Where The Heart Is: Issue # VI  (Patreon)

Where The Heart Is: Issue # VI 

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

June 26th, 2010

Youngstown, Ohio

Stambaugh Stadium

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are glad to invite you once again to the Forty-Fourth Annual Vought Kids Sports Challenge, to see some of the most super kids in America do their super best," an older man sitting at a white table said, speaking into a microphone with several cameras pointed at him. He wore a pale suit and a blue tie, his black hair slicked back, and he had a somewhat thin mustache. "I'm Mark Cable."

"And I'm Junie Clark," a much younger woman with short blonde hair in a bob added, wearing a modest blue cocktail dress. "We're glad to have you here at the Stambaugh Stadium in Youngstown, Ohio, as the super-abled youth of America show off their stuff today."

"Indeed, Junie, the under-sixteens is not a very well und-"

Several dozen feet away, Greg Veder tried to tune out the announcers' voices, their words blending into the general din of the stadium. He shook his head, blond hair falling into his eyes, as he attempted to ignore the loud noise of the crowd and the distracting sounds of the microphone. Focus, Greg, focus, he told himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He glanced up in the stands, looking towards the skyboxes where he knew his Mom would be watching from. He felt a little bit annoyed she couldn’t be down at the sidelines with the other parents, but Dad had been very particular about that.

This is gonna be a big reveal, son, he had told him a few days prior. Big for Vought and big for the family. Things are gonna be different from now on so we have to make sure we control how we break the news. Homelander with a son? A family? That’s a whole different ballgame, champ.

The summer sun beat down on the open-air arena, the heat not bothering Greg in the slightest, although he wished he could say the same for the noise. He glanced to his sides, noticing the other boys (and a scant few girls) stretching and doing warm-ups. Most, if not all, of them, were far more muscular or fit than he was, his body more scrawny than anything else. They've probably been training for years, he thought, a pang of insecurity hitting him. Not like me.

To top it all off, they all wore fancy costumes with padding and their own personal symbols, while he... well... 

Greg glanced down at his simple blue and white bodysuit, the sleeveless one-piece his dad had gotten him as a holdover till they designed his perfect starter costume. He didn't hate it or anything. It just made him look a lot less super, at least in comparison to everyone else. I look like a kid playing dress-up, he thought, frowning.

He knew he only had to do just three competitions today - a 400-meter sprint, a ball throw, and a weightlifting event - but it didn't make him any less nervous. He just got his powers a month ago, and... well, that hadn't ended well. 

He knew he was strong, at least, stronger than most capes, considering... But I'm still worried about doing something wrong, he thought, his stomach twisting.

Greg shut his eyes for a moment, holding down the urge to shudder as the memories came flooding back. The alleyway. The bullies. The blood. So much blood. No, don't think about that, he scolded himself, shaking his head again. Dad took care of it. He had people handle the clean-up, made sure I didn't get in trouble.

Part of him also wished he could join in the other competitions, like the flight race or the energy blast event. But I don't have those powers, he reminded himself, a pang of disappointment hitting him. Not like Dad. What he had was impressive, granted, considering he knew he could hurl a bus like a toy, but it wasn't Homelander good.

I mean, I figured out super speed, right? Greg thought to himself as he bounced on the grass. Maybe I can figure out heat vision too. Or flight. Or... something.

The announcer's voice boomed out again, making Greg jump. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our first contestants to the first event of the day; the weight-lifting competition! Starting with Arturo Acevedo, Age 15, New Mexico. Bravo!"

An excessively muscular boy, looking more like an adult bodybuilder if it weren't for his round, undeveloped face, lumbered into the center of the field. He wore a skintight, textured red sleeveless bodysuit with the symbol of a bull's head in black on his chest, as if the horns on his head weren't obvious enough. The bull boy, Greg thought, watching him walk towards the judge.

Arturo came to a stop where multiple barbells with plates made from a familiar rustic bronze metal that Greg immediately recognized as the hyper-dense Voughtanium. Vought had created this special material decades ago for some of its heroes who required armor, weapons, or shields that could survive their own strength. Grandpa Ben, aka Soldier Boy, had been a major example, going through dozens of shields before Vought finally gave him his final product.

Bravo stopped at the third set of weights and, struggling for a second, picked up overhead the set that had a clear "10 T" written on the sides. The supe/cape nerd part of Greg's brain couldn't help but be impressed, well aware that most Supes never broke the 2-ton marker when it came to strength, even after years of having their powers. And at least half of all Capes (parahumans) weren't even Brutes at all.

Bravo dropped the weights down and threw his hands over his head to cheers from the crowd, as his lift was projected onto the scoreboard next to his name and face.

