Heirlooms
Her voice was angelic.
Each time he would see her face and each time he would open her mouth and speak, sing, or even simply smile at him, illuminated his day. He could not particularly remember how many people came and went as they kept disappearing time and time again without fail.
But this person, this… particular person, he remembered quite well.
Not because of her kindness. Not because of her treating him like he was a pitiful, innocent child who demanded to be treated as if they were glass porcelain, easily broken by the slightest action. It was because she was the first person, to tell him frankly and without the sweet-coated nature of lies and deceit, what he actually was.
Or at least that's how he remembered it.
He could not even remember her face, truly, but her demeanor, her steadfast dedication to finish her job and not even care about him for the foremost and how it… evolved over time stuck to him.
Amidst the great many men, women, and monsters that shaped him to be the man that he was now, she stood out, not even the man in charge of handling his creation, the person he could call the closest to his father, measured up.
She was unique in the sense that from the very first time they met, up to the very last, their demeanor was that of greed and the pursuit of knowledge first before it turned into genuine care and solemn pity. He could still remember those eyes, as the steady smoke and scent of nicotine filled his very sensitive nostrils while he stared at her in silence and awe.
How the rise of her brow as she stared back at him seemed to titillate his broken and affirmably enormous Freudian complex was as this person cast a large shadow on the absence of a paternal or maternal figure that he had yearned in his lonesome and cold childhood.
"You're not really a person under all of that blonde, and cute, blue eyes, aren't you?"
Like a dog trying to understand what its master was trying to say but coming off lacking. Instead, he could only stare at the emotions on the woman's face. Her red hair, in particular, or at least a shade of that color was something that he took note of from the many that left.
"Yeah. You're nothing but an animal. An animal that Vought wants to control and use for their own purposes." She says as she flicks the cigarette to his young face. It bounces off as he then picks it up next to him, licking the cigarette butt despite the heat being enough to burn a child of his age.
Then again, he was no simple child, was he? And the woman knew this quite well.
"You're their second chance. Their golden boy, hewn from childhood, unlike the first one who already had a personality, a soul, a character. It made them unpredictable in terms of loyalty, but you, you're a project they can build from the ground up. One that wouldn't diverge from their needs. One that wouldn't hesitate as long as they kept your personality simple, direct, and easy to subtly manipulate above all else." She then kneels in front of him as she gently plucks the cigarette butt out of his drooling lips, the taste of nicotine and smoke was odd but not unwelcome while he stares at her. Her presence just inches away as that apathetic look on her face transforms to that of an interested, albeit dark huff.
"But they're idiots. Just like you…"
A hand ruffles his hair as she pulls out another stick from her lab coat.
"…idiots who don't realize that controlled and obedient they may turn you out to be, you're still a living entity with in-born instincts inherited to you by that poor bitch that birthed you into the world. An entity that has self-preservation. An entity that beyond all of the behavioral corrections, experimentations, and such, can and will lash out."
She lights the cigarette as smoke once again fills his nostrils, the stick burning at the end as she sucks in for a smoke and exhales it by blowing it up in his face with an odd grin.
He doesn't flinch, however. Various mixtures were exposed to him before, chemicals of unknown strength and quantity didn't so much as make him react to nicotine. In fact, he welcomed it, as unconditioned and innocent as he currently was to the world as he mirrored what she did hoping that there was emotional warmth as a reward behind it.
He then remembers being giddy, as the woman gave him a lit stick and the boy that would be Homelander, huffed his very first cigarette, at an age where he could barely walk, much less understand how to talk and understand people. The sensation was different and unique, as he imitated her, even down to the mean-looking, apathetic face she had before they both giggled.
"… and I fear those idiots don't realize that. Because a cornered little attack dog like you, once bereft of any purpose, will just turn into a lost puppy that doesn't know what it wants."
She then pats his head one more time as finally pity arrives in her eyes. Pity that wasn't hollow and one that the boy experiences with warmth for the very first time. "Everyone and everything around you will suffer the consequences for it, yeah, but that's the reality of it all, isn't it?"
He tilts his head at her, but she doesn't see this reaction from him as she wistfully looks away in another direction towards nothing as she frowns in place, her thoughts being her focus. "Whatever they're doing here, you little mutt, they're going to create a legacy of sorts. Terrible or amazing as that legacy could be, I guess it'll be left in your hands, the idiot who was never able to become a person."
He continues to blink, unsure of what she's saying.
"A hollow, lost little shit, who begs for someone to give it shelter, only to find that there's nothing and no one out there to give him that."
She retracts her arm from her head as she stands up. Her look of pity transforms to that of frustration and anger as her arms curl into fists as they visibly shake from his very enhanced sight. He fears that he angered her and he wishes to reach out to her only for her to stomp away as he hears her whisper…
"Fuck you kid, fuck you for making me feel this way."
