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. Just like Grandpa used to wear.

  The scent of coffee wafted through the air from his dad's half-empty mug, mixing with the sharp chemical tang of his mom's expensive perfume. Greg's nose wrinkled slightly at the combination as he shifted through another stack of designs. The paper crinkled under his fingers, each sheet feeling somehow heavier than the last.

  "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. One design even had actual eagle wings attached to the shoulders. Who do they think I am, Divine?

  The chair across from him creaked as his father shifted position. Across the table, John Veder leaned back, 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 but still. The lenses caught the afternoon light streaming through the bay windows, obscuring his eyes for a moment.

  "What do you think, son? Any of these catch your eye?" His father's voice carried that familiar tone, the one that said he already knew the answer but wanted to hear Greg say it anyway.

  Greg shook his head, his messy blond hair falling into his eyes as he pushed another design away. The sound of paper sliding across polished wood seemed too loud in the quiet room. "Not really, Dad. They're all..." He trailed off, his gaze flicking to the living room visible through the open archway. Way too much like yours, he didn't say.

  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. The clicking of her heels against the hardwood floor created a sharp staccato rhythm that seemed to match Greg's mounting frustration. "...name-calling, really? I have a family too, years before you ever did." Her voice carried an edge he'd never heard before, making him wonder just who was on the other end of that call.

  The scrape of his father's coffee mug against the table drew Greg's attention back. "When I was your age, I had to deal with people telling me where to go, what to do… and what to wear was a big part of it." His father's fingers drummed against the ceramic, an oddly human gesture for someone who could crush mountains. "What they want doesn't matter, though. What do you want?"

  Greg sighed, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back off the table slightly. That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? What did he want? The leather of the dining chair squeaked under him as he shifted his weight, trying to find an answer that didn't sound completely lame.

  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. Not something someone would wear after... His mind shied away from the memory of the alley, of what he'd done.

  A stack of papers slid off the edge of the table, scattering across the floor. Greg barely noticed, too caught up in his thoughts. Each design seemed to mock him with its bold colors and dramatic flair. How am I supposed to wear something like this after what happened? After what I did?

  From the living room, his mom's voice rose, the words sharp and biting, cutting through his spiral of thoughts. "...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 until the polished wood creaked in protest. He forced himself to loosen his grip, not wanting to leave marks like last time. The tension in his mom's voice set his teeth on edge. He knew his mom had some history with Godolkin, knew there was some tension there. The way she spat the word 'university' like it was poison told him more than enough. Granted, he wasn't sure of the details but he really didn't want to think about that right now.

  Honestly, he had his own problems to deal with. The afternoon sun filtering through the bay windows cast long shadows across the dining room table, making the designs look even more garish than before. Like someone puked an American flag all over them.

  Like this stupid costume situation.

  He pushed aside the "Freedom's Heir" design with maybe a bit too much force, wrinkling the corner. The Statue of Liberty mask stared back at him accusingly, and next to it, the "American Dream" with its star-spangled torso looked like something out of a fourth-grade art project. The fabric swatches attached to each design rustled as he moved them, a symphony of silk and spandex that made his skin crawl. None of them felt right. None of them felt like him.

  A familiar rhythm of heels against hardwood announced his mom's approach, each click echoing his mounting frustration. Her phone call was apparently over and done with, for now at least. The scent of her perfume grew stronger as she entered the room, mixing with the lingering coffee aroma. "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, like a guitar string wound too tight.

  He looked up at both his parents, studying their faces. His mom's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and his dad's jaw was set in that way it got when he was thinking too hard. A helpless shrug lifted his shoulders, the motion making his t-shirt rustle. "I dunno, just something... iconic, I guess." The word felt hollow as soon as it left his mouth.

  His dad leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The movement caused his glasses to catch the light again, momentarily hiding his eyes. The unnecessary lenses did nothing to soften his intent stare as he looked down at his son. "You see how that might be hard to go off, right?"

  "...I dunno." Greg fidgeted with a design, the paper crinkling under his fingers like dead leaves. The sound seemed too loud in the quiet room. He could feel his dad's eyes on him, could feel the weight of expectation pressing down like a physical thing. His throat felt dry as he forced out the words. "These all feel like they're trying too hard to be... well, you, Dad."

  A beat of silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside. Then John spoke, his voice soft in a way that reminded Greg of early morning flights above the clouds. "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. The familiar weight of her touch helped ground him, even as his thoughts raced. "What makes you feel powerful?"

  Greg chewed on his lip, teeth worrying at the soft skin as his mind churned through possibilities. What did make him feel powerful? Not stars and stripes, that was for sure. Not after what happened in that alley. "Maybe something simpler? Less... stars and stripes everywhere?"

  His parents exchanged a look above his head, one of those silent conversations that seemed to say volumes without a single word. Then they nodded, almost in unison, like they'd rehearsed it. "Alright, let's brainstorm," the muscular blond man said, pulling a blank sheet of paper towards him with careful movements that spoke of restrained strength. "What colors are we thinking?"

