Queen Maeve Flashback Collection - imunbreakabledude (2024)

Chapter 1: Introduction & Contents

Chapter Text

Introduction

Hello! This is, in many ways, a compilation of one-shots about Maeve. Vignettes set throughout her life, from childhood, through young adulthood, and even some set during the period covered by the show. All of these were written as flashbacks within another, longer fic, which has them interspersed with an original post-season-3 adventuring featuring Maeve, Elena, and Ashley, but I enjoyed writing them a lot and believe they can stand alone - or as a separate piece, that gives a different feeling when read in this order. I have grouped them up with a few short stories in each chapter that feel like the most natural breakpoints.

One important note, if you haven’t read that fic first, is that these flashbacks were not included in chronological order, but rather grouped in ways that were thematically connected to each other or to the “present” events of that story as it played out. Thus, in this format, you may encounter a few oddities, especially when moving from one vignette to the next. These should not be major obstacles to understanding or enjoying the vignettes. I give this disclaimer only so people know the reason things are written the way they are and don't think I'm leaving some things weirdly vague while hammering you over the head with redundant context (if something's repeated, it’s probably because those two bits were dozens of chapters apart in the main fic).

How should you read this?

I have tagged and divided up this fic in such a way that you can read it like a one-shot collection. If there is a particular period of Maeve’s life, or a dynamic between her an a particular character that you are interested in, use the table of contents & character listings below to navigate towards the stuff you came for!

Or, if you want to go on a journey, feel free to skip the TOC and read this start to finish! As I said, it’s not the way I “intended” these bits to be read when writing them originally, but I think it’ll be a different experience that may be satisfying in its own way.

A couple other notes

• A convention that exists in my other fic is the use of scene dividers to indicate which character’s POV each scene is from… so if you’re wondering what the different dividers mean, that’s it. The majority of these vignettes are from Maeve’s POV, but there are also some from the POV of Elena, Ashley, and Maeve’s parents.
• Generally, you can expect to see a similar level of mature content as within the show itself. Be aware that start notes of each chapter may provide content warnings specific to that chapter.

Table of Contents

1. [Table of Contents - you are here]
2. Pre-birth: Maeve's mother's account of the story behind her birth and her powers
3. Age 0-3: Maeve's father learns the dangers of raising a Supe baby
4. Age 4-6: Maggie attempts to fit in with normal children as she goes to school
5. Age 7: Maggie questions her dad about why she's different
6. Ages 8-10: Maggie first starts "working" as a Supe at her dad's behest & questions her mother's absence
7. Age 11-12: Start of middle school, Maggie becomes more aware of how other people see her, and forms a short-lived friendship
8. Age 13: Maggie goes on a Future Farmers of America trip, navigates puberty, gets her braces
9. Age 14: An attempt at heroism goes awry making major consequences for Maggie and her Dad to cope with
10. Age 14-15: Maggie uses alcohol & sex to cope with her new depression, then finds hope in a chance to save many lives
11. Age 16: After making a splash as "Queen Maeve" for the first time, Maggie's invited onto the reality show Vought Summer Clubhouse
12. Age 17-18: For the remainder of high school Maggie navigates a mix of admiration and resentment from her peers (especially boys), while she and her Dad both believe they're taking care of each other
13. Age 18-19: Maggie moves to New York to attend Godolkin and reinvents herself as Queen Maeve
14. Age 20: Maeve and Elena first meet
15. Age 20-21: Various stories from Maeve and Elena's early days of dating, learning about each other's families
16. Age 22: Maeve finishes college, enters the Vought Draft, and begins working as a Supe for New York City
17. Age 23: Maeve's selected to join the Seven, a big opportunity that puts big strain on her relationship with Elena
18. Age 24: In the first years of the Seven, Maeve and Homelander go from coworkers to fake-dating to something more
19. Age 25: Learning Homelander's past & a pregnancy scare make Make question what she wants out of the relationship
20. Age 26: Maeve learns more about Homelander's darker side
21. Age 28 (part 1): Maeve's first five-year contract is coming to and end, and her high school reunion forces her to confront her disillusionment with her present situation
22. Age 28 (part 2): A stint at rehab brings Maeve and Elena back together, with the idea to "get away, and start a family" (as Maeve alludes to in episode 107...!)
23. Age 33-34: Various fill-ins from Season 1 of the show and just before
24. Age 35: Various fill-ins from Post-season-1 and Season 2 of the show
25. Age 36 (part 1): Various fill-ins from post-season-2 or early season 3 of the show
26. Age 36 (part 2): Fill-ins of the immediate aftermath of the Vought Tower explosion

If you came here for a specific character or relationship…

Elena: Chapters 14-17, 21, 22, 24, 26 (if you're here for Maeve/Elena, honestly, I recommend you read my full post-s3 fic!)

Homelander: Chapters 13, 16, 18-20, 22-24 (plus mentions/allusions in Chapters 14, 17, 21, 25)

Madelyn: Chapters 2-4, 16-24 (Yes, she really is in that many.)

Ashley: Chapters 21, 24, and 25 (if you're here for Ashley, once again, I recommend you read my full post-s3 fic!)

Butcher: Chapter 25 (plus mention/allusion in chapter 20 - it's Maeve's POV on the whole Becca ordeal. So that may interest Butcher fans.)

Maeve’s Mother: Chapters 2 and 26 (plus mentions/allusions in Chapter 4, 6, 10, 12, and 22)

Maeve’s Father: Chapters 2-12, 15, and 26 (plus mentions in Chapters 19 and 24)

(Other characters from the show do appear, of course, in briefer/less substantive ways.)

Chapter 2: Pre-birth

Chapter Text

◎ ◎ ◎

I had just finished my sophom*ore year at Barnard. On scholarship, with pennies I’d scrimped and saved from odd jobs back home. I was the first in the family to go to college. The first to want to, really. My sister Dorothy was happy to marry a boy from our street and settle down in a nice family home in Quincy. I was certain there were grand adventures waiting out for me in the world, though I didn’t know what they were. I loved college so much I decided by the end of the first year that I wanted to stay forever… which meant aiming to become a professor, one day. By the end of my second year, I felt like a new woman.

I worked at a cafe in the city that summer, to make up the tuition that my scholarships and loans wouldn’t cover. There was a construction site across the street, with men climbing up and down the scaffolding all day. They’d come in for cool drinks. Take off their hard hat, tuck it under an arm along with their work gloves. Most would pay and go. Some stared.

One worker, though, just about my age. Sandy hair, broad shoulders. Blue eyes twinkling like he’d just heard the best joke but would only share it if you begged him. He’d come in, sweaty, but not gross—glowing. He’d ask “How are you,” and listen to the answer. He told me his name was Donald and he asked for mine.

Donnie Shaw… He was everything I wasn’t. Raucous. Spontaneous. Physical. He’d been all over the country, wherever work took him, and I’d barely had the courage to venture a few hours from home for school. He told me I was brave to dare to leave the Irish Catholic enclave behind. It was a come-on, but it worked. It was everything I needed to hear. He’d ask me what I was studying and pretend to be interested when I described my summer reading, not realizing he had me on the hook already.

You know how it goes. We had a fling. We were young, we had hardly any money, but we got hot dogs and Italian Ice from stands in the park, we saw movies, we went to Coney Island. He listened while I went on and on about my mythology readings and nodded and tried to care even if all the names of deities went in one ear and out the other. I asked why he was in the city, and he explained he’d just ended up here following one contract after another. He was chasing work where the work was good to save money for settling down in some distant, grown-up future, but for now he wanted to see the country.

We said a lot of things in that summer haze. Love. Passion. Forever. Things that were easy to say with no obligation to uphold them.

It was two, maybe three weeks, before the job finished up and Donnie moved on to the next one. Pennsylvania, he said—after that, who knows. He said if he was back in New York in the next few years, he’d call. We both knew that was a gesture of politeness. It was only a summer fling.

About a month into the fall semester, I found out I was pregnant.

Twenty years old, unmarried, not finished with college, it wasn’t a pretty picture. There was no way I could support a baby on my own, while finishing school, nor even if I dropped out. Not to mention, going home would mean eternal shame for having a child out of wedlock.

I planned to get an abortion. My family wouldn’t be happy if they ever found out, but they’d be unhappy either way. I asked my roommate if she’d go with me to the clinic. We’d lived together since our first semester, and we were quite close, so of course she said yes… Yes, but. Maddie had an idea she wanted to run by me first.

Maddie Stillwell. I had known her for only two years, but she was my best friend in the world. The first person I ever met who understood what I wanted out of life and respected it, didn’t judge. She also wanted big things, though I didn’t fully understand her ambitions the way she seemed to see through mine.

“You’re so smart, Joanie,” she’d say while I did my summer reading. “Why do you stick to those boring books? You could do so much more.”

“They’re interesting.” Interesting to me, anyhow.

Maddie just shook her head at me while effortlessly balancing her courses in business, science, communication, design—everything under the sun. When I inquired what she was majoring in, she’d say: “Depends who’s asking.”

That was the difference between us: I wanted to learn. She wanted to do.

Anyways, Maddie had found herself an internship over the summer, assisting at a research lab for Vought Pharmaceutical. She did well enough to get promoted to a paid assistantship for the fall. Maddie couldn’t tell me what she was working on, for legal reasons, but she swore it was cutting edge, for the advancement of the human race. Her boss, Dr. Vogelbaum, was planning a new trial on fetal development, and they needed a volunteer. If I wanted, I could come to the lab to hear more. No obligation.

They made me sign an NDA as soon as I walked in. No commitment yet, they promised, but I couldn’t share with anyone the details that would be required before consenting.

Once I signed, they told me whole-hog: Compound V. Supes were made by Vought, yes, even Soldier Boy. All of it. Vogelbaum had a sort of calming voice, a presence that made it all sound very reasonable. And Maddie was there, chiming in with excitement. So where did I come in…?

Vogelbaum said, in his unwavering voice, “Potentially—if you pass some initial scans—we would like to inject your baby with Compound V throughout the pregnancy.”

They promised, not only would they pay for Barnard, any graduate school I wanted, all the medical bills, plus a sum of cash on top of that… but they’d also take care of finding the baby a suitable adoptive home (given what brought me there). It sounded too good to be true.

To see if I could qualify, they needed to do an ultrasound. I figured, free exam, in any case. Vogelbaum confirmed: “It’s a girl.”

“Does that matter?” I asked.

Maddie stepped in. “Only because Dr. Vogelbaum conducted a similar trial with a baby boy last year. And you’ll be glad to know—this is also protected by the NDA, of course—he’s happy and healthy and exceeding all expectations. There’s no need to worry about her.”

“Her…” I murmured. “She’ll grow up to be a superhero?”

“That’s the hope,” Maddie said. “No matter what, she’ll be very special. Compound V is a miracle. It has better results the earlier in development it’s administered, so…”

Dr. Vogelbaum scooted over with a syringe with a frighteningly long and flexible needle, the tube filled with something blue.

“We’re starting now?” I asked.

“If you’re willing to sign. We’ve lost enough weeks of development already.”

“It won’t do anything to me, will it?”

“You may feel a few light symptoms shortly following injection, but no lasting effects.”

I signed. They stuck something up somewhere and it did feel strange, but not much stranger than an average gynecological exam. They sent me back to my dorm with a hefty pamphlet of things to watch out for and a reminder to return for weekly appointments going forward. They also gave me a stack of cash, before the payout that would come once the pregnancy was completed—a per diem for all the “comforts and necessities” I might need. I’ll admit, I left the lab that day feeling rather like a VIP.

So I managed the pregnancy, along with junior year of college. Between classes, and exams… Every week, a checkup. Every week, another shot of Compound V. Maddie was very supportive. She helped me through the nausea, the fatigue. She sat with me as we did our homework, even talked to the bump when she was in a silly mood. Any time I doubted, she reminded me what good this research would do for medicine, and technology, and society. The baby would end up well provided for, and so would I. Win-win.

It must’ve been… February. I was eight months along. There was a knock at the door, and Maddie was out, so I had to get up, which was not my favorite thing, at that time, being on my feet. Anyway, I opened the door…

“Donnie?” I gasped. “What are you doing here?”

He had a different hue to him, in the winter months. Bundled up. Resilient. Somehow broader. “One of my buddies who still works around here, he calls me up and tells me ‘that girl you were going with last summer is knocked up.’ I didn’t believe it, but I had to see…” He stepped inside, and looked me over. I’d never seen a man look so much like he might faint.

“You came all the way back here for a rumor?”

“Is it mine?”

I tried to lie. I did. “It’s not…”

“Then whose is it?”

I’ve never been a good liar.

“Joan, what the hell? Were you never gonna tell me?!”

“I had no way of reaching you, no idea what state you were in. Besides, I didn’t think you’d want to hear this.”

“Of course I’d want to hear it!” Donnie paced, ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to be a deadbeat… I want to do the right thing.”

“I’m not—”

“I know you’re an ‘independent woman’, but a baby deserves a mother and a father. My dad wasn’t around a lot… I don’t want that for our kid.”

Our kid. I hadn’t gotten around to accepting my, so our was a shock to the system.

By that point, I was already having second thoughts about handing the baby over to Vought. Maddie reassured me so often that it would be fine, perfect, magnificent, that only made me start to doubt it more.

And he seemed so sincere…

He got down on one knee. “Joanie, marry me. We can go out to California, where my folks are from… We can build a life there. With—sh*t, is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s a girl.”

His face lit up with wonder. “With our little girl.” He pulled out a ring from his pocket, with a gem so small you could barely see it. He’d really thought this through, bought a ring before he came. “Joanie Redmond… will you marry me? Become Joanie Shaw?”

“We have nothing in common,” I told him.

“Didn’t stop us from having a great time before.” His smile brought back summer. The sweat and the sun and the burst of joy we shared. Was it possible that kind of carefree reverie could be an entire life, with him? “Let’s build a life for our daughter. What do you say?”

It must have been the hormones; I said yes.

◎ ◎ ◎

We hurried off to California. His family was all based in Stockton. He got help from his mother, plus the money he’d saved from several years of construction, to buy a house in Modesto… A house for us, and our baby. It was a strange fairytale. Not something I had ever fantasized about, but picture-perfect in its own way. Donnie was magnificent. He had all the answers. He made it all seem okay.

I left without telling Vogelbaum—or Maddie. I called my professors at Barnard and said I had a medical emergency, that I’d complete the rest of the work from the syllabus and mail it. I wanted to go back to school, later. I fully intended to finish my degree, though I hadn’t thought out how. I wasn’t giving up everything to be a housewife and mother. That’s what I told myself. So I did homework, still, pointlessly, waiting out those last weeks of pregnancy, in our mostly-empty house, while Donnie helped make it less empty. He got us a bed and a stove and a refrigerator. He built a crib and painted the room that would become the nursery, only when the baby was ready to sleep in her own room, he said.

I told Donnie I didn’t have it in me to worry about a wedding until after it was all over. His mother wasn’t happy with that, but Donnie understood. He wanted to make everything easy for me, he said. There’d be time for that later, he said.

We discussed names. Donnie agreed to let me pick Margaret, for my baby sister who was born too soon. She died in her sleep after only a few months. I thought it was fitting if Maggie got a second chance to be strong.

“Strong” was only a vague thought in my head, at that point. Being so far from Vogelbaum, and those weekly treatments, I managed to forget what I’d done, how many injections had happened already… The new doctor Donnie had found out here hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary in the two appointments we’d had, so I thought it was all behind me.

The due date was approaching, and I could tell the baby was restless and ready to come out. She—You—It… was moving around a lot. Kicking something fierce. Uncomfortable. I had no means of comparison, no way of knowing if this was the normal feeling or not.

Once my water broke, I could tell something was not right. Contractions were one thing. But there was movement from inside, more… active than before. The feeling that the baby might find its own way out if I didn’t provide a swift enough exit.

I was terrified. All the regret of having agreed to this in the first place, and run from the only people who knew anything about the mysterious chemicals pumped inside me, crashed down at once. Fortunately, Donnie was outside, wrangling the garden into something presentable. I snuck to the kitchen, trying to keep absolutely still and silent, not cry out and call his attention.

I called Maddie. I’m surprised she could understand me through the tears and the pain—I apologized and told her the location of the nearest hospital and begged her and Vogelbaum to come as soon as they could.

Finally, I hobbled outside, and Donnie rushed us to the hospital. There was a few hours of desperate, painful waiting… Donnie held my hand, told me to squeeze when it hurt. It’s amazing he didn’t break any bones.

After what felt like forever, some doctor burst in and whispered to another and they began wheeling me out, down the hallway. Donnie was running behind, he could barely keep up, until they took me through some doors and wouldn’t let him pass. I was relieved, but it was awful to hear him shouting after.

They took me down a long, long hallway. There was another voice screaming—my own. “Get her out,” I was crying. “Get her out.” I had no idea what I was saying. I just wanted it to be over.

Eventually, we reached a private room. Rather dark. Dr. Vogelbaum was there, directing the doctors what to do. He took one look at me and ordered a C-section.

They put up a sheet and gave me the drugs, but I was awake. I heard the strangest sounds, the strangest commands between the doctors operating.

Of course, I had never seen a Caesarean take place before, but something seemed off. Maybe it was just my terror. I was convinced something had gone wrong with the chemicals, or with me, and the baby was dead. Perhaps I would die too. Perhaps I should.

Eventually… it was over… and… they pulled her out. Cleaned her off.

While they stitched me up, a new doctor came in and informed me in a very flat tone that while it all went exceedingly well, there were some additional complications due to the “nature” of the birth… damage that might take a longer recovery than a traditional C-section…But I didn’t take it in… because…

There you were. On my breast. A child. My child.

Maddie met me in the recovery room. “They’re working on the paperwork. There’s a bit more of it, now that the father’s involved.”

“Donnie. Where is he?”

“Outside. We thought it better if he wasn’t in here to see…” Maddie recalibrated, always so diplomatic. “Now that he’s here, if he wants to fight the adoption… it’ll take longer, but knowing him, he won’t have the resources, or sustained energy to fully establish parental rights, so we can move ahead with your original plan. You will still receive the agreed-upon payment.”

“Will you be meeting the family she ends up with?”

“Yes, I’ll be involved with placement. I’ll make sure her parents care for her, and know how special she is.”

“Can you ask them to keep her name?”

“I can’t promise, but I can ask. What’s the name?”

“Margaret,” I said, looking at the little bundle in my arms. “They can call her Maggie for short.”

Maddie leaned close and whispered, “The adoption clause in that contract you signed is optional. They can’t force you to give her up. So… it’s up to you.”

I remembered when I was eight years old and my parents brought my sister Maggie home. I remembered how small she was, when they let me hold her, and how we all spent so much time staring at her in her cradle until one day she was gone. Almost as if she couldn’t handle all the attention.

This baby didn’t seem to mind. When she blinked, and looked up at me the first time… those tiny blue eyes… his eyes.

“What do I tell Donnie?” I whispered. “When he realizes she’s… special?”

“Same thing everyone believes. It’s a miracle.”

Maddie left, to handle her people, and I was forever grateful for that—and finally, they let Donnie in.

The moment he looked at the baby, I knew I made the right choice not to send her away to a stranger. The love in his eyes as he held her… you. It was unparalleled. Unconditional.

It took most of the hospital stay (extended, due to my surgery recovery) for me to realize I didn’t have that same love to give.

It wasn’t for lack of wanting. I wanted so badly, in fact, that I temporarily convinced myself that I actually wanted to marry Donnie… it was frightening, and we had spent barely three months together in total, and the only reason I told myself I wanted to marry him was for the baby, our baby, so she’d have a mother and a father. I realized during that hospital stay that she would never have a mother, regardless.

The baby was strong, though no one saw it yet but me—and no one saw yet that I wasn’t. I wasn’t capable of summoning that unconditional love that a mother is supposed to have.

Because I looked, and I didn’t see a normal baby… I saw a demigod. In all the myths I studied, demigod children had great power, great fates—but more often than not, they were cursed to misery, loss, untimely deaths.

I saw all that in the little bundle in my arms… a child that didn’t belong to me, or my world… a baby who had no idea of the world she was born into or how she wouldn’t belong… a consequence of messing with forces I didn’t understand… a reminder that I took a check to do this to her… a reminder of my own mistakes.

And I thought: no mother at all is better than a mother who looks at a child and sees a mistake.

But Donnie didn’t make this mistake. He looked at Maggie, and he saw a miracle.

I knew he’d only love her more once he saw how special she was. He’d see it as a gift from the gods, not a deal with the Devil.

So, as soon as we checked out… I put Maggie in his arms, and made an excuse about having left something at the front desk. He hardly noticed, he was all focused on her… on you.

I ran and got on the first bus I saw.

Chapter 3: Age 0-3

Chapter Text

□ □ □

Donald was twenty-three. Maggie was a few hours old.

They didn’t let him see her, or Joan, at first. Since they took her in for the C-section, he had to wait outside with no news. Any frustration he felt evaporated when he held Maggie for the first time.

Joan didn’t talk much, just looked at the baby. Donald understood. He was doing the same.

When the doctors whisked the baby away for medical checks, he tried to strike up conversation. Asked her how she felt, how they’d set things up back at home, when she wanted to set the wedding date, now that Maggie was born… Joan didn’t respond much. At all. Donald figured she was exhausted from the surgery. Once they were home, it would be different. He spent most of that first week at the hospital with her, only leaving to shower and change his clothes at home… Cleaning up, making sure the nursery was in tip top shape.

When Joan was finally discharged, he brought her out to the car in the wheelchair the hospital provided.

She said she forgot something at the desk as they’d checked out. He turned the chair around, but she said she’d rather walk. She put Maggie in his arms.

He waited by the car for several minutes. Eventually he went to check on Joan. No one at the front desk had seen her.

□ □ □

Maggie was two weeks old. Ma and Lynn were saviors, helping him care for her. Changing the diapers, mixing the formula. Donald was exceedingly glad to have them around, as he was also splitting his energy with trying to find Joan. She was missing, and no one else seemed to care.

He called the hospital dozens of times, demanding to talk to other staff who’d been working the day they checked out. The police took his story, but said there was no evidence of foul play. One officer flippantly informed him that it was common for adults to “disappear” following the birth of a child, statistically.

Several times, his sister Lynn tried to take him aside and encourage him to “accept” that Joan was not abducted; that she had left on purpose. But that couldn’t be. They were going to be married. They were going to raise Maggie together in this house.

Donald had heard that pregnancy, not to mention labor, did funny things to women’s heads. Maybe she wasn’t in her right mind. Postpartum and all that. He couldn’t hold that against her, could he?

He called Barnard next. The woman working the information line wasn’t willing to give out information on a student, said it was an issue of safety. He called three times before he got out that he wasn’t some pervert, that Joan Redmond was his fiancée and the mother of his child. The clerk said, “Sir, if this is a lie, it’s poor. If it’s true, I think you need a lawyer.”

He called his buddy, Sean, who was from Staten Island, and asked him to go take a look for Joan. Sean was surprisingly reluctant, said he didn’t want to look like a “creep” showing up to a girls’ college.

Ma and Lynn continued to passive-aggressively tut to each other. Donald insisted, “Once she calms down, she’ll come home.”

At night, when Ma and Lynn went home, he felt out of his depth. He wanted to be a father, but he wasn’t supposed to do this alone.

Maggie cried the most at bedtime. It didn’t matter if he changed her or offered formula or anything. She knew Mom was gone. He sang lullabies to try to get her to sleep, but he didn’t know many, and his voice wasn’t very good either. He gave his best rendition of, “Hush little Maggie, don’t say a word, Daddy’s gonna buy you a mocking bird…” Hoping she wouldn’t mind that he repeated the same two lines over and over—he couldn’t remember the rest.

She wasn’t falling asleep. But as he sang, and reached out to her, she reached her tiny hand up and grabbed his finger.

His heart warmed. She held tight. Really tight. He tried to pull away and cried out. She broke it.

□ □ □

Maggie was a month old. Donald’s finger had mostly healed as he took her to the pediatrician for the next round of shots. The needle didn’t break her skin.

Donald would’ve thought it was some sleep-deprived hallucination of his if the doctor didn’t see it too.

“That’s odd. It’s not in her records, that she’s Super-abled.”

“I…” Donald blinked, and looked down at Maggie. “I didn’t know.”

The doctor called in his assistant; apparently getting the paperwork correct was a big deal. Had to register with the state and with Vought Pharmaceutical’s directory of Super-abled children, and the doctor didn’t have the right forms on him because it was supposed to be taken care of by someone else.

Donald let it wash over him. Thinking back, it fit. The baby wasn’t just feisty. She was strong.

Ma didn’t seem to get it. She wasn’t the sort to watch those Payback movies or the documentary TV specials; she didn’t know what Super-abled meant (or pretended not to). “She’s blessed,” Donald said. Ma softened at that, though she still didn’t match his excitement.

“This must be why Joanie ran,” Donald said. It made sense now. She must’ve felt it. Maybe that’s why the birth went so wrong.

Ma just made that classic disapproving face. She had never hidden her disdain for Joan very well. In her mind, it was bad enough they hadn’t got married before Maggie was born, and now this disappearance… Donald understood, though. Maggie’s power was scary—his finger was still in a splint—but it was the greatest thing in the world.

□ □ □

Donald grew even more desperate to get in touch with Joan and explain the news. He decided to write a letter and hope beyond hope that wherever she was, she’d told the Post Office where to forward her mail to.

Our Maggie… she’s a miracle. I can understand being scared. But you should come back and see her. She’s already holding her head up and sitting on her own. Faster than what all the books say. She’s got an iron grip and doesn’t get hurt, either. Come on back and see for yourself. Or finish your school and then come. Running off isn’t right.

He might as well have tossed it in the trash, but he stamped it and dropped it in the mailbox.

Donald didn’t move Joan’s clothes from the closet, though it hurt to brush past them every morning. If she came back, she’d need them. “If” had snuck in sometime in the past week. He still believed she might.

He ought to be doing more. Though he didn’t know what. There had to be a way to get through to her. The more he thought it over, the more he suspected he’d missed the chance. Maybe back in the hospital, if he’d been nicer. Maybe if he’d made the home homier.

His true regret was taking that stupid job in Philly. Leaving her in the first place. He hadn’t been a fan of New York, but he should’ve stuck around so he could be with her—it wasn’t like there was a shortage of construction jobs there. Then the little surprise would be something they shared, not something she hid and he only found out about by accident. They’d have so much more time to plan and maybe she wouldn’t have been so spooked. The house would be nine months lived in and Joan would be comfortable here and she’d be here.

But she wasn’t. All because ten months ago he was too scared to go all in and say Joanie Redmond, I love you.

□ □ □

Maggie was three months old. Donald had his hands full taking care of her and had lost track of his efforts to find Joan. Praying she’d come back any day with a story of an adventure, a kidnapping, something fit for a movie, that she could tell while they curled up in bed, Maggie between them. She had a way with words.

Every time the phone rang, he hoped it was her. He almost fainted when a young woman’s voice called, that sounded almost like hers. But it was that friend of hers, that roommate from school—Maddie.

“Where’s Joanie?” he asked.

“Sorry?” the girl replied. “I was calling to check in on her. She’s not with you?”

“She isn’t home… Hasn’t been. She disappeared. I figured she went back to school, only they wouldn’t put me through to her. Where is she? Has she gone back to Boston?”

A long time before the girl replied. “Donald, I’m so sorry.”

That night, he held Maggie in his arms and tried to explain.

“Mommy is gone. She left. I don’t know if she left you or she left me. She left both of us.” For once, the baby was silent. Her refusal to cry in this moment made tears well up in his eyes. “But it’s gonna be alright. Because I’m here. Daddy’s not going anywhere. I got you… and you got me.”

□ □ □

About a week later, Maddie showed up to visit.

“I told you, Joan isn’t here,” Donald said as he answered the door.

“I’m not here for her. May I come in?”

They sat at the dining table, Maggie in his arms. Maddie waved at the baby. “She’s beautiful.”

“What are you doing here?”

Maddie cleared her throat. “I don’t know if Joan ever mentioned it, but I work for Vought Pharmaceutical. We just got the registration paperwork that Maggie is Super-abled.”

“Awful big coincidence…”

“It isn’t. Yes, it’s standard for a representative to check in with parents. As soon as I saw the paperwork come through, I asked my superiors if I could make this call myself. Begged, if I’m being honest.”

Donald offered Maggie some more formula and stared the woman down. Something smelled off.

“I don’t know what got into Joan’s head that made her run off, but I want to help in any way I can. Not only because it’s my job. Because… I miss her, too.” There was genuine hurt in her eyes.

“I can tell you’re skeptical, so I’ll be blunt: Super-abled individuals aren’t in large supply,” Maddie continued. “Consequently, Vought is invested in looking after all the children from the early years, so they’re able to grow up into the best heroes they can be. That being said, raising a Super-abled child is a big task, even more so alone. If you feel overwhelmed, we can find her another home.”

Now it made sense why she’d come all this way. “So that’s it. You want to take her away because she’s special. You want to steal her for your company’s sake.”

“That’s not—”

“Well, you can’t have her!” Even if Joan didn’t want her, Donald wasn’t about to send Maggie off with no parents.

Maddie retained a placid expression. “Only an offer.” She handed over a business card. “Here’s our contact. If you ever have trouble, emergencies… Anything. Vought will help.”

□ □ □

Maggie was four months old when she started crawling. Donald had his hands full trying to keep an eye on her as she got quicker by the day. He wasn’t sure how invincible she was, and it was terrifying to watch her get up the stairs somehow, or climb onto chairs, tables, and so on. Any time she took a spill, it didn’t seem to bother her. He nearly thought it was over, once, when she climbed the bookshelf and brought it down on top of her. A few seconds later, the shelf rose, and she crawled out from underneath, delighted with herself. Donald quickly learned it wasn’t Maggie he had to worry about; it was the structural integrity of the house.

Lynn had to take care of her own kids, but Ma stuck around to help. She had her occasional comments about the “situation” with the baby, but Donald managed to get back to work for two and a half months with Ma’s help. ’Til one day, he had to meet Ma at the hospital. Her finger bitten off. She would not look after Maggie after that.

So Donald was back to watching over the baby himself. He figured Ma would get over the incident at some point—which she did, after about a year, but she’d only talk to him. She refused to be in the same room as Maggie.

Donald nearly went stir-crazy for those next few months. He was smart enough not to stick his finger in her mouth, but her crying was fierce. He got her those toys you can stick in the freezer, she bit clean through them. He tried to ignore it, put the TV on, see if she’d get distracted from the pain. Nothing worked. Donald was ready to start bawling himself.

Desperate, he called his brother. Joe and his wife Marie lived further away, which is why he hadn’t been around much. After Ma got nipped, Marie had decided they wouldn’t associate with Maggie—or Donald. But Joe reminded him of an old wives’ tale that did the trick for teething.

So Donald put a little brandy in Maggie’s bottle. Miracle of f*cking miracles. It was the only thing that shut her up.

He tried not to use too much. It was a rare trick. To be used in moderation. But then again, mothers had been doing it for generations. And nothing seemed to hurt Maggie.

□ □ □

Maggie was a year old. The birthday party was just her and Donald. He’d invited Lynn and her family, but they had prior plans. So Donald sat alone with a balloon with the number 1 that Maggie managed to chase down and pop, even at a crawl.

Thanks to a few years of chasing the best-paying contracts he could find across the country, Donald had decent savings. He hadn’t been worried about buying this house or raising a kid. Those savings didn’t look so hot after a year of stay-at-home fathering, buying formula and baby clothes and so, so, so many diapers.

He tried to find jobs that didn’t mind if he took the baby with him. “She’s not a problem,” he said, holding her asleep in her carseat. A few employers were willing to entertain it for a short time. A night security position at a mall was a godsend, steady hours where he could keep Maggie in the security office with him, no issue. Perfect, until the mall was condemned on account of asbestos and set for demolition.

It got harder as she grew, spending less time napping and more time trying to get away from him. The only way was to keep her stuck in a sling on his chest. He decided to go after a construction job again, and naturally got a funny look from the recruiter. “I know it looks odd, but she’s snug as a bug. It’s not a problem.”

“Is this a joke? You can’t be suggesting bringing a baby to a job site.”

“She’s safer than any guy out there with their hard hats. She’s made of steel.” He grabbed his hammer from his tool belt.

“Sir, what are you—”

“Just look!” Donald undid the sling and cradled Maggie in one arm. She saw what he was about to do and lit up. He bounced the hammer off of her skull. She laughed and clapped her hands together. “It’s her favorite game. We call it ‘Bonk’.” Donald held the hammer out. “Go on and try if you like. Hit her as hard as you want.”

The recruiter declared that he was calling the police. So much for that.

□ □ □

Maggie was two. Donald had heard other parents talk about how tough it was with toddlers. They had no idea. No one else deserved to talk about the “terrible twos” if they had a regular human child.

He was used to the baby’s rowdiness, but if she got out of hand, he could always scoop her up. Now, though she was still small, she was strong enough that tantrums were truly frightening.

One night she absolutely refused to get into her pajamas. She squirmed out of his arms and ran him in circles around the house. Upstairs, downstairs. Through his legs, climbing furniture.

