Where The Heart Is: Issue 10 (Patreon)

Greg Veder stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Young Americans headquarters, trying to look like he belonged here. The pristine glass showed a stranger staring back at him—some kid in a blue and red superhero getup with a white star plastered across his chest.

American Son. That's me now. I guess.

He tugged at the collar of his costume where it chafed against his neck.

American Son. Right. That’s me now. His mouth turned down in a frown. At least the costume looks better

The Voughtanium-infused fabric was supposed to was supposed to be "military-grade breathable," or whatever corporate buzzword they threw around at the press conference. His dad said it was the same Voughtanium-fiber they used in his costume to make it bulletproof. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable or anything but the whole thing felt more like wearing a wet sock stretched too tight across the wrong parts of his body. Especially around the thighs. God. Why the thighs.

"Stop fidgeting," he muttered under his breath, forcing his arms stiff at his sides. "Heroes don’t fidget. They brood. Or stand dramatically. Or... whatever."

The penthouse around him looked like America got drunk, puked up a Pottery Barn, and called it patriotism. Flags everywhere. Star patterns baked into the marble floor. Big gold eagle statues lurking in corners like they were judging him for breathing funny.

Dad would probably love it here.Mom definitely loved it.

Greg paced up and down the polished floor in the living room area in the penthouse. He wasn't even wearing sneakers but the weird little booties that were part of this suit just kept on squeaking just loud enough to remind him how quiet everything was. This whole place was three floors worth of patriotism slapped onto it by a team of designers who probably jacked off to the Fourth of July.

Twenty-three minutes early. Thanks, Mom.

As shiny and new as it was, the place felt like a ghost town, a ghost town that a Fourth of July gift shop threw up in. Still a ghost town though, filled with him and his breathing and the little stupid scuff sounds he couldn't stop making. The Young Americans were supposed to be "assembling" today, but he was early. Mom insisted. “Punctuality is professionalism, darling.” Yeah, well, professionalism felt a lot like standing around trying not to puke.

He checked his watch. Again. The red and blue digital timepiece flashed bright white numbers. 11:40 AM. Still twenty minutes to go. Awesome. He fought the urge to make a fist. No, really, just great. Nothing wrong with the fact that time was abso-posi-lutely crawling like it hated him personally.

His eyes caught on the little display case tucked near the elevators. Miniature figures lined up behind the glass, posed like they were about to punch freedom into your soul. So far the only ones in there were his own, front and center—American Son.

Hands on hips, in a strong heroic stance. Bullshit.

He leaned in, still unable to fully believe they did his action figures like this. Can't believe they actually buffed out my arms this way. Like, seriously? He wasn’t exactly noodle-armed but this little guy looked like he was juicing or something, like... on some steroids or something. "I get they wanna make me look strong or whatever, but what's the point where this is just false advertising, like... seriously?" he muttered, tapping the glass with one knuckle.

His eyes trailed over to the big mirror near the massive conference table at the heart of the room. He knew his dad wanted the Young Americans to be like a mini-Seven but he didn't think they needed some giant-ass thing like this table. He shook his head as he walked past it before squaring up in front of it the mirror, shoulders stiff.

Greg tried a pose in the mirror, arms crossed and his face tight in a serious expression. Real ‘you can trust me, America’ vibes.

He held the pose for a good five seconds, trying his best to pull as many good angles in the mirror as possible until he shook his head. I look so corny, man. How does Dad pull this look off anyway? Blue eyes narrowed slightly. I guess it's the benchpressing cruise ships thing. His eyes narrowed a little more. Wait... can I bench a cruise ship? How heavy is a cruise ship?

Greg switched it up, his hands on his hips, chin up — a real classic power stance. "...ugh." And somehow this managed to be even worse, which was confusing in the biggest way. Now he looked like he was about to deliver a PowerPoint on why recycling saves baby eagles.

He cleared his throat, and deepened his voice, going for another attempt at this. "Hey there. I’m A-Ame-erican S-Son." Greg winced like he’d been slapped.