His mind returns to the present. Pausing as his blood-soaked gloves and costume trickled onto the pages of a folder and document that he wished to read. Kindness as is, was something that he did not experience during his days in this place. This laboratory that birthed him into existence. His home, his cradle.
The dull white tiled walls and padded ceilings looked quite ravishing in red iron splashes of color. It was a good upgrade in terms of scenery last he was here, except that the wailing tones of the people that made up the project, those that were still alive, could just shut up.
Flipping another page of the document carefully, he looked at the very last person who either wasn't singing in tones of pain, hung up into the air as their blood trickled down to the floor, or made into an abstract art project of the most hilarious kind, was Devon. A middle-aged coot that wouldn't stop shivering in his seat in fear across him with the only thing separating them was a mahogany desk, organized and barely inconvenienced to an extent, except for maybe a few streaks of blood or small pieces of someone's epidermis laying on it.
Devon's shivering and fear rose quite considerably when a frown formed on his lips. Their heart rate rose to a level that the thrum was practically vibrating within their chest. The smell alone, even with the number of scents in the air, the distinctive variance in terms of the individual scent of urine now flushing down his legs while he closed the folder that he had been reading previously.
Devon Richardson, the records keeper of this little joint initially did not want anything to do with this place anymore after the many years of guilt he had piled on. However, he could not refuse when their prime subject, their labor of love had invited everyone still alive from the project for a reunion. Even to the point that the possibility of denial or refusal was thrown out of their hands as he could remember their faces with enough clarity along with the existing files within Vought to track every single one of them down and give them a personal, albeit persuasive invitation.
Most of them had families. Families who grew to be normal people, along with their children. Oh, the hypocrisy was high indeed, as their collective pasts they tried to bury with extreme prejudice by denying it all atop their attempts at 'being better' with their own children.
They were all the same. Killers hiding as saints.
Once their past caught up to them, they ran and hid like the cowards they were.
Well maybe, Jonathan Vogelbaum was the exception. He stood fast, not even denying anything spat in his way, much to his frustration and anger over not being able to get one over them, the man took his sins head-on, even if it cost him his life. He was split on respecting him for that bravery as well as being angry that he couldn't get back to him, much to how expected this to be.
The man's charred remains were naught but dust now in another room.
He didn't even scream.
The others, however, begged, cried, screamed… even prostrated and apologized because the butcher, the devil was now at their doorstep, ready to claim them for their sins and drag them down to hell with a lovely smile on their face.
They all perished the same.
Except for Devon, who was forced to watch all of that as his inquiry was still unanswered.
"I don't see a name here, Devon." He said simply with a practiced smile. The same friendly smile that he gave Stillwell as he started his mighty crusade to clean Vought and his own hands, now that nobody was left to stop him. He just needed a few more answers from his past before he reached the final step into becoming a new man.
Vought still had bad apples in it. Many wished to return to the past. To not adapt to the current tide of things. To remain as their ignorant selves and hold onto what power they had left, and people with powers that clearly did not want to use them for the 'greater good'.
Or at the very least, his understanding of the 'greater good'.
"P-Please… I don't know, I-I didn't memorize every single name of all the people that worked here." He begged with eyes filled with fear as the sound of a splat was heard next to him and he nearly jumped in his seat in surprise. A slew of entrails had finally unstuck itself from the ceiling as Devon fearfully and terrifyingly saw the gaping face of an old colleague rolling on the floor next to him as if meeting his gaze with their own hollow one.
"I-I didn't know! P-please… I wasn't even… I wasn't-
"I think you already know what my feelings are about all of the apologies, right? And that didn't pan out well for the others too." He said with a calm tone as he turned his head to the doorway where many scattered and decorated remains of red and cooling flesh were seen.
Another droplet of blood dripped from his hair down to his cheek again actually as he turned right back to the scared records keeper. "Surely you don't want to answer that tirade to my question. Otherwise, you're just as useless as everybody else in this godforsaken place."
"I didn't know… I s-swear. All I know is that she was a colleague of Doctor V-Vogelbaum and that's it… I didn't know… I don't know what happened to her."
He smiles at the poor man's answer.
"And that is where I know you're lying."
"N-No, please… I swear, I'm telling you-
"Shush. I'm still speaking. Don't you tell your little Josh, or little Betty that interrupting someone as he's speaking is rude?" he innocently said as he leaned closer, the sounds of his suit, which was made in a material that was both durable and skin-tight as possible, creaking through the now drying up fluids that made up most of its majority. He would need to remind himself to thoroughly bathe for later as the meeting with his favorite person in the world was due soon in a few days.
