Disclaimer

This work is a piece of fan fiction written purely for entertainment purposes. It is not intended for commercial use or profit. The story draws upon characters, settings, and elements from The Boys (created by Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson, and owned by Dynamite Entertainment, Sony Pictures Television, and Amazon Studios) and the Iron Man/MCU franchises (owned by Marvel Entertainment, LLC, a subsidiary of The Walt Disney Company).

All intellectual property rights belong to their respective owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.

This story is an original interpretation and exploration of these universes, written as a creative homage to the source material. The characters, plots, and events introduced by the author are original to this work, except where explicitly derived from the referenced franchises.

Readers are encouraged to support the original creators and official releases of The Boys and the Iron Man/MCU franchises.

Art Commissions:

I have already received many offers to commission artwork for my stories through reviews and PMs. I welcome comments, ideas, and especially constructive criticism, but I am not interested in converting my writing to a visual format. Thank you.

Chapter 1 - New Life

Mercer Hospital, New York

December 1, 1996

Dr. James Whitaker, the leading obstetrician at Mercer Hospital, walked briskly down the bustling hallway, a clipboard in hand. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting a sterile glow on the pristine white walls. His eyes scanned the lab results clipped to his board, brow furrowed in concentration. Another routine day, another set of patients and expectant mothers to check on.

As he passed the nurses' station, one of the new interns flagged him down. "Dr. Whitaker, Mrs. Johnson's back. Another case of Braxton Hicks contractions," she informed him, a hint of sympathy in her voice.

Dr. Whitaker stopped, a warm, reassuring smile spreading across his face. "Ah, Mrs. Johnson. She's been in here quite a bit lately," he said, glancing briefly at the clock on the wall. "Just remind her to stay hydrated and rest as much as she can. It's common for first-time mothers to be alarmed by these false contractions. Tell her she's in good hands, and if the pain becomes rhythmic or more intense, we'll see her again. But for now, encourage her to take it easy."

The intern nodded, visibly relieved by his calm and confident demeanour. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll make sure to tell her."

With a nod and a quick pat on her shoulder, Dr. Whitaker continued down the hall, then turned into one of the hospital's less-used corridors. As he approached a door marked "Security," he subtly glanced around to ensure the hallway was clear. Satisfied that no one was watching, he entered the door code and held up his badge to the electronic lock. It flashed green, and he slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the bright hospital corridors. The room was filled with monitoring equipment, giving it the feel of a high-tech surveillance operation. A large screen dominated one wall, displaying live footage of a delivery room where a woman, Mrs. Greene, was about to give birth, attended by another obstetrician and a nurse. Next to the screen, away from the corridor entrance, was what looked like a secured vault door. It led directly into the delivery room but was hidden from the other side.

Two other people were already inside the room. Dr. Eugenia Kim, another obstetrician from the hospital, sat by the monitors, her expression focused and serious. Near the entrance stood a security guard, surprisingly well-armed for a hospital setting. He had a Glock holstered at his side, alongside a taser and knives strapped to his belt. He stood near a weapons rack holding other items like a net launcher and a ballistic shield.

Dr. Whitaker's friendly facade melted away, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. He set down his clipboard and held out a hand as he addressed Dr. Kim, his voice now clipped and professional. "Dr. Kim, the file on Mrs. Greene, please."

Dr. Kim handed over a sealed file, her eyes never leaving the screen. "These are the latest results, including the amniocentesis and latest ultrasound. We're monitoring for any anomalies caused by the prenatal Compound V injections."

Whitaker took the file and quickly scanned the contents, noting the flagged indicators and subtle changes. His eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the information. "This is consistent with what we've observed in similar cases. There aren't any obvious deviations; nothing to indicate what we'll be dealing with this time."

The security guard, standing by the weapons rack, watched the exchange silently. His presence was a stark reminder of the precautions in place, prepared for scenarios far beyond the norm of typical hospital security concerns.

Whitaker glanced at the large screen, where Mrs. Greene was breathing heavily, her face contorted in pain. "Let's hope this is one of the more normal ones," he muttered. "We don't want another laser cesarean."

Dr. Kim shuddered, her expression grim. "Those ones are always such a pain to clean up."

With another look at the screen, Whitaker's demeanour shifted back to his usual professional calm. "Let's just keep everything under control. We can't afford any complications at this stage."

He placed the file above the control panel next to his clipboard and sat down beside Dr. Kim to continue monitoring the delivery room.

Poughkeepsie, New York

January 3, 1997

Nathan was starting to get used to being an infant, but that didn't make it any less awkward.