He eventually cornered her in the kitchen. Maggie wasn’t willing to admit defeat, though. As he bent to grab her, she screamed at an inhuman pitch and shoved him back, knocking him off his feet. Donald’s head hit the wall, hard. His vision blurred and his ears rang.

He sat there for a while. Who gave a sh*t about the little terror. Let her run around in a diaper all night if she wanted. As his sight cleared, Donald realized what was keeping him from getting up wasn’t frustration, but fear.

If this was what she could do now, what about in a few months? A few years?

He pictured that silver business card with a V on it that he’d stuck into the phone book years ago. Perhaps now was the time to consider Maddie’s offer. He had no idea what to do with Maggie. Maybe it was time to give up and admit it.

As he steeled himself to get up, it was like Maggie could sense it. She crept back in the room, crying. No tantrum screams—little sniffles, as she crawled over and hugged his leg. Gently. Without words… she seemed to be communicating that she understood.

Donald scooped her into his lap. “It’s okay, Maggie.” He cradled her as she stuck her thumb in her mouth. “I know you didn’t mean it,” he sighed as he carried her to bed. “But we need to learn to be gentle, okay? That’s the only way this is gonna work.”

□ □ □

Maggie was three, and she’d learned a lot. Through an exhausting trial-and-error process that involved a lot of broken household objects along the way, he’d gotten her to understand important key words, like “stop” and “gentle” and “no”. It was still a challenge combating the natural curiosity of a toddler who couldn’t learn that just because something didn’t hurt her, didn’t mean it was okay. Regularly he found himself at a loss trying to explain why sticking household objects into the fire on the gas burners of the stove was bad, or why she shouldn’t climb into the lion enclosure at the zoo.

Full-time Maggie care didn’t pay, though, and bills were stacking up more than ever. So, when Donald heard a lucrative job site was looking for men, he did something he never would’ve considered a year ago: hired a sitter.

Leanne was the first one to answer his ad. She was 22, and, in a funny coincidence, had been a few years behind Donald in high school. He taught her everything he knew, all the signals and code words and plenty of warnings. “Do not play rough games. Do not engage in more contact than necessary. If she’s into something dangerous, just stay back and watch out for yourself first—she’ll be fine. You can pick her up if you need to, but keep your distance if she gets riled up.”

Leanne took it all so dutifully that Donald was worried the seriousness wasn’t coming across. After the first day went fine, then the first week, he started to relax.

It lasted a blissful seven months. Donald was able to put more money in the bank than he was paying out. Every night Maggie was in a far better mood, and so was Donald—not being stuck alone together was good for both of them.

Leanne was a miracle worker. Donald wanted to get her a thank you gift to express his gratitude beyond the paycheck—flowers? Wine? He didn’t want it to seem like he was coming onto her. Or did he? What if they—no, he’d never had a conversation with her about any topic besides Maggie. He was just delusional, wishing that Maggie’s mother was here. He didn’t think about that nearly as often these days, but still wished, occasionally, that Joan might turn up, saying she made a mistake.

It was a miracle, until one day when Donald came home to find Maggie sitting in the front hall on her own, coloring on the floor.

“Where’s Leanne?”

“She’s doing nap time,” Maggie said.

Nap time? Sleeping on the job didn’t seem like her. Donald called out her name, did a lap through the house. Found her in the living room, slumped on the couch. Her eyes mostly shut, but not quite. The phone in her hand, off the hook. As if she was trying to call someone.

He tried to wake her in vain. He was about to call 911. Some part of him remembered he shouldn’t. He found that silver business card with the Vought number. For “emergencies”.

It was sick, standing there, waiting. When the EMTs arrived, they said her ribs were crushed. That it seemed likely one had punctured her lung and she’d passed out. That she was dead.

Some Vought lawyers showed up, too. He told them what he’d found, though it didn’t seem useful. He didn’t see what happened. But it didn’t take a genius to guess. The lawyers told him not to worry; they’d take it from here. And they did. It was like it never happened.

Donald couldn’t stand to sit alone in the house that night. When he turned up to his dive bar with Maggie in tow, the owner, Howard, shook his head. “Don, you know you can’t have a kid in here. Get a sitter.”

“Just this once,” he pleaded. “She’ll be good.” Though he had no idea if that was true.

“Just once,” Howard relented as he poured a pint.

Maggie sat on the floor playing with bottle caps while Donald drank.

Some of the other regulars—Lucas, Marty—gawked at her. They’d heard the “deal”, never seen her before.

Donald heard a SMASH. Somehow Maggie’d got ahold of an empty beer bottle and crushed it.

“sh*t!” Lucas cried out. “Don, she’s gonna hurt herself…”

“She’ll be fine.” Donald sipped his beer. Sure enough, Maggie ran her fingers through the shards of glass, mesmerized. “‘Cept, Howard, you might wanna sweep it up before she gets the pieces everywhere.” Howard was too caught up watching the kid play with glass to stop it.

Marty marveled. “Don, you’ve got it made with a kid like that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Super kid? I envy you.”

“Yeah, it’s real fortunate to have a kid I can’t keep from chasing squirrels up trees like a goddamn dog.”

The others laughed. “Well, not now,” Marty amended. “But down the road, you’re set for retirement. You know how much money’s in it for those Supes? I heard every member of Payback was getting $5 million a year, and that’s just base salary. Not counting movies, or merchandise…”

“And they keep starting ‘em younger and younger. Heard they’re opening up a college just for Supes, trying to get a draft going,” Lucas added. “My kid says he wants to be a poet. A poet! Whatever juice you got that made this kid… You won the lotto, man.”

Donald glanced at Maggie, gleefully pounding the glass into tiny shards like sand. He ordered another drink.

Chapter 4: Ages 4-6

Chapter Text

□ □ □

Donald had trouble finding childcare. It wasn’t like he could count on family, with Joe and his wife dug in on hating Maggie, not to mention Ma—and they didn’t even know about the sitter.

Lynn was the most sympathetic. Probably because she understood how hard it was taking care of kids. Plus, she was the only one who seemed to get how Joan had left him in the lurch. So, after hours of begging, Donald convinced her to watch Maggie during the day, along with her own three. He figured it’d be good for Maggie to practice being around other kids, anyhow, if she was ever gonna go to school.

Dropping Maggie at Lynn’s worked great—until it didn’t. She called Donald one day, agitated, demanding he pick Maggie up right away. He was terrified running over there, imagining one of her kids dead.

It was a complete relief as he walked in to see Lynn’s kids perfectly alive and well, but for red welts all over them as they sat clumped up, picking their noses and crying. While Maggie, sitting away from them, looked fine.

Lynn was not happy. “Guess who decided to knock down the wasp nest in the backyard…”

Donald sighed. “She doesn’t mean any harm. She just doesn’t know…”

“That may be true, but I have a lot to do. If I can’t turn my back for a few minutes—”

“Turn your back?” Donald interrupted. “You weren’t watching?”

“Yes, I have laundry, cooking to do… and with my kids, I can look away for a minute and they’re fine.”

“How do you know it’s her fault if you weren’t watching?”

Lynn was taken aback. “Look at her.”

“That’s the same she’d look if you threw the wasps right at her. How do you know it wasn’t little snot-nose Sammy over here who went at the wasps?” Donald was indignant, although he knew it was very likely that Maggie was responsible. She didn't have that ingrained sense of danger other kids had, no ability to learn from one sting that she should steer clear.

Losing patience, Lynn squatted down, asking her kids. “Who knocked down the wasps nest?”

All three pointed at Maggie.

“So this is it?” Donald sputtered. “You’re siding with Ma and Joe?”

For her part, Lynn seemed conflicted. “I understand it’s hard for you. And I’m sorry. But I can’t be afraid every day that she’ll hurt my kids.” She lowered her voice. “Or me.”

“Family means nothing to anyone anymore, huh.” Donald grabbed Maggie’s hand and led her out.

Outside, he paused, looking her in the eye. “Maggie. You can tell me. Did you knock down that wasp nest?”

She shook her head.

“Who did it?”

“A bird did it.”

How on Earth could a bird knock down a whole wasp nest? It was ridiculous, but he didn’t want to press further; he didn’t want to think about how much more complicated his life would become if Maggie had learned how to lie. A bird did it. So it was.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was four, and her Bitty Baby doll was broken.

Specifically, the head popped off. She cried because the head wasn’t supposed to come off. She tried to put it back on, and that didn’t work, and she got more upset and then also the arm came off, too. Dad came in to see what she was crying about, but he didn’t fix it. He scowled. “That’s it, Maggie. I’m not getting you any more toys if you keep breaking ‘em. No more. You’ll never learn.”

Maggie screamed. It wasn’t fair. Dad walked away. She threw the baby’s arm at his back. He turned around, angry. “What was that?!”

Maggie was angry, too. She threw the head at him. It hit him in the face. “f*ck!” he shouted. He took a couple steps back and put his hand over his nose. Red started dripping out between his fingers. “f*ck,” he said again. The red was all over his hand when he took it away. He went to the sink and started wiping it off his face, but more was still coming out.

That wasn’t what Maggie expected. She looked at where the head of the Bitty Baby had skittered on the floor. She gathered up the head and the arm and held them, not knowing what else to do.

Dad was holding a bunch of paper towels on his face, then got a cold can out of the fridge and held that over his nose. With the can and the reddish paper towels all stuck over his face he looked very silly, but it wasn’t funny. “f*ck,” he said another time. He didn’t usually say that word this much. “I don’t know, Maggie. I don’t f*cking know.” His voice sounded weird with his nose plugged. “I don’t know how you’re ever gonna be normal.”

Maggie felt very much a way she hadn’t felt before. She cradled the loose pieces of the Bitty Baby doll in her arms. It didn’t seem so bad to have a broken toy anymore. She didn’t know what this feeling was called. It was bad. She didn’t want to feel that way again.

□ □ □

Maggie was four. Donald had resigned himself to a lack of viable childcare; he took sporadic opportunities where he could find them, while focusing most of his energy into helping Maggie learn to act normal, so he might be able to send her to school in a year’s time. Some days were tough, but there seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel as she got older and seemed like a very small person rather than a toddler-shaped Tasmanian Devil.

He started bringing her to the local playground, hoping that being in the vicinity of other kids might give her an idea of how to behave around them—though he was too wise to let her go play with them hands-on.

He watched her watching them. That’s good, he thought. She’ll copy them and learn how to act. She was watching a few kids play Tag across the playground. She wanted a piece of that for herself. “You’re it.” She tapped Donald on the leg, gently, like they’d spent months practicing.

It seemed a good step to play it one-on-one. So he tagged her right back. She giggled and chased him. They got in a few good rounds, a surprisingly even match with his size versus her speed.

Maggie was having a ball, darting around him, going through his legs or around him. And she was doing great. Not hitting too hard, not running in the way of the other kids. It was honestly fun, for him, too.

Until he felt a tag from behind him, whirled around, and Maggie was gone. He scanned the playground and couldn’t spot her.

“Maggie?” he shouted.

f*ck.

Maggie was lost. This most basic parental fear had never crossed his mind. He searched the entire playground, asked other parents—a few said they’d seen a little girl run down the road, towards town. So Donald walked that way.

He looked for almost two hours, all over town. How far could she have gotten? And what was she getting up to, all on her own? Finally, someone directed him to the police station, where some well-meaning person had brought her.

The receptionist immediately knew who he was talking about and brought him into the station. “She’s in here…”

Donald was filled with relief, then despair. Maggie was here, all right—in a holding cell.

“Why’s she locked up? What has she done?” he demanded. Afraid to hear what the answer might be.

One officer stepped forward. “She was running all over the bullpen, making a mess. We told her to sit still. She wouldn’t.”

Meanwhile, at that moment, Maggie was sat on the cell floor, calm. As she looked up and saw Donald, she lit up. “Daddy!” She ran forward towards the cell door, grasped the bars in her little hands, and bent them far apart enough that she could squeeze through. She ran across the room into Donald’s waiting arms.

“What the hell!?” the officer jumped back, a hand on his holster.

“What are you grabbing your gun for?!” Donald barked. “Shame on you. How could you lock a child in a jail cell, alone?”

“She was a hazard.”

“She’s four!” Donald hoisted her in his arms. She was getting a little big to carry. He looked at the officer’s badge. “Locking up an innocent kid? I could report you to your superior. I could sue your ass, Caruso.”

Officer Caruso’s face darkened. “You could. Shaw.” He grinned, satisfied at the shock on Donald’s face. “Yeah, I know who you are. There’s only one Supe kid registered in Modesto. And I remember a suspicious incident at your residence about a year ago.”

Donald’s blood turned to ice. He’d worked hard to put that behind him. He thought Vought scrubbed it from existence, but it made sense a death was on record somewhere. He recalled the instructions from the lawyers. “It was a tragic accident.”

“Sure was.” Caruso narrowed his eyes. “I hope we don’t see any more of those.”

□ □ □

Maggie was almost five. She could enroll in kindergarten in September, but Donald wasn’t sure how he’d pay the bills until then. His savings were long gone, and he’d taken out a second mortgage to keep them afloat. He was behind on credit card bills, and the bank had sent a couple scary “Final Notice” letters. Even assuming they had one or two “Final Final Notices” left to go, Donald didn’t know if it could last.

He had about $150 left in his checking account. After this, it was looking for less “legitimate” lenders, or else begging his siblings for some cash. Neither option was appealing, but he couldn’t risk the bank coming for the house.

Because he was so f*cked already, it didn’t seem as stupid as it was to place that bet. He’d been disappointed when the Giants beat out the 49ers to get to the Super Bowl, so he was looking forward to watching them get stomped by the Bills.

But Lucas at the bar was talking about how he thought the odds were off, the Bills were more heavily favored than they should be. Betting on the Giants, if they won, would be a huge return.

So why not? Donald called Lucas’s bookie friend, put $150 on the Giants. Took some other conditions, too. Why not? If Hofstetler threw over 200 yards, if they won with a field goal. If all the conditions aligned, he’d get a 150-times return on his bet.

He watched the game at home, rather than at the bar. Couldn’t let Lucas know how he’d been sweet talked by the bookie into taking decent advice and turning it into a fool’s parlay. He cracked open the last beer he had while Maggie played on the carpet, clacking together pieces of her broken toys.

Something strange happened. Donald was rooting for the Giants, as they actually did kind of well. Maggie seemed to get interested, too, seeing how he was on edge with every play.

And it happened. They kicked that field goal and won. “WOO!” Donald pumped his fist in the air. “Maggie, did you see that? The Giants did it. Daddy just won…” He hadn’t even done the math. 150 times 150. “… A boat load of money!” He scooped her up off the ground, spinning her in the air. “Daddy can pay the mortgage. Daddy can buy you new toys.”

Maggie started cheering along with him. “Yay Giants!”

“Just for today, yay Giants,” Donald amended, tousling her hair. “We’re still a Niners house.”

She didn’t understand it fully. But she understood it was something good. As soon as he put her down, she wrapped her arms around his thighs and lifted him off the ground. Donald laughed, as he regained his balance.

By all accounts, that bet saved them from ending up on the streets, and Maggie ending up in Vought’s clutches. So, once she was at school, and he went back to work, he took a bit of each paycheck and threw it on the line. It was the only smart thing, it seemed.

Maggie liked to watch the games with him after that. She didn’t understand football at all for the first few years. She cheered when he cheered.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was five when she learned she was “different”.

In 1991, the term “Super-abled” was only recently coming into vogue, not that a five-year-old knew that. She had no idea, because her dad didn’t give her a name for whatever she was. He just talked in “don’t”s.

Don’t run. Don’t climb. Don’t squeeze. Don’t throw. Don’t jump. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

She wasn’t very prone to self reflection at age five, yet she knew, on some level, that she was different than her dad. But they were different in a lot of ways. He was big. He was a man. He told her what to do, and what not to do. And he was her only option for comparison, ever since the babysitter stopped coming around. It wasn’t until she was around a bunch of other five-year-old kids that “different” meant anything.

Even among the normal “don’t”s, her dad’s speech when he dropped her off at that big brick building seemed significant. He grabbed her hand to stop her from going inside, and knelt down to her eye level. “Maggie. This is really important. Don’t touch any of the other kids. Don’t go near them. Don’t fight with them. Don’t play with them. If they try to touch you, move away. Real gentle. Do you understand?”

Maggie just stared back. She understood, but he was looking at her like he needed something more. She didn’t know what.

He shook his head, and dragged her back towards the car. “This was a sh*t-brained idea. Terrible. We’re going home.”

“No,” Maggie said. She stayed still. “I wanna see the other kids.” With all this lead-up to “school”, she may not have understood what it really entailed, but she was desperate to find out. It had to be more exciting than Home.

Dad pulled on her arm, but she didn’t budge. He knelt down again, staring at her, angry face. “This is exactly the problem.”

“I won’t touch them. I won’t hurt them. Like I don’t hurt you.” It was the first time she ever said that, aloud, though of course, her five-year-old-brain didn’t process that, either. The first time she had words to say it, but inside she had understood that for some years already. She learned a lot before she had words for it.

Dad’s face went from angry, to a little sad, to angry again and he stood up. “Fine. But if anything ever happens—it’s over. Done. Broken.” He gestured—his two hands stuck together, then dashed apart.

“Broken” was a concept Maggie understood well. “Broken” was what happened when she wasn’t gentle. There was a big pile of broken toys at home… Dad told her he wouldn’t get any more, because then she would never learn to be gentle. Maggie cried when he said it (he yelled it), but it worked. She learned: “broken” wasn’t fun.

Maggie followed the “don’t”s to the letter. It was hard though, when the other kids came up to her, that first day. But the teachers knew she was different too, and they pulled the others away. Seven kids crowded around one too-small table while Maggie had a table to herself. Plenty of space to spread out crayons. And it was nice to see kids at the next table, at least. Nice to talk to teachers and see new toys and books and be in a different place than Home. And there were some times, like story-time, or music class, when everyone sat on the floor, and even if the other kids scooted away from her, they couldn’t scoot that far, so Maggie could pretend for a few minutes that “different” didn’t matter so much at all.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was five, and she was slowly learning to read. Her babysitter taught her the alphabet, and a few sounds, back when the babysitter used to come. But she didn’t come anymore, and Dad didn’t read to her very often. Maggie looked at the books around the house anyway. There weren’t many, but she found one that had lots of great pictures. When she brought it to Dad, he refused to read her a single word, not even the title. All he said was that the book belonged to her mother, that she’d left it behind.

Maybe five-year-old Maggie didn’t understand Dad’s explanation, or maybe she didn’t want to. She brought the book in to kindergarten one day and handed it to the teaching aide that sat with her while the other kids did P.E.

“Tales of the Emerald Isle… Celtic Mythology?” the aide read off the cover. Nonsense to Maggie, but it was the first she’d heard of the book, so she nodded excitedly.

The aide cracked the book open to the first page, and read an introduction. Stuff about Ireland. Very boring. Impatient, Maggie grabbed the book and flipped it to her favorite page, the best picture. A woman with red hair sat on a carved throne in the middle of the woods. She wore a green dress trimmed with gold, and a little crown, and she held a sword.

“Queen Med—Medb?” The aide squinted, then noted the phonetic pronunciation below. “Queen Maeve of Connacht.” That was pretty much a bunch of meaningless sounds to Maggie.

“Mom,” she said, pointing to the page.

“What?”

“That’s my mom.”

The aide scrunched her eyebrows together. Out of her depth. “Uh, sweetie… I don’t think that’s your mom.” She pointed at the letters on the page, like that would clarify: “Maeve.” She must’ve thought Maggie had her words mixed up.

Maggie didn’t care that the aide said she was wrong. As she read off the description below of the Queen of Connacht and her cunning and valor… the details slotted perfectly into the conclusion she already had in her brain. The woman in the picture was her mother. It made as much sense as anything else.

Needless to say, as Maggie grew and matured, she understood that a drawing of mythological Irish queen was not her biological mother. But even as she grew, in a way; she longed to believe it. It made more sense. It would explain why Maggie was the way she was; it would explain why her mother was not around. Too busy doing goddess things, not on this earthly plane. For everything else she knew (and didn’t know) about her mother, the woman might as well be a myth.

▲ ▲ ▲

School went well, Maggie thought. Kindergarten was nice. Even though she didn’t get to play with the other kids that much and had to sit out at recess, it was much more fun than sitting at home alone with pieces of broken toys.

There was one day near the end of her first school year where she had to stay after while Dad talked to her teachers and also the principal. Plus a couple other people Maggie didn’t recognize, an old bald guy and a younger lady with blonde hair. Maggie had to sit and wait while they talked, because the babysitter didn’t come anymore, so she had to wait with Dad. They talked a lot of boring grownup stuff she didn’t understand, but she started listening when they talked about her.

“This is a public school. State law says you have to accommodate students and their needs.”

The principal replied, “That’s referring to disability, Mr. Shaw, not...”

“Not what? Say it. Say whatever you’re gonna say about my f*ckin’ kid.” Dad got red in the face, just like when Maggie broke something at home. “Has she broken any rules this year? Caused any disruptions?”

“No, but…”

“Then you can’t kick her out.”

“Mr. Shaw,” her teacher cut in, “It’s for her own sake. Her own growth. The precautions we have to take, here… they may be limiting her development. By the end of kindergarten, students are expected to be reading at a basic level, core phonetics at a minimum… she’s still struggling with the alphabet.”

“So you’re not doing your own damn job right?”

“We’re merely suggesting that there might be a better environment where she can thrive with her… unique situation.” The principal turned to the bald man next to him. “Dr. Vogelbaum can tell you more about their facilities, they’ve been quite successful with other Super-abled children…”

Her dad and the bald guy started talking about more boring things Maggie didn’t understand, and they didn’t mention her name anymore, so she stopped listening, and started playing with the velcro on her shoe instead.

“Hi.”

Maggie looked up. The blonde lady had come over and crouched next to her. “Hi,” she replied.

“Everyone is talking about you, but no one’s talking to you.”

Maggie blinked. That was true, but she didn’t get why the grown-up felt the need to point out the obvious.

“If you have any questions about what it would be like, coming to Vought. I can tell you all about it. I’m the Junior Vice President of Hero Management. Do you know about heroes? Crimson Countess, Liberty, Black Noir?”

Maggie nodded. She’d seen those characters on TV sometimes, and on other kids’ shirts and lunchboxes.

“Our company works with heroes. We find boys and girls who have gifts, and we work with them to help them help others. Is that something you’d like to do someday, Maggie?”

Before Maggie could even think about the question, her dad was standing up and grabbing her by the arm. “You people are leeches. I told you when you came knocking right after she was born, and I’ll tell you the same now. I’m not letting you cut me off, take her as your property for your little lab experiments, your Supe Jr. Campaigns. She’s my kid. Mine. You can’t have her.” He pulled at her arm, but Maggie held tight to her chair, and of course he couldn’t drag her off.

Maggie was distracted because the blonde lady was still staring at her, like she was waiting for an answer.

“Maggie,” the lady said once more. “Do you want to come with us?”

“I want to go to school,” Maggie said. And every grownup in the room seemed to think that was the wrong answer, except Dad, who led her out, and said tonight could be double dessert.

Chapter 5: Age 7

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was seven, but not for long.

In the first week of second grade, they learned about fractions, and then the teacher pulled out a big calendar and had everyone figure out half-birthdays.

“You know what tomorrow is?” she said when Dad picked her up.

“Tuesday?”

“It’s my half-birthday.”

Dad thought for a second. “Guess it is.” He started the car.

“So tomorrow, I get half presents and half cake?”

“That’s not how it works, Maggie.”

“How does it work?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

Maggie had trouble falling asleep because she was so excited to find out what awaited on a half-birthday. Half-pancakes, half-waffles for breakfast? A special party at school?

In the morning, there were no pancakes nor waffles, and Dad merely dropped her at school like normal.

Figures it wasn’t anything at all. Maggie wasn’t spoiled. She knew because whenever Dad said no, you can’t have a pet, or no, we can’t go to Disneyland, and Maggie pointed out other kids had those things, he explained, “you’re not like those spoiled brats.” It was good to not be spoiled, but also a major bummer sometimes.

Halfway through Social Studies, she was called to the school office: “Maggie Shaw, your dad’s here to take you to your doctor’s appointment.”

Was that all it meant? An extra check-up halfway between birthdays?

Maggie grabbed her back and trudged to the front office, where Dad signed her out.

“Can you remind them about… y’know?” Maggie played with the zipper on her backpack as they drove. “Every time I go in, it’s a new nurse and she tries to give me shots, and I tell her she’s not supposed to, and she thinks I’m lying because I’m scared of needles, and then she tries anyway, and the needle breaks, and she screams for the doctor, and it’s really embarrassing.”

“We’re not going to the doctor.” He looked up in the rear-view mirror, catching her eye, and winked.

Maggie broke out into a huge grin.

“Half a regular day... Half birthday,” Dad declared, then put on the radio for the long drive all the way out to the shore.

He took them to the same beach where Maggie learned to swim for a beautiful, sunny vacation-style afternoon. They stopped at the ice cream stand, then looped down to a secluded stretch of beach where there weren’t any other people.

“Watch this,” Dad said. He picked up a smooth rock from the ground, weighed it in his palm, then tossed it at an angle so it skipped across the water.

Maggie gasped. “How’d you do that?”

“Dad’s got some tricks,” he picked up another rock and offered it to her. Maggie reached out, then pulled her hand back.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Really?” After years of being told not to touch anyone, or throw anything, or do anything that might ever hurt somebody (not to mention teachers at school making it quite clear that throwing rocks was forbidden for all the kids)… it felt like a trap.

“Here, I’ll do it with you. Just a little toss.”

Dad grabbed another rock, and stood beside Maggie, facing the ocean. He wound up with her, counting to three, then they released.

PLOP! … PLOP.

She had tried to throw it gently. Still, Dad’s rock landed in the water a good few seconds before Maggie’s.

“Aces. Now, to skip it, you gotta get the angle just so.” Dad handed her another rock and began to demonstrate.

Maggie stared down at the rock in her palm. She squeezed it. It broke into three pieces.

“You’re not watching,” Dad said, breaking off his explanation. Then, he stepped closer, and knelt to her eye level. “What’s eating you?”

Maggie felt like something was caught in her throat. It was a question. A question she’d had for seven-and-a-half years.“Why am I different from you?”

Dad took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. You just… are.”

“Was my mom different like me?”

“Not like that.”

“Are there any other kids like me?”

“I guess there must be.”

“Can I meet them?”

“You might someday. They’re very far away.”

“Where?”

“In their houses, whatever towns they live in, annoying their dads with endless questions.” He hit her on the arm, like he always did when they were playing around. “Here.” He handed her a fresh rock. “I want you to show me something. Throw it as far as you can.”

Before Maggie could express her hesitation, he added, “I know that last one wasn’t your all. There’s nothing and no one out here. Give it all you got.”

Maggie knew what the words meant, but giving her all was a foreign concept. She took a deep breath in, and out. Preparing to do the opposite of what she’d been told as long as she could remember. She pulled back, and pitched the stone as hard as she could.

She and Dad both watched intently, but there wasn’t much to see. No shadow on the water. No PLOP. The rock sailed out into the sky and quickly vanished into the sunlight. Maggie looked at Dad instead. His jaw hung open.

“Dad,” she began. “Being like this… is it bad?”

Dad didn’t say anything. He sat down on the sand, plopping down all of a sudden like his legs stopped working.

“You can tell me. I’m not little anymore.” Maggie sat next to him. “I’m seven-and-a-half.”

“Honestly, Maggie…” He talked slower. No more knee-jerk answers. “It’s not a bed of roses. A lot of people out in the world are going to have a problem with it. Especially if you aren’t careful—if you break things. That’s why I want you to practice. And learn. It’s good, when you use it in the right time and place.”

They watched the waves for a while. Maggie wiggled a loose tooth with her tongue. She thought about the four teeth she’d lost already, and all her old shoes that didn’t fit. A lot of things changed as she got older; maybe she would grow out of her powers, too.

“Will it ever stop?” she asked.

“I doubt it,” Dad said.

□ □ □

Maggie was seven. She’d started asking questions about being “different”, saying she wanted to meet other kids like her. Donald had no clue where to find them, if there even were many, because it seemed like the only Supes he knew of were the famous ones in costumes.

He saw an ad for a Supe convention coming to San Francisco, with the TNT Twins from Payback as the headliners.

His last bet hit, so he bought tickets for him and Maggie, rented the VHS tape of a Payback movie to watch and get her excited, and endured the terrible traffic into the city. Stood in the meet-and-greet line for ages. All because, when he asked her back home, if she wanted to meet some people like her, she was thrilled. Made one of those irritating high pitched squeals.

As they finally got to the front of that line, to see Tommy and Tessa, two grown adults around Donald’s age, in spandex suits… Maggie clammed up and hid behind his legs.

“Hey, there,” he greeted the duo. “This is Maggie… I swear, she’s excited to meet you. She’s not usually this shy. Give her a second.”

“By all means, take your time,” Tommy drawled.

“Shut up, dickbreath.” Tessa spat, then put on a sweet voice. “Hi, Maggie. Are you here to meet some real live heroes of Payback?”

Cat still had Maggie’s tongue. “Uh, she is… because… she’s like you. She’s Super-abled.” Donald stepped to the side and pushed Maggie in front, closer to the twins.

“Isn’t that sweet. She’s gonna have to lose the shyness, in this line of work,” Tessa said.

“So, Maggie, what is it that you do?” Tommy asked.

Maggie blinked up at him, a deer in headlights.

“Thrilling. Future star. Let’s move this along…”

“Wait. Can you sign something for her, at least?” Donald dug his folded convention program from his pocket.

“We only sign official posters or t-shirts…” Tessa pointed to their nearby merch stand. The cheapest item was over thirty dollars.

“Or she can take a photo with us for $4.95,” Tommy added.

With some heavy cajoling, Donald got Maggie to pose with them. It didn’t come out half-bad. Her in between them, an awkward toothless smile.

On the way out, Donald noted plenty of booths with other Supes he had never heard of. Even some that hardly looked older than Maggie. With fans lining up to see them, too.

“What do you think?” he said. “Not so bad to be different. A lot of people love it.”

Maggie remained quiet, looking down at her photo, but Donald could tell she was heartened by the experience.

Hours deep in traffic on the way home, she asked, “How come I don’t have a brother?”

He caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “You’re enough of a handful on your own.”

He couldn’t very well tell the truth: because your mother wants nothing to do with you or me, let alone another kid.

▲ ▲ ▲

Five-year-olds were rather self-centered, so although the other kids might’ve seen that Maggie was “different”, they didn’t question it. Six-year-olds started to wonder why Maggie was different. Seven-year-olds started to tell her why.

Maggie sat on the bench between the blacktop and the playground, same spot she sat every day. Technically, the lunch monitor was supposed to watch her, but after two years of good behavior, the monitors realized the other second-graders running all over during recess required much more supervision. Kids mostly ignored her, except two boys. One was Kyle, the other, she forgot. Maybe they were both Kyle.

Kyle 1 came up to her, bouncing a red rubber playground ball. “Maggie. Hey Maggie.”

Normally, anyone talking to her would’ve been a welcome break from doing nothing, but his tone was clearly not friendly. He kept bouncing that ball while Kyle 2 watched.

“Why do you always sit out?” Kyle 1 said.

“My big brother said it’s ‘cause you’re Supe-abled,” Kyle 2 chimed in.

“I don’t believe it,” Kyle 1 sneered. “I heard your bones are hollow and you have to sit out or else you might, like, die if anyone bumps into you.”

“So who’s right?”

Maggie didn’t say anything. Not that she wasn’t allowed to say—surprisingly, telling other kids about her powers was not included in her Dad’s list of “Don’t”s—but answering felt like a trap. She sat silently while the boys bounced that ball against the pavement. Boing. Boing. Boing.

“I think I’m right,” Kyle 2 said, as he snatched the ball away from his friend. He hurled the ball right at Maggie’s head.

Boing! It bounced off her skull harmlessly, right back into Kyle 2’s hands.

“Whoa.”

“Doesn’t look like any bones broke to me,” Kyle 2 said. “Told you.”

Kyle 1 was so distracted by the discovery he didn’t pay attention to his friend’s gloating. He threw the ball at Maggie’s head again. Boing. And again. Boing.

It didn’t hurt, but it was really annoying. Boing. Boing.

“She’s not even flinching. Creepy.”

“Why don’t you do anything? Why are you ignoring us? Stop ignoring us.”

Boing. Boing—

FWPP!

Maggie reached up and caught the ball in one hand. The boys flinched at her sudden movement. They looked a little freaked out. Good, Maggie thought. The urge to chuck the ball right back at them, two Kyles with one stone, was strong. But she knew that violated all the “don’t”s in the book. So instead, she hurled the ball at the brick wall of the school.

No “boing” this time. Instead, a POP as the ball exploded, shreds of rubber falling to the pavement. The impact left a slight dent in the brick, too.

Both Kyles stared, frozen for a minute. Then, the lunch monitor came running over, attracted by the sound. “What’s going on?”

As if on cue, the Kyles burst out crying. “Maggie broke our ball!”