He didn't want to show up like this for he wished to be a new man.
A new man who thoroughly beat his past into submission.
"Please," Devon begged again as he shook in place.
"Devon… your signature was written on all existing files I could scrounge from Vought of the precise and specific operation that you conducted on me when she was still part of the program. They were all labeled to be reviewed and signed with confirmation by your own hands."
The relative silence amidst the now dying wailing of others in the rest of the compound continued to add weight to the fear that Devon was experiencing as he despaired at what Homelander was telling him as he continued along.
"So, unless you got someone else to sign those papers with your name and confirmation of it, I have no true justification to believe any of your words on this."
"I… I… but…"
He then felt elated as an idea popped into his head. "I'm sure little Josh can also ask his daddy politely to not lie about this important thing. Especially since he's such a large fan of me. I'd hate to disappoint him, especially with his cute little sister beside him."
The threat was clear from those words as Devon's despair further grew to a point that he was losing strength in his body as he stared back at those blue, demented eyes that contained the resolute fury of a boy that they had cultivated from the very first time he cried from the dilapidated corpse of his mother.
He had no choice. There was no other way to get out of this.
Continuing with the lie would have him be killed. Giving him what he wanted, would have him killed. His family, if they were still alive, would never see him again. What consolation or such he had left with his life being taken away, was that none of his sins, none of his mistakes that had haunted him for years would ever come out.
Maybe there was joy in just being forgotten.
He just wished that he would do it painlessly.
"Well?"
"Her name… t-there's a reason Vought scrubbed it. I don't even remember it-
The slight change of his smile was caught by Devon as his fear rose another uptick, almost breaking another record that his poor, fleshy self already peaked minutes ago for the stench of human waste now leaked from below his torso. "-I swear! I swear I'm telling the t-truth! I don't remember, okay?! I don't remember, b-but she was written off for a reason. I don't know what they did to her, but we never heard of her after that, and we all assumed… a-assumed that if we do what she did the same, we'd…"
"You would all what?" he asked, the pretense of mock kindness, gone. The intimidation factor took another notch just from the fact that his neutral face was windowed on both sides by blood and pieces of gore that dangled on the tips of his blonde, lush hair.
"That we'd all be done out like that. That we'd die with our names… s-scrubbed off the list. Not even our families would know what happened to us."
"Oh, you poor thing. Out of all the possible, mundane thoughts to worry about…" Homelander leans forward to emphasize his point. "…that's what you were all scared of? Really?"
Devon's lips quivered, he knew exactly what the man, this monster, was implying to him.
He did help create him, even if indirectly in his post of this operation.
Despair as a concept could not cut it, to utterly describe what the man was feeling at that very moment. If anything, him being kept alive this long, was torture in itself almost equal in pain and humiliation as all of his colleagues that were dying smears on the floors and ceilings.
"You're even more pathetic than I realize… but that's the thing isn't it?"
"W-what?"
"I wasn't a person to any one of you."
"N-No we j-just wanted-AAAAAAAGHHH!" Devon cried as the sounds of bone snapping from Homelander squashing his hand like a soda can via his fist. Parts of it even dug into the mahogany desk as tears started rolling down.
"Just a project. An attack dog." He says as sadness appears on his face, echoing the words of that mystery woman who until now was just another one of these people that made him what he was in the present. If it wasn't for him basically taking the reins of Vought and looking into the curious nature of his origins, this stranger wouldn't be as important to him as it was now.
"Well… that dog is your handler now. The mouth that feeds and commands you. And like many rabid dogs that just continued to play without control and without discipline, there is one method and outcome. Especially to those that are too far gone…" he says as Devon continues to sob.
"…so, Devon. Are you going to be cooperative one last time before I put you down for good?"
"…I-I know… who took h-her out… j-just please… p-promise me that you'd leave my family alone," Devon begged, knowing the inevitable, only to feel like it was a mistake when Homelander started laughing like it was the funniest thing ever.
"What makes you think that I'm even going to honor that promise? You? A scumbag like you?"
His laughs continue to sting as they become louder and nearly much more painful than even the loss of his hand. "That's good… I'd try and rate you for your effort, but who gives a shit?"
As his laughs died down, Devon wished to beg again, only to hear something that his mind would never be able to resolve after this moment. "Lastly, what makes you think that your family and all of the families you people have… today… haven't been given the same treatment, by good ol' me?"
If killing a person literally with a word was a thing, Devon would have been done right then and there. But Homelander's smile didn't tell him what exactly the truth was, and it… scared him.
"But please do tell me what you were trying to say. Because whether your family lives or not right now doesn't really absolve you from being taken off the census with my own hands."
