Where The Heart Is: Issue # VIII (Patreon)

Where The Heart Is: Issue # VIII

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –ONE MONTH AGO– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The dining room table was a mess of sketches and designs, a kaleidoscope of reds, whites, and blues splashed across the polished wood. Greg leaned over the table, his brow furrowed as he studied each concept, his blue eyes darting from one to the next. He tugged at the hem of his faded blue superhero t-shirt, the fabric worn soft from countless washes. Even still, it was one of his favorites, designed to look like one of Soldier Boy’s rarer-seen costumes, all blue and white and silver.

"No... not this... definitely not that..." he muttered under his breath, pushing aside designs with a slight frown. They were all so... loud. So in-your-face patriotic, like they were trying too hard to scream 'America!' with every stitch.

Across the table, Homelander leaned back in his chair, his crisp light blue button-down a stark contrast to Greg's casual attire. He observed his son's reactions, his unnecessary glasses perched on his nose, his favorite pair that he wore for his secret identity; not that he even had one anymore "What do you think, son? Any of these catch your eye?"

Greg shook his head, his messy blond hair falling into his eyes. "Not really, Dad. They're all..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking to the living room visible through the open archway.

His mom was pacing in there, her white pantsuit a blur of motion as she gestured with her free hand, her voice a hissed whisper into her phone. "...name-calling, really? I have a family too, years before you ever did."

Homelander's voice pulled Greg's attention back. "What are you looking for? What do you want to see?"

Greg sighed, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back off the table slighly. That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? What did he want?

He looked back down at the designs, at the "Star-Spangled Scion" with its waving flag cape, the "Liberty's Legacy" with its golden gauntlets, the "Patriot's Pride" with its stylized 'V' emblem. They all felt like... like costumes. Like something he'd wear for Halloween, not something he'd wear to save the world.

From the living room, his mom's voice rose, the words sharp and biting. "...tell that blue-eyed bastard to get back on the phone so I can tell him who the goddamn university belongs to."

Greg winced, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table. He knew his mom's history with Godolkin, knew the tension that still lingered there. But he didn't want to think about that right now. He had his own problems to deal with.

Like this stupid costume.

He pushed aside the "Freedom's Heir" design, with its Statue of Liberty mask, and the "American Dream" with its star-spangled torso. None of them felt right. None of them felt like him.

The click of heels on hardwood announced his mom's approach, her phone call apparently over. "So, what's the consensus? What's my baby boy going for costume-wise?" she asked, her voice light, but Greg could hear the strain beneath it.

He looked up at both his parents, a helpless shrug lifting his shoulders. "I dunno, just something... iconic, I guess."

Homelander leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze intent. "What does that mean to you, Greg?"

"...I dunno." Greg fidgeted with a design, the paper crinkling under his fingers. He could feel his dad's eyes on him, could feel the weight of expectation. "These all feel like they're trying too hard to be... well, you, Dad."

A beat of silence, then Homelander spoke, his voice soft. "You don't have to be me, son. You're your own hero."

"That's right, sweetie," his mom chimed in, her hand resting on Greg's shoulder, a comforting weight. "What makes you feel powerful?"

Greg chewed on his lip, his mind racing. What did make him feel powerful? Not stars and stripes, that was for sure. "Maybe something simpler? Less... stars and stripes everywhere?"

His parents exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Then they nodded, almost in unison. "Alright, let's brainstorm," Homelander said, pulling a blank sheet of paper towards him. "What colors are we thinking?"

Greg sat back, a thoughtful look on his face. "I think I have an idea... but I'll need to work on it more."

"Whatever you choose, you'll look amazing, honey," his mom said, her smile warm and encouraging.

Homelander squeezed Greg's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Take your time. This is about you, not what Vought thinks will sell."

Greg nodded, his mind already whirling with possibilities. "...Hmmm."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –ONE WEEK AGO– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"...and that's why we believe this design perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the Veder legacy," Seth concluded, his smile wide and artificial under the harsh lighting. "It's a fresh take on a classic concept, one that will resonate with today's youth while still honoring the heroes of the past."Greg shifted in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him as he tried to find a comfortable position. They'd been at this for what felt like hours, Seth and Evan tag-teaming their pitch with a level of enthusiasm that bordered on manic.The spacious boardroom in Vought Tower felt more like a prison than a place for creative discussion. Greg Veder sat at the elongated table made of high-quality wood, his posture a mix of forced stillness and barely contained energy. His fingers drummed nervously on the polished surface, the sound amplified in the tense silence of the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the impressive New York skyline, but even the natural light flooding the room couldn't ease the growing discomfort in Greg's gut.