And that’s when Maggie’s brief moment of satisfaction ended. “Broken” was bad, even when it was just a playground ball, but the teachers reacted with much more fanfare than she felt was necessary. If she broke something at home (which was not common for the last few years, because she learned) her dad yelled at her for a minute or two then moved past it. But now? She got dragged to the principal’s office, missed the second half of the school day while the lunch monitor yelled at her, the vice principal yelled at her, and then the principal yelled at her too. Over a red playground ball. The school had dozens, because they got deflated or lost all the time. Maggie had watched other kids lose them on purpose, even, tossing them away out of spite when they lost a game of wallball. None of those kids got sent to the principal’s office. But when she did it, it was the end of the world.

Sometimes she wondered about the people who came at the end of kindergarten, that wanted to take her, that Dad wouldn’t let her go with. It seemed bad and scary back then, but she was littler then. Maybe if she got to go with those people, and the blonde lady, whose face she couldn’t remember very well now… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe wherever they took her, she wouldn’t get in trouble for everything that ended up broken around her.

Chapter 6: Ages 8-10

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was eight years old the first time Dad came home and thrust a costume at her. He had been out of work for a while, longer than usual. Maggie was getting old enough and aware enough to understand that most parents didn’t cycle from job to job multiple times a year. There was, perhaps, a sort of desperation in the air, that at least families on TV didn’t seem to have…

He made her put on the costume (red sparkly spandex, and an eye-mask held on by a flimsy elastic) and dragged her to the mall. He held up a poorly made sign printed on poster-board calling her “Scarlet Sorceress” and set out a hat for people to put money in.

“Don’t just stand there. Perform. Gotta do something so people wanna give money.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Maggie replied.

“Show them what makes you different.” Dad took on the role of a skeezy carnival barker, yelling out half-baked slogans to try to get anyone to stop and stare at her. He shouted down grown men, offering them $50 if they could beat Maggie at arm wrestling.

Not many people stopped. Mostly, they’d give a skeptical glance: “What is this, some girl dressed up like Crimson Countess?” Then they moved on. Maggie grew self conscious, because she was pretty sure what she was wearing actually was an unlicensed Crimson Countess Halloween costume.

When the first schmuck stopped, enticed by the $50 prize, Maggie exchanged a glance with her Dad. He always told her not to show off her powers before… but he gave her a curt nod, so Maggie beat the 200 lb. dude easily. And all his friends, who couldn’t believe what they just saw. Some of the defeated dutifully tossed $5 into the hat, others got mad and stormed off.

They did this for several weekends, pulling in less than $200 in total.

“Please, can we stop? It’s not even worth it,” Maggie begged after a month. “I feel stupid.”

“It takes time to build a reputation, an audience,” Dad said. “I know those powers are worth something. There’s a way to earn back more than I’ve sunk already, replacing furniture, toys, anything you broke.” Maggie swallowed down guilt, at that. “We just need your break…”

At that moment, as they headed for the parking lot, a car pulled up next to them… a pickup truck with flame decals, and a brand name on the side: PAULIE’S PIZZA PALACE. The man in the cab, “Paulie” himself, Maggie supposed, leaned out the window. “Hey! Is that the little off-brand hero I’ve been hearing about?”

“Yes. Scarlet Sorceress….”

“Yeah, I don’t care about that. Is she the real deal? Real Supe? Lotta people fakin’ it, lately.” Paulie lowered his sunglasses, squinting at Maggie.

“Show him,” Dad hissed. And Maggie didn’t know what else to do, so she stepped forward and lifted the front of the truck a few inches off the ground.

“Whoa! I’m sold. Hey, Sorceress or whatever… I’m looking for a new ad campaign. You interested in starring in a commercial?”

“Yes,” Dad said, shaking Paulie’s hand immediately. “We’ll do it.”

And that is how Maggie got her “big break”, as the mascot for a six-month ad campaign for a local pizza chain. Which of course, everyone at school saw, and mocked, for a good long time after the ads stopped airing. Another way she was “different” than the rest of them.

□ □ □

Donald vowed early on that he wouldn’t push Maggie towards professional appearances until she was eighteen. Quickly, that seemed too strict—especially when he saw how early some of those other Supes got started on TV. Sixteen would be fine. Thirteen at the absolute minimum.

But Maggie was eight, and after his latest job dried up, the mortgage was past due. None of his bets were hitting. Donald was desperate. It couldn’t hurt to get her a little head start, a little practice run so she’d be comfortable by the time thirteen came around.

This was going to be her future, in all likelihood. Like those TNT twins said, she’d have to get over the shyness if she was ever going to make a living.

Maggie wasn’t very into it, though. He tried to explain why it was important, but an eight-year-old didn’t get money stuff. Their first several outings, trying to gain some fans at the local mall, didn’t turn into much. Donald knew, if he could even scrounge a couple hundred bucks, he could place some bets, turn it into way more. He needed her to get motivated.

He made an offer she could understand. “If we get a hundred dollars, I’ll get you ice cream on the way home.”

“Double scoop?”

“Regular,” he countered. “Tell you what. If we get two hundred, you can have as much as you want.”

The incentive worked… too well. Maggie jumped and danced around getting people’s attention… she kept asking how much they had so far. They did make just over two hundred.

Donald thought about walking back the promise, but supposed, just like with controlling her powers, there was one way for Maggie to learn that ice cream for dinner didn’t have the best results.

Turned out that was another lesson that didn’t apply to Maggie same as other kids. Somehow she blew through almost half their earnings, and still didn’t get sick. The poor teens working the counter were astounded. They couldn’t scoop fast enough. Donald really should’ve seen it coming.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was nine, and she had to draw her family tree.

So far, her poster-board was embarrassingly bare. Donald Shaw and Maggie Shaw, obviously, plus Dad’s parents, Grandma Betsy and Grandpa John (deceased) and Dad’s siblings, Uncle Joe and Aunt Lynn (Maggie remembered meeting them a long time ago).

The other side, where a Mom would go, was empty. Maggie didn’t dare ask Dad what to fill in there. She knew a bad grade was coming her way if she turned it in like this.

“We need at least four generations. We’re supposed to interview our grandparents for the rest.”

Dad let out a rattling groan as he crouched down to look at her progress. “Alright, fill in the rest of the cousins—Frank, Rich—why aren’t you writing?”

“I have to ask a grandparent. That’s the assignment!”

“The teacher won’t know.”

“You said that after we were working the mall last weekend, that she wouldn’t be able to tell I hadn’t read the book in my report. But she knew. I have to get a good grade on this. I have to talk to Grandma Betsy.”

Dad straightened up. “Not gonna happen.”

“Why?” Maggie chased him into the kitchen. “You see her all the time. It’s bad enough most kids have four grandparents and I only have one and I’ve barely seen her in my life.” (On some level, Maggie knew it was strange that Grandma Betsy lived so close, and Dad only visited her when Maggie was at school… though she’d never questioned it before.)

Dad hunched with one hand on the fridge door, the other fishing for a cold beer. “I’ll try,” he sighed. “No promises, Maggie.”

Dad was downstairs early the next morning, on the phone. Maggie crept onto the landing to listen.

“I want to come visit today. Four o’clock okay? … You can eat dinner a little later, can’t you? … Because Maggie doesn’t get out of school until three. … She wants to meet you. She has this project… She’s your granddaughter. Whatever you think of me, and of Joan, it’s not her fault. … Well, every kid is tough. What about when I broke your fancy teapot? Or when Joe sprinkled Comet on your cookies because he thought that was powdered sugar. … She’s grown now, she’s—she’s just like a normal kid. Give it a chance. … Thanks, Ma.”

Dad hung up and looked right at Maggie on the stairs. “You heard that, huh? After school today. Visiting Grandma. Dress nice.”

On the drive to Grandma Betsy’s that afternoon, Dad had a lot of instructions. “Your grandma’s set in her ways, so nod along with whatever she says, even if it’s a little funny.”

Despite Dad’s weird seriousness, Maggie was excited to meet the grandmother she only knew as a fuzzy memory from when she was much younger. Based on what she had heard from her classmates, grandmothers were awesome! They gave gifts and tons of dessert or took you on vacation and were generally way nicer than parents. No matter what, it was exciting to properly meet one of the other names from her family tree.

The decor at Grandma Betsy’s house floored Maggie. The carpet was thick and a crazy color. There were doilies on every surface and pictures of Jesus on most walls.

And Grandma herself, whoa. Her hair like spider silk, pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her skin, wrinkly and soft. Her index finger on her right hand was short, like it was broken off at the top knuckle. Maggie wondered if when you got old, your fingers got so brittle they might break one day.

Dad marched her in to stand before Grandma, who sat in a velvet armchair. “Here she is, Ma. Say good afternoon, Maggie.”

“Good afternoon.” Maggie remembered the warning about nodding along if Grandma said anything funny, but she wasn’t prepared for this funny version of Dad. He never acted like this, all manners-first.

Grandma didn’t say “good afternoon” back. She looked Maggie up and down with a watchful eye. “Do you go to church, Maggie?”

“Every Sunday,” Dad chimed in before she could respond. Maggie nodded along, though she only remembered going to church three times in her life. “She’s in 3rd grade at Modesto Elementary, and she works really hard, and she has this paper about her family, and she wanted to do it the right way and interview you.”

Maggie was nervous to ask at first, but Dad nudged her, so she did. Grandma gave the names of the other generations of their family and Maggie wrote careful notes on lined paper to copy onto her poster-board back home. Grandma spoke in a strange way like no one else Maggie had heard before. Very formal. She asked Dad to make her tea while she talked and weirdly, Dad did it.

“Is that all…?”

Maggie had all the notes she needed. But there was one more question that had nothing to do with her assignment that she had to ask.

“Grandma. Who else in the family was like me?”

Grandma’s face wasn’t particularly nice before, but it got even colder.

“Maggie—” Dad tried to step in, but Maggie insisted: “I wanna know! Was anyone else different? Maybe way before, that Dad doesn’t remember?” She had to know where it came from.

Grandma’s lips bunched up tight. “Whatever is in you came from the Devil… or else it came from your whor* mother.” She gripped the arms of her chair so hard it looked like her hands might break. “Donald! How could you bring her here? Insolent bastard child. She’s going to ruin our family name!” She pointed at Maggie with that knobbly short pointer finger in a way that made Maggie feel like the shag carpet might open up and swallow her.

Dad grabbed Maggie by the shoulder and scooped up her notes. He dragged her out to the foyer. “Put your shoes on.”

He ducked back inside to talk to Grandma for a minute. Obviously he didn’t want her to listen, so obviously, Maggie did, pressed up against the coat rack for cover.

“Whatever horrible things you have to say to me, Ma, that’s fine. Don’t say it to her.”

“The mistake you made with that whor*, I could forgive. But to turn your back on me, on our family, for nine years… to throw away every chance of a happy family with a good wife… all for that monster!”

“She’s not a monster. She’s something special, Ma, and all the sh*t I’ve been through, all the sh*t I go through every day, it’ll be worth it. She’s going to be one of those heroes, on TV, saving people and earning boatloads of cash. Just wait and see.”

“I pray that I don’t.”

The car ride home lacked the same excitement as the trip there.

“Maggie…” Dad began as he drove. “She didn’t mean any of that. She’s old, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“What does ‘bastard’ mean?”

“Christ.” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Your grandma—she’s traditional. Thinks there’s a right way to do things and a wrong way, and if you do it wrong, you get punished. She thinks your mom and I did the wrong way, and that’s why… you’re the way you are.”

“What do you mean, the wrong way?”

“That we weren’t married.”

“Why did she look scared? I never did anything to her.”

“You did, once. She used to look after you when you were tiny… You saw how one of her fingers is shorter?”

“Yeah.” Duh. It was all Maggie could think about.

“You were teething, and she stuck her finger in to soothe your gums or something, hell if I know. And, well… you were in pain, and you did what any baby would do! But she never got over that.”

“I … bit her finger off?” As Maggie said it out loud, it hit the air like a joke. She laughed.

Dad glanced at her, skeptical. A few seconds later, he was laughing too. As he stopped at a red light, he stuck an index finger her way, and Maggie leaned as far as her seatbelt would let her to fake chomp at it. They laughed together.

Until it died down, and Maggie had one more question.

“What does ‘whor*’ mean?”

“Boy. I’m ready for dinner after all that. You want McDonalds?”

After they finished off their fries and McFlurries, Dad sat with Maggie while she filled in the new names on her poster-board. Maggie got a B on the project, on account of her teacher didn’t believe she had no information about her mom’s side, but she was proud of that B.

She never asked to see Grandma Betsy again.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was glad, in the end, that “Scarlet Sorceress” was the name used in those stupid commercials, because once she had a new name, she was able to move on from it and pretend it never happened.

The bad part was the next names Dad came up with weren’t much better. She was “Mars Girl” for a while. “Erin Go Bragh” never caught on. “Red Rocket” wasn’t any better…

“These names are stupid. I hate them. You suck at picking names,” she grumbled on the drive home from the mall one day. “Even Margaret! It’s a stupid old-lady name.”

“Can’t blame that one on me. Your mother picked that one.”

Maggie was caught off guard. It was rare for Dad to mention her mom at all; even rarer for it to come with actual information, and not just the end of a rant about “… your good-for-nothing mother”.

By age 10, Maggie was getting old enough and aware enough to draw some conclusions about her mother’s complete lack of presence. Some kids in her grade had divorced parents, but she didn’t think that was the case, because they mostly went back and forth between two houses. Maggie figured, in absence of any other evidence, that it made more sense that her mom was dead. But didn’t have the courage to ask.

Until one day. When she was pulling off the latest itchy costume her dad gave her, complaining about yet another fruitless weekend at the mall… Dad was in a foul mood, and he turned and blew up at her right in the living room. “Have some respect, Maggie. Do you even realize how much I’ve done for you?”

“If mom was alive, she wouldn’t treat me like this,” Maggie blurted.

Dad stopped, and stared. “Alive?” Then chuckled. “She’s alive. I assume.”

“I thought she…”

Dad laughed some more. Harder than before. Like it was a joke that took a second to appreciate. “You hate me that much, Maggie? You think your mom would be better? Okay. Go ask her. Her name is Joan Redmond, from New York. ‘Least, that’s where she lived when I met her. No clue where she’s gotten to in the last ten years. Look her up if you want.” He calmed down, catching his breath. “But I wouldn’t expect a warm reunion if I were you.”

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked quietly.

Dad leaned down to her. Close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. Maggie suspected he wouldn’t be telling her this at all, if he hadn’t had a bit to drink. “She left as soon as you were born. And she knows where we live. She’s never called in ten years. You do the math.”

He stumbled towards the kitchen, to get another beer no doubt, mumbling “Bet you can find her in the Yellow Pages. Hey, if you do, ask her for a check… child support for the last ten years, too.”

Maggie might have tried, if she had any idea how to find Yellow Pages for New York. But that was not easy to find, as a 10-year-old in Modesto.

But it bothered her, what he said. It didn’t seem true. It couldn’t be true. Why would Mom just… leave, and never come back?

There wasn’t much evidence of Mom in the house at all. No pictures, no information. The only possessions were a few books crammed onto the shelf next to Dad’s records, that he admitted when Maggie was younger were left by her mother. There had to be more.

The next time Dad went out gambling and left her alone, Maggie searched his bedroom. She hadn’t been in there much since she was a toddler, but now she emptied every drawer, every corner of the closet, no idea what she was looking for, except she’d know if it she found it.

Eventually, deep at the bottom of a shoebox from under the bed… beneath some ticket stubs, and some baseball cards, she found it. A strip of photos, taken in a photo booth at Coney Island. Four tiny pictures, one after another, of a younger version of Dad, with a woman. It was hard to see her face, because it was obscured behind some cotton candy in her hand in the first couple photos, and by kissing Dad in the last one (ew). The woman and Dad were both smiling wide, all over each other. They looked happy.

She was afraid to take the pictures, to let Dad know she had found them, but she stared at them long enough to burn them into her brain. As she cleaned up all the evidence that she’d looked through his room… Maggie wondered, if they were so happy then, why was Mom gone?

And she remembered the date printed on the edge of the photo strip: 7-03-1985. And suddenly Maggie got a pretty good idea of what changed after that, what made them stop being happy.

She was born.

□ □ □

Maggie was ten. Generally capable of looking after herself and being home alone. He was left with the prospect of doing things for himself for the first time in a decade. He couldn’t fathom what to do with the new freedom.

Lucas and Marty down at the bar said he ought to get laid. They weren’t wrong. And Donald did, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he ought to do more than that. Not just sex, but company. Someone he could talk to, who might understand what he’d been through.

He’d asked the pediatrician once what the hell he was supposed to do, bringing up a Supe kid. The doctor informed him there were some new support groups for parents of Super-abled children. But the closest was in Los Angeles. Even if Maggie could stay alone for an evening, he couldn’t take off halfway across the state just to listen to some other parents cry with him.

He forgot about it until one day, he was checking through fliers at the library. Looking for some singles events—God help him, it had come to that. Instead, his eyes caught a flyer for a support group… for parents of children with disabilities. Hm. Just one town over. They had more options, didn’t they.

“I’ve heard wonderful things about that group.”

Donald turned to see one of the librarians behind him. She’d come out from behind the circulation desk. Blonde hair. Bright lipstick. Pretty in a bookish way. She reminded him of Joan, even if she looked totally different. “Do you have a differently-abled child?”

Donald chuckled. “Suppose I do.”

The way her face melted into sympathy… it gave him some poor ideas. Next thing he knew, he was getting dinner with her—Suzanne—answering all her questions. “Yeah, she’s one of those wheelchair kids.” Some lies, sure, but he also told a lot of truths. “Her mom left soon as she was born. I think she was afraid of dealing with a kid who’s different.”

Suzanne was aghast. “You poor thing. It must be so hard raising her all alone.”

“It really is.” It was wrong to lie. Donald knew that. But strange enough, this was the first time he felt he could be honest about how hard it was.

“It must be so hard to get the the accommodations she needs. And expensive! To fix up the house…”

“It does cost an arm and a leg. And her school gave me a real hassle. She’s hardly allowed to be near the other kids, and she’s got no friends.”

“You’re a hero. She’s so lucky to have a dad like you.” Suzanne was the first person to ever acknowledge that.

It was a blissful few weeks they saw each other. Suzanne kept dropping hints about wanting to meet Maggie, and it was getting hard to come up with excuses. But that seemed like a later problem.

One Sunday afternoon, Donald was watching football when he heard Maggie yell from outside. “Dad?”

He ran out to find Maggie sitting on the stoop with a magazine. Suzanne standing in the yard before her, with a gift bag in her hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Donald! I know you said not to come, but I wanted to surprise you. And I brought a gift for Maggie,” she stammered. “I’m sorry, I would’ve brought two, if you told me you had another daughter.”

“What’s going on?” Maggie asked.

Donald knew he was f*cked. “Maggie, go inside.”

Suzanne’s smile flickered. “That’s Maggie?”

“Inside. Now,” Donald ordered, and Maggie finally budged.

“I’m confused,” Suzanne said.

Donald sighed. “Look, I can explain. She doesn’t use a wheelchair. But everything else I told you is true. She’s not a normal kid… She’s Super-abled.”

Suzanne slapped him across the face and marched out. Didn’t leave the gift for Maggie or nothing.

Donald settled for plain old sex and quit looking for “intimacy” after that.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was ten when Dad forgot to pick her up from school. The teachers tried calling home, but obviously he didn’t pick up. Maggie said she could walk home, and the office ladies argued for a few minutes about whether that was allowed since they didn’t have a permission waiver filled out, but they let her go because they wanted to leave, too.

Obviously, the house door was locked. Maggie knocked. Multiple times. No answer. Maybe Dad was napping. She climbed up the tree in the yard to peek in the window of Dad’s bedroom. It was empty.

She hopped back down to the ground again. She thought about asking their neighbors, the Morrisons, for help, but they probably didn’t have a key. Dad didn’t trust them and mostly only complained when Mrs. Morrison commented on their lawn being unkempt.

Maggie sat on the stoop with her backpack. Dad had to be out somewhere… At the store? But why would he go shopping at school pickup time? At the bar—same question. Had he gone to play cards? That didn’t make sense either; they hardly earned any money at the mall last weekend. He wouldn’t have much to bet.

It was chilly outside, so she kept her hat and gloves on and did some homework while she waited. First a math worksheet, and then her only other assignment left was to finish reading Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH for Language Arts and work on a report for it. But she’d left the book up in her bedroom.

It was December, and the sun was already low in the sky. Maggie was getting hungry, too. She picked up her backpack and glanced over her shoulder to make sure the Morrisons weren’t watching over their fence. Then, she went to the door. She gripped the knob tightly and twisted it… past the resistance… there was a dull SNAP as the lock broke from the inside and the doorknob fell out of its hole. Maggie hurried inside and shut the door behind her. She made herself a snack of cereal and milk and read her book.

The sky outside was dark when Dad got home about a half hour later. His entrance was marked by a loud bellow of: “f*cking Christ!”

He came into the dining room a few seconds later. “What the hell, Maggie?” He held the doorknob up in the air like it was something dirty.

“You didn’t come pick me up,” she said. “Where were you?”

“Dan called—someone flaked at the job site in Keyes and he was paying extra for anyone who could fill in immediately. Had to go. And I knew you’d find your way.” He sat across from her and laid the doorknob down on the table, as well as a paper bag he had in his other hand. A delicious smell wafted out. “I got Taco Bell.”

Maggie put her book aside, and also her anger, because that was Dad’s way of apologizing, basically. And a paying job was a good reason for him to forget about her, at least.

As she reached to help herself to some tacos, Dad grabbed the top of the bag and held it shut. “Maggie.” He glanced down at the doorknob on the table between them. “What’s this about?”

“I didn’t want to do it,” Maggie explained. Her cheeks went hot at the way he was looking at her. Like she was some kind of idiot. Like she was a toddler again who didn’t get that breaking things was bad. “I was locked out. And I waited around a long time. But it was cold and dark and I needed my book for homework and I thought that it would be worse to break the whole door…”

Dad closed his eyes for a minute and took a breath. “That would be worse,” he said. “Look, you’re older now… you can understand, so I’m gonna explain why I’m unhappy. The lock’s f*cked to hell. We can’t close it. Anyone can walk in when it’s like this. Dan offered me another day tomorrow, but now I’m gonna have to turn it down to wait for a locksmith to come and fix this. A whole day’s work, plus what it costs to fix this knob, and it damaged the doorframe, too. I’ll see if I can fix that myself, save paying another guy. You just wiped out everything I got today and more.”

Maggie looked down at the table. Somehow it felt worse when he didn’t pretend she was a toddler. “What was I supposed to do, then?” she mumbled.

“I don’t know,” Dad sighed. He relented and doled out the tacos between them. “But not that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The next afternoon, Dad came to pick her up at school at the normal time. “I got you something. From the locksmith.” He handed her a shiny silver key.

When she got home, she tried it out in the new door. Dad smiled and gave her a noogie to show he wasn’t that angry anymore.

The old doorknob was still there, though. Eventually Dad moved it off the table; he put it on a bookshelf in the living room, like it was art. Maggie wasn’t sure if he kept it to show it was no big deal, or to remind her not to be an idiot.

Whatever he intended, it worked. She always remembered her key. But she hated that doorknob on the shelf, saying to her every day: you should’ve known better.

Chapter 7: Ages 11-12

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was eleven, and her body was changing. That’s what the video tapes said. They made all the sixth graders watch videos in Health class every Friday for the first month of school.

The first one was all about how your body is getting bigger and your feelings will get bigger too. It talked about what to do when you feel MAD and SAD and BAD (not much concerned with being GLAD, though). It seemed more suited for kindergarteners. For the rest of the school year, kids made fun of the advice it offered. Find a quiet room and yell. Squeeze or hit something soft, like a pillow. Talk about why you feel bad to a trusted grown-up. Cheesy stuff.

The second week, they split up the boys and girls to sit in different classrooms. The girls’ video was mostly about menstruation; everyone covered their eyes and squealed. No doubt the boys had an equally gross video about their parts.

The third week, they split up again, only this time the girls stayed in the Health room for a video, while the boys were sent to the gym for indoor recess. Naturally, the students questioned this, and the teacher explained there was another video the girls had to see. When one girl complained that was unfair, the teacher said, “That’s not the half of it, honey.”

The girls-only video that had no equivalent for the boys was all about Protecting Yourself. At first it seemed a lot like the classic Stranger Danger lessons from elementary school… but with very specific strangers. The video talked about A Friend of Your Parents or A Guy Who Just Moved Into the Neighborhood or even A College Boy at a Party and how it was bad to be alone with them and how to say NO and how not to dress in a way that they’d want to get you alone in the first place.

At first it was cheesy and unbelievable, like the other videos, and girls giggled at it. Some of the scenes got creepy. The Guy Who Just Moved Into the Neighborhood holding a girl down while she screamed. The College Boy telling a high school girl to drink more until she fell asleep and he carried her into a bedroom and closed the door.

At one point the video skipped and glitched. While the teacher tried to fix it and said bad words… the kids laughed with nervous relief, whispering about how awful the video was.

Maggie saw an opportunity for camaraderie. She leaned back in her chair to face a group of girls at the table behind her. “This is so embarrassing, right?”

The girls made a face. Then laughed nervously, and said, “yeah.” Maggie nailed it. She was in…

“If you don’t like it, why don’t you just sit out like you sit out of P.E.?” one girl sneered.

“That’s, um…” Maggie didn’t know what to say to that. People didn’t usually ask her so directly about her non-participation. Or they hadn’t, back in elementary school. But middle school was new territory. “That’s just because I’m, um…”

“Just saying, if being a freakazoid could get me out of this, I would totally cash in.”

“The boys already got different videos,” another girl added. “Since it’s not the same for them.”

“You could have a room all to yourself. Boys, Girls, Maggie.”

The group of girls burst out laughing, just as the teacher got the video started again, and told everyone to hush up.

Maggie found it very hard to sit still, now. She made it through maybe one minute of the video before she got up and asked the teacher if she could go to the bathroom.

“Can’t you hold it? This stuff’s important, honey. You want to know how to not get taken advantage of.”

Maggie said, “No one is going to take advantage of me.”

Whether or not that was true, the teacher didn’t have a good rebuttal prepared, so Maggie walked out, to the sound of muted giggles from the others.

She didn’t head to the bathroom. Maggie roamed the school hallway, afraid to stop moving and let the fury bubbling inside her build up too much.

She wandered down by the gym. The sounds of the boys running around happily, chanting and shouting. Maggie wished she could’ve been at recess instead. Even if she never got to actually do Recess.

She didn’t mind being different than the other kids, usually. She was used to it. People mostly ignored it by now. But the way those girls talked about her… Maggie knew people said some stuff behind her back, but to her face?! Her fists balled up so hard they trembled.

At once, the first cheesy video came back to her. When you’re mad, squeeze a pillow. Maggie didn’t have a pillow handy, but…

She looked at the wall of the school. Brick wall, covered by a layer of plaster. Maggie was used to controlling her strength. She knew how much force average materials could take, more or less. She let it out on the brick wall. Punch. Nowhere near her full strength, but it let out some of the energy. Again. Punch. Maggie sighed, actually feeling a little better. She did a third as she walked back towards class. THUD. THUD. Feeling lighter with each idle hit.

THUNK.

Maggie pulled her hand out of the wall. The brick layer had disappeared abruptly, and she’d hit clean through the plaster layer to a hollow section behind. There was a gaping hole in the wall, slightly larger than her fist.

Sweat crawled along Maggie’s skin as she filled with shame and panic. She hadn’t messed up like this since she was like, five. She knew better than this. Or at least, she was supposed to. A hole in the wall wasn’t as bad as hurting a person, but it was close.

No one was around, but someone might walk by at any second. Maggie’s heart beat rapidly as she hurried back to the Health room and took her seat. She didn’t process another single word of the video; she was certain that any second, the principal would burst in, saying, “Maggie Shaw, I know what you did!”

The principal was furious in the end. It didn’t come during Health class. The last period of the day, the principal made a PA announcement telling all the sixth grade boys to stay after school in the auditorium. Maggie learned through the murmurs the next morning in homeroom that the principal had sat them all down for a scolding since, apparently, they had gotten rowdy at indoor recess and taken out the floor hockey equipment when they weren’t supposed to. The principal was certain that one of them had wandered out to the hallway just outside the gym and whacked a hole in the wall with a hockey stick. If the culprit would confess, the punishment would be lighter, but no one did confess, so the principal said all the boys would get a week’s detention.

Boys were furious at each other. Demanding that the guilty party come forward so they wouldn’t have a whole week ruined. They pointed fingers at each other, some even tried to turn others in to the principal, but no one confessed willingly.

No one pointed a finger at Maggie, which only made her feel worse. But not bad enough to come forward.

She absolutely never wanted this to happen again, though. The rules from that dumb video didn’t help much, so Maggie worked on her own rule: if you get mad, walk away. Better yet, run. Better yet, don’t get mad at all.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was twelve, sitting out of P.E. class, like always. Normally, she read, barely registering if the other kids were running laps or playing basketball. Today, it was impossible to ignore the murmurs. It was the most dreaded day of P.E. class for middle schoolers: ballroom dancing.

“Do we have to?” “What’s the point?” “We have to hold hands?!”, her peers questioned as they formed two long lines. Boys opposite girls. Maggie pretended to be very engrossed in her book, like she didn’t notice the other kids glancing at her sitting out in envy, rather than disgust.

Mrs. Belcher, still in her traditional hoodie and knee socks combination, even for ballroom dancing day, rallied the kids. She made them approach the opposite-gender student across from them, their dance partner for the day. The class was evenly divided, except there was one more girl than boy.

“You two can take turns with Max,” Mrs. Belcher said, pointing at the two girls on the end. It was hard to tell if scrawny Max looked more excited, or mortified, at the prospect of juggling two girls.

But one of the girls wasn’t satisfied with that. A mousy little girl, with wire-rimmed glasses. Leila Givens: she was in Maggie’s Science class, always wore her hair in pigtail braids, and she tended to wear long skirts rather than pants. “What about her?” she pointed over at Maggie, sitting on the bleachers.

Maggie buried her face in her book as they looked her way.

Mrs. Belcher stammered, “Um, ah, Maggie Shaw is not supposed to participate, she’s excused.”

Something about the way Leila looked over, genuinely hopeful… Maggie wasn’t sure what came over her, but she blurted, “I’ll do it.”

Mrs. Belcher’s jaw dropped as Maggie walked over. Like she wanted to forbid her from participating, but she wasn’t sure she had the authority to do so. In any case, Maggie took the spot next to Max in the boys’ line. Opposite Leila, who smiled at her.

One hand holding this girl’s hand, the other on her shoulder. It was awkward, but everyone was feeling awkward, as Mrs. Belcher led them through basic ballroom steps in a hilariously commanding manner. And Leila was nice. She whispered, “Sorry I put you on the spot.”

“It’s okay,” Maggie whispered back. “You shouldn’t have to share Max. He can’t handle two partners. He can’t even handle long division…”

“I just thought you shouldn’t have to sit alone all the time.”

“I’m used to it.”

“I don’t have a lot of friends, either.”

That presumption irked Maggie, even if it was spot on. “It’s not ‘cause I have no friends.” Carefully worded; technically true. “It’s for a good reason, that I sit out.”

“‘Cause you’re strong?” Leila’s eyes met Maggie’s, then she looked away. “I… think it’s interesting.”

The incredibly awkward period finally came to an end, but as Maggie dropped Leila’s hand and prepared to hurry away… Leila asked if she wanted to walk to lunch together.

That was how Maggie made her first friend.

▲ ▲ ▲

Leila was a little weird, on account of her parents were religious and lived out at the edge of town on a “homestead”, which kinda sounded like a farm, but smaller. Leila explained that her parents wanted to homeschool her, but hadn’t gotten approval from the state. Leila secretly hoped they never did, because she liked coming to school, even if it was hard to make friends. She was odd, but she talked to Maggie like a real person. She asked her about her powers, then moved onto other topics, like what books she liked to read, and which Spice Girl would she’d be if she could (and she didn’t presume Maggie would be Ginger Spice).

Maggie had never been to a friend’s house, so she not-so-subtly invited herself over. She was curious, just to see what anyone else’s house was like… especially with the sense she had that Leila’s home might be weirder than hers. It might make her feel better, she thought. Leila brushed off the possibility at first, but after a few months, she finally caved.

The homestead was as weird as Maggie hoped it would be. There was a big vegetable garden in the back, plus a hutch for a bunch of bunnies. They had three chickens and a goat. The house itself was kind of ramshackle, with unfinished wood siding, and there was a huge swing out in the front yard. Leila and Maggie sat on the swing and talked in the afternoon sun. Leila held Maggie’s hand and said she was so glad she knew Maggie, and she hoped she never had to be homeschooled.

Leila recalled how they first became friends. That day in gym, ballroom dancing. Wasn’t that silly? But kind of fun? Don’t you remember? She put her hands in Maggie’s, and for a second, they got back in that stance, and it felt a little weird, different than it did in gym class with everyone watching…

Then Leila’s dad got home. And Maggie had trouble making sense of what came next, because it all happened so fast.