"Name’s American Son." God, that’s terrible. "You mighta heard of my father..."

Yeah, because that's exactly what you want, right? Open with ‘hey I’m only here because my sperm donor saved the world.’He slumped back against the wall, superhero pose collapsing like a sloppy Jenga tower.

What was he even doing here? Four months ago he was just Greg and his biggest worry was a bunch of low brain-cell bullies and the idea that someday, maybe, he’d figure out how to not sound like a dumbass around girls.

Now? Now he was supposed to lead a team? A real one? Full of kids with more experience with their powers, kids who were definitely not here because of who their dads were, kids who hadn't killed anyone when their powers kicked in. One hand rested on his stomach, something sitting in there that felt like part nerves, part guilt, part... something else.

He shook his head, trying to distract himself, andcross the room, a glass paperweight caught his eye. Some eagle thing. Real heavy-looking, real delicate. He wandered over without thinking, fingers closing carefully around it.

He turned it over in his hands, feeling the glass give just the slightest bit under his grip. Not breaking. Not yet.

Lately, he’d been doing that a lot.

If you asked his mom, then way too much, honestly.

It was probably some kind of self-sabotage or whatever, even if he called it practice. He wasn't sure what else you could call it. Just stress-testing stuff, seeing what his unthinking strength could do against objects that would normally be tough.

His dad approved though, the first time he caught him doing it unthinkingly. He had called it a good way to test himself. Yeah, sure.

He tightened his fingers on the paperweight—then forced himself to ease up before it cracked and breathed out slow.

"I can d-"

The elevator chimed like Big Ben to his hearing, loud and sonorous. Greg's head snapped up at the same exact moment as his hand clenched just a fraction tighter before he could think. The eagle-shaped paperweight cracked, then shattered with a sound too like a firework, glass going flying like confetti all over the floor.

“Crap—crap—crap—” He hissed, scrambling to scoop the glass into a pile and shove it behind the nearest plant. For a second, he found himself wishing his fingers still stung when he did stuff like this, expecting his knuckles to bleed when he dug them into bedrock. Whatever. He wiped his hands on the side of his suit, smearing invisible guilt into Voughtanium like that’d erase it.

The doors slid open.

Greg snapped up straight, slapped something onto his face that was probably a smile but felt more like a grimace in a Halloween mask.

And then—

Shit. Sparky.

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

The kid who stepped out looked like he'd been dipped in branding. He remembered his white costume from when he'd seen Sparky on TV, but this was different entirely. It looked like a racing suit instead, some kinda high-density armor molded into his frame like someone gave the PR team creative control. Green and white and red? Seriously?

The hood was back, but the face—

He wasn't smiling.

Hell, he didn't even look happy to be here.

He just strolled out of the elevator, tight-lipped and bulked up from how Greg remembered him, and walking like he owned the air.

“Sparky!” It came out too high, his voice cracking at the end as he walked forward, unable to hide the excitement he had that Sparky didn't seem to share right now. “Dude—holy crap, I... mentioned your name... Like, like, I asked, but I didn’t know it was gonna be you!”

He moved forward, arms half-out in like a maybe-hug or something. Still, he was already regretting it mid-motion as Sparky simply looked at him blankly. Insted of going for a hug, his best bro stuck out a fist, sharp and clean in a basic fistbump. Greg swerved last-second, tried to salvage it and just... barely held back a groan as he palmed Sparky's fist.

“Uh—I go by Drummer Boy now,” Drummer Boy said, his voice not even breaking rhythm.

“Dr-Drummer Boy. Yeah, of course. No problem, Drummer Boy. I got it.” Greg’s laugh clanged hollow in his throat. “Cool name. I love the suit, by the way. Real sick design, man.”

“Yeah, it's new. Brand new.” Axel said, already walking past him. “As in they changed my fucking brand.”

Greg turned, followed, boots squeaking too loud on the marble. Of course they squeaked. Why wouldn't they squeak?