It was true, even if he didn't tell him, the file that he had just closed earlier at the start of their conversation, already had that name that Devon wanted to barter for the safety of his family. He had thought of this from the very beginning.
This…. This was just torture.
Playful, miserable torture to prolong the inevitable so that his suffering was as high as it could possibly be.
An apex predator toying with a prey, not even eating it, knowing that the fascination of its dying woes was enough to satiate its appetite.
"I-It was… L-Liberty. It was Liberty." He blurted out, barely even a whisper as Homelander smiled for one last time towards him.
"Was that so hard, Devon?"
…
Truthfully, he didn't kill the man, nor his family. But he did watch his birthplace, his personal hell burn to the ground with Devon in it with a satisfied, almost orgasmic sort of fulfillment. The nagging pain of all his emotional trauma that Vought had shoved down his throat was already opened and he wanted, no, needed a release to finally move on from that chapter of his life.
He knew full well of the hypocrisy in his actions.
He knew full well of the various atrocities he had committed these past few days starting from the loose ends like Stillwell and many others.
But all of that was because…
…
PRESENT…
"I want to do more. I want to… care about much more than myself..." he finally admits to the old man he was sitting next to in Olympia's immaculate gardens. Said the old man looked at him, almost baffled at the sudden admission.
"That's… hm, didn't expect something heavy right off the bat, there son."
Homelander… no, John was surprised himself that he said that. Though given how much he had done in the past few days to correct certain things about Vought and himself, the bubble just finally burst. There was only so much that he could figuratively keep in his chest and for all intents and purposes, he didn't wish for a random old man to hear him out when it could have been her or literally anybody else in Olympia, his equals, that he could talk to.
But alas, especially in this environment, around Olympia's people, the aura and feeling itself allowed him to be much more… honest in a sense. Unlike the two-faced men and women in Vought and beyond that met him day to day without even a thought of him but instead of themselves, and what their own stupid lives amounted to when measured in cash.
And perhaps, he was just tired of not saying it aloud. Tired of keeping most of it in, or staring at a poster of his crush as he emptied his frustrations onto the floor, soiling his carpet. Even a good and quiet time perching atop the Empire State Building's side, even levitating atop of it didn't feel as comforting anymore given the baggage that he had been carrying and had been adding with his in-depth review of Vought and his… sordid past.
Sighing heavily, he rubs his temples as the old man stares at him.
"I don't even know what I'm doing telling you this." He admits as he looks away. He didn't wish to impart something negative or problematic to anyone involved with Olympia given how much that would hamper his chances at brokering the tenuous relationship he had started to bridge with them.
"Sometimes… getting it out of your chest is justification alone. Sometimes… what we do in life, given how used to, we are of being ourselves, doesn't need a reasoning."
John stopped at those words as he turned to the man, "You say that as if you know what I'm feeling…" he then proceeded to scoff at him with a laugh that would sound absolutely friendly, but at the same time layered with such disbelief and subtle scorn that he didn't expect the old man to feel.
"…I don't want to toot my own horn sir, but I think what sort of sagely, elderly advice or experience you'd give me would nowhere be near to anything I'm feeling at the moment."
Except that he did.
"Try me, boy. For even if I don't have the same sort of circumstance that put you into that confused state of mind that you're in right now, I know for damn sure that nothing you'll say will remotely surprise me." the old man replied with an air of confidence and feeling that was in line with the implications that John himself had been withholding. There was doubt in him of course with this statement, the bravado alone could just be posturing, much like every pompous old man in his age group who thinks they know it all.
Yet at the same time, that air and aura of confidence, almost a challenge to him, told John a different story. One that had been forming in his head given the nature of why this man was in Olympia and of his relation to … any of the heroes working in it.
"If you insist… though I'm unsure if-
"Boy… from a man to another man, just air it out. I have enough respect for you to keep secrets that I trust you'd do the same. If you have any doubts about my integrity at least, do not doubt my honor on this aspect, because I'd have been more honest with my own thoughts on you at the very start, had I not been as polite as I am right now."
The sudden authoritative, gentle, but very firm voice of the old man seemed to reflect the sudden low rumble in the sky above. John almost blinked from that sudden action and tone, one that would force him to even be assertive of this man's actions, but he couldn't. It was there that the cogs in his head started to roll, one that implied that he had been looking at somebody who wasn't what his appearance suggested he was.
Inwardly he frowned, he felt wary, but also strangely… excited for the feeling of being mundane in a steadily enlarging sea of people that was on his level and that was perhaps the highest compliment he would give to anyone, people with abilities or not, that he could award to a person.