Greg swallowed hard, his heart pounding as he watched Arturo bask in the crowd's adoration. 

He looked down at his own scrawny arms, at the simple bodysuit that hung off his frame, somehow already doubting what he knew to be true.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Just focus, he thought. Remember what Dad taught you. Believe in yourself.

"Thaddeus Chun, Age 12. Tucson, Arizona. Beef!" the announcer called out.

An Asian boy far taller and far more muscular strode forward as Arturo left, his skin a brilliant shade of royal purple and his costume a skintight white and blue short-sleeve bodysuit. Beef, Greg thought, watching him approach the weights. What kind of name is that?

But as Beef stepped up to the fifth set of weights, the ones marked "50 T," Greg felt his jaw loosen. Fifty tons? he thought, his heart skipping a beat. That’s at least a solid B Class supe. He knew very well from what his dad had told him that low B-Class was the minimum any basic strength-focused supe needed to even get a sniff at a solid contract with Vought. Anything below that without flashiness, flight, or looks and you’d be laughed out 

Yet, with a grunt of effort, Beef squatted down, gripped the barbell, and heaved it up over his head in one smooth motion. The crowd erupted in cheers as he held it there, his muscles bulging, his face a mask of concentration.

One... two... three... Greg counted silently, his mouth dry. He did it. He actually did it.

Beef let the barbell drop with a resounding clang, a grin spreading across his face as he basked in the crowd's applause. They love him, Greg thought, a mixture of envy and admiration swirling in his gut. They're cheering for him. He glanced around at the other contestants, taking in their awed expressions, their nervous fidgeting. They're all sizing each other up, he realized. Trying to figure out who can top that. 

He did his best to ignore the voice that told him none of them were even glancing his way as he looked back at the weights, at the massive plates of Voughtanium gleaming in the sun. I can do this, he told himself, trying to muster up some confidence. I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm Homelander's son.

But even as he repeated the words in his head, Greg couldn't quite make himself believe them. I'm not ready, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. He knew he’d fuck up somehow, someway.

"This your first time at one of these?" a voice asked, startling Greg out of his thoughts.

He turned to see another contestant, a bald black teen with an earring and a slight beard, giving him a friendly smile. The teen wore a costume that looked not too dissimilar from a football uniform, complete with padding, in bright red and white.

"Yeah," Greg admitted, nodding. "It's... it's kinda overwhelming, to be honest."

The other teen chuckled. "I hear you, man. It's a lot to take in." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Cruiserweight, by the way."

"Greg," Greg replied, shaking his hand. "Greg Veder."

Cruiserweight nodded. “Cool cool. You pay to get in or…?”

Greg shook his head, a flicker of pride sparking in his chest. "Nah, my dad’s a…" He pointed up into the sky, hoping Cruiserweight would get the gist.

"Damn," the other boy said, letting out a low whistle as he slowly realized what Greg had left unsaid. "You a Vought legacy. That's some big shoes to fill."

Tell me about it, Greg thought, his stomach churning. I'm just hoping I don't trip over my own feet. But he forced a smile, trying to play it cool. "I guess," he said with a shrug. "I'm just here to do my best, you know?"

Cruiserweight nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, man. Just focus on you, not anyone else. You got this."

Greg felt a small spark of warmth at the encouragement, at the casual camaraderie. Maybe this won't be so bad, he thought. Maybe I can actually do this. The fourteen-year-old turned his attention back to the field, where the next contestant was stepping up to the weights. All right, he thought, taking a deep breath. Let's see what the competition looks like.

He hadn't used his strength for real since that day in the alleyway, but he knew he was strong, undoubtedly. It almost went without saying, really. 10 tons, 50 tons, it sounded like a lot, but it was just an intimidating number. He knew he was stronger than that, it was just nerves.

“Anita Gore. Age 15. New Orleans, Louisiana. Crash!” A black girl in a sleek black-and-yellow jumpsuit strode forward, her movements fluid and confident. She approached the weights, a determined gleam in her eye. She looks like she knows what she's doing, Greg thought, watching her closely.

Crash gripped the first barbell in the fourth row, the one marked "25 T," her muscles flexing as she lifted it over her head with a grunt of effort. The crowd cheered, as expected, for the show.

Greg kept silent, watching each contestant and trying to weigh what he knew of his own strength with what was being displayed. He knew he had no reason to doubt his strength. Even if he hadn't done much to confirm exactly how strong he was, it was insane to think he wasn't as powerful as he knew himself to be. After all, he'd slammed into the ground from almost a mile up from his jumps, hard enough to crater it. Legs that powerful and hits that hard without injury? Well, even if only his legs were especially strong, and he knew they weren't for a fact...