He felt out of place in his casual hoodie and jeans, a stark contrast to the formal setting and the crisp suits worn by most of the adults in this place. Their eyes had been on him since he’d walked in with his dad by his side, people unsure of how to react. A couple people had clapped, several had saluted; Greg felt like gagging. The smile on his face was brittle, the various ‘yes”’s  he’d already had to say heavy in his mouth.“It's... it's great. All… sounds real good," he managed, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. "Really captures the, uh, the essence of what we're going for."Across from him, Seth Reed, a black man with short hair and a receding hairline, exuded an air of practiced enthusiasm. His initial quiet demeanor had given way to animated gestures and an overly bright smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. As he spoke, his hands moved in sweeping motions, as if painting a picture of the grand future he was trying to sell to Greg. “Glad you think that, Greg, we were really going for…”

Next to Seth, Evan Lambert, a younger man with a stubble beard and plaid shirt, presented a more casual appearance, likely an attempt to appear relatable to the teenage Greg. His energy was palpable, body language open and excited as he punctuated Seth's words with enthusiastic nods and well-timed interjections. There was a hint of desperation in his eyes, a need to prove himself in this high-stakes meeting that became more apparent as Greg's disinterest grew.Isadora, a Hispanic woman wearing large glasses, stood by an easel draped with large, professional-quality sketches and color swatches. Her hand gestured towards a central design that dominated the display as she took that moment to interject. "If you'll look here, Greg," she said, pointing to a particular sketch, "you'll see how we've incorporated elements of your father's costume into the design. The colors, the lines - it's a nod to his father as well.”

At the far end of the table sat Homelander, observing silently as promised. His costume, a beacon of red, white, and blue, stood out starkly against the muted tones of the boardroom. Though he remained true to his word about staying silent, his eyes never left Greg, watching his son's reactions with intense focus.

As the presentation continued, Greg's thoughts raced, a mix of confusion and frustration building with each passing moment. He questioned the practicality of the shield featured prominently in the design. What am I supposed to do with a shield? I can punch through walls, for crying out loud.

His keen eyes noticed the constant, subtle glances the presenters threw towards Homelander, each look a silent plea for approval or guidance. A creeping realization dawned on Greg: This isn't about me at all. They don't care what I want. They just want to make Dad happy.

The growing irritation manifested physically, his jaw clenching and unclenching, fingers curling into fists beneath the table as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"So, Greg, picture this," Seth said, his voice dripping with forced excitement. "You're leaping through the sky, this majestic eagle on your chest catching the light..."

Evan clapped his hands together, his grin wide and manic. "Exactly! It's like you're carrying the spirit of America with you! A living embodiment of the values your family has always stood for!"

Greg's eye twitched, his patience wearing thinner by the second. Is that all I am to them? he wondered, his fingers curling into fists beneath the table. A mini Homelander, a Soldier Boy 2.0? 

"The shield, it's not just a weapon, it's a symbol," Seth continued, gesturing to the design. "Like your dad's strength, your grandpa's legacy..."

"It's perfect for social media too!" Evan chimed in, his enthusiasm grating on Greg's nerves. "Imagine the hashtags: #NextGenHero, #VederLegacy..."

The tension in Greg finally snapped like an overstretched rubber band; he jumped to his feet, the sudden movement causing his chair to screech against the polished floor.

"Shut up!" he yelled, slamming his palms down onto the table with a resounding bang. Pens rolled and water glasses rattled alarmingly as the room fell silent, all eyes on the teenage boy who had just demand their attention.

Greg's voice trembled with a mix of anger and pent-up frustration as he continued. "All of your ideas... they suck. Like I mean, terrible. Why do they pay you?"

Seth and Evan sat frozen in shock, their mouths hanging open comically. Isadora slowly lowered her pointer, looking uncertain.

"This isn't the 90s, and it's not the 50s," Greg went on, his blue eyes blazing. "No one cares about teen rebellion. I'm not my grandpa. I'm not my dad either. I'm... I'm me. I want something for me."

At the far end of the table, Homelander smiled proudly, giving his son a slight nod of approval.

Seth recovered first, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Greg, we understand you want to be unique, but market research shows..."

"Market research?" Greg interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain. "Is that all I am to you? A product?"

Evan raised his hands in a placating gesture. "No, no, of course not! We just want to ensure your success..."

