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Chapter 6: Psycho Killer

Gm! Here is Chapter 6!

Sage sat in bed, the live feed from the woman from the Expo's apartment serving as the only source of light in her room. She'd found her almost instantly, enhancing that now-infamous still image to capture her face, then tracking her down from there. Sage ticked off the facts in her head. She wasn't a Supe. She worked in a nondescript little office, had a few friends but mostly kept to herself. She didn't come from money, or have any connections that could benefit Homelander... she was, for all intents and purposes, a nobody. A nobody, who, somehow, had Homelander sequestered away from the rest of the world since 10am - and in her apartment since 7pm, she thought, gears turning in her mind. The shock of movement from the window made her squint her eyes, then widen them in shock; Homelander was letting the woman hold something to his face, and then - Sage gasped, dropping the phone before scrambling to catch it - leaning in to kiss her, letting her press him into the couch. Sage's jaw dropped.

The way they moved... it was all so fluid, so natural. The thought sprang to her mind: How long had this been going on? The inherent ease with which they embraced suggested familiarity, intimate knowledge of one another... but Sage had taken to tracking Homelander's mental decline months ago, after an outburst at a dinner that led to around 50 casualties. She'd simply never seen the woman before this. 

A notification popped up on her phone - Maeve. Sage groaned, not bothering to read it. After their lunch meeting (Sage refused to call it a date), they'd gone bar hopping, starting down 1st and Parker, then travelling down the block until they were too lightheaded with alcohol-induced laughter and the buzz of too many cocktails to stand upright, calling Noir to drive them home and laughing at the imagined annoyance in his face.

They'd started kissing five minutes into the drive, she recalled, face heating and brow furrowing. Sage groaned, slapping a hand to her face. Maeve had been telling her just how much she'd enjoyed finally going out with someone else for a change, and Sage had agreed, looking up at her...

She tasted like whiskey, with the sweet undercurrent of a maraschino cherry, tender and tantalizing, coated in all that thick, viscous syrup. Sage sighed.

Maeve kissed like...  a lover, like Sage was her lover, like she desperately wanted her to be. She remembered the moment she realized it; Maeve had brushed her hair from her face, looking down into her with those big, sad eyes... and she felt something she'd rarely experienced before that moment: Fear. Pure, unrelenting fucking terror.

She couldn't lose the fight - couldn't admit defeat. So she'd grabbed her by the hair, not letting an inch of her skin go untouched, leading Maeve into a backward-stepped march into her bedroom, the darkness enveloping them when she shut the door.

Maeve had sat on her bed, legs splayed, blush creeping up her face, and, Sage could see due to the dress she'd worn, down to her chest. She'd pulled Sage on top of her, the smooth undulation of her hips so achingly sweet that she felt the stirrings of nausea slowly start to twirl in her gut. 

She couldn't lose. Couldn't admit. Sage squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will the memory away.

"Wait," Sage had moaned. She'd pulled herself off of her, reached for the nightstand - Maeve had taken the opportunity to mouth at her breast, her mouth like rose petals.

She'd pulled out the lobotomy wand, its sinister glint reflecting across Maeve's flushed face. She looked up at Sage, not comprehending. "What's this?" she'd asked.

Now Sage had abandoned the phone entirely, in favor of covering her head with the comforter. The phone buzzed again - another notification. 

She'd asked Maeve to use the wand on her - to jab it in her eye, wriggle until the felt her brain come apart. It was supposed to scare her. It was supposed to say, "Walk away from me." But Maeve hadn't walked; she hadn't flinched. Maeve descended into the depths of that depravity for her, called her bluff, without a hint of disgust in her eyes.

She saw the look she did give her, though - not of horror or shock... but of deep sadness, and worse - understanding.

But she couldn't lose - and so she'd fucked her, and sent her off after, in the middle of the night.

Maeve sat in the closet of her bedroom, head between her knees, the faint glow of her phone lighting up the otherwise dark space. After she'd thrown her out of her bed, Maeve had stood there for a second, lips parted in shock, before marching resolutely to her room, stomach in knots - and vomiting soon after. She stared into the screen, eyes glinting with hot tears, the words she'd typed shaking in her hand. 

I'm sorry

Can we... talk?

Sage hadn't replied.

Homelander wasn't at the meeting, Deep noted with a mix of surprise, worry, and relief. He'd joked with A-Train that he'd finally win their bet of Homelander being late at least once this year, but A-Train had scoffed. "You're dreaming, man. It's not gonna happen. Find someone else to finance your octopus girlfriend's calamari diet." But 9:30 came and went, and there was no sign of their leader -and so A-Train would be paying after all, Deep thought, satisfied. A-Train brushed him off.

But, really... where was he?

Starlight spoke up, voice tentative. "Should we... wait a few more minutes? Maybe take 10?" 

Ashley nodded, sighing in relief. "Good idea. Everybody - take ten!" The Seven rose from their seats, filing out, all except Noir, who had taken a nap during the wait, and slept peacefully, his quiet snore echoing throughout the room.

Homelander wasn't here, Sage wasn't here, Maeve wasn't here... that last one wasn't too surprising, but the three empty chairs still unnerved Kevin. He slipped from the room quickly, and into his quarters, where, as he walked past the window, he saw a flash of red and white. Not in the air... on the ground - in a chair, specifically. 

Homelander was... eating a donut? With a woman?! Deep did a double-take, rubbed his eyes, but the image was clear as day. Homelander was... on some sort of date, it seemed. And the girl... who was she? The way he looked at her... she couldn't be a fling. Maybe a secret wife? Deep didn't recognize her, but Homelander certainly did; he held her hand, took a sip of her coffee... and, to Deep's wide-eyed shock, pecked her on the cheek, before rising to his full height, preparing to leave... and looking Deep straight in the eye.