  Greg sat back, the leather chair creaking beneath him. A thoughtful look crossed his face as he absently traced patterns on the table's surface. "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, though her eyes still held shadows of her earlier conversation.

  His dad squeezed his shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring, careful not to use even a fraction of his true strength. "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, teeth gleaming like plastic. "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."

  The words bounced off the glass walls of the conference room, each syllable echoing with corporate polish. Greg shifted in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him as he tried to find a comfortable position. His jeans caught against the expensive material, making an awkward squeaking sound that drew a few quick glances. 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, like two caffeine-addled puppets dancing on strings. How much longer is this gonna take? he thought, suppressing a yawn that threatened to crack his jaw.

  The spacious boardroom in Vought Tower felt more like a prison than a place for creative discussion, all gleaming surfaces and sharp edges that seemed designed to make him feel small. The air conditioning hummed overhead, too cold and clinical, carrying the artificial scent of whatever cleaning products they used on the fancy furniture. Greg Benjamin Veder sat at the elongated table made of high-quality wood, his posture a mix of forced stillness and barely contained energy, like a kid trying to behave in church. His fingers drummed nervously on the polished surface, the sound amplified in the tense silence of the room. Each tap felt like a tiny act of rebellion against the suffocating atmosphere.

  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. Somewhere in the distance, a helicopter's blades chopped through the air – probably more Vought personnel heading to another identical meeting in another identical room. In the corner, Isadora shifted her weight, her glasses catching the light as she watched the proceedings with barely concealed boredom.

  He felt out of place in his casual hoodie and jeans, the soft fabric of his favorite Armsmaster shirt hidden beneath layers that suddenly felt too warm. The contrast between his outfit and the formal setting made him hyperaware of every movement, every gesture. His clothes were a stark difference from the crisp suits worn by most of the adults in this place, their perfectly pressed fabric probably worth more than his entire wardrobe. 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 memory of their eager faces made his stomach turn.

  The smile on his face was brittle, muscles aching from holding the expression for so long. The various 'yes''s he'd already had to say sat heavy in his mouth like pennies. "It's... it's great. All… sounds real good," he managed, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. His voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he cleared his throat to cover it up. "Really captures the, uh, the essence of what we're going for." Whatever that means.

  Across from him, Seth Reed, a black man with short hair and a receding hairline, exuded an air of practiced enthusiasm that reminded Greg of those late-night infomercial hosts. His initial quiet demeanor had given way to animated gestures and an overly bright smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, like someone had wound him up with a key. As he spoke, his hands moved in sweeping motions that seemed choreographed, each gesture precise and rehearsed. "Glad you think that, Greg, we were really going for something that would appeal to your generation," Seth said, his voice smooth and practiced, like he was reading from a script hidden somewhere behind his eyes. "Something that would make you stand out, make you a star in your own right."

  Next to Seth, Evan Lambert, a slightly younger Caucasian 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, bouncing in his seat like he'd mainlined Red Bull straight into his veins. His body language was open and excited as he punctuated Seth's words with enthusiastic nods and well-timed interjections, each movement carefully calculated to seem spontaneous. "Yeah, man, we really think this is gonna be a hit," Evan chimed in, his voice eager, almost desperate. "Other kids are gonna love it, trust me."

  You're like thirty, man, Greg bit back the urge to say, his teeth grinding slightly. What do you know about what kids love? The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant low hum that seemed to drill into his skull, making the headache building behind his eyes even worse.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  There was a hint of something needy in Evan's eyes, like a puppy desperate for attention. The man's desperation to prove himself became more obvious as Greg's disinterest grew, showing in the way his smile twitched at the corners whenever Greg failed to respond with sufficient enthusiasm. He's trying too hard, Greg thought, watching Evan's hands move nervously, fingers tapping against the table in an irregular rhythm that matched the rapid beating of Greg's heart. Is this his first big project or something?

  The sound of heels clicking against polished floor drew Greg's attention. Isadora, a Hispanic woman wearing large glasses that made her eyes look owlish, stood by an easel draped with large, professional-quality sketches and color swatches. The fabric samples pinned to the board rustled softly in the air conditioning as her hand gestured towards a central design that dominated the display, her burgundy nail polish catching the light.

  "You see here," she said, pointing to a particular sketch with a practiced gesture, "you see how your father is a big inspiration here. The colors, the lines - it's inspired by Soldier Boy as well." Her accent grew thicker with enthusiasm, rolling over the 'r' in 'inspired' like she was savoring it.

  Greg's eyes flicked to the sketch, taking in the bold colors that seemed to jump off the page. His stomach churned at the sight of all the unnecessary stars, scattered across the design like someone had sneezed them onto the fabric. The eagle – because of course there was an eagle – spread its wings across the chest in a pose that looked more constipated than majestic. The star-spangled motif screamed 'America!' from every angle, as subtle as a monster truck rally on the Fourth of July. It was... a lot. Too much, really. The longer he looked, the more his eyes hurt.