He remembered a time before this before he was reborn. He'd died, then found himself in that strange, sterile office. He'd argued with a woman who claimed to be some kind of cosmic middle manager, only for her to demonstrate her power by turning him into a gecko. Then came the offer: he would be reincarnated into the world of The Boys with the powers of Superman, Harry Potter, or Iron Man. He'd chosen the Iron Man. What followed had been agony—a torrent of data, blueprints, and memories shoved into his brain, leaving him breathless and shaking.

And now, here he was, stuck in a baby's body, raised by parents who had no idea they were raising a super genius.

He lay in a crib surrounded by soft blankets and stuffed animals, staring up at a mobile that spun slowly above him. The little stars and moons danced in circles, their cheerful design at odds with the storm of frustration brewing inside him. He kicked his tiny legs half-heartedly, testing their strength. Yep, still weak and useless.

How do babies do this? he thought bitterly. How does anyone tolerate it?

His head lolled to the side as he tried to turn, the motion clumsy and uncoordinated. Great. My neck can't even keep up with my thoughts. Perfect.

It wasn't just the lack of motor control that got to him—it was the helplessness. Whenever he needed something, he had to scream for it like a lunatic. Food, a diaper change, comfort—it all came at the mercy of the two people he'd come to know as his new parents: Hank and Martha Greene.

To their credit, they weren't bad people. They seemed to be decent enough. Hank was a wiry, strong man with dark hair and eyes, calloused hands and a quiet, practical demeanour. He owned a scrapyard on the edge of town, a surprisingly lucrative business that kept the family comfortably middle-class. Martha, on the other hand, was an artist. She spent her days in the sunlit corner of their modest home, turning scraps from Hank's yard into abstract sculptures or painting vibrant landscapes on canvas.

Nathan couldn't deny something was soothing about watching her work. When she wasn't painting, she'd hum soft tunes while holding him, her green eyes warm and gentle. She smelled faintly of turpentine and lavender, a strange but oddly comforting combination.

Still, no amount of parental competence could make up for the fact that being a baby sucked. He hated the diapers, the inability to communicate, and the sheer indignity of it all. Every time Hank ruffled his hair or Martha cooed at him, he had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes—or he would have if he'd had the coordination for it.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention. The door creaked open, and Hank peeked inside. His sharp blue eyes softened as they landed on Nathan. "Hey, buddy," he said, his voice low but warm. "You awake?"

Nathan gurgled in response, the closest thing he could manage to a greeting.

Hank chuckled and stepped into the room, his presence filling the small space. He leaned over the crib and gently adjusted the blanket around Nathan. "Your mom's making something special in the kitchen. Smells like heaven. Maybe when you're older, you'll get to taste it, huh?"

Nathan sighed internally. Yeah, because baby formula is such a gourmet experience. On the other hand, it was a big improvement on breastfeeding. At least I'm done with that.

As if on cue, Martha called from downstairs. "Hank! Bring him down! Dinner's almost ready!"

Hank straightened and reached into the crib, lifting Nathan with ease. His grip was firm but careful, the kind of hold that spoke of a man used to handling delicate things despite his rough exterior. Nathan winced as he was jostled slightly.

"Alright, kiddo, let's see what your mom's cooked up," Hank said, carrying him down the stairs.

The house was modest but comfortable. The walls were adorned with Martha's artwork, a mix of colourful abstract pieces and realistic landscapes. The living room was cozy, with a well-worn couch, a sturdy coffee table, and shelves lined with books and knickknacks. A faint smell of roasted vegetables and herbs wafted in from the kitchen, making Nathan's stomach growl instinctively, even though he knew he wouldn't be eating any of it.

As Hank carried him into the kitchen, Martha turned from the stove, a smile lighting up her face. "There's my sweet little boy!" she said, reaching out to tickle Nathan's chin.

Nathan groaned internally but let out a delighted coo instead. Survival instincts, right? Play the part.

Hank chuckled, setting Nathan in a high chair they'd modified with extra cushions to prop him up. Martha wiped her hands on a dishtowel and leaned in to kiss Nathan's forehead.

"Dinner's ready," she said, glancing at Hank. "Think you'll be able to keep him entertained while I finish plating?"

Hank nodded, sitting beside Nathan and pulling a small trinket from his pocket—a smooth piece of scrap metal he'd polished into the shape of a star. He handed it to Nathan, who grabbed it instinctively.

"There you go, buddy," Hank said. "Something to play with while we eat. Your mom says you're gonna be an artist one day, just like her. Or maybe you'll be an engineer like me."

Nathan stared at the star, the edges glinting faintly in the kitchen light. Oh, you have no idea.

He glanced at Martha, who was humming as she arranged plates, and then at Hank, who leaned back with an easy smile.

