Where The Heart Is: Issue # IX (Patreon)

"Are your brakes Vought Motors strong?" The boy on screen in the patriotic costume gave a thumbs up and a smile as the words Vought Motors appeared on screen, Greg's youthful face beaming with an almost artificial level of enthusiasm.

The remote paused the advertisement on the TV, the image frozen on the young hero's glossy grin. The hand holding the remote was manicured to perfection, each nail filed to a neat oval and polished with a subtle sheen. A slight sigh left the mouth of Madelyn Stillwell, her cool blue eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the still image, remote in hand.

The sleek, modern conference room buzzed faintly with the low hum of whispered side conversations and the soft clink of a coffee mug set down too abruptly on the glass table. Madelyn stood near the front, the muted gray walls and floor-to-ceiling windows serving as a backdrop to her tailored blue pantsuit. Her posture exuded a casual authority, confident without being stiff. She tapped a button on the remote, changing the channel to a profile of the boy in question.

"Tell me what we're gonna do with this kid," she said, her voice a controlled blend of authority and exasperation, tinged with a husky undercurrent that demanded attention without raising in volume. Compared to the happy-go-lucky pep she injected into her tone when dealing with the Seven, the subtle ice in her words could have frozen the pitcher of water on the table solid. Granted, there was a difference between temperamental demigods that could slide their hands through titanium and the jelly-spined Syracuse graduates in front of her.

The room fell silent, the soft sounds abruptly halting as all eyes turned towards her. They're waiting for direction, Madelyn thought, her gaze flicking across the faces of her team. Madelyn's gaze flicked across the faces of her team, assessing, calculating. She could see the wheels turning in their heads, the scramble to come up with a response that would impress her, or at least not disappoint. 

Waiting for me to tell them what to think. It was a power she relished, the ability to shape not just public opinion but the very thoughts of those around her.

Seth Reed and Evan Lambert, sitting closest to where she stood at opposite sides of the table, shifted uncomfortably under her piercing gaze. Seth, with his receding hairline and carefully neutral expression, looked like he wanted to speak but thought better of it. Smart man, Madelyn mused. Evan, on the other hand, fidgeted with his plaid shirt, his stubble-shadowed jaw working as if chewing on unspoken words.

"Also, who's fucking idea was it to have him do a Vought Motors ad even as a concept?" Madelyn continued, her tone sharpening like a knife honing its edge. "Cause this shit isn't going to fucking air. What demographic is this meant to reach?"

A collective breath seemed to hold in the room; even the air conditioning appeared to pause, the gentle whoosh of cool air halting as if awaiting her command. When no one answered, Madelyn let out a soft, strategic sigh, allowing the hint of a frown to briefly mar her pretty features. Let them stew in the discomfort, she thought, let them feel the weight of their own inadequacy.

"Hypothetical," she declared with a dismissive wave of her hand, redirecting their focus. "Moving on…"

The room itself was a reflection of Vought's sleek, modern aesthetic. The walls, a muted gray, were adorned with the company's bold, metallic blue logo—a stylized "V" that seemed to watch over the proceedings with a cold, corporate eye. The large, oval conference table gleamed under the soft lighting, the chairs arranged in a horseshoe formation that put Madelyn at the center.

Some of the marketing team leaned forward, engaged, taking notes on laptops or tablets. Others sat back, arms crossed, feigning casualness but clearly feeling the weight of Madelyn's presence. Screens around the room displayed metrics and live updates on public sentiment towards the latest supe-related scandal, the numbers and graphs a constant reminder of the stakes at play.

It's all about control, Madelyn mused, her eyes scanning the room, taking in every detail. Control the narrative, control the people, control the fucking world. It was a mantra she lived by, a philosophy that had carried her to the top of Vought's cutthroat corporate ladder.“Ideas, people,” she snapped her fingers sharply. “I need fuckin’ ideas. Homelander’s brat is our next big thing and his launch coincides with our second next big thing. Vought’s All-American team of young heroes! Not sidekicks, but proteges, to be the next Seven!” Madelyn’s blue eyes narrowed, landing on the man nearest her. “But focusing on our moneymaker, what's the angle here?"

Seth Reed leaned forward slightly. "Well, it’s obvious we've got a real opportunity here, Madelyn," he said, his deep voice measured, confident. "American Son, the kid of America's favorite hero. It's a marketer's dream."

The woman’s eyes narrowed and Seth shrunk back. “Uh…huh, tell me something I don’t know, Seth.” Madelyn raised an eyebrow, a silent prompt for him to continue. 