"By making me a copy of my dad? Or my grandpa?" Greg scoffed, rolling his eyes. "That's not success, that's... that's just lazy."

Isadora stepped forward, her thick accent cutting through the tension. "Perhaps we've been approaching this wrong. Why don't you tell us what you envision?"

Greg blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. "I... I had an idea."

He reached into the front pocket of his blue and white hoodie and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper. Smoothing it out, he stared at it for a few seconds, his heart pounding in his chest. Here goes nothing.

With a deep breath, Greg slid the paper across the table towards the waiting adults.

"How's this?"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –NOW– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The evening air hung heavy with the lingering scent of rain, a damp chill settling over the bustling supermarket parking lot. Puddles of varying sizes dotted the asphalt, reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights overhead like miniature mirrors. The rhythmic sound of car doors slamming and shopping carts rattling filled the air, punctuated by the occasional honk or rev of an engine.

A woman in her mid-thirties, her brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, navigated the wet terrain with practiced ease. Her arms were laden with a paper bag overflowing with groceries, the plastic handles of additional bags looped around her wrists. She weaved between parked cars and shoppers, her sensible flats carefully avoiding the deeper puddles.

As she approached her car, a simple blue Corolla, she fumbled for her keys. The woman shifted her weight, trying to maintain her grip on the groceries while fishing in her pocket. Suddenly, the keys slipped from her grasp, hitting the wet pavement with a metallic splash.

"Dang it," she muttered, bending down awkwardly, her knees creaking in protest. The paper bag teetered precariously in her arms as she stretched her fingers towards the keys.

That's when she heard it.

A high-pitched screech pierced the air, starting as a distant wail but rapidly growing louder. The woman's head snapped up, her eyes widening as she took in the scene unfolding before her.

A large white van careened through the lot, tires spinning uselessly against the slick pavement. It fishtailed wildly, sending up plumes of water in its wake. The van's trajectory was erratic, unpredictable, and horrifyingly clear – it was heading straight for her.

Time seemed to slow down.

The woman could see the driver's face through the windshield, his eyes wide with panic, hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white. His mouth was open in a silent scream as he frantically tried to regain control of the vehicle.

Around her, chaos erupted. A man dropped his coffee, the paper cup exploding on impact. A teenager fumbling with his phone looked up just in time to dive out of the way, his sneakers squeaking against the wet asphalt. A mother yanked her child close, shielding the little girl's eyes.

The van was less than fifty feet away now, closing the distance at an alarming rate. The woman's muscles tensed, her mind screaming at her to move, to run, to do something. But she remained frozen, rooted to the spot by a paralyzing mix of shock and fear.

Forty feet.

Thirty feet.

Twenty feet.

The van's headlights illuminated her face, momentarily blinding her. She could hear the screech of tires, the panicked shouts of onlookers, the thunderous pounding of her own heart.

Ten feet.

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact.

But instead of the expected crash, she felt something solid collide with her side. The world spun as she was knocked off her feet, her groceries flying in all directions. Cans clattered across the pavement, fruits and vegetables rolled into puddles, and her carefully selected loaf of bread sailed through the air like a misshapen football.

She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the wind out of her lungs. The rough asphalt scraped against her palms and knees, but the pain was distant, overshadowed by the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

There was a deafening screech of metal, followed by an eerie silence.

Hesitantly, the woman opened her eyes.

The van hung suspended in the air, its front end tilted skyward at an impossible angle. The wheels spun uselessly for a few seconds before gradually coming to a stop. Wisps of steam rose from the hood, mingling with the misty air.

Her gaze shifted, taking in the scene around her. Onlookers stood with mouths agape, phones raised to capture the unbelievable sight. The driver of the van was slumped over the steering wheel, dazed but apparently unharmed.

And then she saw him.

Standing between her and certain death was a figure straight out of a comic book. He wore a blue bodysuit that hugged his athletic frame, accented with bold red stripes along the sides. A large white star adorned his chest, gleaming under the parking lot lights. Matching blue gloves and boots completed the ensemble, giving him a polished, heroic appearance.

The woman's eyes traveled upward, taking in the young man's face. Bright blue eyes sparkled, framed by a mop of golden blond hair, his lips curved into a reassuring smile.

As she watched, dumbfounded, he lowered one hand from the van, which remained suspended with the other as if it weighed no more than a toy. He extended his free hand towards her, his voice warm and steady as he spoke.

"You're okay, ma'am."