They seemed happy. Comfortable. And while Nathan couldn't shake the awkwardness of being an infant, he had to admit—it could've been worse.

March 15, 1997

It got worse, but only a little.

Nathan had learned more about his parents over the past couple of months, and while they were good people, some things about them gnawed at him. One of the more harmless things was that Hank liked to fix up old cars and smaller machines salvaged from work—a cool hobby, sure—but it often led to arguments with Martha. She'd lay claim to a piece of scrap he thought was perfect for a restoration project, insisting it would make the ideal centrepiece for her next sculpture. They always made up, though. It was very uncomfortable whenever they started making out with Nathan in the room, probably assuming that as a baby, he wouldn't remember. More incentive to learn how to crawl and walk, or at least roll over.

Then there was the church. Every Sunday, without fail, Hank and Martha attended the local service, dragging Nathan along. Boring but not a deal breaker, at least not on its own. He'd become an atheist back in Sunday school during his first life, and while he knew gods existed now, that apparently did not include the one his parents believed in. His issue wasn't with faith itself. It was where it might lead.

This wasn't just any world—it was The Boys'universe, where evangelical faith and public trust were tools in the hands of a corporate nightmare like Vought. And Nathan could see the seeds of that connection here. Hank and Martha seemed like honest, hardworking people, but he couldn't help but worry about how their values might make them vulnerable. Would they buy into Vought's propaganda? Would they see supes as divine gifts rather than corporate weapons? The thought kept him up at night.

But the most worrying part of his new life wasn't church. It was the trophies.

Nathan still couldn't walk, but he'd been carried past the two displays often enough to notice. One showcased Hank's high school baseball trophies, polished to a shine. The other held Martha's teenage beauty pageant awards, just as meticulously maintained. They weren't just mementos—they were shrines.

The care and attention given to those trophies made Nathan's stomach churn. They reminded him of the kind of parents who relived their glory days through their kids. The kind who pushed their children to succeed at any cost.

Just like Starlight's mother.

Vought sure knows how to pick 'em, Nathan thought grimly, staring at the polished trophies from his playpen.

It was becoming increasingly clear that his new life wasn't going to be simple.

April 9, 1997

It didn't take Nathan long to notice that something was different about him—something beyond just the massive knowledge dump he'd been given.

The first sign was his memory. He could remember everything since birth, perfectly. At first, he dismissed it as some quirk of being a newborn. Babies' brains are like sponges, right? Maybe it was natural to remember things vividly when your entire world consisted of cribs, mobiles, and bottles. But as the weeks rolled by, he realized it wasn't fading. If anything, it was sharpening. Every cry, every sensation, every odd moment of being cradled or fed—it was all there, clear as day.

The second sign came during a mundane trip to the grocery store. Martha had taken him along in the baby carrier strapped to her chest, cooing at him as she strolled through the aisles. He'd mostly tuned her out, letting his mind wander while she filled the cart. It wasn't until they got to the checkout counter that something clicked.

The cashier was ringing up the items, calling out prices as she went. Without even thinking about it, Nathan's brain began tallying the total in real time. $3.79 for the bread. $1.29 for the eggs. $4.50 for the milk. By the time the cashier finished and added the tax, Nathan had the exact number. $32.89. Sure enough, the register beeped, displaying the same total.

It wasn't just quick math—it was instantaneous. And scarily precise.

Nathan froze, or as much as a baby could freeze. Okay, that's... weird. But maybe it's just a fluke?

The real test came a few days later during a more serious incident.

Hank and Martha were working on their taxes at the kitchen table, papers and receipts scattered everywhere. Nathan sat in his high chair nearby, bored out of his mind as he mashed squash around his tray. At least, that's what it looked like to them. In reality, Nathan's brain had kicked into overdrive, sketching out patterns in the mush that vaguely resembled a schematic for a modified ARC reactor.

It wasn't a conscious effort—more like a reflex. His fingers traced circuits and connections, the flow of energy through a hypothetical system that would be cleaner, smaller, and more efficient than the original designs. He'd just finished outlining the primary core when he glanced up and caught sight of their tax return.

His brain immediately zeroed in on an error.

Hank had forgotten to carry a decimal on one of the business expense entries. It wasn't a huge deal—it probably wouldn't even be noticed if they were audited. But probably wasn't good enough for Nathan.

He weighed his options, his tiny hand hovering over the tray of mashed squash. He couldn't just tell them about the mistake; he'd been playing the role of a helpless infant too well to suddenly start pointing out math errors. Instead, he decided to take a more subtle approach.

With an apologetic thought for the mess he was about to create, Nathan grabbed a handful of squash and flung it at the offending page.