Terror.

Deep held still; it would do no good to hide, now that he'd been caught. Instead, he gave a timid little wave, praying to any god out there that Homelander would see his submission for what it was, half preparing for the consequences if he didn't. But, miracle of miracles, Homelander didn't hover to his window and laser him in half. He instead gave a curt eye roll, before walking, not flying, to the steps of the building. Deep let out a shaky sigh, spinning on his heel to return to the meeting.

Ashley re-organized the spread she'd had her assistant do before the meeting, face drawn tight. If you want something done right... she thought, irritated. She'd spent the last ten minutes telling her off, which had helped, but then Homelander had decided to go AWOL. That had triggered her migraine.

As she re-arranged and shifted the flowers and cards, she heard the shuffling sound of footsteps, and turned to meet Deep's wide-eyed gaze. Oh, no. This was the look he'd reserved for when he'd done something unbelievably stupid - like buying alcohol for an underage influencer on a livestream, or committing biological warfare by releasing 100 pounds of frog spawn into the the wishing fountain downtown ('But my wish was to for the fountain to be filled with frogs!' he'd defended himself earnestly)  Ashley pinched her nose between her index finger and her thumb, eyes screwed shut.

"What. Deep." Deep flinched. "I didn't even do anything!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, cupping his hand to her ear and muttering urgently, too fast for her to shut out the flow of unwanted information.

"I saw Homelander kissing some lady. He was on a date."

Ashley abruptly shoved him off of her, horror and anger rolling across her face. "And so your first thought was to make me culpable?! You asshole!"  Ashley hissed out her rage, eyes harried. This was bad. She leaned in. "Where?" she asked despite herself. "The coffeeshop next door."

Ashley looked like she was on the verge of asking more, when the doors of the meeting room swept open, and the Seven filed in, each taking their seats, save for Sage and Maeve. Deep made to take his seat, Ashleys eyes communicating that the conversation wasn't over... when the sound of boots - and another pair of feet -rang through the hall, growing closer. Everyone in the Seven turned, the room stilling to a hush. Ashley worried her lip.

The door swung open, and in Homelander stepped - flanked by her. The woman from the coffeeshop. Ashley's eyes widened, then shot toward Deep's for a fraction of a second. 

"Morning, everyone!" Homelander said cheerily, sitting at his spot, and, to the shock of the Seven, wrapping his arm around the woman's waist and leaning into her awaiting kiss. She delivered a chaste peck to his cheek, then shyly waved as Homelander introduced her.

"You'll be seeing more of her from now on - I just thought now was the time you meet her." 

Starlight's eyes widened as the woman gave her name, told everyone it was nice to meet them, then scampered off like a deer in the forest. The room was silent, save for the sound of the door as she left, Homelander smiling after her.

"So," Homelander said, looking around the room, eyes bright, "What's on the docket today? Saves? Any events?" 

Stan Edgar watched in the Security Vault as the woman left Vought, with a curious gleam in his eye. So, this was the girl Sage had been so worried about, he mused, looking over the files he'd requested on her. Medical records. Employment records. Her digital footprint. A worn print of her birth certificate - the original, that her mother lost years ago... the list was endless, resulting in a formidable stack of papers that nearly brushed his nose when he walked by. He'd been thumbing through this journey through her life, categorizing the information in his mind, storing it away.

A 2 year stint in a psychiatric ward after one too many suicide attempts. Photos of her on picture day, leaked from her schools' databases. Her social security number, written in black marker on the inside of his arm. An array of school records, utility bills - she'd been all over the country before she'd even turned 18. Deeply unstable, profoundly lonely, and desperate for connection. 

This would not bode well. This would not bode well, at all. Stan pursed his lips, a flicker of pity crossing his face as he picked up one of her journals, dog-eared and yellowed. This one picked up where the last one, lost to time, had left off, on a particularly troubling note - the first time she'd missed a Homelander hosted event, ten years ago. He read it again, though the words had already been metabolized into his brain.

2/14/14- ...I can't believe they made him host the Valentine's Day Parade, after Maeve had broken up with him. How heartless... it's like they hate him - like they really, truly hate him. I cried watching that - he'd smiled, waved, flew in the air and made hearts with the skywriting planes, made the sky rain roses. But it wasn't enough for them. It's never enough for them.

Everyone got a rose - except for him. They made him go backstage as everyone kissed, probably to brief him on the next event they were making him host. Vought, the fans... The Seven... they're all so greedy with his time. So ungrateful for it. It makes me sick... I hate my boss for making me missing this event; he was practically on the ground with the rest of the crowd. I could have seen him. I could have touched him... I was busy at work, so I couldn't go - but never again. He is worth so much more than any money I could make. I would burn every dollar in the world for him. I would turn the world to ash, lay him down and kiss him atop their bodies.

Homelander... wherever you are. I will never put ANYTHING before you. Never.

I can't find any records of his human identity. No first name. No last name. Did Vought... kidnap him? Is he some CEO's son? He moves through these events with a practiced grace - but of course he does. He's Homelander. He has to. But I can't help but think... what if he'd be happier in a house? What if he doesn't want the crowds? What if he wants someone to play with his hair, kiss his brow, spoon-feed him chicken noodle?

I would spoon-feed you chicken noodle, Homelander <3 I would kiss it into you mouth, and lick the broth from your lips. Homelander... Homelander... Homelander... Homelander. His name is like ambrosia on my tongue. If I could, I wouldn't drink anything else.