“There’s a training room downstairs,” he said, too fast, trying to change what felt like a loaded subject. “Like, with full VR loadouts. And the bedrooms got custom setups. Mine has a—uh—compression bench thing, I think, and like a weight rack or something. I dunno, it’s all new.”

“I bet.” Axel ran a finger across the counter, didn’t even glance up. “They always make the surfaces shine. Never seen it shine like this, though. They must save the good stuff for you.”

Greg felt that but didn't really know how to answer it. The silence slipped in sideways and ballooned in his chest.

“So, uh, kinda crazy we’re both here, right?” he said, shifting his weight back and forth and trying not to look like he was fidgeting. “Like—us. Same team. Remember backyard supers? Me with the towel cape, you yelling at me for breaking your drumsticks.”

Axel’s eyes flicked toward him. “Yeah. Wild.”

“So... Drummer Boy still drumming or...?” Greg asked, just to fill the air.

Axel responded with a shrug at first, some tension bleeding out of his face before he said anything else. “Not really. Had to drop lessons after—y’know. Powers kicked in all that. No real time for it with the training, sponsorships, you know how it is, brah.”

“Oh.” Right. Cool. He really didn't but sure.

Unsure what to say, Greg sucked in air through his teeth. Ten seconds of silence later, he realized he was still breathing in. Stupid insane lungs. Another weird thing about his new body.

“You, uh… still adjusting to the strength thing?” Axel asked, tone all fake-casual, but that eyebrow said different.

“I-I mean... kinda? It’s only been, like, four months, so…” Greg laughed again, unable to help the fact he sounded nervous as hell. “One second I’m just some guy, next I’m turning lockers into scrap metal and getting calls from men in suits. Y’know. Normal puberty stuff.”

Axel clicked his tongue. “Puberty stuff, right. Turning lockers into scrap metal, huh?” Axel’s head tilted. “That the shit that went down at Winslow?”

What? I? How did he-? Blue eyes went wide as Greg tried to find out what to say, feeling exposed in his costume almost like he was naked. “I didn’t—it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. I didn’t even know I could. They—”

“Official story Vought put out says that they were working as henchmen for a supervillain who had kidnapped you. And getting your powers ended up killing them. We both know that's five different loads of shit in one toilet though, brah." Axel’s voice sharpened. “So I'm guessing they jumped you and... you what, liquefied ‘em?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

It really was, though.

“Look, man. Whatever." Axel held up his hands, a little laugh leaving his lips before he smacked his lips. "Not my circus, not my monkeys. It's whatever, brah.”

Thing was though, he said it but Greg didn't think he believed it. The look on his face said a lot right now. Hell, it said everything. Like a switch had flipped behind his eyes, and now Greg was someone he'd never seen before.

Greg looked down, his palms sweaty — That... that's weird. It had been a long time since he felt himself sweat. Is this nerves? It had to be, what with the way his suit felt damp, the fabric sticking to his spine. The city skyline felt real far away all of a sudden.

He tried to pivot. “So, uh. My dad. Yeah.”

Drummer Boy let out a breath through his nose, the look on is face far from impressed. “Homelander. That’s a hell of a last name to keep quiet.”

"M-my last name's still Veder. That's my dad's last name and..." he took in a slow breath. "My grandad's too. Y'know, Soldier Boy?"

Axel raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you a name dropper but you can't drop yours."

Come on. Greg clicked his tongue. “Man, you know I couldn’t say anything,” he said, voice thinner than he wanted. “You know how Vought is. I mean... well, I never really talked to Vought, but... uh, well, my parents..." He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "They told me all this before I could walk. I got homeschooled for years so I wouldn't blast it all on the playground of point at pictures of Homelander and say "Dad". It wasn’t just me lying.”

“Wasn’t just you?” Axel turned on him. “You were nine. You think I would’ve told?”

“I don’t know, man, okay?” Greg snapped, then backed off. “We were kids. Like single digits. My parents said not to tell anyone. What was I supposed to do, man?”