Martha yelped in surprise. "Nathan!"

Hank groaned, grabbing a napkin. "What was that for, buddy? We just got these printed."

Nathan babbled innocently, making wide-eyed baby noises.

Martha sighed, wiping at the page, but it was no use. The mashed squash had soaked into the paper, smearing the ink. "Great. Now we'll have to reprint this section."

"Better safe than sorry," Hank muttered, tossing the ruined page into the trash. He pulled up their file on the computer and started re-entering the numbers.

Nathan watched silently as Hank's eyes widened.

"Wait a minute," Hank said. "I missed something here." He corrected the decimal, double-checking the math. "Huh. That could've been bad if we left it like that."

Martha glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "Good catch. Guess the little guy did us a favour, huh?"

Hank chuckled, looking over at Nathan. "Guess so. Maybe he's got a knack for numbers already."

Nathan gurgled in response, making his best impression of a clueless baby. Internally, he sighed in relief. Crisis averted.

As Hank and Martha returned to their work, Nathan turned back to his tray, the faint outlines of his reactor design still visible in the squash. He stared at it for a moment, his tiny brow furrowed, and then he used his chubby little fingers to smear the squash around, reducing the carefully laid design into just another mess.

It wasn't just the knowledge Stark had left him. Something about his mind—his memory, his processing and precision—had changed. He'd gotten Stark's mind too. ... Come to think of it, maybe that wasn't such a good thing. Hopefully, he didn't grow up to be an alcoholic man-whore. There were enough supes like that running around already.

Greene Family Living Room

July 4, 1997

Nathan was perched on the couch between his parents, gnawing absentmindedly on a rubber ring while his parents lounged on the couch. The television was tuned to VNN—Vought News Network. In their trademark, overproduced style, a bright, patriotic graphic transitioned to a live feed. The screen displayed a stage adorned with the iconic Vought logo, where a man stood on stage.

Stan Edgar.

Nathan's eyes narrowed slightly. Edgar's measured voice carried through the room with the smooth confidence of a man who always got what he wanted. "Ladies and gentlemen," Edgar began, his tone deliberate and commanding, "please welcome to the stage the latest and, might I say, greatest addition to the Vought crimefighting family."

The camera zoomed in on Edgar's face, capturing every precise movement and subtle smile. Nathan's stomach clenched as he realized Edgar looked exactly like Giancarlo Esposito from the show. Good, Nathan thought. That confirms it. This is the show universe. At least I don't have to worry about the absolute insanity of the comics version.

The stage darkened, and a beam of brilliant white light cut through the centre as the ceiling opened. The camera panned upward to reveal the silhouette of a descending figure.

Nathan's chubby fists gripped the edge of his playpen as he stared at the screen. The teenager in the blue bodysuit landed gracefully, his red cape fluttering behind him. It wasn't the American flag cape that would later become infamous—just a simple crimson one. His characteristic eagle pauldron was also absent.

The camera zoomed in on Homelander's face, showing a square jaw, perfectly styled blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through the lens. Nathan's unease deepened. He looked exactly like a young Antony Starr. Thank God for small mercies, Nathan thought.I don't think I could handle the comic version of him—or some of the horrific things he did, especially not the clone one.

Behind Homelander loomed a massive projection of his smiling face, stylized and larger-than-life.

From one side of Stan Edgar Madelyn Stillwell chimed in, oozing polished corporate charm as she began narrating the story of Homelander's origin. Nathan tuned her out; he didn't need to hear the nonsense propaganda.

"Isn't he amazing?" Martha said, turning to Hank.

On the couch, Hank shifted uncomfortably, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "He looks a bit scrawny to be taking over for Soldier Boy, don't you think?"

Nathan coughed, trying and failing to stifle a laugh.

Martha looked over at him sharply. "Are you okay, sweetie?"

Nathan nodded quickly, putting on his best baby smile. Talking had become easier a few weeks ago, and he'd leaned into it—pretending to struggle just enough to seem like a precocious toddler. "Fine, Mama," he chirped in baby talk. "Want juice."

Martha's expression softened immediately. "Of course, honey. Let's go get you some juice." She picked him up off the couch and started to carry him away.

As she headed to the kitchen, Nathan let out a slow breath over her shoulder. Onscreen, Homelander stepped up, his expression calculated to convey warmth and humility. Nathan wasn't fooled for a second. He knew exactly how insecure the real John was.

He watched as Homelander launched into his pre-rehearsed anecdote about baseball, while Hank and the onscreen audience seemed to be eating up every word.

So it begins, Nathan thought grimly, his mind already racing with plans.