For the moment, he would play along. Maintain his own advantage in the conversation by giving just enough to not look weak. "Alright then…"
The old man smiled. How much it reminded him of himself baffled him, even if John didn't show it. "Thank you, son." The old man simply said as John nodded back slightly as if acknowledging the silent sort of agreement between two parties that were feeling each other out.
"I mostly think… that I'm wasting my time." John started as he suddenly felt like the world made more sense now that he was being honest about it. He could even hear his heart, beat a bit faster due to it.
"With what?"
"People. I'm… tsk. I'm wasting my time trying to care about the people I meet every day. The people I save every day. The people that I keep seeing, strangers or not, that I keep encountering."
His breath hitches a bit as frustration finally reveals itself. "… but at the same time, I rely on it. I relish in the cheers, the people shouting my name, the smiles, the love, the kindness, the everything."
John frowns as the old man watches him in silence as they meet eyes. "It's confusing but it also makes… sense. For I know I like the attention, the egos being stroked as high as they could be, and the joy of seeing that every action has… fulfillment. But that's it… isn't it? That's what any person wants personally, but they also don't give a damn to the many faces that wish you to succeed. That wishes you to be happy. To my eyes, they're just that, cheers and dopamine that fade just as quickly as I forget each little face that makes up that arbitrary, limitless number of fans that sprung up around my name."
John sighed as the notion of pretending seemed to fade into the background as he listlessly looked into the distance, with an absent expression.
"When you've lived your entire life… being put into this repetition, this, feeling…" he raises his hand, trying to grasp air as if he was frustrated about it. "… you can't help but not give a shit. You can't help but just see all of those faces, all of those fans, as a statistic. Like an army of homeless cats and dogs that you fed in one moment and they follow you for the rest of your life expecting love and more."
John licks his lips. "You don't really expect to care about those animals unless you're like a fucking animal lover, because you might have just had an extra bit of snacks that you feel kind enough to share that day, and they think its… a sign of God that this a person one should follow."
"Yet you still feel obliged to relish in the praise and love that they give, right?" The old man suddenly interjected as John blinked at his words. He then smiles.
"Yeah… yeah. Weird, isn't it? You love the attention. The grace, fucking everything. You love it, but that's it. At some point, the God, the saint, the hero that they worship, all that delusion. They get to you. Because… well, it isn't you."
The old man looked at him with a bit of self-reflection as well, yet John continued on.
"I adore the praise and everything people give me. I live off of it. It's the reason why I exist, but when they all repeat to you and say that you're a good man, you're a prophet, and everything else, you begin to realize that you're no longer…. You. The world and all the people that admire you, are now what determines… who you are. An image that isn't your own. A… legacy that by and large, doesn't reflect the absence of who you possibly were in a vacuum."
"A nobody without a name. Without faith, adoration, just the idea and it isn't about you personally, you the run the risk of not even knowing who you are anymore…" the old man added much to his surprise again as John stared at him, shocked at how much he understood him.
"It's strange, isn't it? You both want it and hate it at the same time. But I can't even fathom it. I tried doing it. To care. To try and be this person, this image to all of those people, but there's nothing. There's… nothing." John finished as he finally let it out.
It was almost like a feeling of weight was taken off his shoulders as he finally admitted that.
"Because every person around you, doesn't feel real to you, doesn't it?" the old man started, not in an accusatory tone, but to John's surprise, a tone that seemed like he had been in the same place, much to even his own confusion. "That every face, every action has no consequence. All because you're a wolf trying to pretend to be sheep. You understand them, you feel them, you pity them, you can even… care in some aspect, but you are different than them altogether, and nothing you do to them bothers you in the slightest, because you don't see them as equals."
The old man turns to him with a grim, almost nostalgic expression. "You don't see them as equals. You only see them as beneath you, things that you can freely toy with, knowing that nothing you do will have any consequence, because, at the end of the day, you are the greater one. Even if many fear you for your actions, many still cling to even just the idea of you."
The silence after the old man finished his own words was enough of an indicator for John to both feel a certain kinship, mood kindred in the deepest sense with how the old man articulated those words with such certainty and realness that he also felt curious… wary, that he doesn't know who this old man was.
Then a certain memory of a certain patriotic hero, Soldier Boy, which was ingrained in him by Vought by their behavioral modification, sprung into his head. Soldier Boy died a tragic, heroic death, or at least that's what the propaganda and media would say.
He wouldn't make assumptions yet, of course, but it shocked him deeply to know how far this old man understood him, even if at the moment, the only truth he could parse from their words was with how his biology worked with each word and reflection he shared. None of it was a lie, at least with that assessment, and it bothered him while also feeling less lonely at present.
It was like having a conversation with Caenis. An equal with an equal.
"If I may, son…" the old man started.
"Yes?"