Leila jumped up, as soon as she saw her Dad, but he was already storming over to them, shouting a bunch. “You can’t be bringing folks round here without telling us,”… but as he drew closer, he looked at Maggie, and his face became one of revulsion.

“I know what you are,” he spat. He had a dark mustache and a goatee. “You are not welcome here.”

He didn’t say what, but he clearly had his mind made up about Maggie, somehow.

“Daddy, no,” Leila pleaded. Maggie sat frozen for a minute. Entirely unsure what was going on, or what she was supposed to do.

“I will not have one of you around my girl.”

“Daddy, stop.”

Leila’s dad marched into the house, slammed the door. Maggie looked to Leila, who seemed downright terrified. A minute later, Maggie understood why, as Leila’s dad emerged with a rifle in his hands.

“Leila, you oughta know better’n this.” He pointed the gun at Maggie. “Get off of my land.”

Maggie’s heart picked up a little bit. She had never seen a gun in real life, so maybe that was what compartmentalized it, made it feel fictional, instead of very real and aimed at her. But she also knew she’d never gotten hurt in her entire life, so…

“I don’t have a ride,” Maggie said. “I can call my dad if you let me use the phone…”

As soon as she took one step towards the house, he co*cked the gun. “I know what you are, I said. I’m not afraid to do what I gotta do, to protect my house, my family.”

“Protect from what?” Maggie said. That was the wrong answer.

BANG. Leila screamed.

Maggie blinked, and looked down. She barely felt anything. Kinda like someone flicked her in the chest. But there was a small hole in her shirt. “Huh,” was all she could say. She’d never been shot before. She thought it might be a bigger deal than that.

Leila’s dad shouted some more, a bunch of colorful words that Maggie was too overwhelmed to comprehend, and Leila shrieked and cried behind him. Maggie didn’t know what else to do, so she ran home.

She was good at running. As fast as a car, or faster. She didn’t do it much, because Dad told her that it attracted too much attention, and besides, cars were easier most of the time.

Weirdly, she was more rattled by the time she got home, enough that Dad noticed something was wrong when she came inside. She told him what happened, though it came out messy.

And Dad was angry. For once, not at her.

His fury brought up a strange well of emotions in Maggie. Half the time it seemed like he didn’t care about her at all, but now… He called the police, and went down to the station, as they called in Leila’s dad too. There was a lot of shouting as everyone tried to sort it out. One police officer took a statement from Maggie. She repeated the story, though it made less sense every time she recounted it.

“Mr. Givens said something different. He said that he didn’t shoot you at all, and he didn’t even have a gun. Maggie, are you making this up?”

“It’s the truth.”

“It’s okay if you’re confused. Grown-ups can be scary sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you should lie.”

“I’m not lying. Look, there’s a hole in my shirt.” Maggie pointed, but even she could see—it was just a hole. Could’ve been moths; could’ve been anything.

“You look fine to me.”

“He shot a kid,” Maggie said. Just to say it out loud, because someone should. “He shot a gun at a kid. What if I wasn’t fine?”

There wasn’t any evidence, and none of the police seemed interested in pressing further without it, because there wasn’t a scratch on Maggie. Even Dad lost the energy he had before, the anger drained out of him as he drove them home. They never talked about it again.

The next day, Leila didn’t look at Maggie. They didn’t sit together at lunch anymore, and Leila wasn’t back at school the following year. Her parents must’ve got approved for homeschooling.

That was how Maggie learned she was bulletproof.

Chapter 8: Age 13

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was thirteen when Dad made her go on the trip. Or “let” her, as he phrased it while they drove out to the farm, about 40 minutes north of Modesto.

“You’re always saying you wanna do something else, be normal, well, here you go.”

“I don’t know any of these people,” Maggie grumbled, while she stared out the window.

“That’s the whole point. You don’t know them, they don’t know you. You’re always talking about how the kids at school aren’t nice to you. Here’s your chance to make a few friends, without them thinking you’re a freak.”

Maggie didn’t reply.

“You could be a little more grateful that I’m giving you a whole week,” Dad added. “I turned down a lot of gigs for this.”

“God forbid I don’t dance like a monkey for one week.”

“That dancing monkey sh*t is what pays our bills.”

He parked, and they got out onto the farm. A bunch of kids and counselors wearing identical blue corduroy jackets with the Future Farmers of America logo. They looked so happy it was a little creepy. They waved to Maggie.

“Remember,” Dad said, while she unloaded her bag from the car. “Don’t let them see what you can do. They won’t like it.” That was his goodbye.

To that point, Maggie dragged her duffel bag along the ground as she went to join the crowd of kids. “Welcome!” said one of the grown-ups at the front, the lead counselor. “We’re so excited to have you all on our week-long stay-over. I know it’s the first trip for many of you, but don’t worry—our more experienced Future Farmers will answer any questions you have.” She gestured to a group of older teens in FFA t-shirts. One of them, a teen boy, broadly built with dark brown hair, made eye contact with her and smiled.

The counselor gave an inspiring orientation speech about the wonders of farming, and though Maggie thought the whole thing was a little stupid, she still clapped with everyone else. For once, Dad was right. None of these kids knew her; they hadn’t watched her sit out of P.E. class for the last seven years. They had no idea she was different.

Work started immediately on a farm, that was the first lesson. “First job you’ll do each morning: we’ve got to get this feed up to the barn.” The lead counselor pointed to a barn in the distance, past a long stretch of fields. “Animals gotta eat! Everyone grab a sack. Two, if you can manage.”

The back of a truck opened, filled with hundreds of sacks of animal feed. The bigger boys eagerly began unloading, passing one out to each kid.

WHUMP. A sack dropped at Maggie’s feet. She looked down at it, trying to guess if it was too big for a “normal” girl to carry. Before she had a chance to peek at what the few other girls were doing, someone swooped in and grabbed it. It was the same boy who smiled at her earlier. He threw her sack up onto his shoulder, along with his own. “I got that for ya,” he said. “I’m Parker. I’d shake, but my hands are a little full.”

“Maggie,” she introduced herself. “I can…” She reached out to take the sack back.

“No shame if it’s too big for you,” Parker said, stepping back so she couldn’t grab it. “Don’t be a hero.”

Maggie suppressed a laugh at his word choice. “Thanks.”

She followed Parker as they trudged up to the barn. She felt like it should bug her that he thought she was that frail… but it was kind of nice that someone wanted to help her out.

▲ ▲ ▲

The sleeping arrangements for the FFA stay-over were a row of small cabins in which kids were left to assign the bunks themselves in a massive free-for-all. While everyone else fought inside, Maggie sat out on the stoop of her cabin. It turned out that just being “normal” didn’t automatically make friendships happen. It was still hard to talk to the others, when she didn’t have a lot of experience at this “friendship” thing… especially because a lot of the other kids were friends already, from past trips. So she excused herself while they laughed and joked inside. Maggie liked the peace and quiet after being around people all day, anyway.

By the fourth night of the trip, it was sort of a routine for her, sitting out here alone. But her aloneness was interrupted, when Parker approached. “You’re out here every night, huh.”

“You watching me every night?”

“Just worried. What if they lock you out? You’d have to sleep out here on the ground.”

“I don’t care.” Maggie shrugged. “I can sleep anywhere.”

“In that case, wanna pass the time?” Parker beckoned. “My family owns this farm. I can show you around. If you’re game.” He took Maggie’s hand, and led her over to a tractor.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” he said. “But there’s no age limit on these anyway. I’ve been driving it since I was eight.”

The tractor moved slowly, but it was a nice ride, as Parker took them out into the middle of the field, then stopped, left the engine idling. He hopped to the ground, and extended a hand to help Maggie down. He thought she needed help, and once again… it weirdly didn’t bother her.

He laid out a blanket on the ground, and they sat next to each other, staring up at the sky.

“You can see so many stars out here,” Maggie marveled.

Parker pulled out a silver flask from his pocket, took a sip, then offered it to her. She didn’t know exactly what was inside, except that it was probably stronger than beer. She didn’t want to look like a baby, so she took a big swig. It burned going down.

“Damn!” Parker laughed. “Downing moonshine like it’s water. What’s your deal, Maggie?”

“I don’t know.”

He took another swig from the flask, chuckling. “‘I don’t know.’ You’re a weird girl.” Maggie’s heart picked up, worried that she’d given herself away as freak—until he added, “But I like it.”

No one had ever liked Maggie before. Yet here he was, a boy… a cute boy, leaning in, like he might kiss her. There was no time to figure out if she wanted him to kiss her or not, but her body decided for her; just as his lips were an inch away from hers, she flinched back.

Parker stopped, but he didn’t make a big deal of it. “Let me fire this thing up again. We can go out further, really see some stars.” He dusted himself off, one more sip, then tucked the flask in his pocket. He climbed back up onto the tractor, but slipped, hitting the ignition on his way down, falling into the tractor’s path.

“Crap crap crap!” Parker stumbled in the dirt, but his shirt seemed to be caught on the front of the tractor as it ambled into gear. “Maggie... get up there. Turn it off!”

Maggie stared in horror as the tires inched closer to his body. She had no idea how to operate the controls, and now was not a good time to figure it out on the fly. She had to do something, so she rushed in and helped the best way she knew how: she ripped Parker’s shirt free, and threw the tractor out of the way.

Parker’s eyes widened, and she had a good few seconds to watch the look on his face while the tractor sailed silently through the air before it landed far off in the fields with a CRASH.

That was it. She messed up. She showed him her powers, and saved his life, but it was about to cost her everything—

“That. Was. Amazing,” Parker said.

Maggie was taken aback. “You think so?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve got powers! Like Crimson Countess. Nah, better than her. You’re like Soldier Boy.”

Maggie was a little dizzy at this response, and also a little distracted realizing that she probably should’ve just yanked the boy out of the way, instead of throwing heavy machinery, but it was too late for that.

“Wait, wait,” Parker was still babbling excitedly. “Are you gonna be a Supe like them when you get older? Join a team like Payback?”

“Maybe,” she replied, still feeling like this was all a dream. “My dad thinks I should.”

“Whew, you’ll be famous! And I can say I knew you when.”

“But I think... maybe I’d rather be a farmer.” Parker laughed, so Maggie had to defend herself, “It seems fun! You make it seem fun.”

As his laughs died out, he turned serious. Oh no. He turned on her. “And you let me carry your sack every morning?” He shoved her, but in a playful way.

They sat down again, finished the flask, had a nice laugh. Parker looked her in the eyes. The moonlight reflecting in his eyes, his hair swept across his forehead. “Could you do me a favor, Maggie?”

“Anything,” she replied.

He pointed off at the overturned tractor in the distance. “Could you put that the right way up again, so I can drive it back?”

▲ ▲ ▲

The next morning, Parker dropped his feed sack at Maggie’s feet. “Figure you can pay me back for the past few days.”

Maggie took her sack, and his. It was nice, to have a shared secret.

But Parker called others over. “Hey, everyone. Come see this.”

“Wait, don’t—”

“Maggie’s strong as heck.” Parker folded his arms proudly, as other kids came to look on. “I bet you can take more than two, huh?”

Another kid dropped his sack at Maggie’s feet. There didn’t seem to be another way out, so she lifted it. The kid grinned. Maggie grabbed another. More kids gathered, and started cheering.

Maybe they were all like Parker. Maybe they were all cool. As they clapped, she took more—five, then six—limited not by the weight, but by how many she could fit in her arms. “Don’t worry, guys, I got them all,” she declared.

Everyone cheered and chanted her name as they walked over to drop their sacks at her feet. This was it. This was the key! Powers could be cool. Why didn’t she realize it sooner?

Until, slowly, Maggie realized all the other kids were walking off towards the barn together. With all the sacks left in front of her. “It’s cool!” she shouted after them. “I’ll bring these… don’t wait.” As if anyone was listening.

□ □ □

Donald was a slightly worried about sending a budding young teenager for a week-long trip away with other teenagers, but he had to get her out of dodge so he could do damage control.

He was on a losing streak lately, which put them into a real pinch debt-wise. It was the closest he was to losing the house since Maggie was tiny. So, right after he dropped her off at Future Farmers camp, he booked it home, changed into his best suit (his only suit) and met with the loan adviser at the last bank in town that hadn’t turned him down already.

“I know on paper I don’t look like your ‘ideal candidate,” he pleaded. “But I’ll pay it back. I swear I will. However many years it takes. Whatever interest rate.”

The banker, Mr. Lowe, as his nameplate said, frowned. “I’m sorry, but policy is policy. It’s not that we think you don’t want to pay, but you are a risk.”

“There has to be a way.”

“Only if you had a co-signer, a guarantor, someone who could be relied on to pay if you fail.”

Donald leaned forward. “My daughter.”

“Oh? How old is she?”

“Thirteen.” Mr. Lowe balked, as Donald added, “But she’s—she’s a guarantee. She’s a Supe.”

Mr. Lowe furrowed his brow. “Is she working full time?”

“Um, she has school, but we do weekends—mall appearances, conventions, sometimes commercials. You remember that Paulie’s Pizza Palace?” He sang off-key: “‘Paulie’s Pizza… Get your pizza pie.’ Then she came out and said: ‘It’s super!’”

Mr. Lowe nodded in recognition. “I thought that was Paulie’s kid in a Crimson Countess suit…”

“No, she’s my kid, and she’s only gonna get more and more. You can bank on this.”

“How much does she take in per month?”

“You can’t look at the present. You have to think future.” Donald brought out a magazine clipping he’d brought. “Check this out. Last month’s Forbes—says Crimson Countess raked in almost $15 mill this year alone. That her net worth is over $300 mill. My Maggie is all that and more. So… give me 15% interest. 50%. 100%! We’ll pay it all back then.”

The argument wasn’t what won Donald that loan. It was pity. But Donald took the win. Mr. Lowe insisted on monthly appointments to review Maggie’s earnings and trajectory, with a clause that the bank could demand repayment early at any point if her career stalled.

It wasn’t ideal. Donald was accustomed to doing what he had to do. He knew Maggie could rise to the occasion. She was his kid, after all.

▲ ▲ ▲

When it came to the end of the trip, all the other kids were hugging and exchanging teary goodbyes, and phone numbers. Except Maggie, who sat on top of her duffle bag, alone. No one much wanted to talk to her, except when it was sack time.

Dad’s sh*tty Honda pulled up; he rolled down the window. “Get in, kid.”

Maeve put her bag in the car. Then stopped. She ran back over to the group of kids all fighting to say goodbye to Parker. She tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey,” she said. “I’m leaving. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” he said. “Bye, Maggie!” He patted her on the head, and turned back to the other kids.

A brutal blow.

Maggie didn’t talk much to Dad as they drove away. He barked at her. “I hope you enjoyed your break, because we’re packed tomorrow. Starting bright and early for the AARP convention in San Diego. We’ll be driving all night, no time for a shower—sh*t, you’re a mess. This’ll have to do.” He pulled some wet wipes from the glove compartment and tossed them at her.

Maggie stared out the window at the rolling desert highway. She opened the car door, and leapt out.

She hit the ground at a roll, ending up covered in dust along the abandoned stretch of freeway.

A few hundred meters down the road, the Honda screeched to a stop. Dad got out of the car and ran towards her. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not doing it anymore,” Maggie curled into a ball in the dirt. “I don’t want to put on a costume, and get in front of an audience, for them to stare at like a freak!”

Dad crouched down next to her. Eye to eye. “Maggie. You’re a big girl. You know, if we don’t go do this, we don’t have money to pay the mortgage. I don’t pay the mortgage, the bank takes the house. If I don’t have a roof over your head, CPS comes around, and they remove you from my custody. You know who they give you to? Look at me.” He grabbed Maggie’s cheeks and wrenched her face towards him. “No normal family will want you. But you know who’s dying to take you? Vought will snatch you up, and raise you in a lab. Treat you like a f*cking science experiment, and I bet you’ll still have to wear a costume. Is that what you want?”

She didn’t respond.

“Is that what you want, Maggie?!”

“No.”

“Then wipe this f*cking dirt off and get back in the car.” He pulled a wipe from his pocket, and swiped at her face himself. “You’re gonna sleep on the way, so by the time we get to the Morningview Hotel and Ballroom you’ll be ready to smile and sparkle and charm the sh*t out of these old people, and we can get the damn check.”

Maggie was furious, angrier than she ever had been in her life. Her fist tightened at her side, but… What was she gonna do with that?

She followed Dad back to the car, while he muttered to himself, just loud enough for her to hear, “Christ alive, Maggie. It’s hard enough to be your father already. Quit making it worse.”

□ □ □

Maggie was thirteen. Donald was watching golf one afternoon when he heard a clatter from upstairs and Maggie’s shrill exclamation, “f*ck!”

“Maggie?” He knocked on the bathroom door then nudged it open. She had rolled up her shorts, with one leg propped up on the sink, covered in Barbasol. In the sink sat one of his old disposable razors, in two pieces, with the plastic handle snapped off from the head.

“What are you doing? Get out!”

“I heard swearing.” She was shaving. Thirteen seemed too young for that. Was it? Donald didn’t know what the TV shows and magazines were telling girls to do these days… “If you’re having trouble…”

“It’s nothing. Just… Stupid, sh*tty, razor, wasn’t working, and…”

Donald picked up the fragmented razor head and ran it under water to wash away the shaving cream and hair. He squinted at it, then swiped a finger over the blades. “There’s your problem. That’s dull as all hell.”

“They get dull…?” Maggie really was lost.

“That’s why I throw them out. Probably wasn’t much good whenever you started, and only wears out more the more you use it. I guess you didn’t notice ‘cause you’d never nick yourself… but it doesn’t work very well.”

Maggie avoided his gaze, but took the broken razor back. Feeling the blades herself. “Okay… thanks…”

Donald sighed and dug in his pocket. He handed her a crumpled $20 bill. “Here. Towel yourself off and go down to the drugstore to get your own.” She looked up at him, unsure. “Or I’ll go with you…”

“No, I’ll do it.”

She was growing up… and Donald had no clue what to do with it. At least it was normal to feel out of his depth as a father, here.

He sat her down at the dining room table a few days later. “This is gonna be awkward for the both of us, but…”

Maggie covered her ears. “Ew, Dad, stop. They told us about all that stuff in Health class.”

“They did?” That was just as well. Donald didn’t particularly want to talk about it. “Well, you just let me know if you have ques—troubles—if you need to buy any sanitary—”

“Yes, okay, please just stop talking.”

“Also, uh, some ladies at work recommended this book.” He handed over a copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. “See? This ‘Judy Blume’ lady wrote it just for you.”

“Is that all?”

She rolled her eyes, but Donald saw her reading the book the next day.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was thirteen, and she needed braces. Yet another expense, her dad ranted on the way home from the orthodontist, but Maggie knew his ranting meant he’d accepted it had to happen. Maggie was used to having to work for the family at this point… so she didn’t complain, when he set up three different mall appearances, plus a photoshoot for Teen Vogue (a huge break for her, back at that point), all in one weekend. She stayed up late to do her homework. She poked at her crooked teeth in the mirror, thankful that at some point, in a couple years, she wouldn’t have to closed-mouth-smile at photoshoots. If there were more of them.

She was supposed to go back to the orthodontist the following Friday, but Dad informed her, as he dropped her at school, it wasn’t happening. Maggie didn’t ask why. She knew he went gambling last night; she knew he lost.

“When can we reschedule?” She said, glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“S’not worth it. If it really mattered, dental would be included in regular health insurance.”

“If you want me to be famous… in photoshoots, and all that. I need straight teeth.”

“Get to class.” That was the end of that discussion.

Maggie was done trusting Dad to make things happen.

It took a few months, because she had school during the week, plus the regular bullsh*t on the weekends (to keep the roof over their head, ‘cause Dad couldn’t manage that on his own), but Maggie found chances to earn money where she could. She mowed lawns, she walked dogs, and she took the bus to answer one very sketchy ad about a bunch of old folks out in Salida that swore they just wanted to meet a real live Supe before they kicked it. They gawked at her in a vaguely creepy way but they did pay the $500 they promised. She kept the money in an old cigar box under her bed.

After a few exhausting weeks, she had enough saved for the orthodontist, and she called and booked an appointment herself. It was a lot, but for the first time in her life, she’d set a goal, and figured it out on her own. She felt very grown-up.

The day before her appointment, she found Dad sitting in the living room with the cigar box in front of him. Open. Cash still inside. Evidently, he wanted to confront her. Otherwise, it’d be gone already.

“Dentist called,” he grunted. “Confirming my daughter’s appointment for tomorrow. And I thought, that’s strange, I don’t remember making one.” He stood, looming over her.“What the hell is this, Maggie? You stealing this money away? Hiding it from me?”

“It’s mine,” Maggie dropped her backpack and marched up to him. “I earned it.”

“You don’t know how to handle money. This much? Could’ve got stolen. Or you could get scammed. It’s not safe, this much cash in a kid’s hands.”

“Safer than it is with you.” Maggie got close to him. He was a head taller, and certainly broader, but as he got closer, Maggie remembered: he could not stop her from doing anything.

She yanked the cigar box from his hand. A few bills fluttered out, and Dad bent for them, but Maggie pinned them with her foot before he could get his grubby fingers on them.

“This is mine,” she insisted.

Dad opened his mouth to argue, to say something else horrible… Maggie lurched forward, into his space. He flinched back.

Maggie went to her appointment the next day and got her braces.

But something broke in that moment that Maggie stood up to him. Any illusion she had that Dad knew better. Any illusion he had that he could control her.

After that, they both went back to pretending that he was in charge, for a while longer, because it was easier. But they both knew the truth.

Chapter 9: Age 14

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was fourteen, and she was sick of being an outcast. Middle school was painful, but middle school was over. Going from a school of only 400 kids to the high school with nearly 2000… it was her shot to make a new impression. She read Tiger Beat and Seventeen, after she was in them once or twice. There was a lot to learn about how to impress. Stuff her dad couldn’t teach her.

She had her braces, so a perfect smile was only a year or so away. She practiced make-up. She even saved up some money on her own (what Dad didn’t take for bills, or gambling) for some trendy outfits (Trendiness didn’t come naturally to her, so she dutifully followed what the magazines advised).

Maggie knew makeup and outfits alone wouldn’t buy her acceptance. She just didn’t want people at high school to look at her and immediately think “loser freak”.

She had a little view of the world now. She saw what people thought of “Supes”; that slang that was everywhere as of Y2K. As much as Maggie hated the way Dad made her go about it, dancing in a costume at the mall… there was a brighter side, she saw in the magazines and on TV. Supe kids like Mesmer, who had his own TV series, and tons of fans. Or the brand new reality show, Vought Summer Clubhouse, with Supes around Maggie’s age, having fun on a sunny island, while everyone else was excited to watch.

More than that silly stuff, Maggie got interested in the teams, the real heroes. Payback. Though their best years were behind them (shame Maggie missed that by being born after Soldier Boy died), she looked at old books, and movies: they saved lots of people back in the day.

Maggie thought to herself: what was stopping her from doing the same? Nothing. Maybe she didn’t know how to use weapons and stuff like they did, but she could certainly use her powers to help people out. And people would like that.

The summer before ninth grade, Maggie made it her mission to save people, except she didn’t know where to start. In Payback’s movies, the Mayor or President or someone called them up and told them about some impending disaster they had to stop. Maggie knew those were made up, but she still had no clue how one went about finding actual trouble to help with. So she made it a habit to wander around town, keeping an eye out for danger.

There weren’t many opportunities. She helped kids get their kite down from a tree, and helped one guy get his car out when his driveway was blocked by a dumpster. But that didn’t feel like Payback-level rescuing. Maggie grew antsy. She wanted to do one cool thing… so she could show up to high school, and not be the weirdo with powers, but the superhero who saved someone, right here in Modesto.

Mid-August, it happened. She was waiting around, just about to head home for the day, when she saw impending disaster. With her reflexes, she had plenty of time to take in the situation: a car speeding up to try to make it through a yellow light. But there was a woman on crutches, about to cross the street. Neither saw the other. This was her moment. And she’d never stopped a car before, but knew it wouldn’t hurt her. She could shield the lady with her body, and once the dust settled everyone would be so relieved, and Maggie would be a hero.

She ran out in front of the car, ready to absorb the impact.

It was only with the gift of hindsight that a much older Maeve fully understood where she went wrong that day. First, she moved too fast; the driver didn’t see her and, consequently, didn’t brake. Second, she didn’t use her hands to slow the car, or brace it in any way, so it simply crashed into her… which was equivalent to crashing into a steel pole. Third, she left her mouth open.

In the moment, all Maggie was aware of was a massive CRASH, as metal and glass and debris showered all around her. She blinked to see the remains of a car sliced in half all around her. She picked through the rubble… saw unconscious, bloodied bodies. Four passengers. Torn apart, just like the car. But where was the driver?

Maggie inhaled, and caught a whiff of the strangest, most pungent smell she’d ever smelled. She looked down, and realized the driver was all over her.

She gagged, and went to wipe her face—something had splashed up there, she didn’t want to think about what—but found her hand was coated in blood. Her chest, covered in… more than just blood. Solid… or at least stuff that used to be solid. It was slimy and red and pink and there were some bits identifiable as skin, or hair, but mostly it was a mangled melange of organic matter.

Her hands trembled. She took a step back, and some of the goop slipped off of her. She heard shouting… people emerging from shops and houses; they heard the crash. At least the woman on crutches was okay. But the minivan…

This was very bad. But Maggie knew that she couldn’t fix it. So, about three seconds after the impact, she was gone. Running at top speed, at least 80mph, back home.

Dad was there when she came in, though she ignored him, and ran straight for the bathroom. She heaved vomit into the toilet, though it wasn’t much; she had already emptied her stomach twice on the way home. But she couldn’t stop retching.

“Maggie.” Her dad knocked at the door.

“Don’t come in.”

He fiddled with the knob, but the bathroom door was locked. “What the hell happened?”

“Go away.”

She kept dry heaving for a little while. Eventually, it subsided into sobs. She was too preoccupied to hear Dad unscrewing the doorknob until the door swung open.

“Christ almighty,” Dad said, as he took in her appearance… crying over the toilet, caked in half-dried human remains.

“I didn’t mean to,” Maggie managed between sobs. “I was trying to help.”

Dad grabbed a washcloth and wet it in the sink. He pulled Maggie closer, made her look at him. Ran the washcloth over her face, wiping away some of the blood. “What happened.”

“Th…they’re dead…” Maggie choked in a breath, as she processed for the first time, the difference between hurt and death. “I’m gonna go to jail.”

“You’re not going to go to jail.”

“I killed them.”

“Look at me, Maggie. You just need to tell me what happened. And the people from Vought, they’ll sort it out.”

“Vought?” Horror dawned on her. “You’re giving me to them?”

“No. They’ll deal with it. Fix it. It’s what they do. For all Supes…” He went back with the washcloth again, wiping off some of the chunkier matter that was stuck to Maggie, collecting it in the wastebasket. “But you’ll need to explain what happened.”

“A car… it was gonna hit… I tried to…” Maggie couldn’t form full sentences.

“And?”

“I killed them.” Tears came back, now. “I should go to jail.”

“First, we gotta get you cleaned up.” Dad reached over, picked a few pieces of glass out of her hair. And a tooth. He tossed the lot into the wastebasket. “You take a shower. Throw your clothes in the bin, with the rest of the… I’ll get the bleach and clean up this mess on the floor, after.”

Dad stood, turned on the shower, then went for the door.

“I didn’t mean to,” Maggie whimpered.

“I know.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie didn’t sleep for days after the accident, imagining what it would be like to talk to the lawyers. She pictured herself on trial like she’d seen on TV… sitting in a courtroom while a jury of her peers (from middle school) booed her until she went to jail.

Reality was far less dramatic than that. The Vought lawyers came to their house. A couple guys in suits, though one guy with a goatee did most of the talking. He asked her to explain what happened, as best as she could recall it. He recorded it, and when she was finished, he thanked her, and began packing up his things.

“That’s it?” Maggie asked.

“Yes. That’s all we need.”

“There’s no… trial?”

“Not if my colleagues and I are any good at our jobs.”

“I’m not going to jail?”

“Heavens, no.”

The lawyers headed for the door, and Dad shook their hands as they left.

And it all felt terribly wrong. She should be in more trouble. She got a harsher punishment for breaking a playground ball once at school.

And she started crying again. It was embarrassing, but at least the lawyers were gone. Dad wheeled on her, though. “Maggie, stop. It’s over.”

“We have to move.”

“What?”

“I can’t stay here. I messed it all up. And everyone’s gonna know…”

“No one will know. News covered it as a traffic accident.”

“But I know.”

“You’ll get over it,” Dad said. “You did before.” He poured himself some whiskey.

Maggie sniffed. “What?”

“See? You don’t even remember.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s no use picking at it now. Distract yourself. Go read one of your magazines, or we can go to Blockbuster.”

“Tell me right now.”

Dad could tell she was serious, because he put down his drink. He sat at the dining table, and motioned for her to sit too. Maggie didn’t want to, but the look on his face… she sat.

“I couldn’t put you in day care. Obviously. When you were three, though… I needed a job. Got a babysitter. Explained your situation. Taught her everything I knew about how to be careful with you. Warned her you didn’t know your own strength. Seemed like she understood.”

“I remember her.” Maggie had a fuzzy memory of the babysitter. A girl with light brown hair… she couldn’t recall the name, and the face shifted whenever she tried to pin it down. But there was a pleasant sense associated with her. “She was nice. But then she left.”

“She didn’t leave.”

A horrifying moment as confusion coalesced into recognition of what Dad meant. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, you’re making this up.”

“Wish that I were. But the lawyers helped then; they helped now. Vought’s got an interest in cleaning up after Supes… and they offered to take you off my hands, back then. But I told them no…”

As it dawned on Maggie... The truth of it… She felt the urge to retch again.

“Don’t dwell on it, Maggie. Talking about it, thinking about it, won’t change it. Just… try to forget.” He took a sip of his drink.

Maggie wasn’t okay with it.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. She was walking around as a murderer for her entire life. She hurt people back then, she hurt people now, and she would probably hurt more people in the future, if nobody ever stopped her. She never meant to, but it happened anyway. Dad was right. There was no changing it. But she could try to stop it…

She didn’t sleep that night. She laid awake until about two in the morning. Dad was solidly out. She went to the bathroom and unpacked everything under the sink. Plus under the kitchen sink. A lot of obvious methods wouldn’t work, so she had to get creative.

Maggie poured drain cleaner in a pint glass. And a bottle of cough syrup. Plus few other assorted medications… no such thing as overkill, here. Dad had used up all the bleach cleaning up her mess… but she added some dishwasher soap and Comet powder to the concoction, too, to cover her bases. It smelled foul. She held her nose, and chugged it down.

It was disgusting. She tried to hold it in, let the chemicals do what they would do her insides, but she got sick all over the floor. She laid up against the cabinets… feeling ill, but not as ill as she should have from a sick smoothie that, judging by the warning labels on all the ingredients, should’ve killed a normal human many times over.

More than ill, she felt ashamed. Look at the f*cking mess she made. And for what? What was she even trying to do, really? She tried something this pathetic, and failed?

With only a slight stomachache and a nasty aftertaste to show for her efforts, Maggie bore down and cleaned up the mess she’d spit up all over the floor. She hid the empty bottles, too, at the bottom of the trash. Because if Dad found the evidence in the morning… she didn’t want to think about it.

The next day. Dad was out, trying to work (he had gotten a gig with a landscaping company, though who knew how long it would last). Maggie had recovered fully in a physical sense. Almost annoying how quickly the sick feeling went away. She was fine, and the floor was clean. There was no evidence of her f*ckup, but she was more miserable than ever.

She thought about making another attempt. There wasn’t much “poison” left in the house, but maybe if she went to the store, got actual rat poison, or, like, gasoline. Who knew what it might take. But Maggie had a sinking sense that none of those would work, either, and would just make her look like even more of a dramatic self-pitying idiot freak.

While she searched the house for dangerous substances, though. She came across one that she’d skipped over on the first pass, because it didn’t seem lethal enough: the liquor cabinet.

Maybe it wouldn’t stop her from hurting anyone in the future, but it seemed to do wonders for helping Dad “forget” things.

She poured a glass, the same amount she’d seen Dad pour, on a night when he was in a foul mood. She took a sip. It tasted as bad as she remembered, the few times she’d had drops of alcohol. Almost as nasty as drain cleaner-et-cetera. But she forced herself to drink the whole cup, one burning sip at a time.

She waited for whatever reaction that supposedly made drinking this disgusting thing worth it.

She didn’t feel much.

Figured that wouldn’t work for her, either.

□ □ □

Maggie was fourteen when it all reared its ugly head again.

Raising a teenager often baffled Donald. No tricky situation could trump the day his child came home crying, covered in blood and guts.

The last ten years, he’d often reflected that it was so much easier now that Maggie understood consequences. That she was so much better at controlling her strength because she was capable of grasping the concept of harming others.

But as Donald dialed that Vought emergency line for the second (and, he prayed to God, last) time, he had a sinking feeling that this was worse.

With that poor girl Leanne, Donald could push it down. Vought took care of the rest, so he only had to worry about his own damn guilt over it.

Now, though the lawyers worked the same magic as before, he had to deal with Maggie’s, too. As she looked at him, pleading… looking just like a toddler again, even now as a teen with braces… How am I supposed to go on after this?