“Not treat me like a liability.” Drummer Boy's mouth shifted, an actual twitch instead of an emotion. “Kinda funny Vought just happened to dump you in my school though, huh?”

Greg blinked, unable to hide the confusion on his face. “Bro, what are you talking about?”

"Come the fuck on, man..."

No... like... He shook his head, actually confused at what Drummer Boy was talking about. “No seriously, what are you talking about?”

Axel’s mouth didn’t move at first. His eyes did. The kind of twitch that wasn’t from thinking—it was from holding something back.

"Dude, we were friends for years. Don't tell me that out of all the fucking kids in school, what, they didn't handpick me?" Axel’s voice sharpened like it had teeth. "Picked the one kid in Winslow with blue blood just out of... what? A random move?"

Greg’s jaw twitched.“What? No! What the hell are you—dude, that’s insane.”

Axel didn’t blink. “Yeah? Is it?”

“We were friends because of... I dunno, Tekstorm and old Seven United reruns. Y'know?" He clicked his tongue. "Remember Black Noir: Blackout and that old dumb Mr Marathon beat-em-up you used to make me play every Saturday.”

“Yeah, Seven United, sure,” Axel scoffed. “A show about your dad. That you never said shit about, brah.”

“Come on, be serious right now.” Greg’s hands flexed at his sides. He could feel it—his grip trying to curl into fists even though he was trying so hard to stay loose. “You think I wanted this? To lie to you? Sparky, I didn’t even—”

“Oh we got the poor little rich boy,” Axel muttered. “Must’ve been hard as fucking hell. Having to lie to your best friend. I'm so sorry.”

“I didn’t know," were the three words that left his mouth. Even as his vision narrowed and he fought the anger down, he still didn't want to fight his best friend. "Not the whole thing. I swear.”

For a second, Axel didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, jaw working. Then finally—“Whatever, man. It is what it is.”

Blue eyes widened slightly, flicking his way. “So... what? Are we good, or...?”

Axel shrugged, turning back to the window like that meant anything. “Does it matter? We’re teammates either way.”

“It matters to me,” Greg said, the words coming out soft, “You're like my brother, dude.”

Axel’s shoulders shifted just a little. Like he was about to say something he didn’t want to. Instead, he let out a long-ass sigh. “So what now? You’re the new Soldier Boy? Homelander Jr?”

Greg shook his head, hard. “No. I’m not that guy. I’m not either of those guys.”

Axel looked over at him, one eyebrow raised as he smirked. “Right, right, right. So, it's just ‘American Son,’ huh?” He pointed at the star on Greg’s chest. “Really subtle with the brand."

"My dad walks around with the American flag on his back, bro."

Something about that made Axel’s mouth twitch. “Kinda convenient, though. You get powers, and boom—suddenly there’s a team.”

Greg clicked his tongue, sighing out load as he rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“...You said yes, though.”

“C'mon, man, the hell was I s'posed to do? Like seriously?” Greg’s voice pitched. “Tell my dad and his bosses to fuck off? I’m fifteen.”

Axel’s hand raked through his hair, hard enough to tug. “You just—break a few world records outta nowhere, and next thing I know, I'm being kicked out of my band, ripped out of my costume, and I’m being ‘relocated’ to your personal hype squad. Be real, that looks fucked as hell.”

Greg’s gut sank as he took in everything, a lot of new information hitting him at once. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know about your band. That sucks. That’s... yeah. That’s really messed up.”

Axel looked away again as his voice dropped. “Not like anyone asked what I wanted.”

Greg sat there, unsure what to say, until finallly... “Look,” he said, “for what it’s worth, I am glad you’re here. Better than being stuck with a bunch of total strangers.”

Axel looked at him long and slow as if sizing that up, the gears in his head turning over and over. “Yeah. I guess there’s that.”

The air thinned. It wasn't anywhere near clear, but it felt a lot less like it was trying to suffocate him.