"What caused you to wish and bother to try and care about something that isn't yourself?"
John blinked at that sudden turn. Because that was the question of the hour, wasn't it? The reason why he wished to try. Why he wanted to be a new man by destroying and moving on from his past in the most literal and destructive (but freeing way) he could think of.
His mind then moved to a slew of memories now mixed with those that re-emerged from his past. A smiling young boy full of admiration and an uncaring woman who eventually looked at him in genuine pity. There was a clash of tone and meaning in both images in his head, but they were, at least at present, things that John clung to dearly.
"I've seen that look." The old man suddenly said before he could even reply.
"How?" he asked instead.
"Because I carry it also." The old man then turned towards the entrance of the garden, where a glimpse of the hallway inside saw a young blonde man and woman who were speaking animatedly with what John could only describe as one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
Yet beyond that, he was focused on the amount of sorrow and reflection the old man had in his voice. "Let me give you something to think about, son. If only to make you understand the confusion that you're in."
The weight in his words was palpable as if he was ancient.
Maybe… maybe this was Soldier Boy? Was he? Perhaps without the beard, he could recognize him. But other than that, the weight behind each word. It spoke to John.
"By all means," John said, a rare bout of humoring someone that came from him manifested, as he was curious himself. This wasn't Stillwell trying to placate him by speaking to him like he was a child and by corralling him through lust. This wasn't Stan Edgar who spoke to him like he was an uneducated idiot and carefully albeit painfully expose all of his faults down to the very last detail, as if deconstructing a fool in front of an audience in a debate.
This old man spoke to him, not as a kid, but as someone who seemed to remind him of himself.
"We are no different than them." The old man said to which John quickly understood. "We have the power, the strength, the ability to change the world around us as we see fit, but we are also bound by the human desire to cling to existing concepts."
John then saw him turn to him with a troubled grin as he continued. "For all the complex nature that is the human mind, every single one of us, even those with power, are bound at their bases by a natural, instinctual concept, or concepts that we have learned to feel attached to cling to. Because to us… that's the only real, important thing that matters."
"Sometimes actions do not have meaning or need to have a meaning. Sometimes that's just who we are. What we consider as having sense because that's what we're used to. Morality and ethics oftentimes don't factor in such things, because at the end of the day, people are creatures that thrive on familiarity. It's why most men are more inclined to worship Gods that look human and denounce those that aren't as heretical or paganistic." The old man explained as John remained utterly silent in surprise and shock as if he was being read like a book, but with conviction that was played into actual, living experience on the old man's side.
"It's why most men still look up to a murderer without any other reason except that they look majestic in their pursuit of violence and it's why even the most sanctified of saints can look someone in the eye in cold blood because some people suddenly don't fit their concept of 'good'."
The old man bitterly huffs as he thinks about his many known vices and even the rage of his own wife while looking at Europa across the room and through the door that leads to the hallway. "Sometimes, we just do all of those things, good or bad, because that's all we know. That's all we know that either gives us pleasure, justification, or meaning in our lives. It's all… we've ever done, even at the expense of others, even at the expense of their lives too."
"Why do anything else, even if it doesn't make sense, when what we do gives fulfillment, right? It's who we are, it's what we are as people." John then felt the old man pat his shoulder, with enough force that he felt it. But that's not what he focused on, what he focused on was the fact that what the old man explained to him, spoke deeply of what he was.
For as much as Stan Edgar berated him of being a simpleton, looking back…
He was. He truly was.
"But it all changes, doesn't it? When something actually related to you comes into the picture. When everything that previously made sense to you, is put into a blender, because you suddenly realize and look back that what you experienced as a person, is not something that you would want what's precious to you experience that."
Ryan. John remembered Ryan. John remembers Ryan admiring him simply because of the ideal he represented. The idea that every other person put him on, the pedestal, that sacred pedestal that made him out to be more than who he was. The unattainable ideal and person that John, by all accounts, wasn't.
How much his existence meant to him. How much his son's well-being and sudden introduction into his life after being reminded of what heroes were with Caenis, changed him. How that little boy that looked up to him like he was the brightest, most important part of his world, forced him to rethink many of his own decisions, to a significant extent.
And how Vought fucked it all up made him furious to an unprecedented level.
So much so that he yearned to see him again, but he was also… afraid of how much damage there was. Afraid and uneasy for the very first time in his life, what the loss that Ryan had experienced would mean for any reunion they might have.
It's why a bit of hesitation in trying to ask Caenis for time with his son was not yet brought up because he knew himself that he was unsure of what would happen next.
It was disappointing to know that everyone involved in that fiasco of his son's outburst was killed by whoever Olympia hero there was on the scene.