Donald had no answers for her.

The day after the lawyers talked to her, after she demanded the truth about what happened when she was three, Maggie wouldn’t leave her room. Donald figured they both needed to deal with it in their own ways. He went to the bar.

He had a few empty glasses in front of him when goddamn Officer Caruso sauntered up. He’d always been skulking around, throughout the years, making his distrust of Maggie known. Back when that lunatic shot Maggie with a rifle a couple years back, Caruso was there, making all the other cops believe she was lying.

He took the barstool next to Donald. “You drinking a lot, eh, Shaw? Something weighing on you?”

Donald merely flagged Howard for another.

“That awful accident…” Caruso tsked. “Some people said they saw your Maggie around town that day. I told my colleagues to look into it, but… Lucky for you, they’re scared of Vought.”

Donald fought the urge to throw a punch. Evidently, he wasn’t quite drunk enough for that… to assault a cop and get himself in legal trouble.

Even if they were impotent in the face of Vought’s legal power, Caruso’s accusations shook him. What was the point of it? Clearly, he wasn’t good at making Maggie feel any better, at protecting her from herself. Nor was he good at protecting the world from her. Should he have handed her over to Vought’s care all those years ago? Should he ask if they’d take her now? How many people would be dead the next time? How many people dead was his limit? Eight? Ten? Twenty?

When he stumbled home, Maggie was still in her room; the light on. Donald was too anxious to go to bed or even watch TV. For some reason, he felt that he had to do another pass of cleaning the bathroom. Though he’d scrubbed every inch removing the blood and skin Maggie’d brought in with her, maybe there were traces left that would show up with that blacklight spray they used on cop shows.

As he checked the cabinet with cleaning supplies, it looked… emptier. Sure, he’d gone through a gallon of bleach on those tiles, but had it really been so long since he stocked up?

At a loss, he went to take out the garbage. As he hefted the bag, he spotted, in the middle… empty bottles of drain cleaner, Comet, dish soap, and cough syrup.

He didn’t want to think about why Maggie must’ve emptied all those bottles. He felt sicker than ever, but he knew he could never send Maggie away. He didn’t know how to help her. Yet, he was all she had.

□ □ □

Maggie was moodier than ever before since the “incident”. Maybe moody wasn’t the right word. She was like a zombie. Kept her head down, went to school. Didn’t complain at all when they worked conventions on the weekend. That was the weird part.

Donald tried to cheer her up. Encourage her to move on, make some new friends in high school. “Fake it ’til you make it,” that sort of thing. Nothing registered with her.

He called Lynn—who hadn’t come to see Maggie in years, but still got lunch with him sometimes, listened to his woes. “I just need advice,” he said. “How do I tell if something’s really wrong or it’s just… girly hormones?”

Lynn sighed. “Look for other changes… how’s she doing in school?”

“Mostly As… few Bs.”

“That’s good. They say a dip in grades is usually the sign something’s wrong.”

So all was well—or as well as it could be, under the circ*mstances—until Maggie’s second term report card came home. She had a D in English. Out of nowhere.

He didn’t bother asking Maggie about it. Instead, he told her to sit tight and order pizza if she wanted, while he went to the bar to watch Wild Card Weekend.

Instead, Donald went to Parent-Teacher Conference night. He waited patiently behind a few other parents to meet with Maggie’s English teacher, Mr. Leung.

“Mr. Shaw. I’m glad you came.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you can guess why.”

“Let me start by saying I don’t like to give Ds. But I had no choice, here.”

“What’d she do?”

“Everything. Except one assignment.” The teacher folded his hands. “The persuasive essay on Of Mice and Men. Which happened to be the biggest paper of the term. She didn’t turn in anything. Not a draft, not an outline.”

“Well, she must’ve forgot. You have to give her another chance.”

“I did. When it was due, I asked her why she didn’t turn anything in. She said, ‘I didn’t want to.’ I know she read the book; she passed the pop quizzes as we went. I offered her an extension, tried to get her to turn something in, anything at all. I said, ‘If you didn’t like the book, write about that.’ I told her I would have to give her a zero if she didn’t do anything—if she gave me even one page, I could give her a 60, and her term grade would be fine. Now, it’s going to bring her whole GPA down.”

“sh*t.” This definitely seemed out of the ordinary. Like Lynn said.

“Is anything going on at home?” Mr. Leung’s eyebrows knotted together in sympathy. “I want to help. She’s a great student otherwise. Quiet in class discussions, but good essays. If there’s a case of some… extenuating circ*mstances, I could offer her an extra credit assignment this term and petition to change the second-term grade…”

“Uh, help me out for a minute,” Donald said. “It’s been a long time since I was in school. What’s this book about, again? Mice and Men?”

“It’s part of our unit on Depression-era literature. A wonderful novella by Steinbeck. Two ranch hands head to a new farm, George and Lennie—who’s strong, but has certain delays…”

“The guy who kills puppies.”

“Er, yes. Exactly.”

Donald vaguely remembered that book—or maybe copping someone’s notes about it. The big lad who didn’t know his own strength… f*ck.

“Thanks. I’ll talk to her,” Donald said.

That was a lie. He would’ve, of course. He just had no idea what to say.

Chapter 10: Age 14-15

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was fourteen when she attended her first high school party. She wasn’t technically “invited”, on account of she didn’t have a friend group. She wasn’t subject to ridicule the way she was in elementary school, but all the other kids seemed to sense something was off about her.

Even though it never made the paper, and Dad told her about fifty times that nobody ever thought about it but her, Maggie had the sinking feeling that they all knew about The Incident; the car accident, the five people dead, that it was her fault. Whenever Dad saw her moping, he said that it was probably her Negative Nancy energy that made other kids avoid her. If she tried harder to be likable, people would like her, and she better try, Dad said, if she ever wanted to upgrade from getting tiny checks for humiliating herself at weekend conventions and make an actual living.

When some other freshman girls accidentally talked about a party in front of her, Maggie decided to just go. Be brave. If anyone had a problem with that, f*ck them, she deserved to do normal high school things too.

When Maggie arrived at 441 Hillcrest Lane (the address she overheard; no clue whose house it was), it was full of kids from her school, about 20% of which Maggie recognized.

Everyone was drinking. So Maggie followed suit.

She wasn’t a fan of the taste, but with no one to talk to, the first couple beers went down easy. Maggie didn’t “feel” anything. She understood “getting drunk” conceptually. She had enough experience watching Dad at all levels of drunkenness. Yet, nothing.

She decided to make it a challenge to herself. See how much it took. After four beers, still nothing, except that she had to pee real bad. After that was taken care of, some upperclassman was walking by passing out shots in little Dixie cups. Maggie took three. Ew.

That attracted the attention of other kids, including the boy with the tray of shots. He called more boys over to watch, as Maggie downed two more. “It doesn’t work on me,” she explained, exchanging the empty cups for two more.

Somewhere around fifteen shots in (she wasn’t keeping very good count), she noticed that the pall that had followed her ever since The Incident had lifted. She felt different. Better. Not Maggie Shaw, murderous freak; but Maggie Shaw, normal high schooler. Another ten shots later, she was Maggie Shaw, life of the party. And it was only then, towards the very end of the night, that she connected the dots, that it had something to do with the alcohol.

She wasn’t immune after all. And it was awesome.

She got invited to more parties after that, because other teenagers (mostly the boys) thought it was equal parts cool and hilarious how much she could “throw back”. She was a sideshow attraction for the first few parties, but by the time boys got bored of watching her do unassisted kegstands, she was a fixture; no one questioned her presence anymore.

She still didn’t have “friends” there, exactly, but the alcohol was enough reason for her to keep showing up. And she saw how other kids would get wrecked when they had “too much”, puking, or getting “hung over” the next day (Maggie already knew about hangovers from Dad’s complaints)… But she never experienced a shred of those symptoms, drinking twice as much. All the fun, none of the consequences: for once, it paid to be a freak.

At one party, at Kaitlyn Mercer’s house (her parents were away, and the house was huge)… someone paid some attention to Maggie. Not point-and-look attention, but personal attention. He was a sophom*ore. His name was Corey. He was flirting with her.

Maggie had never actually been with a boy, or kissed anyone, for that matter. That changed when Corey planted one on her. “Sorry,” he laughed, then took a sip of his beer. Maggie answered by kissing him back.

Apparently Corey missed the previous public displays of Maggie’s drinking prowess, or else he was the only one who still found it amusing, because he kept bringing her refills, as they moved throughout rooms of the house, making out, drinking, making out, drinking, drinking, drinking more.

Maggie lost track of how much she’d had, except that it was a lot, even by her standards, when Corey took her by the hand and dragged her into another room. A bedroom. He kissed her some more, and then stuck a hand under her shirt, and it must’ve been thanks to the buzz that Maggie didn’t completely freak out.

She wanted to be wanted. For someone to want to be close to her, to be alone with her, to not be afraid of her. It was completely foreign and kind of nice, and also kind of dizzying, but that part could’ve been the booze.

He led her onto the bed (on top of the covers) and said something about how stiff she was, and Maggie laughed it off.

“First time?”

Maggie didn’t know if yes or no was a better answer, so she said nothing.

“It’s okay. Relax. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

She could hardly explain to Corey that she was not afraid of anything he might do to her, but of what she might do to him. Nerves were as good an excuse as any, as she lied back, shimmied out of her bottoms, and let him do what he wanted.

There wasn’t much reflection on what she was feeling as the bed jiggled in rhythm and her mind was a pure monologue of: do not move do not move do not move do not move. At a certain point, Corey made a sound, then got off of her.

Was it over? Maggie stopped herself from asking out loud to not sound like an idiot. Corey zipped his pants, kissed her on the cheek, and left the room.

Maggie spent the night hazily wondering what just happened, and if this meant that they were boyfriend and girlfriend now, and if she even hoped for that outcome or dreaded it, as she walked herself home and passed out instantly.

Corey never talked to her at school, the next day, or ever. Which was fine with Maggie; she made no effort to talk to him either. She avoided him when she saw him, which luckily wasn’t often, since they were in different grades.

Sometimes memories of that night bubbled up, almost at random, begging for attention in some undefined way. Only once Maggie was a bit older did it click that he was encouraging her to drink a lot. Possibly, he was trying to get her too drunk to say no. And as far as he knew, she was. She barely understood her own limits (if they existed), so there was no way for him to be aware, after watching her down enough to knock out three girls, that she was still at least 80% coherent.

It could’ve been terrible, horrible, awful, if it happened to any other girl. But it happened to her.

If she hadn’t wanted it, she could’ve stopped him. Easily. If anyone was in danger in that situation, it was him. Maybe that’s why she always felt a little sick when she thought about it.

Maybe that’s why she recreated the night—similarly enough—with several other boys, over the next few years. It was just sex. That was all.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was fifteen, and she was slowly learning to hate herself. Learning to live with hating herself, more precisely. Since dying wasn’t an option.

She was a murderer. She had murdered six people. Seven, probably, she amended once she remembered an incident with a boy while camping, who fell on the ground bleeding. Who knows how many more she’d forgotten or repressed. She longed to re-repress the seven she knew about, but the more she tried, the more she couldn’t forget… the more she longed for a way out that didn’t exist.

Besides that, freshman year was fine. Maggie no longer got bullied; she hardly got noticed, in the much larger student body. No more gym class for her to sit out of while kids stared at her. No more reason for anyone to pay attention to her, for the most part. She kept her head down and stayed away from the other kids (except for the occasional party). She was kind of in a fugue state most of that year.

Sophom*ore year began much the same. Maggie kept to herself, and did her best in classes.

Every day, she went to school like she wasn’t a murderer; she did math homework like she didn’t have superpowers. It occurred to her, after a while, that it wasn’t so bad. Maybe pretending to be normal made her normal. Much as one could be. Maybe this was the best life she could hope for. Maybe it was just depression rendering her numb, but numb was an improvement, so why question it.

She studied harder than she ever had before. She did extra credit work when it was available. Because she had made up her mind: she wanted a normal life. Dad still made her put on an ever-changing rotation of costumes and go by an ever-changing rotation of Superhero names to dance around for mortgage money… but once she was 18? She’d be free.

Maggie decided that she’d go to college somewhere far away from here. Up in the northeast, maybe? Or down south… Florida, Georgia, the Carolinas, might be nicer, weather-wise. She’d study something regular like English or Math and get a regular job in a regular life and convince everyone, herself included, that she was regular.

She couldn’t make her skin softer, or her limbs weaker… but she abandoned her attempts to “help” people. The only time she used her powers, really, was when Dad made her get on stage for a paying audience.

They were booked, one weekend in March, the week before Maggie’s birthday, actually, for a convention circuit up in the Bay Area. Multiple appearances throughout the weekend, under the name “Scarlet Succubus”. (Dad somehow made the original kiddie name even more cringe-worthy now that Maggie was apparently old enough to sexualize…)

Maggie did her job until the time slot was done, then peeled the costume off, trading it for jeans and a hoodie, and went off to be alone.

She grabbed her copy of Jane Eyre (her current assignment for English class) and climbed onto the roof of their small hotel. It technically wasn’t open to the public, but Maggie climbed the side of the building. (Fine, she used her powers sometimes.)

She was halfway through the chapter when the building jerked beneath her. Maggie had no idea what it was. Another jerk, larger this time. An earthquake. She’d experienced them before, but not this big.

The shaking stopped about 20 seconds later, and the hotel steadied itself.

Maggie heard a creak, though… and saw, across the street, a small apartment complex had a major crack through it, and was verging on collapse.

On pure instinct, Maggie took a running start, leapt off the roof, and landed in front of the building. She braced herself as the walls sagged forward. She held it up from falling, as a few inhabitants ran out the front entrance.

“Is everyone out?” she shouted… struggling not so much against the weight, but to hold the building together so chunks wouldn’t fall apart…

A few brave men ran back in and made sure the complex was evacuated. Finally, Maggie let it collapse… lowering it as gently as she could, so as not to crush anyone.

There wasn’t time to rest, or think about what she’d done. More buildings were crumbling. Fires were breaking out from downed power lines. People were shouting and children were crying. Emergency responders showed up to the scene to help, too, and Maggie worked right alongside them. It was chaos. People injured by debris, people trapped under rubble inside half-collapsed buildings…

Maggie was careful. She worked slowly (for her) and deliberately. Having witnesses helped—she was cautious of how she shifted rubble, and where she tossed debris. No collateral damage this time, she decided, not by her hand. No accidents were acceptable, not even a bruise. Any victim she carried out of a building got carefully deposited by the nearest med station, with a check that they weren’t hurt more.

It wasn’t long before her sweatshirt came off, and her hair was mussed. She was out there a long time, only taking short breaks to use the bathroom, or to grab a snack and a Gatorade. Over twenty-four hours straight, apparently. That’s what they told her, when a firefighter “relieved” her of her duties, and led her to a little med tent, where there was a camera crew. From a national news channel. Waiting to talk to her.

Maggie was dumbstruck, still coming out of the trance she’d been in for a day (a DAY!), focusing on the problems in front of her… going on pure adrenaline and instinct… why would the news want to talk to her? “What did I do wrong?” she mumbled. The field reporter, a woman in a fuchsia pantsuit, laughed. She thought it was a joke. Of course they wanted to talk to the teen phenom who selflessly tirelessly rescued dozens of victims from the aftermath of this disaster! She asked if Maggie was ready to start rolling.

Out of nowhere, Dad appeared; Maggie hadn’t seen him since the quake (some small part of her felt guilty for not worrying if he’d been injured or killed), but of course he showed up once there were cameras. He told the reporters she was ready, she’d give an interview.

Maggie was a little self-conscious, down to her dirty tank top and torn-up jeans, but somehow that was better than being in a costume. She tried not to stare into the camera, while they started rolling.

The reporter asked what she did, why she saved those people. Maggie had no idea what she said in response. Probably something dumb. She hadn’t slept in almost 48 hours. The reporter smiled regardless. And wrapped up the interview, by asking: “You are a real hero. Do you have a hero name?”

Maggie opened her mouth; nothing came out. Behind the camera, Dad mouthed, “Scarlet Succubus”, as if she’d forgotten it.

Maggie caught a glimpse of herself, in the monitor next to the camera. She didn’t look polished, or sexy, or trendy. She was dirty. She was singed. But she looked badass. She shone with some indelible glow of having done some good for once in her life. It recalled an image she hadn’t thought about in a long time… That picture she loved in the Celtic mythology book. That illustration that she foolishly thought was her mother, when she was little.

It was clear, in that moment. The reason she always liked that illustration. It wasn’t her mother. It was her.

Maggie took a breath, and said, “You can call me Queen Maeve.”

Even as she said the name, she felt a little taller. She stood a little straighter, and even the newscaster seemed to notice. It wasn’t demeaning, or stupid, like all those names Dad had picked out. If nothing else, it was hers. The reporter repeated, “Queen Maeve”, and it sounded even more official when someone else said it.

Dad looked f*cking steamed, which made it even better.

□ □ □

As Maggie became a proper teenager, Donald wondered where all the f*cking time went. That first year was like a decade. Her teething was an eternity. Now, in the time it took for him to grab one beer from the fridge, she went from a grinning kid with a missing front tooth to a young woman who hated his guts.

He wasn’t trying to stop time. Nor try to control a teenager’s whims. It was unsettling, though, how unrelenting it was. She started going out more, on the nights and weekends. That was probably for the best. Any sort of socializing. When he spotted a little piece of perforated plastic in the wastebasket, though—with 28 indentations in the foil backing—he felt dizzy. Wasn’t she in diapers yesterday?

It hit him like a truck when she was fifteen. When they were up at the conference in San Francisco. The quake didn’t frighten him so much. When she took that interview, though. Stood in front of the cameras and named herself Queen Maeve. How long had she been planning that? She didn’t want to run it by him? It was a nice name. He would’ve let her. In that moment, though, it slammed into him like a tidal wave. How much she looked like Joan.

Except she wasn’t Joan. Because she needed him. And other people needed her. She was a hero that day, not just the sparkly-costume kind. Not some fancy-talking coward like her mother. As the news thanked her, and crowds praised her, Donald was proud. Something had gone right. For all the accidents before, here she was, saving far more people.

There was a sinking fear, beneath it though. The more she protected other people, the less she’d need protecting. The more the fickle world decided it loved her, for today at least, the less she’d need him.

Chapter 11: Age 16

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was sixteen when she got the call.

“Hello, is this the residence of Margaret Shaw? AKA Queen Maeve? I’m from VCC Casting. We’d like to invite you to join Season 3 of Vought Summer Clubhouse, the number one reality series where the most promising young Super-Abled teens hang out on a tropical island for a month this summer. Would you be interested in participating?”

Maggie was stunned. Not sure if she was hearing right. “Uh. Yes. I accept. Yeah.” She expected any moment to hear giggles break out on the other end, revealing one of her classmates doing a prank call. But apparently, Vought saw her on the news after that earthquake a few months back, and they were intrigued.

“Since you’re a minor, we need a parent or guardian’s consent…” It pained Maggie to hand the phone over to Dad, knowing he might ruin this, but turned out, he was happy to collect the check. Which meant Maggie was going to be on TV.

The kids on Vought Summer Clubhouse lived a life Maggie could only dream of. Super-powered and super-cute, loved and envied by everyone watching. Girls at Maggie’s school swooned over The Deep, the fan favorite from the first two seasons.

Maggie packed her suitcase with her best clothes and dreamed for the entire flight to Florida. A production assistant met her at the airport in a limousine, which was cool enough, but the best part was Dad was left at the curb. Parents weren’t allowed onto the island in the Keys where the show filmed; Vought would put him up at a hotel in Miami so he’d be “close” if anything “went wrong”.

While she rode the speedboat out to the island, Maggie’s stomach turned in knots. She wondered if she was making a big mistake. What if she was just as much of a loser here as she was at school? The other Supes on this show had been doing this WAY longer—in magazines, on TV, or in young-hero teams for years. There was no turning back now, though…

They sat the cast in a circle on the floor for introductions and orientation. Their “counselor” , an adult Supe named Ezekiel, explained how to behave, how not to look directly into the camera unless it was a confessional, and so on, but Maggie was distracted by her first look at the other kids. The Deep was here. Plus Mesmer, from his own TV show. And Popclaw, Maggie recognized her from Teenage Kix. Others introduced themselves, too. Eagle the Archer. Termite. Blue Hawk. And her.

She wasn’t sure what to do, once they were “dismissed”. She looked around aimlessly for a minute.

“Maeve. Hey.”

Maggie couldn’t believe it: Popclaw had walked up to greet her. Popclaw, who had been on the cover of Seventeen three times, was walking up to Maggie like they were old friends. “Me, Maeve?”

“That’s your name, isn’t it? Or do you expect people to call you, ‘Your Highness’?” Popclaw smirked. “I know it’s a lot your first time. I can show you to the girls’ bunkhouse.”

Popclaw chattered while they walked. She was so confident. She didn’t even seem to notice the cameramen following them. “I figure we gotta stick together. There’s always more guys than girls here. I wonder why? Like, more boy-Supes exist, or they just put more on TV? I’m not complaining though, the ratio is great for us. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment.”

“This’ll be perfect for you. Technically, I’m spoken for—but what happens on the island doesn’t count. You’re gonna be fun, I can tell. Last season it was me and Ice Princess, but I guess she didn’t take well to the Florida temps. Plus, she snored something fierce. I’m f*cking glad they found you.”

Maggie searched the provided housing for wherever they’d thrown her suitcase, but it was nowhere to be found. The only clothes she could find were ones the wardrobe team had laid out for her.

She felt a little weird walking down to the beach in the bright red bikini, the only swimsuit they provided, but Popclaw said, “You look fierce,” and she got a little warm, and a little more confident.

Their arrival at the shore turned some heads from the other teens. The boys. Maggie was distracted as the surface of the water broke: the Deep jumping, diving, talking to dolphins. His tricks were showy, but entrancing to watch. He was hot, in that wetsuit. For a second, Maggie imagined the other girls at school, who had pictures of The Deep in their lockers, watching Maggie kiss him on live TV. But she shook that thought away. She’d better calm the f*ck down, not act thirsty. Also, up close, there was something weird about how he looked at those dolphins.

By the end of the first day? Maggie was happier than she’d ever been.

It was the best vacation she’d ever had, plus she actually got to participate in activities. Swimming… surfing, they even had jet-skis. Most of all, she wasn’t a weirdo. She didn’t have to hide her powers to fit in; her powers made her fit in.

The second week, Ezekiel announced there’d be a pick-up football game, for anyone who wanted to participate. Most did—except Deep, who preferred to stay in the water, doing tricks all day, even if no one was watching. (At least one camera would stay with him.) Popclaw and Mesmer sat out, declaring themselves spectators, but Ezekiel split the others up into two teams.

“Raise your hand if you’re bulletproof.” Maggie raised hers, slowly… only to see everyone else had hands up, too. “Swell,” Ezekiel said. “Then we’re playing full tackle. Anything goes.” Powers were legal.

Maggie joined her first huddle. Blue Hawk immediately declared himself quarterback.

“Shouldn’t we vote?” Maggie pointed out.

“Who else wants to be? You?”

“Maybe.”

“You played football before?”

“No, but…” She didn’t get a chance to explain that she’d never been permitted to play, but that she’d watched the 49ers since she was a kid, her Dad taught her to throw a spiral when she was seven, and her first-ever pass was 300 yards.

“Here’s a quick rundown. We move the ball that way. We stop them from moving the ball this way. Don’t drop it.”

He changed his tune quickly after Maggie leapt ten feet straight up to intercept the opening pass from the other quarterback (Eagle the Archer) and ran it back for a touchdown.

Turned out, sports were awesome. It wasn’t a complete massacre, because the other team were Supes too, but Maggie discovered she had a knack for football. She plowed through the other team and shrugged off tackles and caught jump passes and it became clear after a few plays, she was the star on the field. She started calling plays; Blue Hawk was too pissed to argue.

Maggie had lost track of the score; she was in the zone and wanted not just to win, but to win by a lot. Never in her entire life did she get to let loose like this. She never understood how good it felt until this moment.

On defense, she played just as hard. She charged forward, while Eagle held the ball a little too long, and leveled him to the f*cking ground. She was basking in how good the sack was, before she saw Ezekiel stretchily slinking his way onto the field… Eagle wasn’t getting up.

Maggie’s heart leapt to her throat—until Eagle stirred, clutching his chest. “What’s wrong with you!”

“I think his ribs are broken,” Ezekiel said. “We’ll get you to the infirmary…” He helped Eagle to his feet.

“You said you’re bulletproof,” Maggie sputtered.

“I am!” Eagle winced as he stood. “What’s your problem, psycho? It’s football, not a f*cking crime scene!”

“Let’s call that halftime.” Ezekiel helped Eagle away.

Maggie looked around for support, the camaraderie she’d felt since being here—but the others avoided her gaze, whispering to each other.

A producer came over to Maggie. “We just wanna film a quick confessional, while the game’s paused.”

Maggie didn’t feel like talking, but it wasn’t optional. She let the producer pull her a short distance away, where a cameraman and sound guy were already set up.

“Why did you hurt Eagle?” the producer asked.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Can you say that as a full sentence for us?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Sorry. I meant a full sentence that puts it all together, uses his name. As if I’m not here.”

Maggie sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt Eagle.”

The producer nodded. “Perfect. Thank you. But, was there a little part of you that wanted to?”

“What? No.”

“Maybe you felt like you have something to prove?”

“I don’t have anything to prove!” she snapped. “You asked me to be here. They said everyone here was strong, they said we could go hard and tackle. It’s not my fault he lied about how strong he is. It’s not my fault he couldn’t handle it!”

The producer grinned. “Thank you, Queen Maeve. That’s all we need for now.”

Maggie shuffled back to the field, where it appeared Deep had been reluctantly pulled from the water to fill in the extra spot on the other team. But no one was ready to start yet…

Popclaw approached her. “You gotta be more careful.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“With the producers.” Popclaw lowered her voice. “They’re gonna take that, and cut it so you look like the villain. I know it’s your first season, so you don’t know… be careful what you say. ‘Cause someone’s always listening, trying to make it into a story. Make you into a character.”

“How do I stop them?”

“You don’t. You just decide what character you want to be, before they decide for you.” Popclaw returned to the sideline for the second half of the game.

Deep was way worse at football than Eagle, yet Maggie’s team quickly lost their lead, and the game. She didn’t say anything, but it was obvious to everyone that she was holding back. Blue Hawk cussed her out as they fell behind—apparently, being overshadowed by a girl was still preferable to losing. But Maggie shrugged it off. “It’s just a game.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Their first party at the summer clubhouse was even sexier than it looked on TV.

There was liquor flowing everywhere. “Officially”, no one knew where it came from, maybe one of the teens had smuggled it in... But it was far too much to have come in anyone’s suitcase. Maggie noticed the cameras pointed away any time they actually had liquor in their hands, but they loved to film the aftermath. Now she understood why parents weren’t allowed on the island.

Everyone was having a blast. Except Maggie. She found a little shaded spot under some palm trees to herself, and drank plenty, muting her woes. For a moment, she wondered if Dad was right, with his accusations that Maggie made herself unlikeable with her negative attitude. After all, it wasn’t like she killed anyone. Eagle was alright. He was here, at the party. He might be sore for a day or two until his ribs healed, because he was a Supe.

But when she tackled him, the illusion of belonging was shattered. They were all Supes, but Maggie was still different than them. Somehow.

She was hitting the right level of drunkenness where she was almost ready to take Dad’s advice, to pretend like she was having a great time, and make it true. She recalled what Popclaw said, about the gender ratio. Maggie should be able to get one of the guys to come back to her bunk easily enough. Even if she’d learned there was a wide range of what “bulletproof” could mean… maybe she wouldn’t have to lie completely still with these boys.

Before she could rejoin the crowd, though, Mesmer slid into the seat next to her. “Whatcha doing all by yourself?” He was a year younger than her, still had some baby-fat in his cheeks. He shook his dirty-blond hair out of his eyes. “You were really something, in that game. The first half, anyway.”

“Do you want something?” It came out more annoyed than Maggie meant it, but… let’s just say, if she was looking for a hookup, Mesmer was not who she cared to spend time talking to.

“I knew it,” he said suddenly. “I knew you didn’t mean to hurt Eagle.” She didn’t even notice that his hand had landed on her knee, triggering his power… to read her mind.

Maggie flinched away, but he scooted closer. “You’re pretty special, huh? Other people might be jealous, but I know what it’s like to have such an awesome power that everyone envies. Famous since I was five…” Maggie nodded, barely listening while Mesmer rambled on about the experience of being a child star. “…Hollywood sure is something else.” He paused. “This is your first time on TV? Must be crazy for you.”

“This, right now, is pretty much like parties kids at my school throw.”

“Public school?!” Mesmer struggled to grasp the concept. “That’s so weird. I’ve had a tutor my whole life since I’m always on set. I actually finished high school, and I’m on track to get my first degree by 17…”

Maggie registered that this was his nerd way of flirting, but she was busy scanning the rest of the party for more appealing hookup options.

Deep was certainly the best-looking, but he was grinding up on Popclaw at the moment. “What happens on the island doesn’t count”, sure. With her spoken for, Maggie had her pick of the other boys. The next hottest was Eagle, but he probably was not going to be receptive. Termite wasn’t bad either, but he was busy chatting up Ezekiel… they looked about ready to get a room, yikes.

“We could go somewhere more private, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Mesmer whispered. Maggie wasn’t looking at him. She was preoccupied, assessing all the Supe bodies around her, in her drunk haze, trying to figure out who she was drawn to.

Her eyes wandered back to Deep, and to Popclaw, dancing with him… the party lights softly illuminating the curves of her arms, her shoulders, then lower down, her back, and—

She didn’t even notice Mesmer’s hand on her leg again, until he laughed. “Wow. You’re really thinking what I’m thinking. I am certainly game for that. You go see if she’s down, and I’ll…”

“What are you talking about?” Maggie saw that he, too, was looking at Popclaw. Then remembered what his power was, and her stomach dropped. “Get off me.”

“It’s okay—”

“GET THE f*ck AWAY FROM ME!” Maggie shoved him away. It was too loud, she’d attracted the attention of the other kids, and of course, all the cameras.

Maggie knew she wasn’t about to salvage this situation with her social skills. So she ran off.

The cameras would follow eventually, but the crew was regular humans weighed down with equipment, so Maggie got a big head start. She ran up the hill towards the far side of the island, the area with denser plants and trees, that wasn’t really used by the show at all. She reached the top of a rocky outcrop, as far as she could possibly get from everyone else on this island. She screamed and pounded a thick-trunked palm tree with her fists. She got in five or six good hits before she punched clean through it.

They knew she was different. They all knew. Even here, she was still a freak. Everyone saw it at the football game; Mesmer saw it in her head. And in a few weeks, this would be broadcast on TV, and the whole country would know too.

She allowed herself several minutes of punching the trees and rocks around her. Once she heard people stomping through the brush, the crew catching up to her… she took a running start and leapt off the top of the hill… diving out towards the ocean below.

Maggie plunged underwater, and swam as low as she could. She wondered how long it would take her run out of air, if it was even possible for her to drown. It wasn’t worth finding out; she didn’t want Deep swimming out to “rescue” her.

When she dragged herself back to shore, she slunk back to her bed. Doing her best impression of pure, drunk incoherence. No motives to question, just inebriation.

She made it through the rest of filming in a similar fashion.

Back in California, Maggie felt sick to her stomach for weeks, waiting for the final cut of the episodes to air. All of her weirdness was captured on camera, and the editing would surely make it worse, like Popclaw warned (but Maggie tried hard not to think about her).

Dad didn’t get why she was on edge, and again accused her of being a Mopey Margaret (he customized the nickname, just for her).

In the end? It was not nearly as bad as she feared.

It was embarrassing to watch herself on TV, but the Eagle situation was edited to be a larger group drama about who was going to win the game. Maggie’s terrible confessional quote made it in, but it was softened when contrasted with Blue Hawk giving an unhinged confessional accusing her of undermining him and also blaming the loss on her.

Her true fear, the scene she made at the party, appeared to viewers like Mesmer hit on her and she rejected him a bit too harshly. That was all. It was fine.

Because no one else could read her mind.

□ □ □

Maggie was sixteen. Donald had a nice vacation in Florida, all things considered. Why shouldn’t he? Maggie was off having the time of her life on that TV show. Donald was happy for her. The contract was signed, payment was guaranteed. The exposure could only be good for her. And having some fun with other teens like her could only be good for her, too. She was excited on the trip there. Happiest she’d seemed in years, to tell the truth.

So Donald had his fill of Piña Coladas while he laid by the pool, keeping an eye out for single mothers to flirt with at the first-rate hotel Vought had paid for.

When Maggie finally came back from filming, something had changed. The sunny excitement she’d brought to Florida had evaporated, and she refused to talk about what happened on the island. Not that she ever wanted to talk to him much at all, but she’d shifted back into—perhaps not quite the same moodiness as before, but something like it.

When it was time for the show to air, though, Maggie hurried to the TV and knelt on the carpet, watching intently. She glared as Donald sat behind her on the couch, as if she wanted him to leave. Did she really think he wouldn’t watch? The whole world was about to see it—why not him?