Seth nodded, his hands spreading as if to encompass a grand vision. “Wholesome, relatable, but with just a hint of edge. He's the kid every mother wants her son to be, and every girl wants to bring home to meet the parents.""And how do we sell American Son to the masses?"Madelyn asked, her gaze sweeping over the assembled team. 

"America's Favorite Son has a son of his own!" Evan Lambert leaned forward with a salesman's grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, his voice a bit too eager, too forced.

Madelyn raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her lips pursing slightly. Trying too hard, she thought, desperate to impress. "And? What's the hook? What makes this kid special, beyond his parentage?"

"We've got the kid, American Son," a female marketer chimed in, her tone clinical, assessing. "Barely a Diet Homelander in abilities. More of a Soldier-Boy lite."

Nicole, Madelyn remembered, putting a name to the face. Sharp, analytical, with a keen eye for both powers and marketability. She was an asset, one Madelyn intended to cultivate."But with room to grow," Seth added, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. "Kid's got potential, just needs the right packaging. So, of course, an action figure and toy line."

"Too much baby fat for heartthrob status," another woman commented, her tone clinical, assessing, "but a year or two and he'll be a real panty dropper for girls 11 to 18."

Madelyn's lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. Crude, but not wrong, she thought. The idea of shaping not just a hero but a sex symbol, of controlling the fantasies and desires of a generation, held a certain appeal. "And the boys? We can't forget about that demographic."

"Oh, definitely," Evan agreed, leaning back in his chair. "Every young boy's gonna wanna be him, have his powers, his cool factor."

"More than that," Seth added, "his 'good boy' energy makes sure parents will love him too."

Bingo, Madelyn thought, her smirk widening into a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. Appeal to the youth, win over the parents, control the whole fucking family. It was a strategy she knew well, one she had employed countless times with countless supes."What about a catchphrase?" Evan suggested, his voice breaking through Madelyn's thoughts. "Something snappy, memorable. 'American Son: The Next Generation of Super.'"

Madelyn tilted her head, considering. After a full second, she shook her head. “Not even close.”"'American Son: Born to be Super,'" Nicole countered, her eyes sparkling. "Play up the legacy angle, the idea that heroism is in his blood."

Not bad, Madelyn thought, not bad at all. She could work with that, could spin it into gold.

"Good, good," she said aloud, nodding her approval. "Keep writing down ideas. We need options, variations. Something that'll stick in people's minds, make them believe in this kid."

Because that was the key, wasn't it? Belief. Faith. The unshakable conviction that American Son was the real deal, the hero the world needed. Her eyes narrowed again. 

"Who's next?" Madelyn barked out, her voice sharp and impatient, ready to get this all over with. Homelander had given her a list of people he wanted on his son's team, and she had her team do all the research on who exactly these little brats were. At least one member for every two-person team, some doubling up like the brown-nosers they were.

Fucking Homelander, she thought, her lips pursing slightly. Always making demands, always expecting everyone to jump when he says so. It grated on her nerves, the way he acted like he owned the place, like he was above the rules. Just because he's the most powerful supe doesn't mean he gets to call all the shots, she fumed silently, her manicured nails tapping against the polished table.

"Holy Mary," Nicole chimed in, her voice cutting through Madelyn's thoughts. The young woman tapped a few buttons on her tablet, her movements quick and efficient.

The big screen at the front of the room lit up with the image of a girl in an altered nun's habit, her red hair flowing out from underneath it as her hands were clasped in front of her chest, gold light gently flowing from her fingers. Pretty, Madelyn thought, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the image. We can work with that.

"Sell her to me," Madelyn demanded, her gaze flicking to Nicole, who straightened under the attention, her expression eager.

"Emma Barnes of Brockton Bay, Maine," Nicole began, her voice taking on a practiced, presentational tone. "Empath, pain inducer, and a pain nullifier with really strong regeneration—really strong, actually. We're not sure if you can kill her." She paused, her eyes widening slightly as if she'd just realized the impact of her words. "Also, she heals people. Really strong healer."

"Mmmm." Madelyn made a noncommittal sound. A healer was always useful, always marketable. People loved the idea of a supe who could take away their pain, who could fix their broken bodies. And if she's unkillable, Madelyn mused, that's even better. No risk of losing her to some freak accident or villain attack.

Nicole, perhaps sensing Madelyn's thoughtfulness, rushed to continue, a hint of panic in her voice. "She was a Vought signed model for a few kid clothing brands, but her powers activated a few years back and she's been preparing for a more major debut than just magazines and ad spots."

A model, Madelyn thought, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. Even better. She could already see the campaigns, the photoshoots, the interviews. A pretty face to slap on posters and lunchboxes, a wholesome image to sell to the masses.