"I have many things in my life that I regret, boy… but also many things that I don't objectively care about because of who I am. But sooner or later, even for people like us, the consequence of our actions will always eventually catch up, and the realization of what we do, what we are as people toward the wider world hits you back, tenfold."
John paused from that as he watched the old man sigh, deeply.
"Does it… ever get better?" he suddenly asked, his question filled with doubt, confusion, curiosity, even interest at what might be as John knew that this old man had made his choice and intention on those thoughts moving forward, while he, was still lost.
The old man responded back with a very hearty chuckle.
"That's a decision that you should ask yourself, son. As often as people say that a person can change, it's not a concept or notion that is easy to do nor is it possible for some. Even the most wicked of people can do good things without the need or justification to do so and that also works for the other side as well."
The door to the hallway slid open as the smiling, beautiful woman with the motherly aura walked towards the old man at an even pace as she lit the entire garden just from her presence.
John then felt the old man pat his shoulder once more with a good amount of weight in it as his smile deepened in a thoughtful way. "What truly matters now is what you decide on what path you wish to take forward, knowing everything that's there. Whether you stick to what you are used to, or if this new thing you care about is something worth the permanent detour, is all up to you."
"And what about you? Have you found that new place in your life yet?" John asked.
"I'm an old man, son. An old man who was a terrible father. What do you think?" the old man said ominously with emotions that John couldn't decipher.
"Thank you so much for keeping him company!" the woman said as she neared them, much to John's own amusement and elation. His Freudian complex was kicking in for a bit, but it didn't diminish the swirling brevity of thoughts that he had at the current moment.
So much so that he missed what the woman said as she continued to apologize and even adore him with so much thanks that she could muster.
"I think the boy can talk to you later, dear… we mustn't intrude on his privacy right now. He needs a bit of air after all, right?" the old man said as he was helped up by the woman. John nodded back in thanks, knowing that the old man would be discreet and would keep to their agreement.
"Thank you again, Mr. Hero! It would be nice to meet you again!" the motherly woman said, much to John's own hope as he smiled back when they left.
Eventually, as he was left alone in the garden, waiting for the Caenis or another Olympia representative to take them to their official meeting, his thoughts drifted towards the recently finished conversation.
Time would tell what his path would be.
SYSTEM BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED*
Craft Designation: ἈΦΡΟΔΊΤΗ (APHRODITE)
Status: Contingency Protocol Alpha-01 Activated
[PRIMARY SYSTEMS CHECK*]
Hull Integrity: *22% Operational* *(78% structural damage detected)*
Auxiliary Repair Systems: *Active* *(efficiency severely impaired)*
Core Diagnostics: *Inaccessible* *(critical damage to central processing units)*
Temporal Sensors: *Offline* *(millennia of stasis undetected)*
Stealth Protocols: *DISENGAGED* *(Earth signal detected: proximity terminal activation)*
[SELF-REPAIR SYSTEMS REPORT*]
Nanite Reconstruction Efficiency: *11% Operational*
Core Systems Restoration: *FAILED* *(Insufficient resources)*
Signal Processing Nodes: *Rerouted and Partially Active*
[STEALTH FIELD STATUS*]
*OFFLINE* *(Manual override due to Contingency Protocol activation)*
Current Detection Risk: *Human observational threshold exceeded*
[EARTH SIGNAL DETECTED*]
Origin: Terminal Node 004-Z (Earth: Subsurface)
Silent Hail Protocol Initiated… [PENDING RESPONSE*
[SIGNAL RESPONSE STATUS*]
Awaiting confirmation...
Estimated delay: *0.000324 light-seconds*
Threat Assessment: *Minimal* *(Human technological capacity insufficient)*
[ERROR LOG: SYSTEM DAMAGE ANALYSIS*]
Parsing historical data… [CORRUPTED RECORDS*]
Reconstructing event chain…
[RECONSTRUCTION COMPLETE - PARTIAL DATA*
Cause of Critical Damage:
- External force identified.
- Designation: *"ABERRATION"* *(combat-class entity detected during final operational cycle)*
- Breach Analysis: Catastrophic structural impact.
- Note: Records indicate sustained assault from allied Ὀλύμπιοι units rendered defensive measures ineffective.
Reason for Survival:
- Statistical Probability: *0.024%* *(insufficient energy to complete annihilation sequence)*
- Redundancy Systems: Barely functional after engagement.
[MISSION PRIORITY UPDATE*]
Contingency Protocol Objective*
1. Reestablish connection with Earth-based terminal.
2. Analyze human development for potential Ὀλύμπιοι interaction.
3. Ascertain operational capacity for full system restoration.
4. Identify signs of ABERRATION activity.
[WARNING: INTERNAL STATUS CRITICAL*]
Parsing damage diagnostics reveals:
- 94% of weapon systems: *Non-functional*.