Every week, she hurried to the TV and refused to say a word while they watched Vought Summer Clubhouse together. It was the closest they had to a bonding activity, lately.

For the life of him, Donald couldn’t figure out what she was so preoccupied about. Granted, he wasn’t the target audience for this teen shlock, but it seemed to him, Maggie—or Maeve, it was strange everyone calling her that… though it suited her, in a way—came off pretty well. At least as nice as that one other girl. Certainly better than some of those boys; maybe Vought needed a few duds to fill the cast on purpose.

Even though it was heavily produced and edited, it was incredible to get a glimpse of what Maggie was like away from him. Around her peers. In a space where she could, well, be herself. He tried to offer some encouragement, especially after that bit of Supe football in the first episode. “That was a hell of a ball game you played,” he said, nudging her with his foot as she sat on the carpet. “Nice of you to let them win. But you were like Montana and Rice all in one.”

Maggie mumbled something that could’ve been “Thanks” or “Whatever”. The rest of the episodes went by much the same.

Donald wanted to say something. He felt there was something fatherly he ought to say; if only he understood what was eating her, maybe he’d know what it was. His gut suggested something along the lines of: “If you didn’t like this, you know, you don’t have to do it anymore. Any of it.”

He could hear Maggie’s inevitable response in his head clear as day: “Ugh, Dad. You don’t get it. It’s fine. You never understand.” Grumble grumble, retreat to her room.

So he didn’t say it. Also, the check from the show kept the loan officers happy.

Chapter 12: Age 17-18

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was seventeen, and she needed guidance.

Junior year was odd, after returning from her stint on Vought Summer Clubhouse. Returning to the normal world after being surrounded by other Supes, with cameras constantly in her face, was simultaneously a huge relief and a huge letdown.

Girls in her grade made a show of shunning her for “being mean to Mesmer”, but it was a weak cover for envy, since the boys made it known how much they loved Maggie’s appearance on the show.

It could’ve been flattering, except that they demonstrated that “love” by wolf whistling at her in the hallways and passing around magazine ads of Maggie in her bikini. It wasn’t anything she wouldn’t have worn to the beach or pool here, but it was another matter to have it permanently captured in an promotional campaign, that got flashed in classrooms enough that the school had to ban certain magazines as a matter of policy.

Maggie mostly kept to herself that year, and mostly kept to long sleeves, too.

Fortunately, she wouldn’t be stuck here much longer. With the end of high school looming close, Maggie knew she’d be faced with a choice. For years, she’d been counting down to the freedom to get away from her dad. For the first time, Maggie feared the decision of what to do with that freedom.

She booked an appointment with the guidance counselor.

Miss Sweeney was the only counselor assigned to Maggie’s grade (since the other went on maternity leave), five foot zero and perennially stressed. She greeted Maggie with a haggard smile. “Maggie Shaw, our local celebrity. Sit, sit. So,” Miss Sweeney said, making a show of shifting some papers around on her desk. “What’s going on?”

“Everyone’s talking about college applications, and I just had some questions…”

“You’ll be going to Godolkin, I imagine.”

Godolkin University in New York—they’d sent Maggie a bunch of recruitment pamphlets already.

“I’ll apply there for sure, but—”

“Ah!” Miss Sweeney finally found what she was looking for, underneath a massive stack of papers. “I printed a copy of their application for you. It should be easy to fill out. Doesn’t even require a writing sample. Work on that, and come back if you run into any trouble.”

Maggie took the application. “I was wondering if you could help me pick other schools I should apply to.”

“You don’t need any fancy degree to become a Supe. Godolkin is the best way to go, that gives you access to the Vought Draft…”

“I just thought I might want to keep my options open?”

“What other areas of study are you interested in?”

Maggie’s face grew hot. That was the exact reason she needed guidance. “I don’t know. I like English class…”

Miss Sweeney made a strange face: her lips turned up, yet the top half of her face was absolutely not smiling. “If you’re not serious… I’m very busy, meeting with other students who actually need help. You should count yourself lucky you have a path laid out for you.”

Maggie went to leave. Miss Sweeney made sure she took the Godolkin app.

More pamphlets came; a wide variety of schools had interest in recruiting Supes. NYU, UCLA… But Miss Sweeney had made a good point. What did Maggie think she was gonna do with a B.A. in English? She couldn’t afford to f*ck around with a career that wouldn’t give her enough money to support herself. She did not want to rely on her father’s help (frankly, she couldn’t; she’d been the main breadwinner for years).

The Vought Draft gave out multimillion dollar contracts to the top prospects. Maggie could finish college, then ride out a five-year rookie contract and retire with more money in the bank than she’d seen in her life. Five years couldn’t be that bad. She’d be twenty-eight and rich… Surely, by then, she’d figure out what she wanted to do with that money and freedom.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was seventeen years old, and she was stumped by a question on this college application. Not an essay question. Those were easy enough to bullsh*t. The page of biographical info was simple, too. But the application for Godolkin University School of Crimefighting had an additional page: Powers. There were checkboxes for various common powers (plus a fill-in-the-blank “additional” section for unprecedented gifts), with follow-up prompts for each.

Maggie checked the boxes for Invulnerability (plus all of its sub-boxes: bulletproof, pressure, torsion, heat, poison… considering she hadn’t found anything that could harm her yet), Speed (highest clocked, 132mph), Reflexes, Agility, Stamina, and, of course, Strength.

Beneath the latter, there was a follow up.

Please list the greatest weight you can move (via any standard lift).

There was a blank for a number, then checkboxes to indicate the appropriate unit: pounds, kilograms, tons, or mature African elephants.

Maggie stared at it for a few seconds, trying to think of the answer. She didn’t know, because she’d never had a reason to find out. She hadn’t met anything too heavy to lift, yet.

She didn’t want to sell herself short, so, that one blank required more research than the rest of the application combined.

The difficult part was she didn’t exactly have unlimited access to heavy sh*t. Cars were easy. She lifted Dad’s car plenty of times. Big whoop. Looking up the specs in the manual: 3133 pounds. That wasn’t too informative. So she snuck out around town at night to “borrow” some other cars. Not to do anything nefarious. Just to see if she could lift them. The biggest she was able to find around down was a camper van parked in a driveway a few streets away. She lifted it and ran as the motion sensor lights attached to the owner’s house came on. Later, she looked up the weight: 7500 pounds.

It was weird. She had to remind herself most people could not do this. Most Supes could not. The others she’d met, at events, or the Vought Summer Clubhouse, struggled even with small cars. Maybe she needed a different barometer for comparison.

She checked out old Soldier Boy movies from the library. Not just the movie-movies, but documentaries, interviews too. She paused and rewound all the bits where he used his strength for real. Tossing around tanks. Stopping trains. Maggie didn’t have access to those for comparison. There was one clip, from the ’60s, Soldier Boy holding up a collapsing bridge, while it was evacuated. Maggie remembered a few years ago, the earthquake, (her “big break”), holding up buildings from falling. Was that close? Was she almost as strong as the first Supe, the strongest who ever lived?

She began obsessing. She checked out more VHS tapes, decimating the library’s Supe section. All of Payback, plus some up-and-coming heroes. Documentaries. News compilations. Anything with famous Supes in action for real. She fast-forwarded through most of it, looking only for the real action scenes. Unedited stuff. When bullets flew. Other heroes… even the top ones. They sometimes got bowled over by speeding cars, then got back up again. They flinched when bullets hit them, then valiantly fought on. Maggie processed this for a moment. Things that made the best heroes out there flinch, did not make her flinch.

Maggie didn’t know how, or why. But she knew. She was better than them.

It was thrilling, and terrifying, to send in that application, without a solid answer: >20,000 lbs. If Godolkin doubted her, let them provide the African Elephants and she’d see how many she could lift.

□ □ □

Maggie was seventeen. She was out most weekends. Often still out whenever Donald came home from the bar. He didn’t plan to stop her. The less time she spent alone in her room, the better. She needed some friends. Even though he tried hard not to think about the likelihood of those “friends” being boys.

One Saturday morning, the doorbell rang. They didn’t often get visitors. Donald put down his coffee and went over, expecting maybe a kid doing a door-to-door fundraiser.

It was officer Caruso. In plainclothes, but with his badge displayed. And his gun.

“Morning, Shaw. Is your daughter in?”

What a way to start a weekend. Did Maggie f*cking murder someone last night? “What is this in regards to?”

“I think it’ll be easier if we discuss it all together.” Caruso gave a greasy smile.

Donald yelled for Maggie. She came downstairs, bleary-eyed, still in her pajamas. Figured she’d hardly slept. “What’s going on?”

“Why don’t you tell your father?” Caruso said.

Maggie glanced at Donald. “I don’t know what he means.”

“Officer, just cut to the chase.”

“Last night, I had her in my squad car,” Caruso said. “At a party with underage drinking. Her and a 17 year old male. Danny Zimmerman. I was driving them down to the station for proper procedure, then they were gone.”

“And?”

“I found these in the woods next to the road.” Caruso held up an evidence bag containing two pairs of broken handcuffs.

It was all Donald could do not to swear aloud.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Maggie claimed.

“Young lady, I could have you taken in for underage drinking and resisting arrest and obstructing arrest of another and destruction of police property.”

“But I didn’t do any of those things,” she said. Practically batting her eyelashes.

“You seriously think I’m that stupid?”

“I think you’re a pretty bad cop if you go around accusing people without any evidence.”

“Maggie!” Donald cut her off before she could give Caruso something more to be mad about. “Is she under arrest?”

Caruso hesitated. With that, plus him showing up alone, not in uniform… Donald knew he didn’t have enough to go on, and came here hoping to get Maggie to confess.

“Look,” Donald stood between them. “It seems like there’s been a misunderstanding, but I’ll give her a talking-to about being fresh with an officer of the law. Make sure she learns her lesson.” He nodded at Maggie to go inside.

“You think this is all a joke, Shaw?” Caruso lowered his voice. “As long as I don’t have enough evidence, as long as Vought steps in for your girl, you’ll just laugh it off? How do you sleep at night?”

“She’s my daughter.”

“What about those kids in that van? Even that sweet nanny. She was someone’s daughter, too.”

“Thank you, officer,” Donald said pointedly. He shut the door, and returned to the kitchen, where Maggie was halfway through a bowl of Frosted Flakes like any regular morning.

“Maggie,” Donald said. “That was not acceptable.”

“He was making things up,” she said. “I was never in his car. I wasn’t even drinking. I was at the movies.” She then helped herself to one of two stale Krispy Kreme donuts Donald swiped from his temp office job yesterday after they let him go. He’d brought them home to share.

“You’re not a good liar, kid. And Caruso can’t break those cuffs himself.” He paused. “Who’s Danny?”

“Nobody. Never met him. I don’t know a Danny.” Her mouth full of donut. Honestly, it helped disguise how poor her lie was.

“Are you having sex with him?”

Maggie swallowed. “Ew! Dad, no.”

“Just… be careful, Maggie. You gotta be careful.”

“You already did the birds and the bees talk years ago. I don’t need a re-run.”

“No, be careful with Caruso!” he snapped. “With everything. This isn’t a f*cking game.” Donald never knew how to make her understand. Caruso wanted any excuse to get her, because he really wanted her for murder. Like he had for twelve years. But Donald didn’t dare say the M-word out loud. He didn’t dare jeopardize the progress she’d made, for the first time in years, not totally consumed with depression over it.

“The cops picked up tons of people. It wasn’t even a big deal. Danny said it was better to just go along with them, happened to him before and they just held him until morning. But I was being careful. That’s why I didn’t stick around.”

That checked out. Painfully. Donald couldn’t explain to Maggie how she obviously got played by this Danny kid. He clearly wanted her to help him break out… but she wouldn’t believe it coming from her dad. He suddenly wanted to murder Danny himself.

Donald rubbed his forehead. “You gotta think about the consequences. Don’t you get it? Everyone’s waiting on one slip up. They want to see you fail.”

“I f*cking know that.”

“No, you don’t!” Donald was at the end of his rope. And he was certain, after this embarrassment, Caruso would stalk every high school party for weeks, trying to catch Maggie again. So he uttered two words he never thought he’d say: “You’re grounded!”

“I’m grounded?! You’re really gonna start parenting now?”

There were very many things Donald couldn’t say to her in that moment, but boy, he wished he could.

Maggie stepped close to him. “Tell you what. You can ‘ground’ me when you can pay the mortgage on your own.”

She grabbed the other Krispy Kreme donut and stomped up to her room.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was seventeen when she had her first boyfriend. Sort of. They never used those words, “boyfriend” or “girlfriend”. The situation with Kyle Wicker was different than the occasional one-night drunk mattress-squeaking bouts she had with other boys in one notable way: Kyle was the only repeat customer. Others loved to pump and dump, then never speak to her again (not that Maggie was chasing them down for conversation), but Kyle came back for seconds, thirds, and more.

Kyle said nice things to her. Sort of. After the first time they had sex, he said: “You’re so insanely hot.” The second time, he said: “Your tit* are perfect. I want to cum on them.” The third time, he said: “You’re so f*cking hot. The craziest thing is, if you were normal, every guy in this school would be fighting over you.”

Kyle had a perfectly maintained 1986 Ford Mustang that his dad passed onto him when he turned sixteen, which he never shut up about. After they’d had sex seven times, he invited Maggie to come for a drive. He was very reluctant to do so, which made it feel like an honor when she finally sat in that passenger seat. Sort of.

With that vote of confidence, Maggie gathered the courage to bring up the elephant in the room. She tried to do it in a light-hearted way, to alleviate the awkwardness that they had thus far left unsaid. “Remember in second grade when you used to bully me?”

Kyle scrunched up his nose. “What are you talking about?”

“Back when I had to sit out of recess, you came over and made fun of me.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

“You don’t remember?” Maggie was less bothered that it happened than by him refusing to admit it. “You threw a playground ball at my head.”

“Must’ve been a different Kyle.” He shrugged. “That wouldn’t hurt you anyway, would it?”

Maggie wanted to say: that’s not the point, but it was easier to put her hand on his junk and see if he was ready to go again.

Perhaps the story, even if he “didn’t remember”, gave Kyle ideas. As he thrust against Maggie, who was lying perfectly still on his twin bed, he was hitting his rhythm that she knew meant he was pretty close. Suddenly, he grabbed a ceramic piggy-bank from his nightstand and smashed it against her head. Ceramic shards and coins scattered everywhere as he trembled and finished.

Maggie couldn’t do much but lie there, shell-shocked. “Um. What just happened?”

“Oh.” Kyle looked over, like he just noticed what he’d done. “Sorry. You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah. That was just… What the f*ck?”

“Something just came over me,” Kyle said, sheepish. “Like. I knew you can take it, and that’s really hot. I just came so hard.”

He hadn’t called her “insanely hot” in a while, but that was close.

“It’s super weird for you to do that out of the blue.”

“So if I warn you next time, it’s okay?”

Maggie didn’t have a solid rebuttal, so Kyle began showing up with all manner of objects to break or dent against her. Glass vases, mason jars, plaster sculptures. Aftercare was him vacuuming his bedroom floor while Maggie watched and felt guilty for reasons unknown. As f*cking weird as it was, this made him happy. Wasn’t it nice that her freakdom made someone happy?

He grew more excited the longer this kink went on, and longed for larger expressions thereof. He showed up with a baseball bat one night. Maggie shrugged and let him whack away; it was honestly more exciting than his sad thrusts. Eventually, he asked rather politely if he could run her over with his car. This was the only request Maggie ever vetoed, with the reasoning that Kyle would not like how the car would look after that encounter.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was seventeen, which was the only reason she didn’t leave Dad to rot that day.

She did the math in her head. Five and a half months until she turned eighteen; would the state figure out he was gone, or could she wait it out?

Before those calculations, it took her several hours to realize anything was amiss. When she got home from school, Dad was out, though his car was still in the driveway. Maybe he’d gotten a ride to the bar with his buddies in a rare moment of good judgment. She enjoyed the peace and quiet, put on some TV, and nabbed a couple of his beers while she did her homework. On a day like today, he’d usually show up around 7:30 or so with some takeout he’d clearly picked at on the ride home. Maggie would take the rest, they’d exchange about four words, and they’d both retreat to their rooms.

When he hadn’t turned up by eight, Maggie wouldn’t have thought much of it, except there was a Niners game on, and he always bet on the Niners, and when he bet on a game, he liked to watch it at home so he wouldn’t be distracted by other guys at the bar.

Just in case he changed his habits, Maggie jogged over to the local dive bar. The owner said her dad hadn’t been in that day. Maggie had no idea where else he might be, but she could fend for herself ’til morning.

Her concern rose slightly when she returned home to find a strange man by Dad’s car. “Uh, what are you doing?” Rhetorical, since the man was obviously trying to break in.

The man looked up. He had the top two buttons of his shirt undone and a gold chain around his neck. “Evening, sweetheart. I’m just taking your dad’s car… as a favor. He said he’d lend it to me.”

“Doesn’t sound like him.”

The man bent down slightly to Maggie’s eye level. “See, your old man owes me and my pals some money…”

Maggie didn’t need to hear more. She stepped forward, backing the man up against the car. “Where is my dad?”

After some arm-twisting, the man agreed to show her the location. Maggie drove while he gave directions, as she gently but firmly held onto his left ear. “If you try to run, you’ll only hurt yourself,” she advised him.

He dutifully directed her a few exits down the freeway. A card den. That made sense. He led Maggie through a door marked PRIVATE - MANAGEMENT ONLY and down a staircase to a basem*nt.

As they walked down those stairs, Maggie wondered if she was doing the right thing. She wasn’t afraid for her safety, of course. More for the other guys.

Maggie didn’t know a lot about loan sharks, but she suspected they didn’t kidnap people and try to repo their cars unless they were serious. That kept her walking down those stairs with no idea of how to actually handle the situation.

As they entered the basem*nt, she let go of the poor schlub she was holding to better assess the situation. The room was about 20 by 30 feet. A handful of mobster-types, mostly white guys, looking right out of a movie, scattered around the basem*nt. A couple held crowbars or pipes or brass knuckles. Three aimed guns at her as she entered.

At the center of the room was Dad, tied to a chair. Fresh bruises across his face. “If you give me time, I’ll get it in monthly installments. Biweekly…” he babbled. Until he noticed the men weren’t listening.

Maggie elected to take the most straightforward course of action. She walked over to Dad and started undoing the ropes. The men bellowed and co*cked their guns, though they seemed too stunned to consider shooting an unarmed teen girl.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dad hissed.

“Shut up. Don’t make this worse,” Maggie hissed back.

As she snapped the ropes, one of the thugs got the stones to shoot. A few bullets hit Maggie in the back. f*ck, she wished she’d changed out of her favorite shirt.

“Don’t bother. It’s that Supe daughter he was bragging about!” shouted one man, dressed in a nicer shirt with a bunch of gaudy rings. Must be the boss. “Don’t aim for her.”

Predictably, a the men pointed their guns at Dad, but Maggie smoothly stepped in front of him to block the bullets. Then, she made a quick lap of the room, knocking the weapons out of each guy’s hand. She didn’t know how to unload them, so she chucked them into a trash bin at the far corner of the room.

“Let’s go.” Maggie nudged Dad towards the stairs.

“Hold up,” the boss called out. “Shaw, your little girl might be taking you home to bed, but you still owe us. We expect those weekly installments.”

Maggie shook her head. “No installments.”

“Oh?” The boss laughed. Still acting like he had any kind of control over the situation. “You’re gonna get me a lump sum, Supette?”

“You’re getting nothing. Wipe his balance clean. You’re square.”

“Excuse me? He owes thirty grand.”

Maggie marched up to the boss and grabbed him by the cheeks, lifting him a few inches into the air solely by the face. She could feel his heartbeat with her pinky. “I said you’re square.”

The boss blinked in a way that seemed like assent, so Maggie put him down—also because she was worried his neck would not support the weight of his lower body much longer.

She escorted Dad out and decided she ought to drive, since he had a nasty black eye.

He said one thing as they got in the car. “You didn’t have to do that, Maggie… I had it under control.”

Maggie scoffed. She’d had it under control. But she shouldn’t have had to.

The silence which followed gave plenty of room for Maggie to sit with that feeling of holding a man’s life in her hands. A bad man, certainly. Adrenaline still pumped through her veins at the mere thought of what could’ve gone wrong. She wouldn’t get hurt, and Dad wouldn’t either, as long as she was there. But she could’ve killed all those men, if they’d made her.

As she pulled the car to a stop at the hospital, she waited for Dad to get out. “What’s this?” he grunted. “Go home.”

“You look like sh*t. You need to see a doctor.”

Dad wouldn’t budge. “Haven’t paid the insurance in a couple months,” he muttered. “I’ll clean myself up at home.”

Sure enough, he cleaned his split lip and bloodied nose with rubbing alcohol and cotton balls, then put a bag of frozen peas over his black eye. Maggie poured him a glass of scotch—the nice stuff, that he saved for “rainy days”. He took it. “Thank you, Maggie.” For more than the drink.

Maggie took a seat next to him, and poured herself some scotch. Dad didn’t say a word. Maggie was sure he knew that she drank, though she’d never done it in front of him.

A few sips in, she asked, “Thirty grand?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sip. “I have it under control.”

Maggie was not worried. Within a year she’d be out on her own, in control of her own earnings, and without him wasting it away.

Maggie had known for many years now that as soon as she left this home, she wouldn’t come back. She wondered for the first (and last) time what would become of him after she was gone. Would Dad keep gambling? Definitely. Would he get this deep in debt again? Probably. The next time thugs came for him… would she have to run home to bail him out? Should she have even bailed him out this time?

When Maggie was little, and broke things, Dad told her, that’s how you learn not to do it again. If she cleaned up his mess, would he ever learn to stop? Did she care? Why was she even in this position, looking at her beaten, bruised father like a sheepish toddler she had to care for?

Her wondering ceased for good a few sips later, as he asked: “Did you catch the Niners score?"

▲ ▲ ▲

Kyle wasn’t all selfish. Maggie could tell that he appreciated her “meeting him in the middle” on that stuff that got him off, because he eventually, with much fanfare, allowed her the chance to drive his Mustang.

Maggie didn’t technically have her driver’s license, but she saw this as an incredible offer of intimacy, so she wasn’t about to decline. She knew the basic controls, and her reflexes were miles better than other people’s, so she got off to an easy start. They took the freeway, Maggie at the wheel and Kyle beside her.

“Most girls wouldn’t push past the speed limit like this,” he said, as she zoomed down the free way at 80… 90mph.

“You like that?” Maggie gave it more gas.

As the dial inched past 100… 110… Kyle’s grin dropped. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

“This is nothing,” Maggie said. “I can run faster than this.”

Kyle’s mouth twitched. “Hey. Slow down. It’s bad for the engine to go over 100. Quit it.”

Maggie relented, since he looked pretty upset. Funny how it wasn’t bad for the engine when he showed it off for her anytime he was driving.

They found a pull-off to park the car, and sat with the top down. It was a beautiful April day. Kyle put his arm around her, and it felt nice, to belong to someone. Sort of.

“Y’know that prom’s coming up…?”

“Yup.”

“Are you gonna go?”

“Probably.”

Maggie was aware that it was usually a thing that boys asked girls to events. But she didn’t want to f*ck around with hinting. Especially because he wasn’t always the brightest.

“I was thinking of going, too, maybe.”

“Really?” Kyle snorted. “That doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“I can try new things,” Maggie insisted. “And I figured, if you’re going anyway… maybe we could like, go together. If you want.”

“I can’t,” Kyle said. “I already said I’d go with Steph Chu.”

Maggie sat up straight. “What?”

“She asked if I wanted to go, so I said I would. I can’t go back on it.”

“When did she ask?”

“Couple days ago.”

“Why did you say yes?”

“We never said we were exclusive.” Kyle even let out a chuckle. “C’mon, Maggie. You don’t want to go to prom, anyway. I mean, you never go to anything. Who are you kidding? You wanna show up now all of a sudden, like Carrie?” He laughed a little at his own joke.

Maggie slid away from him, and got out of the car.

“Hey. Maggie. Hold up!” He stumbled out after her. “Are you mad or something?”

“We’ve been sleeping together for months. You didn’t even think to…?”

“Jeez. How is this my fault?” Kyle said. “I’m just looking out for you, honestly. You’re the one all sensitive about ‘bullying’. You should be glad I hang out with you at all. Most guys wouldn’t want to be with a freak like you.”

For the first time in Maggie’s life, she felt a true, deep desire to physically harm another person. Oh-so-badly she itched to sock him in the jaw. She might’ve, if she was confident she could leave a bruise and nothing more. She was about 98% sure she could manage it, but she feared the other 2% enough to control her temper and walk away. Run, more precisely. Faster than the Mustang got them there.

The anger didn’t go away with distance, though. It burned and burned into a solid white-hot plan.

It was well-known among the class of ’04 that Kyle Wicker was among a group of boys planning an “epic” senior prank. He mouthed off about it every day. “Can’t spoil, but you’ll know it when you see it.”

On the last day of classes, Kyle Wicker’s 1986 Ford Mustang appeared on the roof of the school building. Students laughed and marveled. The administration was furious. Everyone wondered how it got up there. Including Kyle himself. Unfortunately, the principal was not convinced by Kyle’s stunning portrayal of innocence as he insisted he had no clue how it got there, and threatened to bar him from graduating.

The bell rang, and they made everyone go to class, but everyone gathered to watch in the afternoon as a special crane was brought in from the scrapyard to remove the car. Kyle didn’t laugh along as his buddies came up to him to congratulate him on the prank—winking whenever he insisted he didn’t do it. Kyle didn’t wink back; it looked like he was holding back tears.

“Hey,” Maggie sauntered up and greeted him. “This is crazy, right? For what it’s worth, I believe you.”

Kyle stared at her, still confused. He wasn’t always the brightest.

“You’d never do this. You love that car too much.” Maggie shook her head. “If only there was an explanation. I guess it’s just one of those freak accidents.”

As she walked away, catching snippets of Kyle’s dad reprimanding him about how much it cost to rent the crane, and pay the operator, and repair the damage to the roof of the precious car, and that all of it would come out of his college fund, Maggie felt guilty. Sort of.

□ □ □

Maggie was eighteen, heading off to New York for college. Donald tried not to read anything into the choice. There was only one Supe school, and it happened to be in New York.

When the time came, she ferried her suitcases out to the yard in one trip. Donald followed her outside. “If you’re ready, may as well head out. If we leave now we’ll beat the airport traffic.”

Maggie looked at him strangely. “I called a cab. It should be here soon.”

“Good thinking. Won’t have to pay for parking at the airport, while I come help move you in.”

She tilted her head. “You aren’t coming to move me in.” She stepped closer. “You aren’t gonna call, or send care packages, or come to parents’ weekend. If I ever see you in New York, it will not be a pleasant visit. Do you understand?”

Donald scoffed. Sure, Maggie’d made a show of locking him out of her college plans thus far, but this seemed dramatic.

She grabbed him by the shirt, yanking him close. “Do you understand?”

“What are you gonna do, Maggie? Kill me?” He let out a half-chuckle, half-cough.

The cab pulled up in the driveway at that moment. Maggie released him.

The driver opened the trunk and moved to help her with her bags, but she hoisted the lot into the trunk in one smooth motion.

This was it. She was leaving. Like that. And apparently couldn’t be bothered with a “goodbye”.

Right as she opened the cab door, about to get in, Donald said, “You’re the spitting image of your mother.”

Maggie paused. She looked him in the eye. “I understand, now, why she left. I understand why she couldn’t stand being around you.”

She sat inside, closed the door, and the cab peeled away a few seconds later.

Chapter 13: Age 18-19

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maggie was eighteen, excited to begin her first year at Godolkin University.

So far, though, freshman orientation felt too similar to high school for her liking.

She had a new group of peers, all Supes, yet Maggie still felt out of place. She arrived dressed in her “Queen Maeve” costume, following the guidance in the student handbook. Seeing the others, she realized her costume wasn’t good enough; she cobbled it together from secondhand materials, while these other kids had professional, polished looks.

Maggie resolved not to let this go like high school. She should be in her element, here—all she had to do was get in and make friends early.

She spotted a group of girls, chatting and laughing with each other, and though it set off all her anxiety alarm bells, she approached. She relaxed somewhat when she recognized one of them—Popclaw. A way in.

“Hey!” Maggie greeted her. “Long time no see.”

“Oh. Maeve,” Popclaw explained to the others—“We met on Vought Summer Clubhouse. Season 3.”

“We’re old friends.”

“Yeah, sure, if you say so.” The other girls laughed at Popclaw’s response.

Maggie felt like she was missing some joke. “Are you mad at me…?”

“It’s not a big deal.” Popclaw shrugged. “Just… after that summer you never answered any of my AIM messages. Seemed like you weren’t interested in being friends.”

Maggie wanted to melt from embarrassment. There was an explanation for why she ignored those messages, except she couldn’t say in front of all these potential friends that she had been paralyzed with nerves, when she went back to being Maggie Shaw, 11th grader in Modesto, while Popclaw was a two-time Teen Choice Award winner.

“Sorry.” Maggie tried to sound casual. “My computer broke.”

“For two years?” Popclaw smirked, and the other girls snickered. “Anyways… we were just sharing our powers, and all.”

“Oh. That’s fun.”

“Go ahead. Tell everyone what you do.”

“I’m strong.”

“That’s all?” “Yawn.” “Who isn’t?” The others giggled at her expense.

Maggie felt her chances of any sort of social credibility slipping away. “Actually, I’m kind of certain I’m the strongest one in this whole school.”

Giggles turned into laughs—Popclaw, the loudest of all. Maggie forced a laugh too. Like it was a joke all along.

After some speeches from the Dean and other faculty, the freshman class was escorted down to an underground facility, a wide-open space they called the Gym. One professor told them this was not any sort of formal requirement, more of an icebreaker—a game. The rules were simple: two students would stand in a circle marked on the stone floor. The first to exit the circle was the loser, and a new volunteer could challenge the winner to the next match.

Mostly boys volunteered at first. Maggie watched, getting a taste of what other powers her classmates had. Fire. Sonicbooms. Exhaled sleeping gas. She wasn’t sure if she should jump in; if that would be cool to the girls next to her or merely “yawn”.

However, Popclaw stepped up at one point to knock out a boy who’d been in for several rounds. The other girls oohed and ahhed at her performance.

If that impressed them, then Maggie saw a golden opportunity. She raised her hand, stepped in to face Popclaw. Half a second after the teacher blew the whistle to start, Popclaw was out of the circle. She nodded politely in defeat.

Maggie then did the same to every single other student who stepped up to challenge her. It went by so quickly, she couldn’t believe when the volunteers ceased. “No one else? I can do more.”

No one stepped forward; the crowd seemed smaller. Maggie realized that many of her challengers had migrated to the far end of the Gym, where there were nurses set up to administer minor first aid for bruises and scrapes incurred in the game. Sensing that the game had wound down, one of the nurses approached Maggie, offering to clean her up, after she’d been in for so long.

Maggie looked down at her own elbows, knees, and calves. Not a scratch.

By now, students were migrating back out towards the exit. Maggie hurried to catch up with Popclaw and the other girls. “That was fun, huh?” She resisted the urge to add an, “I told you so,” but hoped it was implied.

Popclaw smiled. “Nice job,” as she pulled Maggie aside from the group.

“Maeve. A word of advice?” Her charming public-voice dropped to a whisper. “Chill the f*ck out. You’re not gonna find friends acting like this. Or a boyfriend.”

“What, being strong?” Maggie folded her arms. “I’m sick of trying to hide it, because acting weak and normal never helped me anyway. Everyone sees that I’m weird anyhow, and they end up avoiding me either way, so why pretend.”

“People don’t think you’re ‘weird’,” Popclaw squinted. “What is this, middle school? It’s you, Maeve. You act like you’re better than everyone else. You did this back on the island, and you haven’t changed at all.”

Maggie was flummoxed. She wanted to deny it, but in one second, her life flashed before her eyes, except in third-person-perspective.

Back in kindergarten. The other kids wanted to play with her, but she ran away and wouldn’t talk to them. She was following Dad’s rules, but probably looked like the most antisocial five-year-old in history. As she got older, the rules loosened, but Maggie didn’t participate in any school activities (she couldn’t) and already feared bullying, so she kept to herself. Other kids saw her in pizza commercials, but not at their birthday parties or school dances… she was always off with Dad at some convention or conference.

By high school, the other kids didn’t know her shame; they only saw the girl who made the national news for saving a town from an earthquake, to appearing in magazines, then went on reality TV.

She replayed the season of VSC in her head. She’d been so worried everyone would see her the way she saw herself, that she never considered how it looked from the outside. She dominated the football game until she “hurt” someone, then quit trying, sabotaging her own team out of spite. She screamed at an unattractive, weaker young guy that dared to hit on her, then hardly engaged with the others after that.

Even the interactions from this very day. Where she thought she was the awkward one, making a poor excuse—to the others, did it look like she blew Popclaw off with the laziest, most obnoxious lie?

Maggie wanted badly to deny the accusation, but the words that came out of her mouth, instead, were: “Well… I am.”