It was very rare that someone was as durable as he seemed to be without matching or close enough strength to go along with it. The only real notable exception he could think of was like... The Deep? 

Yeah, the Deep was way more durable than he was strong, and he was still pretty decently strong, too.

"Anita Kimball. Age 14. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Miss Amazing!," the announcer continued. A small blonde girl in a very patriotic skirt and shirt walked forward, her ponytail bouncing with each step. She looked even younger than her age, her face round and her eyes sparkling.

With a deep breath, she gripped the barbell marked "25 T" and, with a high-pitched grunt, lifted it over her head. Holy shit, Greg blinked, his eyes wide. She's stronger than she looks.

"Irwin Holiday, Age 13, New York City. Spite!" the announcer boomed. A tall, muscular teenage boy that did not look at all thirteen strode forward, his red luchador's mask gleaming in the sun. He wore a black leather jacket with no shirt, black fingerless gloves, camo pants, and black military boots. This is a sports game, not a war game, Greg thought, unimpressed.

Fury approached the weights, a cocky grin on his face. He gripped the second barbell in the fourth row marked "30 T" and, with a roar of effort, heaved it over his head. The crowd went wild, and Fury basked in their adoration, flexing his muscles as he dropped the barbell back down. Showoff, Greg thought, rolling his eyes.

"Mark Lance. Age 15, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Growler!," the announcer called.

A massive teen made of living ice lumbered forward, his steps heavy and slow. He was easily seven feet tall, his body a crystalline blue, his eyes glowing white. He's like a giant ice sculpture.

Growler approached the weights, his icy face expressionless. He gripped the barbell marked "35 T" and, with a grinding sound like a glacier moving, lifted it over his head. He held it there for a long moment, the crowd silent in amazement, before dropping it with a resounding clang.

Name after name went up and did their lifts with no one 

Finally, the announcer's voice boomed out, "Greg Veder, Age 14, Brockton Bay, Massachusetts."

Several murmurs rippled through the crowd over the fact that no other title was announced after his city and state, something Greg had honestly been expecting. He had no hero name, not yet. His dad told him it'd be announced soon. He just didn't know when soon was.

Greg's heart leaped into his throat. This is it, he thought, moving forward on shaky legs. No turning back now.

He stepped forward, the last person to be called, and walked past all the barbells of Voughtanium, each bronze bar glistening as he ignored most of them. The crowd's murmurs only rose as he continued walking past the first few ones on each row with his stride as confident as he could make it. 10, 25, 50, 75, until finally...

200.

Greg stared down at the massive 100-ton Voughtanium barbell, the crowd's voices rising even higher until he bent down to grip it, the same crowd suddenly going silent. He could feel their eyes on him, could sense their anticipation, their expectation. 

He had a legacy to uphold, a reputation to build. And he was going to start right here, right now.

With a grunt and a jerk, Greg lifted the barbell over his head, his muscles straining, his face turning red. For a moment, he thought he might drop it, might crumble under the weight. But then he thought of his dad, of the pride in his eyes, the belief in his smile. I can do this, he told himself, gritting his teeth. I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm a superhero.

3, 2, 1...

Carefully, Greg lowered the barbell back down, his arms shaking with the effort. He let it fall to the ground with a resounding clang, the sound echoing through the stadium.

For a moment, there was silence. And then…

“GREG VEDER OF BROCKTON BAY WITH A 200 TON LIFT! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE HAVE A NEW UNDER-16 SUPE WORLD RECORD!”

An explosion of sound assaulted Greg's ears, nearly knocking him back as the crowd cheered and roared like never before. They were on their feet, stomping and clapping, screaming his name as his info was blasted onto the scoreboards. 

GREGORY BENJAMIN VEDER

AGE: 14

BROCKTON BAY, MASSACHUSETTS

LIFT: 200 SHORT TONS

"Ve-der! Ve-der! Ve-der!"

They love me. The teenager stared up at the crowd, hands thrust in the air. They really love me.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Greg glanced around, his eyes taking in the vibrant array of costumes surrounding him at the starting line of the 400 meter dash. Each kid was decked out in a professional-looking outfit, complete with logos and branding. He couldn't help but smirk at the girl with a yogurt company's logo emblazoned on her back. “I don't know why you'd want a yogurt company's branding on your back though,” he muttered to himself.

The girl in question several feet away snapped her head in his direction, her eyes narrowing into a fierce glare. Greg quickly raised his hands, mouthing a "Sorry" with a sheepish grin. Yikes, super hearing, okay.