Greg drifted toward the counter and grabbed a bowl of chips. He held it out halfway, then hesitated. “Hungr—?”

Axel flicked his eyes toward the bowl. “You got it. I’m good.”

Greg nodded, more to himself, and shoved a handful into his mouth. Crunch filled the silence.

“So... what do you actually do now?” he asked, around half-chewed salt and nerves. “Like, I know you’re fast, but...?”

Axel looked at him, then away again. “Sound manipulation. The speed thing too.”

“That’s cool. Like—what, you can control sound waves? Vibrations? Y'mean, like that?”

Axel’s jaw moved once, like he thought about answering.

Then he didn’t. “Something like that, brah.”Okay. He may have been optimistic, sure, but he wasn’t a fucking idiot so Greg took the hint and went quiet anyway. The awkwardness came back with a vengeance, settling over them like a heavy blanket. He kept stealing looks at Axel—no, Drummer Boy now, right?—trying to catch some hint of the friend he used to know under all that PR crap and attitude.

The elevator chimed again, and both boys turned to look.

Blue eyes went wide as someone stepped out, blonde hair catching the light as it fell around her shoulders like waves of sunlight. The white costume she wore, accented with gold around it and with three gold stars in the center of her chest, somehow fit her perfectly, even the short white skirt she wore somehow looked amazing for being simple thick cotton. Her own blue eyes were wide with wonder as she took in the whole penthouse headquarters, face lighting up with pure excitement.

Greg was already frozen, chip halfway to his mouth. The girl was beautiful—like, magazines-and-movie-stars beautiful. 

He stumbled forward like his boots were three sizes too big, brushing crumbs from his hands onto his suit—great, now he had chip dust on the star, real heroic—his brain scrambling for anything that didn't sound twelve years old.Something that screamed I’m a leader but whispered cool at the same time. Something that didn't make it seem like he was the type of guy to practice hero poses in the mirror.

The girl's eyes locked onto Drummer Boy, and her entire face transformed with recognition and delight.

"Drummer Boy! I mean, Supersonic, I mean, I-" she practically detonated, rushing past Greg so fast he felt the breeze. "Oh my god it's actually you!"

She flat-out ignored him, blew right by like he wasn't even solid matter, stopping in front of Axel who looked just as blindsided as Greg felt.

"I’ve been following Super-Sweet since the first single," she machine-gunned her words, no pauses for breathing or thinking or any normal speech stuff. "This is so—I can't even—I have all your albums. I have all your posters! I still want to get more!”

Axel blinked a couple times, face blank, but then—the hell?—a smile busted through. An actual smile, even if it was a smarmy cocky dickheady smile. "Thanks, that's... cool," Drummer Boy said, voice smooth like he flipped some internal switch. "You're… you’re Starlight, right? I heard of you, you’re pretty cool."

"Annie January," she nodded, her hand doing a little sparkly light thing when Axel grabbed it. "But yeah, Starlight for the team stuff. Pretty cool,” she gushed, face going red as she fanned her face with one hand. “This is just—god! Never thought I'd meet you for real!"

Greg stood there feeling invisible, like maybe his powers included that now too. The chip bowl felt heavier than it had any right to be. He watched his former best friend transform in real-time, all that anger-sulk-whatever just melting off, replaced by some PR-trained cool guy who knew exactly what to do with fans.

Great. Just super-freaking-great.

He slunk back to the counter, dropping the chips with a thud nobody even noticed. His big team leader moment and he'd just been trumped by stupid teen pop star fame.

The elevator dinged again, dragging his attention from his own personal crap-festival. Two more team members hanging in the box—tall chick with this black military stuff with gold bits, and beside her some redhead in a nun costume someone had attacked with scissors and style.

The redhead leaned in close to her friend, but Greg's super-hearing picked it up easy.

"This place looks fun already," the pretty redhead said, dripping with sarcasm.

A sigh left Greg’s lips, heavy and loud before he shoved some more chips in his mouth. Some first impression.