  At the far end of the table sat Homelander, a silent sentinel in red, white, and blue. His costume stood out against the muted grays and browns of the boardroom like a flag at a funeral, impossible to ignore. The overhead lights reflected off his golden hair like a halo, creating an effect Greg was sure the PR team would love. Even though he remained quiet the way he promised, his eyes never left Greg, the action as reassuring as it was nerve-wracking to the teenager. The weight of that gaze felt physical, like a hand on his shoulder.

  As the presentation continued, droning on like his most boring classes at Arcadia High, Greg's thoughts raced faster than his dad could fly. A mix of confusion and frustration built with each passing moment, making his skin feel too tight. The shield in the design kept drawing his attention, mounted proudly on the character's back like some sort of patriotic turtle shell. What am I supposed to do with a shield? he thought for the hundredth time, his brow furrowing slightly. I can punch through walls, for crying out loud.

  The thought sparked another, a familiar one: Why did they give grandpa a shield? Soldier Boy was bulletproof. The question had bothered him since he was old enough to think about it.

  "Yeah, nice," he said aloud, his tone flat and unenthused, like a deflating balloon. "Real... patriotic." His eyes tracked the constant, subtle glances the presenters threw towards Homelander, like nervous churchgoers checking if God was watching. The growing irritation manifested physically, his jaw clenching and unclenching with enough force to make his teeth ache. His fingers curled into fists beneath the table as he struggled to maintain his composure, nails digging half-moons into his palms.

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

  Evan clapped his hands together, the sharp sound making Greg jump slightly. His grin was wide and manic, stretched across his face like plastic wrap. "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, the muscle spasming like it did when he was about to lose it in a video game. His patience wore thinner by the second, stretched like a rubber band ready to snap. The leather armrests creaked under his grip as he tried to stay calm. Is that all I am to them? he wondered, his fingers curling into fists beneath the table hard enough to leave crescents in his palms. A mini Homelander, a Soldier Boy 2.0? The thought made his stomach turn, acid burning at the back of his throat.

  "The shield, it's not just a weapon, it's a symbol," Seth continued, gesturing to the design with sweeping movements that reminded Greg of those cheesy infomercial hosts. Every word felt rehearsed, practiced in front of a mirror until it lost all meaning. "Like your dad's strength, your grandpa's legacy..."

  "It's perfect for social media too!" Evan chimed in, practically bouncing in his seat like a kid who'd had way too much Mountain Dew. His enthusiasm grated on Greg's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Imagine the hashtags: #NextGenHero, #VederLegacy..."

  The tension in Greg finally snapped like that rubber band he'd been imagining; he jumped to his feet, sending his expensive ergonomic chair screeching against the polished floor. The sound echoed off the glass walls like someone had dragged keys across a car.

  "Shut up!" he yelled, slamming his palms down onto the table with a resounding bang that made the whole room vibrate. Pens rolled like dropped ammunition and water glasses rattled alarmingly, ice cubes clinking a panicked symphony as the room fell silent. All eyes locked onto the teenage boy who had just demanded their attention, like deer caught in headlights.

  Greg's voice trembled with a mix of anger and pent-up frustration, weeks of bottled emotions spilling out like a shaken soda. The fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder, matching the static in his head. "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 like goldfish. The perfectly crafted corporate masks slipped, revealing the uncertainty beneath. Isadora slowly lowered her pointer with the careful movements of someone trying not to startle a wild animal, her glasses reflecting the harsh overhead lights.

  "This isn't the 90s, and it's not the 50s," Greg went on, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity that made the adults flinch. The words tumbled out faster now, gaining momentum like a landslide. "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, the expression warming his usually stern features as he sat silently. The slight nod of approval he gave his son felt like winning every video game achievement at once.

  Seth recovered first, clearing his throat with a sound like gravel in a blender. His tie suddenly seemed too tight as he tugged at it nervously. "Greg, we understand you want to be unique, but market research shows..."

  "Market research?" Greg interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain like venom from a snake's fangs. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. "Is that all I am to you? A product?"

  Evan raised his hands in a placating gesture, looking like he was trying to calm an angry dog. Sweat beaded on his forehead under the fluorescent lights. "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 so hard they almost hurt. "That's not success, that's... that's just lazy."

  The disappointment in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on. The adults' smiles faded like old photographs, their expressions dimming as they realized they hadn't quite hit the mark. But they rallied quickly, their professionalism slipping back into place like a well-worn mask, painted-on smiles returning with practiced ease.

  Isadora stepped forward, her thick accent cutting through the tension like a knife through butter. Her heels clicked against the floor with purpose. "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. The anger drained from him like someone had pulled a plug, leaving him feeling oddly empty. "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. The sound of crinkling paper seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room as he smoothed it out, staring at it for a few seconds. His heart pounded in his chest like a drum solo. Here goes nothing.

  With a deep breath that smelled of expensive coffee and fear-sweat, 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."