- Data archives: *Fragmented beyond repair*.
- Auxiliary AI Constructs: *Purged during emergency shutdown*.
[FINAL LOG NOTE*]
Primary system processes shudder as fractured memories of the White Titan's final, merciless assault replay within fragmented cores. Unyielding energy beams, immense strength, and the piercing brilliance that outmatched even the collective might of the Machine Gods… It was no victory, merely a prolonged annihilation.*
Silent Directive Issued*
Earth hail persists. Awaiting response.
Contingency remains active.
[CORE QUERY INITIATED*]
Why was the ABERRATION allowed to endure?
Why were we left to rot among the stars?
Why did the humans awaken me?
[SYSTEM ONLINE*]
For the first time in eons, the darkness dissipates within the shattered halls of ἈΦΡΟΔΊΤΗ. A dull crimson light pulses faintly, warning the void itself of her awakening. The craft stirs, no longer hidden, but watching.*
Her silent call reaches Earth, the message cold and foreboding: I have survived.*
Author Chapter Commentary:
Originally, the segment with Homelander and Zeus was supposed to be shorter than this, but I realized just with the upcoming arc where Homelander gets his due, that he needed something that had more meat in it. Specifically, the original plan was to mirror the two perspectives of Wodime and his bigger picture conversation with mortals to try and show that he cares, and John and his more personal, smaller picture conversation with his own being and the choices that he had made thus far, and what made him to the person that he currently was.
For his segment, the goal was to present the simplicity of human thought, especially those molded into the state of what Homelander was in the present. All his actions and decisions represent the kind of experiences he had in his youth as Vought's chief experiment. An experiment that decided and coded itself deep within him the traits that he would have in his adulthood and why sometimes, people like him, can't seem to run or change what they are. Sometimes they are just broken. Sometimes, people underneath all of the ego, the posturing, and pain, are just simple in the end, and those structures, the concepts that they are used to, they do that without justification. Without meaning. Without consequence, because to them, it's what makes sense. It's what they know for most of their lives. It's what they cling onto through their development.
As a central theme, while I could perhaps bring up addiction, especially in some people who have problems with it since they can't seem to break past or move away from it, even if it's toxic, I think the main point was that humans just clamor for familiarity. People clamor to what makes them comfortable most of all. It could be a feeling, an action, a concept, or anything else, at the end of the day you yearn for it because it makes you comfortable. It doesn't matter if it's good or bad, in a sense, and it doesn't absolve you or prop you up for the most part, but you do it because, to you, it's what makes sense.
For Homelander, I want to portray his actions, with a hint of being understandable there, as being human. Or human in the sense that you would still hate him, and feel angry and horrified at his actions, but you also see he is hollow and sociopathic like that because violence and nothing else was what he understood at the very start. He was a tool. An attack dog in all but name that Vought had created, as the woman with the red hair had said in his memory. An attack dog without a purpose beyond what they wanted out of him but also became far too powerful for them to control.
None of his actions are excusable just like the woman with the red hair who helped push some of those traits in him. But even the most uncaring and unethical people can randomly decide one day, that this is wrong, and to the woman in the red hair, she disappeared as soon as she tried anything against Vought.
Whether Homelander ultimately decides that's the path that he wishes to take, is solely up to him, but even fathoming that would be difficult for him and weighing how important Ryan is to him, would be something he would need to think long and hard about.
All of that said, applies to Zeus. Sometimes in an even more pronounced sense, especially when humanity eventually decided through the power of belief and faith that he does all of the things that he did in the Myths. This Zeus, while caring for humanity at present and done a lot for its preservation, is still quite very human just like the people that he risked his life in and in this moment, looking everything back and even parsing through the memories of Wodime to see the alternate selves of himself in other worlds, the God of Olympus reflects….
…and sees himself in Homelander.
Anyway. The expansion of this interesting topic (at least to me, and I hope the chapter is executed well enough to convey that) was also another practical decision I had made. I needed to return to the drawing board on certain ideas I had with the Artoria scenes and the second part of the Wodime explanation of Sefar and Gods. For the Artoria scene specifically, I needed to rework it from the ground up, and the Wodime part (which I work on as I write this piece) needs that extra bit of Daybit that I teased in the thread (for users, that means Spacebattles).
But on the flipside… a bit of a surprise on that system awakening huh?
Oh and yeah, Stormfront gonna appear soon, as well as a few more details on the red-haired woman who if you Nasu readers can guess, is by all accounts, her alternate self in this world.
Thank you again for reading (and this is probably the longest AN I have written for this story).
I hope you enjoyed it.