“Excuse me?”

Any insecurity she’d had toward Popclaw before—wanting her attention, wanting to be her, whatever it was—evaporated as she explained, “You should understand. Both of us were born better than most people. Except, I was born better than most Supes. I can’t help that.” This simple fact was strangely freeing to admit. “I’m the strongest one in this school. And… I think I might be the strongest in the world.”

It was the first time she’d said it out loud. This time, Popclaw did not laugh. She just nodded, and left to rejoin those inane, useless girls.

Maeve wanted to thank her, actually, for the advice. Not the order to “chill out”, but what Popclaw advised her two years ago, on the reality show. “Decide what character you want to be.”

Well, if this was how people saw Queen Maeve? A superior, untouchable bitch? It was still a hell of a lot better than being Maggie Shaw.

Maeve was eighteen, and more excited than ever to begin her first year at Godolkin University.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was nineteen, and she was starting to take a more serious eye towards her career. She was in her second year at Godolkin, and although she found most of her peers annoying as sh*t, and most of the competition very stupid, she had decided to start playing along, given the difference even one or two slots of draft positioning could make for her future earnings. After reckoning with the realization that she was fairly certain she was the most powerful Supe currently active, she learned that the real challenge was getting other people to understand that.

She’d started to hustle, to show off the required amount; lo and behold, it paid off in terms of the school’s idiotic and over-hyped validation system. After busting her ass over the summer finding “extracurricular” chances to stop crime, when the fall rankings were revealed, she shot into the top ten. People whispered and looked whenever she came on campus (she’d moved out of the dorms to her own place—a studio that was smaller and sh*ttier even than a dorm room, but it was hers, and it was private.)

The buzz today was that Crimson Countess was on campus for the ribbon-cutting of the new Performing Arts building named after her. Most students were excited to meet her, especially the singing and dancing types, but Maeve planned to avoid that side of campus and the crowds. Until the Dean and Professor Brink both pointedly reminded her that she ought to meet and make an impression on Countess as a young hero with such potential and so much in common with her (meaning: tit*).

Maeve agreed on the condition that she’d skip the meet-and-greet line. She wasn’t about to waste a whole afternoon on it. So, the Dean led Maeve past the dozens of whining wannabe actors up to the table where Countess was sitting with copies of her latest book available for signing. “Countess, we wanted you to meet one of our most promising young students. This is Queen Maeve. Rank three, only a sophom*ore. I’ll let you two get to know each other.”

Countess looked very much like every single poster and picture, except with some more visible fine lines and bags under her eyes up close. She gave a tight smile. “Aren’t you cute as a button.”

“Hi,” Maeve chuckled, then caught herself. “Sorry. It’s just funny to meet you after all these years. My whole life, every time I meet someone and they find out I’m a Supe, they go, ‘Oh, just like Crimson Countess,’ and then I have to be like, ‘kinda, but not really.’”

“Not really, right.” Countess’s eyes narrowed even as her smile widened. “Let me guess, alto?”

“Oh, I don’t—I’m not here for performing arts. I’m on the crimefighting track,” Maeve said.

“Well, good for you. That’s not easy,” Countess said. “Not many women find success on that route. Few can do what I do, succeeding in both arenas.”

“People always tell me I look just like you,” Maeve said. “My dad even put me into a ripoff costume of yours, at first. It was not flattering. I don’t even see a resemblance. It’s just the hair. Recently people started asking me if I dye it. As if I’m trying to copy you,” Maeve snickered.

“Yes. Well. Imitators never thrive, in the end.” Countess folded her hands. “It was kind of your dean to introduce you to me, but I’m sorry to say I’m far too busy to offer any mentorship right now.”

“Oh, I don’t… I don’t need mentorship. Definitely not from you.” Maeve didn’t mean it to come out as blunt as it did.

“In that case you could clear out for the people waiting for an autograph.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry… I’ll take one, I guess.” She almost felt bad for Countess—ever since Noir went solo and Payback basically fell apart, she was mostly stuck signing autographs and singing at Voughtland. Maeve had some money to spare from a magazine shoot she’d scored last week, so she forked over some cash for a fresh copy of the book. While Countess signed it, Maeve added, “I guess I do have one question for you. You’re at the end of your career…”

“I am still number one in the country, missy.”

“Towards the end, anyway,” Maeve amended. “Do you… regret it at all? Wish you’d pursued other things? ‘Cause sometimes I wonder…”

Countess stared her down. “If you ‘wonder’ at all, this career isn’t for you. It’s not about powers. It’s about cameras and fame and waistlines and there always being a younger, thinner skan* waiting in the wings to blow some producer and take your job if you let down your guard for one single second. If you aren’t absolutely certain you can handle it, then you’re not tough enough. Transfer to SUNY and thank me later, sweetie.” She handed over the book and ushered the next person in line forward.

Maeve stepped away and cracked open the book. The c*nt had written: “Fame’s not for everyone! xo Crimson Countess”.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was nineteen, and no longer felt any need to prove herself, but she was happy enough to do it if anyone asked.

There was a rooftop “club” on Godolkin’s campus, technically an open-air training ground for draft evaluations, though it often got repurposed by the student body for parties. It was against school policy, but what was the administration gonna do to stop hundreds of super-powered college kids? The sparring area even found use whenever a couple of Supes wanted measure dicks by fighting in front of the whole party. Maeve partook sometimes. It was good to remind people her dick was the biggest of all.

Maeve attended these gatherings for the free booze and the face-time. One thing she learned since moving here was that it was important that people knew you existed—good or bad—that was the key to draft positioning. The draft was three years off, but it was never too early to prepare.

Maeve noticed him before he noticed her. As she walked off from a three-second victory against the latest upperclassman who thought he could take her in a sparring match, she spotted him across the arena. He caught her eye because of the flag cape, tackier than all the other tacky costumes around, and also because she didn’t recognize him. She didn’t think much about him, only: is that milk?

A few minutes later, he approached, and she saw that it was indeed milk in his glass. Who the hell drinks milk at a party? She wondered. Where did he even get it? Was there a keg of milk somewhere? Did he bring it with him?

Anyway, it seemed like the blonde buffoon was brought over by watching her embarrass that upperclassman. “You must be that chick Supe everyone’s talking about. Who can’t be beat.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. This opener was painfully familiar by now. Guys walking up, pretending they just heard about her, mild amusem*nt in their tone, like they hadn’t come to this party specifically to look for her.

“Let me save us both some time. I know how this conversation goes. First, you pretend you don’t know my name. I introduce myself, you go, ‘Queen Maeve, yeah, I might’ve heard that somewhere before, but there’s no way you’re as strong as everyone says’. I leave to get a refill, at that point, because I have nothing to prove to a random guy I haven’t seen around campus before, but you chase after me. ‘Whoa, whoa, we’re just talking,’ you say, as if I’m lucky to have you coming up to me. As if I don’t have ten guys up my ass at every party with the exact same lame opener, with the same lack of game. Then you’ll attempt a pathetic mix of flattery and negging at the same time, saying that you’ve seen me take down plenty of other Supes but I haven’t met you yet. And then you’ll ask me to spar, to which I’ll agree because it’s honestly the fastest way to settle this and move on with my life. I will embarrass you in front of everyone, and you will run home crying to your mommy about what a bitch I am. Am I close?”

“Close. Yeah.” The blonde guy exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite, and turned up the corner of his mouth, almost a smile but not quite. “Except… you make a good point. Sparring in front of everyone—” he nodded to the center of the roof, where a couple sophom*ores were grappling now, “—might be embarrassing. We could settle it in a less public way.”

“Jesus f*cking Christ.” Maeve glanced up at the sky, trying to remember if she’d ever heard a worse pickup than that, until she saw the guy had stepped aside and laid his elbow on a bar counter nearby. He wasn’t talking about sex, he was talking about… arm wrestling, apparently.

At least it would be quick. Maeve squared up opposite him, elbow on the table, grasping his red-leather-gloved hand. It brought back memories of when she was eight and her Dad used to have her arm-wrestle fully grown men at the mall for cash. They tended to get upset when they lost; Maeve wondered what kind of tantrum this milk-drinker would throw.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Whenever you are.”

Maeve relaxed at first, figuring she’d give the guy a few seconds to feel like he put up a good fight. At least he was humble enough to save himself public humiliation. She counted to five Mississippi in her head before turning on her strength…

Except his arm didn’t budge.

“Ooh! I thought I was going easy, but so were you!” he chortled. Maeve was losing ground, her arm tilting back. The first time in her entire life she’d actually had to try. She put her effort into it… gained a little ground back. It was close. For a second, the smirk flickered off the guy’s face. “You are strong,” he admitted. Maeve could tell he hadn’t ever had to try this hard, either.

It might’ve been thirty seconds or three minutes that they struggled, but eventually, Maeve’s arm hit the table. She lost. She shook her arm out—Jesus, was this what being “sore” meant?—but that didn’t sting as much as the realization that he suggested arm wrestling because he didn’t want to embarrass her.

“The rumors were true.” Even though he just beat her, he was showing more admiration and respect than anyone else ever had. “You are… magnificent.”

Maeve squeezed her shoulder, waiting for the unpleasant feeling to go away. “Who the hell are you?”

“You’re not just pretending you don’t know my name?”

“Answer my question, jackass.”

He took a step forward. Close enough that Maeve had to tilt her neck up slightly, to meet his gaze. “I’m The Homelander. And… it’s been an honor to make your acquaintance, Maeve.”

She thought he was about to lean in. Instead, he took off. Straight up into the air. Maeve was left watching him disappear into the night sky, wondering what the f*ck just happened.

Chapter 14: Age 20

Chapter Text

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was twenty-four when her life flashed before her eyes.

She led a rather boring life, which she didn’t try to change. She stayed in the city she grew up in, because she liked New York. She chose a sensible profession, because she had a knack for it and stability was wise. She wasn’t one to seek thrills at the expense of safety, but there were moments when she was working her part-time job as a teller while putting herself through grad school that made her wish for more excitement.

Elena was three hours into a shift thinking to herself: this is the most bored I have ever been. She regretted that thought when the customer at the counter next to her pulled out a gun.

The robber told her coworker, Stefan, to load a duffle bag with unmarked bills. Like a movie. Elena pressed the silent alarm under the counter then came out to lie down on the floor like the accomplice was ordering all the employees and customers to do.

As the first guy waved a gun around, ordering everyone in the bank to stay still and not try anything, it was Elena’s mother’s voice in her head saying, “This is what that wishing gets you.” You’re right, Mom, Elena thought, with her head to the floor. She prayed for the men to take what they wanted and leave without shooting.

Then, someone shouted. “Stop, thieves!” Then, several shots.

Quaking, Elena took a peek at what was happening. Standing above was a young woman with red hair and a sort of Amazon-inspired costume. A Supe.

The robbers pointed their guns at the woman. Elena averted her eyes. Several more bangs. Elena peeked again—the girl was fine. Grinning, even.

Furious, the robbers ordered her to leave, pointing their guns at the hostages instead. “Leave or we’ll shoot them.” His aim was towards the crowd, not specific, yet close enough in Elena’s direction that pure terror seized her.

When Elena opened her eyes, the Supe had stepped in front of her, shielding her from the bullets. Then, she grabbed the gun from the robber’s hand and quickly dumped out the rest of the ammo. She yanked him to the ground, then darted lightning-fast and caught his accomplice who was trying to run out the back with the money.

Police and news crews arrived not long after. Everyone was ushered out to make sure they were alright while the police and management made sure the money went back in the safe. The Supe went in, too, to give a statement to the police. As soon as she reemerged, the newscasters pounced on her.

Standing off with her coworkers, Elena only heard snippets. “I’m not a part of any team, actually, but I was nearby and wanted to help,” she said. “Queen Maeve, that’s my name. I’m just glad nobody was hurt.”

Some of the news crews got bored of fighting for a unique quote from the hero herself, so they came over to pester innocent bystanders. “What was it like to get rescued by Queen Maeve? Can you describe how she defeated those criminals?”

One stuck a microphone at Elena’s face. “I don’t have a good quote to describe it…”

“Surely you can share something.”

Elena was probably about to say something that might get her in trouble… until… who should step over but Queen Maeve herself. “Hey, guys. I know you have a job to do, but these people have been through a lot—we should let them rest.”

Obviously, they listened to her. And Elena might have imagined it… but the hero threw a glance at her, right as she left.

As swiftly as Elena’s life had become exciting, it returned to boredom. Sure, she got a few moments of feeling like a celebrity in her morning macroeconomics class when her professor asked her about the incident, but at her afternoon shift it was back to business as normal, with a flyer from management promising they’d buy everyone at the branch lunch on Friday to “restore morale”.

An hour into the shift, she did a double take. A young woman with red hair tied back in a half-ponytail, blue eyes, a green sweater and jeans, chewing on her lip as she stepped up to the counter… Elena was crazy, or it was the same girl from yesterday. Queen Maeve. Without her costume, of course.

“Hi… I wanna open an account.”

Elena blinked and tried to remember how to do her job. “Of course. I’ll get the paperwork ready. What’s the name? Last name. Maeve, obviously, but…?”

“Shaw. I mean, Margaret Shaw. Is the full. Is my legal…” Maeve, or Margaret, fumbled for words. A starkly different presence from how she’d addressed the thieves and the press yesterday. “I’m sorry, I don’t actually need an account, you don’t have to get the papers…”

“Alright. Can I help you with something else…?”

“I just thought this was a really… beautiful… bank. I guess I wanted an excuse to see it again.”

Elena’s heart quickened. Maybe she hadn’t imagined that glance after all. It was charming, this bashful flirting, but she was at work—and there was a growing line.

“If you don’t have any transactions to complete, I have to help the next customer…”

“sh*t. Sorry… I’ll go.”

“But I get off at five,” Elena added, quietly.

The off-duty-hero visibly relaxed at that. “Can I take you out for a drink?”

They settled into a booth at Elena’s favorite spot for a chill Happy Hour in the neighborhood.

“So, first things first—what’s your name?”

“Hm?”

“You said Queen Maeve to everyone yesterday… but you wanted the account under Margaret Shaw…”

“That’s my legal name, yeah. No one really calls me that since I moved out here.”

“You don’t like it,” Elena interpreted.

“It reminds me of … some stuff I left behind.”

“Maeve,” Elena tested it out. It was a nice name. “Where’d you move from?”

“California. A small city up north. What about you?”

“Born and raised.”

“sh*t, that explains how you know the good spots. I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this place before.”

“It’s great. Also, to be clear, drinks are on me… sort of a ‘thank you for saving my life’.”

“Oh…” Maeve’s face melted as she fumbled for words again. “I… I was… I wanted… I thought this was a date.”

“It is.” Elena couldn’t hold back a smirk. “And this nervous act? Adorable.”

“Sorry.” Indeed, Maeve’s cheeks were deepening into pink. “I’m having trouble thinking straight, because… You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

“Oh my god, what a cheesy line,” Elena laughed. “Does that usually work?”

“It’s not a line. I’m not good at this flirting thing. Most of the time, people come after me. I have a lot of lines for getting them to go away.”

“Jesus….”

Maeve shook her head. “Oh man, I sound like a huge asshole, don’t I?”

“It’s okay. And you can relax. You’re doing great.” Elena could tell that Maeve was somewhat of a baby gay. She was a little wary of getting involved with a baby gay, but this girl was intriguing. Not worth writing off on that basis. “Are you from this neighborhood, or you just ended up here on patrol?”

“Not too far. Little further downtown, closer to campus.”

“You’re in college?” Elena put down her drink, reassessing. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” Maeve blinked, and quickly continued, “Yeah, I haven’t, uh, graduated yet, or been in the draft, so technically I could’ve got in major trouble for breaking up that robbery without an active contract. If it went badly. But everyone knows you’re more likely to get drafted if you have a proven record of success, so… it’s sort of a Catch-22. Gotta take the risk to prove you can handle real crimes and not f*ck up. Or, sit it out and pray someone offers you a good contract anyway. I knew it wasn’t the best idea to go out there, but…”

“Well, I, for one, am very glad you decided to step in.”

◈ ◈ ◈

After two successful outings to a restaurant, and then a movie, Elena picked the third-date destination: ice-skating at The Rink. Sure, it was overrated and usually crowded with tourists, but she knew from the obligatory first-date questionnaire that Maeve was new to the city, so it would probably impress her. And Elena felt a little pressure to impress, more than she normally would, because even though she didn’t look it in her discount puffer jacket and knit beanie… this girl was a Supe.

“I’ve never done this before,” Maeve said, as she laced up her skates.

“It’s fun,” Elena assured her. “And… I guess you don’t need to be nervous about getting hurt, do you?”

Maeve shrugged one shoulder and smirked, standing up on the rubber mats of the platform. She let Elena take the ice first.

Elena wasn’t a superstar, but she did like skating a few times every winter as a hobby. She was competent enough to not fall (she wouldn’t have taken a date here if there was a chance that she might eat sh*t on the ice), but it did take her a minute or two to regain her confidence each time she went skating.

A few strokes in, Elena was securing her bearings, and ready to coax the newbie—

But Maeve didn’t need coaxing. She was already cruising on the ice, like she’d been through hockey bootcamp. She sped through two full laps of the rink before pulling up to an expert stop right beside Elena. “You were right, this is fun!”

“I thought you said this was your first time!?”

“It is.” Maeve paused to look around, and noticed the regular people around her, skating with varied degrees of success. Teens faceplanting from zooming around curves too fast, kids using milk crates to keep their balance, adults out of their comfort zone, clinging to the wall. “Oh… uh… is this supposed to be hard?”

Elena could only laugh in disbelief. “Jesus.”

“Sorry,” Maeve mumbled, looking down at the ice. “I didn’t mean to sound like an ass.”

“No, you’re just lucky, that’s all. Skipping the embarrassing learning curve.”

“sh*t. Does that mean I missed my chance for you to show me the ropes?” Maeve bit her lip, in that adorable held-back-smile that Elena would later grow to know well.

Elena took her hand, and they began skating together, keeping pace. “So you had these powers since you were a kid?”

“I was born with them.”

Elena took in the enormity of that for the first time. “You had a whole different approach to life than everyone else, huh?”

“It’s all I know,” Maeve replied. “So it’s sometimes hard trying to imagine what things feel like for someone like you.” She co*cked her head, looking at Elena, and it was the funniest feeling. Like Elena was the oddity, the mystery to be understood.

◈ ◈ ◈

Once they’d had enough skating, they took refuge from the cold and snow up at Elena’s, with hot cocoa.

Instinctively, after taking off her gloves, Elena moved to hold her hands over the radiator to warm them. “There’s room if you want to…”

“That’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Wait, do you not feel cold?” Then, she caught herself. “Sorry if that’s intrusive… You probably hate when people ask stuff like that.”

“I don’t like it from strangers… but I don’t mind you asking,” Maeve smiled as she took off her own gloves. “I feel it. I guess I don’t know if I feel it exactly the same as you… it’s not pleasant, but I don’t get frostbite or anything.”

“Obviously, you’re strong, and you have an innate instinct for ice skating… What other powers are you gonna surprise me with, huh?”

“I guess I can just do… a lot? I can move really fast and take any kind of hit.”

“You stopped those bullets…” Elena recalled. “What about fire?”

By way of answer, Maeve approached the stove and waved her hand through the gas flames flickering underneath the kettle. “That’s actually kind of nice.” She stuck both hands into the flames for a second, then shook them out. “Faster than the radiator,” she quipped, with a smirk.

Elena was awestruck. “Is there anything that hurts you, then?”

“Nothing I’ve encountered in the past twenty years,” Maeve said, cheekily. “Two,” she added, quickly. “The past twenty-two years.”

She tried to play it off, but the way her composure flickered… “How old are you?” Elena asked.

“Twenty-two… If you look at my ID.”

“And if I look at your birth certificate?”

“I’m twenty,” Maeve admitted. “I’m sorry. It was dumb to lie, but we were at the bar, and I… just didn’t want you to think I’m too young. … Is that a dealbreaker for you?”

Elena felt some hesitation, it was true, but three dates in, the seed of affection was firmly planted. There was something about Maeve… Something that wasn’t just a cute girl perhaps younger than she’d usually date. She was special. Not just in being a Supe: something in her eyes, in that nervous bitten-lip smile, in her alternate co*cksureness and sheepishness, that Elena was dying to figure out.

“No…” she said. “But don’t lie to me again. Okay? I want to know the real you.”

Maeve promised, “I won’t.”

◈ ◈ ◈

The thing about lies was Elena didn’t know they were lies at the time.

When Maeve told her everything was fine, she believed it. Why shouldn’t she?

But the more knowledge she had, the more happy memories from earlier in their relationship unraveled with the curse of hindsight.

For example. They’d been together maybe a year, when a grim story came on the news. A Supe with fire powers—not Lamplighter, never the beloved Lamplighter, the broadcaster assured them—had burned down an apartment complex. An accident, but five people died. The newscaster spun it into a hook for an upcoming documentary feature on Supe collateral damage, but it was objectively horrifying. And it occurred to Elena, for the first time, playing with fire, you’d expect to get burned. So playing with any sort of powers…

“Does that happen, a lot?” she asked. Not particularly to Maeve, who was sitting next to her on the couch. Just aloud.

Maeve answered nonetheless. “They make it out to be bigger than it is. Like that whole rumor about swallowing spiders while you sleep. Sure, it probably happens sometimes. But people repeat that fun fact so much, you’d think everyone was munching spiders every night.”

They laughed, and moved on.

Another time: the same network (Elena really needed to change where she watched the news) was running a debate between guests about: should Supe children be allowed in public schools?

Elena thought Maeve was asleep in the bedroom, and didn’t notice she had come out, and was watching behind her, as the pundits went on and on.

“Sorry,” Elena stammered, fumbling for the remote. “Should’ve turned this crap off…”

“It’s okay,” Maeve said, joining her on the couch. “I’ve heard their talking points before. They should invite me on the show; I could do both sides.”

“Both sides? You think, kids shouldn’t…”

“I went to public school.” Maeve shrugged. “But, I guess… I can see where those parents of normal kids are coming from.”

Bad things happened with Supes out in the world. Elena wasn’t oblivious to it. But it was far away. It was strangers. It wasn’t Maeve. Maeve had never hurt anyone, and never would. Never could! Elena never felt nervous with her. Not for a second.

Even in the rare moments when Maeve got a little drunk, or a little emotional, and broke a wineglass, or left a dent in the fridge… those were only slightly heightened versions of regular human accidents. Almost comforting, in their way—she was strong enough to lift the world, and the most she ever messed up is breaking a bottle now and then? That seemed the worst-case scenario at the time.

The lies made sense. That was the cruelest part. It was Maeve’s job, to protect people. The very day they met, she shielded Elena from a spray of bullets. It was natural. It was expected. It was reflex.

She must have thought she was doing the same, shielding Elena from every one of her own mistakes. From Homelander’s, too, and all the rest. From reality. She must have thought she was giving Elena a gift, keeping her in blissful ignorance.

The way you do to a child.

To be forty years old, finally learning Santa Claus wasn’t real? Learning the most beloved man in the world (and Maeve’s ex) was a violent monster… learning Maeve herself, had been so close to horrible things… learning that lies existed, and retroactively questioning every single interaction across fifteen years?

It was hard to hear “everything’s fine” the same after that.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty when she finally understood the point of living.

She’d spent the afternoon listening in on the police radio scanner that Professor Brink had given her—she didn’t love the guy, but he was known to make or break crimefighting prospects in terms of the draft, so she tried to stay on his good side. When he gave it to her, he warned, “Don’t go in unless you’re certain it’s an easy win. One slip-up will sink you forever.” It was risky to stop that robbery, she knew, but it was such a rare opportunity to hear of one close enough that she could beat the police (and other Supes who were actually on contract to protect New York).

It went perfectly, stopping the pair of thieves easily, with no injuries even from ricochet (which was Maeve’s greatest fear; she hadn’t figured out a good way to stop that, yet). She even gave a 7/10 interview on the scene, better than she expected. However, she didn’t bask in the success, or take any joy as Brink called her up for applause during his seminar the following day.

She was too distracted, stomach full of butterflies, with the face that wouldn’t leave her mind. That pretty bank teller. Maeve tried to put it out of her head, but she knew she had to go back to see her.

The placard in front of her window read Elena C. She was even prettier than Maeve remembered. Dark hair, dark eyes, radiant skin. Incredible smile. As Maeve waited in line, she grew more nervous than she had been for anything, ever, in her life. When she finally got to the front, another teller opened up first. Maeve ended up ushering multiple other customers in front of her until Elena C’s window opened up. Somehow, she agreed to go out with Maeve.

Every time Maeve opened her mouth on that first date, her brain went blank. She felt like she was messing up at every turn. She ended up lying about her age for no good reason… Yet, somehow, Elena agreed to go out again.

This was new territory. Maeve had hookups, sure. She hadn’t “dated” much in the way it seemed like it was supposed to go on movies and TV. Two people actually being nice to each other, meeting in public spaces during daylight hours, having nice conversations that were more than just a preamble to sex.

Conversing with Elena was comfortable. Quickly, the brain-blanks stopped because Maeve was just having a nice time talking to her. Being around Elena was just… easier than it was with anyone Maeve had ever met before.

Which was terrifying.

At the end of their first date, which progressed from drinks to dinner, they kissed. There was a brief but loaded moment that would dictate if the night would go anywhere else, and Maeve quickly thanked Elena for the encounter and asked when she was free again to end it there.

On their second date, seeing She’s the Man, there was some making out in the dark theater. Afterwards, Elena invited Maeve back to her apartment. Maeve declined, citing an early class in the morning.

On their third date, Maeve did agree to go up to Elena’s apartment, solely for hot cocoa. And it seemed like Elena got the hint, not pressing for anything more than a chocolatey kiss or two, leaving Maeve both disappointed and relieved.

The issue was, Maeve was in a dry spell. In retrospect, the driest spell she’d had since she started having sex. There was good reason for it, too. She’d been in the opposite of a dry spell when she first moved to New York. The freedom of not living at home instantly made things easier. Being on a campus with a number of horny young Supes also made things easier, even if Maeve tired of her peers very quickly. Then, getting a fake ID and being able to go out to bars to find strangers she never had to see again? Game changer. It was this revelation that led her to finally broaden her horizons, so to speak, and let herself open to the possibility that felt somehow too daunting, or too sacred, to try back in Modesto.

So yes, Maeve was in quite a “wet spell” enjoying the company of women as well as men up through her sophom*ore fall. Until… one encounter went very not well. She did everything she could not to think about it. A broken pelvis. Carrying the girl to the emergency room. The cries of pain. The look of disgust and fury on her face, which Maeve certainly deserved.

She’d spent the last several months running it through her head, coming up with ways to make it safer, and smarter, but the terror remained.

Suffice it to say she was extremely nervous when the fourth date rolled around that if she didn’t get her sh*t together, Elena might lose interest entirely.

They met up at the Met, another one of Elena’s essential New York activities that a newcomer had to try. Maeve was never a big museum fan; that quickly changed. The art that Maeve couldn’t have picked out from a lineup felt like it mattered when she saw the way Elena looked at it. Several hours flew by as they trekked through the exhibits, then got dinner. Once again, Elena asked if Maeve would like to come back to her apartment. Delivered with ever so slightly more of an upturn in her inflection than before. The implication of “you don’t have to…” The belief that Maeve maybe didn’t want to. This was it. The last chance.

Once they got up to the one-bedroom walkup, though, Maeve’s heart was pounding, so she stalled, suggesting they watch TV for a bit. A trashy reality show played while Elena got close to Maeve on the couch. This was good. Easing into it. She couldn’t let herself get too swept up. It was going well as they transitioned into kissing, and then a hand under a shirt.

This is good. This is manageable, Maeve told herself. As soon as Maeve went to unbutton her jeans, the subtle but clear go-ahead of where the action was heading, Elena dove in to help her get her pants off—almost impatient, in a sweet way. Maeve had made her wait a while, after all. As soon as she was down to her underwear, panic seized Maeve. “Bathroom,” she mumbled, extricating herself—gently.

Safely locked in the bathroom, the fear and shame crashed in on Maeve. She looked in the mirror, disgusted with herself. This was a mistake. There was no excuse for her to have come this close, to be here, in Elena’s bathroom with the nice soaps—what 24-year-old had nice soaps like that?—pantsless and panicking.

She examined the tiny window over the toilet and genuinely considered climbing out. It would be embarrassing to run home in her underwear, sure, but stares from strangers wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as Elena realizing what a monster she was.

A knock at the door. “Hey. You okay?”

“Fine,” Maeve’s voice cracked.

“There’s extra TP in the cabinet… and tampons… and Tums… Anything you need, hopefully, should be in there.”

How badly Maeve wished she only had her period, or indigestion, or even diarrhea. It was probably wiser to pretend one of those was the truth. She spent a few minutes debating about which lie would be best, splashing her face with cold water from the sink to try to help her think clearly. It didn’t help.

Elena must’ve wondered what the hell was taking her so long. Eventually, she spoke again: “Is this your first time?”

“No!”

“With a woman?”

“No.” Maeve wanted to drown herself in the toilet bowl.

“Uh, look, whatever’s going on, it’s okay,” Elena added, though her tone sounded thoroughly bewildered. “We don’t have to do anything. We don’t even have to talk about it… You can just get your stuff and go, if you want. No hard feelings.”

At this point, that offer felt very generous. It took another couple minutes to work up the courage to open the door, with the plan of avoiding eye contact, grabbing her clothes, and leaving immediately.

However, as soon as Maeve opened the door, and saw Elena’s face once again, her plans changed. “I’m sorry,” she said. Surprising herself. “I want to do this. I’m just having a freakout because it feels… wrong.” Seeing the look of horror on Elena’s face, she added, “Not ‘wrong’ like that. Wrong because… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh,” Elena said. “Oh? Oh…” Watching her process the meaning in real-time was achingly painful.

“Usually, it’s fine,” Maeve blurted. “Like 99.9% of the time, but… that chance is always there, and I don’t want that ‘chance’ to be you. I really, really like you.” Her entire face felt like it was on fire. “And now I’m wishing that I just climbed out the bathroom window instead…”

Elena broke into a wide smile. “I’m glad you didn’t. Come here.” She took Maeve by the hand.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard. And y’know, I do a lot of dangerous things every day. Like get in a car. Or live in New York. Or work at a bank.” She led Maeve to her bed and perched on the edge. “You saved my life once already. I trust you.”

It was like magic. Elena was magic. If Elena trusted her, Maeve could trust herself.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Elena added, softly, a hand grazing Maeve’s jaw then settling at the nape of her neck.

Wanting wasn’t the problem—every cell in Maeve’s body wanted Elena since the moment she saw her, which only intensified when they were this close. “Can we go slow?” Maeve breathed.

“Lead the way.”

“Actually, I think it’s better if you… l-lead…”

Elena did. Her touch was warm and gentle and made Maeve’s insides vibrate such that it activated emergency protocol: hold still, lie back and take it. It was still nice. And it was safe.

Her defenses were thrown, though, as Elena prompted her: “Is this good?”

No one had ever asked Maeve that before. No one had ever shown much concern for how Maeve felt—in sex, or in life. The rest of the night completely changed her perception. She felt comfortable enough to de-activate the emergency protocol… The dry spell ended in triumphant fashion.

When Maeve woke up next to Elena, it was a peculiar feeling. A lack of the typical hollow shame that usually came after sex, that sent her quickly packing to put it behind her.

Elena was still asleep. A thin beam of sunlight came through the blinds of her bedroom window and fell across her shoulder, her cheek, her hair falling in messy tresses, and a tiny spot of drool on her pillow.

In that moment, Maeve understood why people painted paintings, sang songs, wrote poems. She couldn’t do any of those things, but wished she could, to capture a fraction of how beautiful Elena was.

The moment seemed to last forever, until Elena turned over in her sleep and Maeve saw dark spots on her forearm, just above her wrist. Bruises.

That brought the familiar shame back.

She dressed swiftly and quietly and let herself out before Elena could wake. She was fortunate that nothing worse happened last night, and she’d treasure the memories. There was no conscionable way to continue.

To leave was right. To stay was wrong. That deep-seated truth pounded through Maeve’s head with every step… for about four blocks. Then she realized another deep-seated truth: she was not going to leave. She liked Elena too much.

About twenty minutes later, she was knocking on the apartment door—carefully, with multiple trays of coffee cups and several bags of pastries balanced in her arms. Elena was quite confused when she answered and saw that.

“I thought you ditched me,” Elena said as Maeve brought in the smorgasbord.

“I wanted to surprise you, then I realized I don’t know what you like. So I got one of everything.”

Elena picked what she wanted, and Maeve made note for the future, having her pick from the remainder. She couldn’t stop staring at the brownish-purple spots on Elena’s arm. “I need to say, I’m sorry, about, um…”

Elena followed her gaze. “Oh, this?” She laughed. A beautiful sound. “This is nothing. I bruise easily. In fact, this might be from bumping my armoire in the dark last night.” She reached out and put her hand on Maeve’s. “I swear, I will tell you if anything ever feels iffy when we’re together.”

“So… we’re ‘together’?”

“I think we are.” Elena kissed her.