Deciding to stretch like he'd seen the others doing, Greg began to limber up. Can't hurt to be prepared, right? Truth be told, he felt less confident about this event than he had about the weightlifting. Speed had never been his main focus during training with his dad. It's not like Dad's a big fan of speedsters anyway.

Memories of his father's complaints about speedsters flooded his mind. He could almost hear Homelander's voice, grumbling about how they acted more like athletes than heroes. "It's one thing if your power is, I don't know, let's say shrinking or growing extra arms," his dad had said on one of the rare occasions he was actually home. "Sure, go ahead, be an actor. Guest star on Law & Order PRT every other week. Show up on Capes of Our Lives, even. But if you can reach the speed of sound and you're out here acting like a prize race horse, you're a waste of space, frankly."

Greg couldn't help but chuckle. Yeah, Dad didn't have the most patience with some supes half the time.

"Hey."

The voice startled Greg out of his thoughts. He turned to his right, blinking in surprise at the sight of another blond boy, maybe a year older, wearing a yellow and red bodysuit with a fiery footprint logo on his chest. "Uhhh... hey," Greg replied, unsure of what to expect.

"The name's Hotstep," the other kid said, his thick Brooklyn accent dripping with attitude as he looked Greg up and down, his expression unimpressed.

Hotstep. Not a bad name, Greg had to admit. "Hey, Hotstep, my nam-"

Before he could finish, Hotstep held up a hand, cutting him off with a buzzer sound. "Yeah, I know your name. It was on the fuckin' board. What I wanna know is what the fuck you're doing here?"

Greg stared, confusion etched on his face. What? The word slipped out, his thoughts spilling into speech. “What?”

"You're a fucking basic Brute who thinks being strong means your legs are good enough to hang with the Racers. I've seen your type before," Hotstep scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. "You show up, you fuck up and then you whine about it."

"That's n-" Greg tried to interject, but Hotstep steamrolled over him.

"What, you a Juggernaut or something?" The older boy spat the category out of his mouth like it was a slur, a direct intersection of Brute and Racer. "You're all the same. Go the fuck back home."

Greg stared at Hotstep for a few long seconds, his blue eyes locked on the other boy's dismissive gaze. Who the hell does this guy think he is? A slow smile spread across his face, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "...I'm gonna smoke your ass."

And I'm gonna enjoy every second of it.

"RUNNERS IN POSITION!"

The announcer's voice boomed over the stadium's speakers, echoing in Greg's ears. He glanced around, his heart pounding with anticipation as he bounced on his heels. The other runners were getting into their starting positions, each one coiled like a spring ready to unleash their powers. Whoa, check that out! Lightning, fire, and energy crackled and swirled around some of the competitors, while others were surrounded by an odd, translucent spatial distortion. These guys aren't playing around.

As Greg took in the sight, he caught several of the runners shooting him mocking or confused looks. Hotstep, in particular, sneered at him before getting into position, his focus shifting to the track ahead. Oh, so that's why he's Hotstep, Greg mused, noticing the slight flames flickering beneath the other boy's feet.

"READY, SET..."

The starting pistol cracked, the sound sharp and piercing. Without hesitation, Greg exploded into motion, his body bursting forward like a bullet from a gun. I'll show them. I'll show them all. Spite and focus fueled his every step, a burning desire to prove himself, to show the world exactly how powerful he was.

The world blurred around him, colors and shapes melting together into a kaleidoscopic haze. His foot slammed into the ground, the sheer force of his stride making the earth tremble beneath him. Faster. Faster! Greg's arms swung wildly as he barreled down the track, his heart pounding in his ears, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

In an instant, Greg came to a sliding stop back at his starting position. Why do my feet feel so...? He glanced down at his feet, his eyes widening at the sight of his smoking sneakers, the synthetic material melted and shredded by the sheer friction of his run. Wow, how fast was that? He didn’t have time to really build up speed like he needed to but he never forced himself to go that fast from the start anyway. That was too hard to control.

Taking a deep breath, Greg looked around, his brow furrowing in confusion. Some of the racers were still frozen in their starting positions, their mouths agape as they stared at him in disbelief. Even the runners who had managed to start were only halfway down the track, one just coming up behind him with a trail of flaming footsteps in his wake. Wait, what's going on?

The stadium was eerily silent, the crowd's cheers replaced by a stunned hush. Greg could feel their eyes on him, thousands of gazes boring into his skin. Did I go before the gunshot or something?

"...you guys gonna run?" he called out to the other racers, his voice sounding small in the sudden quiet of the stadium.

Hotstep was the first to recover. "What the fuck?”

GREGORY BENJAMIN VEDER

AGE: 14

BROCKTON BAY, MASSACHUSETTS

400 METER DASH

POSITION: 1ST
TIME: 1.2 seconds