeepsie, New York State

Afternoon, Monday, May 19, 2003

Nathan sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at the small, neat pile of books and papers his parents had confiscated from Eleanor's house and returned to him as part of his "grounding." Most of it was harmless—an old physics textbook, a half-finished blueprint for an improved circuit board—but the sheer lack of access to his tools and lab felt suffocating. His parents' punishment, while unimaginative, was unexpectedly effective.

Grounded. Unbelievable. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms and glancing at the closed door. His parents had taken his "confession" about stealing their tools at face value. It had been necessary to sell the story—if Vought investigated, they'd find the missing items at Eleanor's house and connect them to his supposed "borrowing." Better a domestic misunderstanding than a well-equipped underground lab hidden in a CIA safe house.

Still, guilt nagged at him. His parents had been fighting more than usual ever since the tools disappeared. His dad was convinced his mom had moved them for one of her projects, and she thought he'd misplaced them in his workshop. He could hear their arguments echoing through the walls. At least now that the tools were "returned," maybe they'd finally make up.

Nathan sighed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn't as if his parents were particularly strict—they'd never needed to be before. But grounding him, especially cutting him off from the lab, was a stroke of luck for them and pure hell for him. Without access to his tools, he was going stir-crazy. He was only allowed out to eat, use the bathroom, and go to school. At least it was going to end on Saturday, mostly for his upcoming interview, but still.

At least Eleanor had helped soften the blow, kind of. She'd thrown him under the bus, claiming he'd told her he'd borrowed the tools with permission. That had made his parents angry enough to keep him grounded but not furious enough to completely cut ties with Eleanor. She was still on thin ice though.

He drummed his fingers against the bedframe, energy buzzing under his skin. For someone with the mind of Tony Stark, being locked in his room with nothing productive to do was like torture. He needed a distraction, something to occupy his restless mind.

Nathan turned his attention to the notepad on his desk. If I can't build, I'll plan. The MCU was light-years ahead of this world's technological development, mostly thanks to people like Howard Stark and Hank Pym paving the way before Tony had even arrived on the scene. But this world had nothing comparable. If Nathan wanted to create his more ambitious projects someday—arc reactors, robotics, AI, even nanotech—he'd first need to build the tools to make the tools he needed.

He grabbed the notepad, flipping to a fresh page. First things first: start advancing the world just enough to close the gap. He'd leave anonymous hints and clues for researchers, scattered breadcrumbs that would nudge them in the right direction while leading back to him in time. Nothing too obvious—just enough to accelerate progress in materials science, energy storage, and AI without raising too many eyebrows.

Nathan smirked, jotting down a series of ideas. This world needs a good wake-up call about what the word hero really means.

He leaned back against the headboard, feeling the familiar thrill of anticipation. The next few years were going to be fun. Exhausting, dangerous, and absolutely frustrating at times—but fun.

Homelander's Apartment, Vought Tower, New York

Evening, Monday, May 19, 2003

Homelander leaned against the back of the plush couch in his three-story penthouse at Vought Tower, the television glowing faintly in the dimly lit room. His cape draped over the armrest as he held a glass of milk in his hand, his eyes glued to the live broadcast of Nathan Greene's presentation. The media had been playing it all weekend. It even cut into the story about how Homelander had stopped that bank robbery on Main Street.

The brat's voice carried clearly, confident and articulate, as he spoke about humanity losing its spark and relying too much on superheroes. Homelander's jaw tightened. The kid's words, though cloaked in optimism, felt like a pointed jab.

"... But somewhere along the way, we lost that spark. Maybe it was a lack of competition. Maybe it was because we started looking for heroes in capes instead of ourselves..."

"Yeah, sure," Homelander muttered under his breath, his fingers tightening around the glass. "Like they'd have anything without us." The milk in Homelander's glass sloshed over the rim as his grip tightened. The kid was challenging the very concept of superheroes. It was a fucking insult and the sheep were lapping it up.

Homelander stood abruptly, pacing the room as the broadcast continued. "He's just a kid," he muttered, staring at the screen. "A precocious little brat trying to play in the big leagues. That's all." Homelander turned the television off with a sharp jab of the remote, his reflection glaring back at him in the black screen.

"We'll see how long you stay relevant," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

A/N: Okay, hope you enjoyed that. Not the most exciting chapter, but I wanted to confirm some of the setup. The next chapter will feature the interview, and then some time skips as Nathan starts to expand his operations. Fair warning, The Boys is a very political series. I generally agree with the messaging of the writers, and some of that may slip into the interview and future chapters. The politics of The Boys universe are not a direct parallel to the real world, and should not be treated as such. It is a separate universe from our own. It should be viewed and treated as such. But yeah, politics are kind of a big deal throughout the series. I won't be leaning into them more than I need to, but it would be impossible to accurately represent the series without mentioning them.