"Play up the pious nun gimmick," Madelyn instructed, pointing idly with a manicured finger. "Give her some kind of staff. Honestly, can't think of much else. A pretty girl with a healing ability sells itself, really." She paused, her mind already racing ahead.. "In a year or two, we'll push her sex appeal, and by the time she's 19, the limits'll be off. Sexy nuns are in."

Sex sells, Madelyn thought, a mantra she knew all too well. All they'd have to do is add some slits to the costume, tighten the fabric, show some cleavage, then write the girl some nonsense to spout about 'owning her sexuality' and 'believing God supported her in all her doings, as evidence of her healing and her faith'. Even if the fundamentalists might grumble at first, they'd lap it up like dogs eventually. 

They always did.

Nicole let out a relieved breath, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Got it."

Madelyn rolled her eyes, already moving on. "Next!"

Evan, a lanky man with a perpetually nervous air, jumped in, his hands flying over his own tablet. "There's Supersonic," he said, as the teenage supe's image and information appeared on the screen.

Madelyn turned her head to take it in, her eyes scanning the details. Fast, she noted, but not the fastest. "Okay, but why him?" she asked, her tone sharp, demanding. "There's faster teen supes on record now. He pretty much broke the record for the kids sports thing on a technicality. I'd rather stick him back on the fuckin' boy band."

Evan swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Well, he's apparently specifically requested by American Son for the team. Apparently, they're best friends?"

Madelyn barely held back from rolling her eyes, a sneer threatening to curl her lip. Oh, joy. The power of friendship. "Isn't that just fine and fucking dandy?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What are we looking at for rankings?"

Evan consulted his tablet, his eyes flicking back and forth as he read off the stats. "Super Speed at Mach 1.5, Rank 0 Tier 6, projected to reach just barely past Rank 2, Tier 6 at Mach 5. Minimal Tier 4 Physicals projected to reach low to middle Tier 4 and Tier 3 Sonic Boom Projection projected up to low Tier 4."

Madelyn pursed her lips, considering. Not terrible, she thought. Solid C-Class supe. "Good face, too," she said aloud, her mind already working, already planning. "Of course, considering we had a whole boy band vehicle just for him."

Evan nodded, his posture relaxing slightly at Madelyn's less scathing tone. "We're thinking of Supersonic as the bad boy of the team. That in mind, he's projected to be our second major money-maker of the Young Americans for at least the next three years."

The bad boy, Madelyn mused, the concept taking shape in her mind.

It could work.

Every group needed a rebel, a wild card. Someone for the girls to swoon over and the boys to want to be. "Change his costume," she said abruptly, her mind made up. "Red, white and blue is for the star. Can't have any confusion." She paused, a thought occurring to her as she raised an eyebrow. "He's Mexican, right?"

Evan hesitated, his eyes darting to the side. "Mixed-race, actually, but partially Hispanic, yes."

Madelyn waved a hand dismissively. "So, Mexican. Give him a new suit with the Mexican flag colors, some more padding with race car style padding to emphasize the speedster aspect, and a hood to make him look tougher."

Appeal to his heritage, she thought, make him relatable to that demographic. But keep it stereotypical, keep it simple. The masses don't want nuance, they want easily digestible archetypes.

Evan nodded, making a note on his tablet. "Yes, ma'am."

Madelyn pursed her lips, a sense of satisfaction settling over her. This could work, she thought, her mind already spinning. This ragtag bunch of brats could be something. With the right packaging, the right marketing, they could be stars.

And she would be the one to make it happen. She would be the one pulling the strings, the one shaping the narrative. It was what she did best, after all. Taking raw potential and molding it into something profitable, something marketable.

Homelander might have kept her from reaching the top spot she wanted, kept the role of Senior Vice President of Hero Management out of her hands, out of a little overreaction to a slight touch but she didn’t think his son would be that repressed. He certainly wouldn’t have a fuckin’ wife to hide behind. 

Just you wait, Homelander, she thought, her smile sharpening, her eyes glinting with a cold, calculated determination. You may have your son, but I'll have the whole fucking team.

"Next!" she called out, ready for the next supe, the next challenge. She had a team to build, a brand to create. And she wouldn't stop until the Young Americans were a household name, until they were the most profitable, most marketable supes Vought had ever seen.Seth leaned forward, the man raising his tablet up in his hands before flipping it around to show it to her. "We've got Taylor Anne... Hibbert?" He frowned before shaking his head, "also from Brockton Bay, Maine. Homelander's first choice, actually..." Seth blinked a moment later, correcting himself. "Other than the obvious."

With a few taps of his fingers, he sent the information on his tablet to the big screen and Stillwell turned to review it.

Taylor Hebert, fifteen years old, Madelyn read, her brow furrowing slightly as she scanned the details of the imperious looking girl in the military-esque black suit. Parahuman... 

Her composure cracked for a moment as she whirled around, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Wh- Homelander recommended her? How?"

Seth and Evan both flinched at the sharp edge in her tone, the former immediately stammering a response. "W-well, Ms. Stillwell, we're not entirely sure how."Not sure how? Madelyn's mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Homelander, recommending a parahuman for the Young Americans? It doesn't add up. Parahumans were generally PRT property, more than anything, they rarely joined up with Vought for the simple fact that Vought didn’t exactly have their parents sign contracts years back or prime the family to shuffle their kid into the company’s arms. She could feel a headache forming behind her eyes, a dull throb that promised to grow into a motherfucking full-blown migraine if this meeting continued on its current trajectory.

"What do you mean, you're not sure how?" she snapped, her voice icy. "She's a fucking para. We don't deal in paras, we don't deal in capes." She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white. "We deal in supes. Blue fucking blood, people."

Evan, his face pale, tried to interject. "Ma'am, w-we... we have plenty of capes working with or affiliated with Vought."

Madelyn turned her glare on him, her eyes narrowing to slits. "On shit local teams, Evan. With Supes, Ltd, Evan. As subsidiaries we don't have to promote, Evan." Each repetition of his name was like a dagger, sharp and pointed.

She stepped back, pointing directly at the Vought logo rotating on a big screen, the bold 'V' seeming to mock her. "Not up here. Not in the big leagues. Not on the biggest fucking team since the original Payback and the goddamn Seven, Evan!"

This is a nightmare, Madelyn thought, her mind whirling. A fucking nightmare. She could already see the internal memos, could already hear the whispers in the hallways. Madelyn Stillwell, the woman who put a squishy para on the Young Americans. Madelyn Stillwell, the laughingstock of Vought.

She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to regain her composure. Calm down, she told herself, taking a deep breath. Think. There's always a way to spin this, always a way to turn a negative into a positive.

When she opened her eyes again, there was a practiced smile on her face, a mask of professional calm slipping back into place. "...okay, what else do we know about her?"

Seth fumbled with his tablet, his fingers shaking slightly as he pulled up the information. "Uh... uh, w-well, her parents were both dosed with V. Father, a defective dose of Baby Blue and the mother, a standard dose of Aqua."

Of course, Madelyn thought, her eye twitching slightly. Lowest tiers. "And she has none in her system?"

"N-none at all, ma'am," Seth confirmed, his voice trembling. "Screen came up negative."

This just keeps getting better and better, Madelyn mused, a bitter taste in her mouth. A squishy para on the 3rd biggest Vought team? It's a recipe for disaster.

"Why is this girl even here?" she asked aloud, her tone sharp, demanding.

Evan shrugged, a helpless gesture that made Madelyn want to scream.

Useless, she thought, her jaw clenching. They're all fucking useless. She sighed again, the sound harsh and grating. "Great, a squishy para on the 3rd biggest Vought team? No, no, no, no." She let out an unamused laugh, the sound cold and mirthless.

An idea formed in her mind, a glimmer of a plan. It was risky, sure, but what choice did she have? Better than nothing, she thought, her resolve hardening. "Dose her with a low shot of Baby. Her parents can handle it, which means even as a para, she should be fucking fine. Have them do a reverse screen to make sure her head won't explode first."

And if it does, she mused darkly, well, that's one less problem to deal with.

"Anything else?" she asked, her tone brusque, businesslike.

Evan, looking relieved at the change of subject, tapped his tablet screen again. "Well... she's best friends with Holy Mary?"

Of course she is, Madelyn thought, rolling her eyes. Because why the fuck not? "Fuck. Fine," she said aloud, her words clipped and sharp. "We'll pair her with Holy Mary. The two are already friends. We'll play it up as a good witch, bad witch routine."

Appeal to the masses, she thought, her mind already spinning the narrative. The innocent healer and her edgy, mysterious friend. It's marketable, it's sellable. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. Something she could work with.

"There's what... three more left?" she asked, her gaze flicking between Seth and Evan.

"Yes, ma'am," Seth confirmed, his voice still shaky.

Three more, Madelyn thought, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. Three more potential disasters to avert. She tossed the remote on the table, the plastic clattering against the polished wood.

"Well, get to it, then," she said, already turning to walk away. "I'm taking a smoke break. Work till I get back."