Chapter 15: Age 20-21

Chapter Text

◈ ◈ ◈

It was the early days. They’d been together for maybe six, eight months. They were doing it a lot. It took a while to get past the initial awkwardness, then to navigate what was safe, and what they liked, but boy, when it clicked, it set a whole new scale from good to great—and in Elena’s humble opinion, they got better every day.

No matter how many times they had sex, Maeve always seemed like she was holding back. Trying not to give in to something, but making her give in was a source of great satisfaction. Her pale skin was like marble, at once soft, and taut, across her lean yet impossibly strong frame. Elena dipped down to kiss her, as her hands worked below. “You’re so insanely hot,” she breathed into Maeve’s mouth.

Without warning, Maeve squirmed, and shifted—sitting upright, where she’d been below Elena a second ago. It was unnerving when she did that, moved so fast. “What’s wrong?” Elena asked.

Maeve wrapped her hands around her knees. In a low voice, she asked: “Would you still like me if I was regular?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question.” Maeve ducked her head down, muffled as she curled in on herself. “If I was like… a normal person. Would you still be interested.”

A ridiculous question, prompted by nothing, though Maeve seemed prepared to remain in a pseudo-fetal crouch until she got a serious answer.

“If you were regular…” Elena placed kisses on her knees, on her arms… “I would not still like you.” A moment, as Maeve looked up, looking vulnerable, fragile, even—a moment in which Elena held her like a baby bird in her hand—“I’d still love you.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-one, and couldn’t believe how lucky she was.

After years of practice, she no longer had to fret about how to be likable; she knew how to make the Vought Draft analysts rate her highly without expending too much effort. Her future earnings were mostly secure, leaving her the brain-space to appreciate her fanf*ckingtastic girlfriend.

Elena was super-smart and sexy and basically a real grown-up, almost done with her Master’s. Once she graduated, she’d get a promotion that’d get her an office and a desk at work—no more sore feet from standing behind the counter all day.

“Of course, my parents chose this exact time to move to a new place,” Elena ranted, during the last week of her final semester. “And they haven’t organized anything, aside from buying the damn condo, so it’s all on me. Isa would help, but she’s got exams, and I wouldn’t make her fly home anyway…”

“So, what. They need to move things? That shouldn’t be hard.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Elena groaned. “All they had to do was book movers, but they didn’t, and no company is free tomorrow, so I’m gonna have to end up moving all their stuff, or shell out a fortune for last-minute booking. The worst part is that when I inconvenience myself to solve their problems, they won’t even realize. They always do this, and they always act like it all sorts itself out. But it doesn’t. It’s me. I sort.”

“Breathe.” Maeve gripped Elena’s shoulders until she followed the instruction.

“It’s stressful.”

“I can see that.” Maeve led Elena to the table and made her sit. Then put an arm around her. “This isn’t something I typically offer, because I don’t like being a pack mule. But… I’m very good at moving things. Perhaps even better than a group of five muscley dudes.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t. I offered.”

“You’d do that? For me?”

“The list of things I wouldn’t do for you is very, very short.”

“But… This would mean… you’d meet… I don’t know if you want that step—I don’t know if I want it.”

“We don't have to make a big deal of it.” Maeve shrugged. “I’m just your pal who happens to be a kind-hearted Supe. You can manage their chaos while I move the furniture.”

Elena didn’t seem to think her parents would buy that, but buy it they did. Rosario and Ernesto welcomed Maeve with kind faces that resembled Elena quite a bit, though they were both several inches shorter than their daughter.

While Maeve began loading their barely-packed possessions into the rented U-Haul (no avoiding the last minute booking fee there), they offered her lemonade at least four times (while Elena urged them to pack the pitcher and glasses instead). They were kooky, but sweet. A world of difference from Maeve’s dad. Hell, if her dad was more like Rosario and Ernesto, maybe Maeve would’ve spoken to him at some point in the last three years.

Above all, they asked Elena: “Why have you never mentioned your friend Maeve before?”

“She’s usually busy,” Elena offered. “Doing superhero things. Or school.”

“Yet you took time out of your day to help us,” Elena’s mother reached out for an encouraging squeeze as Maeve maneuvered by with a queen-sized mattress.

“It’s no big deal,” Maeve said.

“You’re such a beautiful girl. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment.” Maeve threw a glance at Elena.

“We have so many wonderful young men at our church, our friends’ children… I never get to set them up anymore—our other daughter, Isa, she’s found herself a lovely boy, going on six months, and…”

“And I’m the only lesbian you know,” Elena finished the thought for her. “Mom, stop bothering Maeve. She’s doing you a favor.”

Maeve understood why Elena found her parents embarrassing. Now that Maeve had met them, though, putting Elena’s previous complaints and lack of desire to introduce them to her into perspective… she felt like Elena was overreacting. At least she had parents—two of them, happily married, who adequately provided for her. Maeve couldn’t imagine complaining about that.

▲ ▲ ▲

Moving Elena’s parents out of their house was easy enough. However, when they drove the rented U-Haul across town to the new condo, there was a slight snag: Rosario and Ernesto did not have the key to get in. They debated over whether Rosario had misplaced it or Ernesto forgot to pick it up in the first place, while Elena looked ready to lose her sh*t any second.

“Call the broker,” she commanded. “Sort this out. We have to move your things.”

“Oh, it’s too late already. I’m tired and hungry. Let’s not bother.”

“We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

“No,” Elena said… her voice low and tight, like when she was telling Maeve she’d had too much to drink. “We have to unload your things now. Maeve can’t come back tomorrow; she has school.”

“So we’ll hire movers. You can help us with that tomorrow.” Rosario and Ernesto walked off, calling local hotels.

Elena and Maeve kept watch over the U-Haul. Maeve leaned against the side, while Elena sat on the edge and fumed. “You can’t hire movers on such short notice, that’s the whole—and the truck’s a one-day rental. There’s nowhere to leave this stuff overnight. And I have work tomorrow.” She squeezed her fists into balls—a different shade of anger than Maeve had ever seen on her. “This is ridiculous. They can’t expect me to take another whole day to help them.”

Eventually, after twenty minutes of calling around and of Maeve offering herself up as a literal punching bag for anger-relief purposes (though Elena declined), Elena got ahold of a local locksmith who was willing to come take a look before closing for the day.

It wasn’t enough, though; as they waited for the locksmith, Elena remained dissatisfied with her parents’ lack of concern. “They’ll call me tomorrow crying that they’ve locked themselves out again. Or else they’ll leave it open and get robbed immediately.”

“Relax. You already helped plenty. Let them figure out the rest with their realtor.”

“Except they won’t. If I don’t take care of it, it won’t happen. That’s how it’s always been.”

“They’re adults. They should be able to handle their own mess without you.”

“You don’t get it. They’re my parents.”

“You don’t owe them anything. You can walk away right now, and I bet you’ll feel better.”

“I’m not you, Maeve. I can’t just abandon my family on a whim.”

The air changed. That was too far; they both knew it. Maeve walked off. Elena didn’t stop her.

Maeve did a lap of Manhattan. Focusing on the cool breeze over her face, and the background noise of the city… anything, anything, anything until the tight thrumming feeling behind her ears went away and she could be certain she would not lose her temper.

By the time Maeve returned…the U-Haul was closed, the boxes safely inside the house, but Elena was waiting on the front stoop. She leapt up as Maeve approached. “Hey.”

Maeve held up the boxes of pizza she’d picked up. “Peace pizza.”

“Is that Maeve?” Ernesto and Rosario poked their heads out of the front door. “Elena was worried over nothing. It was fine—we got new keys.”

“Oh, stay for dinner.”

“That’s too kind, I’ve got to go, I’m just saying bye.”

Finally, they retreated inside.

“I’m guessing they did not get the new keys; you got the new keys.”

“I’m glad it’s over.”

“I’m sorry for earlier.”

“No, I’m sorry. What I said was way out of line. I was angry at them, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“You’re right, though,” Maeve admitted. “I don’t get it. I can’t understand what it’s like dealing with your parents, because I… don’t have that.”

“I can’t understand what you’ve been through, with your dad. I didn’t mean—I know it probably wasn’t easy, to leave him.”

In truth, it was extremely easy to leave him, though Maeve didn’t know how to explain that. “Anyways… I’m gonna bounce, but you and your parents should have dinner. Make peace, maybe remember why you love them and all that crap.”

Elena leaned forward to take the pizza offering, and kissed Maeve as she did. “You are seriously too good. But I think three pizzas is too much.”

“Oh, no, uh, two are for me.” Maeve handed one over, and kept the others. “Don’t look at me like that! I did the work of, like, five guys today.”

“When I get home, I’ll love you like five guys.”

“Like you would love five guys? Or like someone who likes guys would hypothetically—”

“I regret the simile already.”

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was twenty-five when Maeve met her parents. However, going the other way, she quickly gathered, the milestones were learning tiny grains of information about Maeve’s parents, which she parted with sparingly. In fact, on their first date, Maeve’s skill for answering any question about her life before moving to New York without referring to any family she’d ever had was downright impressive.

In ten dates, the only concrete fact Elena learned was that Maeve had no siblings and her mother wasn’t in the picture anymore. In the rare moments when the subject did come up, Maeve made it plenty clear she didn’t want to talk about it. Thus, Elena gained the information sporadically and accidentally.

One weekend when she was staying over at Maeve’s tiny apartment, a few months in, she examined the kitchen looking for anything to cook. “Next time I come over, I’ve got to bring some groceries.”

“Why? I’ve got plenty.”

Elena peered through what she’d found: eggs, hot dogs, frozen chicken breasts, cereal, boxed macaroni… Not a single spice, unless one counted salt… “It’s just… Some variety might be good? You cook like a 40-year-old bachelor,” Elena teased.

Maeve’s tone wasn’t teasing as she growled, “That checks out, ‘cause I was raised by one.”

She apologized, called it pre-coffee grumpiness, and quickly changed the subject. She also didn’t fight when Elena started gently introducing her to the concept of food that took slightly more than minimal effort but actually tasted good.

There was clearly something there. Some… wound. Elena held onto each crumb when it came up, in an oddity of Maeve’s behavior that couldn’t be logically explained by her powers.

Another time, when Elena expressed a desire to go to Las Vegas, Maeve got cagey: “It’s not all that.”

“It’s easy to say that if you’ve been. I’d love to do it just once. Bucket list, you know? Maybe you could show me around, if you know it well…”

“Go if you want, but I’m not coming,” Maeve said. “Wouldn’t want to run into my dad.”

Later, a stray $50 bill on Maeve’s bedroom floor led Elena to investigate further… which led to the discovery that Maeve had almost a thousand dollars in cash literally stashed under her mattress. When confronted, Maeve insisted it was to “keep it safe.” Safe from what, Maeve failed to explain.

They’d been dating for almost nine months, as Elena explained her family’s Christmas hoopla. At that point, meeting each others’ families wasn’t a conversation on the table yet, so it was a nice no-pressure conversation, getting to vent about her mom’s frustrating ways of making any meal infused with drama while Maeve nodded along, giggling and gasping at appropriate cues.

Elena realized she’d been going on and on about herself. “When are you flying out?”

“Hm?”

“For winter break. Are you going back to Modesto?”

Maeve paused and blinked before answering. “Not this year.”

Having stayed in New York for college and for work, Elena surmised it must be exhausting to have to fly cross-country between home and school, so it made sense if Maeve didn’t go at every opportunity. “Hopefully you can make it home for Spring Break.”

“Mm.” Maeve fidgeted. “So, um—what happens after your aunt gets drunk and picks ornaments off the tree?”

“You’re changing the subject.” Elena took a risk and decided to push. “You’ve never left town since we’ve been dating… when’s the last time you were at home?”

“About two years ago.”

“As in… when you started at Godolkin?” Elena straightened up. “How has it been so long?” She couldn’t comprehend a life that far from family. The most she’d ever gone without seeing her parents was a month or so. Even Isa, who went to school states away, came home every few months. Elena reached for her laptop. “Let’s look at plane tickets, then. Maybe it’ll be a little costly, last minute, but it’s really worth it to spend the holidays with—”

“Elena, stop.” Maeve’s voice was flat. “I don’t go home because… I don’t want to.”

“I know parents are a lot, but don’t you ever miss your dad?”

Maeve closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them. “What was the first job you ever had?”

“Uh… working at my summer camp.”

“How old were you?”

“I was 17… What does this have to do—”

“I was eight,” Maeve said. “‘Working’ at the mall. While my dad stuck out a hat for people to toss money in. But I guess the first one with a proper sort of paycheck, was, I did a stupid local commercial later that year… Ever since then, it was almost every weekend. We never got ahead, ‘cause he’d gamble away most of it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

“If I go home, he’ll just ask me for money. And when I tell him I’m barely paying my own damn rent without him leeching off me, he’ll still find a way to take it from me. Or, at minimum, make me feel like sh*t for saying no.”

Elena dropped the subject… for the time being. It was clear there was pain there. Still, she didn’t understand how that merited complete estrangement from the only family Maeve had. Here or there, she’d ask if Maeve had considered going home, or calling him at least. She should’ve learned to drop it quicker, considering the moodiness it brought on every time.

They’d been together about a year and a half when Maeve greeted Elena with a scowl one afternoon. Before Elena could ask what was up, Maeve dropped a packet of papers on the table without a word.

They were chock-full of legalese. “Is this a lawsuit…? What happened?”

“Read it,” Maeve ordered.

Elena scanned the first page. Plaintiff: Donald Shaw. It took several seconds for that to register, for it was the first time she learned his name. “This is your dad?”

“He hasn’t reached out in three years, until he decides to f*cking sue me, asking for all my future money I make, ever.” Maeve paced in tiny, angry loops around the apartment. “Do you get it now? Why I can’t play nice with him?”

Elena glanced back at the papers. There was no way this could be real. No one would do that to their child… “Is there a chance that he just wants your attention?”

This time, it felt ridiculous even as she said it. Elena dropped the papers and rose to hold Maeve in her arms. “I’m done,” Maeve mumbled into Elena’s hair. “I’m never speaking to him again. Not a word, not a f*cking postcard. I’m gonna tell my lawyer to do whatever it takes to wrap this up without me having to talk with him.”

Elena held her tight and stopped pushing for more tidbits after that.

□ □ □

Donald was forty-four when he took some bad advice.

It had been three years since Maggie went off to college. He tried to enjoy the “freedom”. Then again, she didn’t take all that much ‘taking care of’ the last few years, mostly just hoping Caruso wouldn’t catch her on a technicality.

Fitting with her parting words, she hadn’t reached out since. The only updates Donald got came from the parent newsletters from Godolkin. Mostly generic pamphlets about how wonderful all the young Supes were (along with a plea for donations), but Maggie was special enough she got shout-outs here and there. Or Maeve. That’s who she was now, to everyone. Queen Maeve was thriving, rising up through whatever ranking system the school had. They started putting pictures of her on the mailer inserts by her second year.

In spite of her nasty goodbye, he fully expected she’d call by Christmas… or her birthday… or his birthday. Surely by Father’s Day.

Silver lining, at least he could drink and gamble without guilt now. He’d raised the child. Kept a roof over her head. Kept her out of jail, and out of the ground (though that might’ve had more to do with her invincibility than with his parenting). He deserved some reward.

He went out to the bar most nights—when he wasn’t driving out to Vegas. Those trips were harder to arrange when he had to drag a kid along, but Sin City was designed for folks like him. Childless, spouseless, hopeless.

He deserved a break, didn’t he? After so many years of sh*t luck? His time had to be coming. It ought to come fast, because the bank was getting antsy about that huge loan he’d taken out when Maggie was 13. They noticed he didn’t have regular paychecks coming in from her. He could go and grovel to them about her being a full-time student, but that would be both humiliating and ineffective. Hitting a big bet to keep them off his back would surely be easier.

That’s what he told himself as he got further and further into the red.

Donald resigned himself to the idea of losing the house. No amount of honest work could dig him out of this hole, now. Maybe Lynn or Joe would take him in, now that Maggie wasn’t part of the deal… Or maybe he’d die in a gutter; that’d be alright, too.

He wondered what Joan was up to. Probably living some fancy life as a professor. Maybe in Europe. Definitely not wasting away, unable to survive without the kid earning for her.

Reaching out to Maggie was the obvious solution. Donald couldn’t, though. He couldn’t call, write, or visit because of her parting words. She wouldn’t really kill him… but she might just be mad enough to beat his ass. Wouldn’t matter how nice he tried to approach. She’d smell his desperation. Donald didn’t think he could handle the thought of his daughter looking at him with that level of pity. Even anger was better than that.

He blew his last bit of cash at Caesar’s without a better plan, then moved to the bar running up a tab he knew he couldn’t pay. He got chatty-drunk. One of the guys sitting next to him, in a damn good suit, was also in the mood to chat. He thought Don’s story about his Supe kid was a riot. He nodded with sympathy. He asked plenty of follow-up questions. Then, he added that he was a lawyer. He paid Donald’s tab and offered his services.

At least, that’s what Donald pieced together waking up from his blackout the next morning, not in the drunk tank, and with the fellow’s business card in his pocket.

He called the following Monday to meet for a “free consultation.” The lawyer, James Randolph Esq., had an opulent, welcoming office and a reassuring tone. When he described how Donald could file a suit against Maggie to solve his money problems, it sounded reasonable. Randolph said it was such a home-run case, he’d do it for free, just taking his fees out of the sum Donald won.

“It’s very common. Parents of celebrities, people who helped with an invention or company. You invested many years and a great deal of money into raising her and starting her career, and she’s going to earn far more than that. You rightfully deserve a share. We’ll get her and her reps in to negotiate something fair together, it doesn’t have to be nasty.”

A light bulb lit. Maggie couldn’t ignore this like a call or a letter. There was no way she couldn’t be involved. She’d hear, and she’d be angry, and she’d show up to give Donald a piece of her mind. Donald didn’t really want the money, he just wanted her to come and yell at him herself, because… it’d be something, right?

They shook hands. James Randolph reassured him he was doing the right thing—that this might feel uncomfortable now, but was bound to set the family right in the long term.

Before Donald could even begin to wonder how long it’d be before he saw Maggie in court, Randolph called him with “good news”. It was settled. In lieu of a one-time sum, he’d gotten her lawyers to agree to monthly payments with built-in adjustments for inflation. “Based on the figures you shared with me, this should be more than enough. It’ll allow you to get back on your feet and live quite comfortably, if you handle it right.”

“How can it be over? We didn’t even meet.”

“I was surprised how quickly they folded, but don’t let that fool you—this is still a very good win. Lots of young stars don’t want to go through the hoopla of a trial. Easy, no fuss. Like I promised.”

Like magic, his money problems solved. Even more effectively than a big win in Vegas could’ve. Yet Donald didn’t feel like he’d won.

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was twenty-five, and Maeve was twenty-one. They were browsing travel sites, investigating what it would cost them for various getaways. Florida? Aruba? They wanted to take a trip over winter break, before Maeve got busy in the spring, when prep for the Vought Draft really ramped up. At these prices, though, they might be limited to the tri-state area.

“I wish I could fly,” Maeve sighed.

“What? Where is this coming from?” Maeve could do so many things. It was ridiculous to hear her dream about additional powers.

Maeve bit her lip. That oddly sheepish way she got whenever parting with new information. “There’s this other hero I’ve met a couple times. Homelander.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Elena said. “He was on the news for that chemical plant thing.”

Maeve nodded. “He can fly. He has this, uh, this laser vision, too.” Elena laughed. “It sounds funny, but it’s really strong,” Maeve added, dead earnest. Was she blushing?

“So are you,” Elena reminded her. “No one’s stronger than you.”

“That’s the thing… He is.”

The solemnity on Maeve’s face gave Elena pause. She’d been joking a moment ago, or at least, lightly exaggerating. So she thought.

As far as Elena could tell, Supes were Supes. Clearly Maeve’s talents served her well, and earned her lots of attention, but when Maeve made comments about being the “strongest”, Elena never took it too literally. It was clear, now, that Maeve had meant it that way; it was also clear that this amendment was significant to her. Someone on her level—or above it.

“Ahh, I see.” Elena poked Maeve. Trying to lighten the moment. “You’re jealous. You want to be number one?”

“No!” Maeve bit back a laugh as Elena repeatedly poked her in the stomach. “I don’t care about that.” She stilled Elena’s hands by force, and looked her directly in the eye. “If I could fly, I could take you in my arms. I could fly you over the city… the mountains… to the tropics. We could go wherever we want.”

“That does sound nice…” Elena laid in Maeve’s arms, and there, anything seemed possible.

Maeve seldom spoke of that other Supe, Homelander, in the days after that… but Elena thought about it. About him. Even before the Seven were announced, and he was part of it. Maeve seldom spoke of him, yes, but she never spoke of any other Supes. Certainly not in anything close to a positive light.

Perhaps it was irrational. Maeve never gave any reason to make Elena think she might be disloyal. But Elena had watched enough friends get together over the years to recognize the moment when a crush was born, even if the crush-er did not know it yet.

The more time passed, the more she became convinced that this moment was an early chapter in the story of two soulmates, who were so clearly destined to be together, the whole world knew.

There was exactly one other person in the world as special and perfect as Maeve. And it wasn’t Elena.

Chapter 16: Age 22

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

“With the first overall pick of the 2008 Vought Hero Draft, New York selects… Queen Maeve.”

Maeve’s agent had asked several times to make sure someone filmed her reaction to the draft, so they could send it out to news outlets—people will love it, he insisted. Maeve insisted right back that she planned to view the newscast alone. In reality, she was curled up in her studio apartment with Freckles on her lap and Elena by her side.

They were the only witnesses to the girlish squeal Maeve let out; although Elena had been firmly on Maeve’s side in the debate over whether to send her reaction to the news, once she had finished laughing, she gasped, “God, I wish I had been filming that.” Then, they kissed, which was one good reason why privacy was paramount here.

Though every draft analyst worth their salt had Maeve going within the top three picks (New York, Philadelphia, or Dallas), Maeve hadn’t dared hope for the top pick for two reasons. First, women had been picked second overall eleven times in the sixteen-year history of the Vought Draft, but never first. Second, the fact that the first overall pick belonged to New York City seemed too good to be true. She could stay with Elena, no worry about long distance.

Everything would be perfect. Maeve didn’t think any deeper into the logistics of the future as Elena poured her a glass of eight-dollar champagne. “Soon I can buy the really good stuff,” Maeve said. “Soon I can move out of this dump.”

“Hey, I think this place is cute.”

“Will you be complaining when I can fit a queen-size bed and one of those fancy mattresses that can make the sides different firmnesses?”

“Mm, probably not.”

They had completely ignored the ongoing TV coverage. Another fringe benefit of being first overall—Maeve didn’t have to sit anxiously watching the broadcast any longer. Her phone started ringing off the hook, though. Maeve let her agent and lawyer go to voicemail. The paperwork could be done tomorrow. Various unknown callers she assumed were reporters, who likewise could wait. Then, she got a call from a number she did have saved, after running into the guy at a crime scene for the third or fourth time.

“What do you want?”

“Wow, warm greeting. I’m surprised you’re willing to take my calls, Miss First-Overall,” Homelander said. “Very exciting. Guess I’ll still see you kicking around New York a while longer.”

“Thanks.” Even though it was meaningless, and there would be plenty of praise to come… it almost meant something coming from one person who would’ve been real competition, if he’d been on the draft board.

“If you’re not too busy smashing glass ceilings, come on over to Vought. There’s a killer draft party, and you’re the guest of honor.”

“I, um… hold on.” Maeve muted the phone and turned to Elena. “They want me to go to some party at the Vought building. I feel like I probably should… but I can just put in an appearance, come back home quick…”

“Go,” Elena insisted. “Have fun. You deserve it.”

Maeve got into costume and headed to the Tower. She’d only been there a couple times before, for meetings and workout sessions with scouts, but as soon as she entered even the people around the lobby smiled and cheered at her entrance. A security employee immediately ushered her to the elevator and directed her to the 90th floor, where the doors opened immediately into a huge ballroom space.

“There she is!” Homelander was on her immediately—probably saw her coming with his x-ray vision. He put an arm around her, and shouted out to the room, “Everyone, let’s give a warm welcome to Queen Maeve!” Everyone applauded, and Maeve felt one part embarrassed at the attention and two parts embarrassed at how much she enjoyed it. Homelander kept a smile plastered on as he leaned into whisper, “It’s easiest if you let everyone get the excitement out on arrival. 25% less people stopping you just to clap later in the night.”

In a way, Maeve was glad to have him as a buffer. He knew the space and the people, and, being a few years into working for New York himself, now one of the Supes most associated with the city… he knew how to deal with this adoration. Even though Maeve had gained a bit more recognition over the past few years in anticipation of her skills… this was exponentially different. Everyone in this room wanted to meet her. All because of one little announcement on TV.

Homelander ensured each person that stopped to shake her hand got only a few seconds before they moved on. Clearly, he was bringing her somewhere, and eventually Maeve learned it was to someone. “Queen Maeve, meet Madelyn Stillwell. She’s the reason you’re here.”

Stillwell was the newly appointed Senior Vice President of Hero Management, taking over from the Legend about a year ago. She was one of many names Maeve’s agent had drilled into her head as people she ought to network with and impress, but this was the first time Maeve saw her face-to-face. Madelyn was maybe 40 and looked incredible in a simple ivory dress. She passed her drink to Homelander for a second, opened her arms, and greeted Maeve with a full-on hug.

Maeve limply returned the gesture, trying not to let on how startled she was. She wasn’t used to hugs from strangers. From anyone, really. The only person she could remember embracing this way was Elena, and that wasn’t the same. She just managed to get past the shock and think it was kind of nice, for a second, before Madelyn released her. “Queen Maeve,” she said, shaking her head slightly with a delighted smile. “Look at you.”

“It’s an honor to meet.”

“All mine. It’s strange, of course—it feels like I know you already. From all the research, the reels, the scout reports. But I quite look forward to working together.”

“I’m glad to stay here, in New York, so thanks for picking me, I guess.” A small part of Maeve was disappointed at this revelation. Was that the only reason she got chosen first? Because a woman was the chief voice at the table for New York’s pick, because she wanted to make history?

“I’ll tell you, it wasn’t fun convincing the rest of the board,” Madelyn lowered her voice. “The suits got it into their heads I wanted you just to make some sort of feminist statement. ‘Of course a woman’s gonna pick a woman,’ they said, acting like they were allowing it as a PC move. But f*ck that, right? I made them sit through slides of all your measurables, clips of all your highlights, to prove you were the indisputable pick, breasts or not.”

It was strange, how Madelyn had seen through what Maeve was thinking. Or else, she was thinking the exact same thing. It was strange, to Maeve, to feel like she might work with someone who saw things at all like she did. And someone who already respected her, to boot.

“Madelyn’s your boss now,” Homelander said. “So stay on her good side.”

“Oh, don’t listen to him,” Madelyn said, then touched Homelander’s arm. “By the way. Alec Baldwin’s here, and he’s dying to meet you. Give him a good chat.”

As Homelander went off, Madelyn threw a look to Maeve. “He’s darling, isn’t he?”

Maeve wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but she felt she perfectly understood what Madelyn meant to say, but couldn’t thanks to Homelander’s long-range hearing: “Now we’re rid of him.”

Then, Maeve remembered she was still supposed to try to make a good impression, here. “Thank you,” she added. “I’m really glad for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

“Relax,” Madelyn laughed. “The way I see it, I work for you. I’ve done a lot of work for a very long time to get you here tonight. You’re a very important asset to Vought, and to this city, now. So whatever you need, Maeve—can I call you Maeve?” (Maeve nodded). “You just ask me, and we’ll make it happen.”

It wasn’t any different from the typical cordial bullsh*t all the Vought employees were spouting to Maeve tonight, but something about Madelyn’s voice was appealing. Comforting. Like she really meant it.

“Now, let’s get you a drink.” Madelyn beckoned to a nearby server, and there was suddenly a martini in Maeve’s hand. “Do you have anyone to rush home to tonight?”

Maeve hesitated, then remembered Elena’s suggestion. “Have fun.” Maeve said, “No.”

“Then we’re going to have a wonderful time.” Madelyn guided Maeve through the room, a hand lightly on her back. Suddenly, Maeve felt much more comfortable.

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was twenty-seven, and suddenly adjacent to celebrity.

It had been about eight months since Maeve was drafted first overall by New York City and started to get recognized in public. Elena didn’t mind that it meant they went out less, to avoid fans prying into Maeve’s personal life. They’d been together for nearly three years, and they were happy; they’d have time to figure all that out later.

She didn’t want to put too much pressure on Maeve, especially with the job so new to her. As much as she claimed being a professional Supe was easy, what she had been training for for years, her anxiety showed through when she stayed up all night rehearsing three lines she had to memorize for her first national commercial, or when she practiced smiling in the mirror (apparently her agent told her she had Resting Bitch Face).

Though Maeve was skilled at putting on a shiny face for the public, she’d always been an introvert at heart. As her work demanded she spend more and more time acting, interviewing, and patrolling, she came home exhausted, longing for simple nights in together. It took almost six months for Elena to finally convince her to leave the dingy studio she’d had since coming to New York, and rent a proper apartment according to her new budget.

Elena helped choose the building. It was clean, and it had AC and an elevator, already a huge step up. After two months, Maeve had hardly furnished it, let alone decorated. Elena imagined moving her own things in, and had to remind her it wasn’t her apartment. Yet. That was another conversation she was putting off—and it didn’t make much difference; they still spent almost every night together.

Elena was on her lunch break at work one day when she saw several of her male coworkers, Ted, and Ed, and Fazim, gathered around, watching something on Ted’s phone. She opened the news on her own phone and was greeted by the headline:

LIVE: SCHOOL BUS ACCIDENT AVERTED BY QUEEN MAEVE; 23 CHILDREN RESCUED ALIVE

As she watched the clip, she got her coworkers’ commentary from across the room.

“Absolutely unreal,” Ted said.

Elena had to agree, as she watched the footage of Maeve leaping in front of the skidding bus and punching it so it rolled back onto the road rather than careening off the bridge.

“How are those kids fine? Those buses don’t even have seatbelts,” Fazim wondered.

“They said alive, not fine. Bet they’re messed up,” Ed laughed.

Elena had to bite back a protest as she watched interspersed clips of Maeve helping kids out of the beaten vehicle. Then, the clip cut to an interview with her at the scene. Maeve was wearing the smile she’d practiced in the mirror, and clutching her right arm oddly—like it was hurt. “Don’t try this at home,” she quipped.

“When’s the last time a chick Supe did anything that nuts?” Ted said.

“When’s the last time any Supe did?” The men looked over at Elena; she sheepishly held up her phone, revealing she was watching too.

“I didn’t mea—Women can do anything men can…”

Elena didn’t need the ally spiel; she’d heard it enough times from her many male classmates at business school—usually right in between misogynistic remarks. “I wasn’t calling you sexist, just, M—Queen Maeve is pretty cool.” Elena felt a rush of adrenaline, saying more than she probably should. “I mean, I met her once. When I was working at the 5th Avenue branch a few years back, she came in and broke up a holdup.”

“Ah, I get it,” Fazim said. “Y’know, one time Black Noir saved a subway car from crashing, that I almost got on. I literally almost stepped onto it. He would’ve saved me.”

Elena returned to her office and texted Maeve:

[12:31 PM] Elena: Everyone at work watching the news. Talking about how cool you are. So I wanted to say it too. YOU ARE AMAZING.

[12:33 PM] Elena: I wanted to shout out to all of them, “That’s my girlfriend!”

She didn’t mean it as a demand… but if Maeve chose to respond by telling Elena it would be okay to tell people… It wasn’t for clout’s sake; Elena truly longed to be able to look Ted and Ed and Fazim in the eye and say: That’s the love of my life.

Maeve never replied to that text, but a few hours later, she called. Elena excused herself from a meeting to take it, which she never would’ve done normally.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Maeve said. “I just haven’t really had a second to breathe.”

“I figured as much.”

“I didn’t want you to think—Just send the bill and I’ll deal with it later,” Maeve said, clearly talking to someone else in the room with her.

“Where are you?”

“You’ll never believe this. I’m at the hospital. Broke my arm.”

“I didn’t realize that was possible.”

“Neither did I. It feels so weird. They’re redoing the cast now. I broke the first one after two minutes because I forgot I’m not supposed to move my arm.”

Then, Maeve was swept up into a back-and-forth about insurance. Elena didn’t realize Maeve was talking to her again when she said, “I don’t know when I’ll be done with this stuff. It might be a while.”

“That’s alright. I’ll meet you at yours.”

After work, Elena picked up Freckles from her own apartment, then headed to Maeve’s. She made a big pot of Kraft Mac ’n Cheese—Maeve’s most embarrassing comfort food, which Elena had promised to stop teasing her about.

The macaroni got cold as Elena sat among the empty walls with only Freckles for company. She passed the time by envisioning the perfect art she’d get to hang on each wall. And the perfect photos of her and Maeve to frame.

It was well past midnight when Maeve finally trudged in. Elena leapt up to greet her, and gave her a kiss, but Maeve basically continued shuffling forward until she reached the couch and flopped down. “I’m exhausted.” Still in her costume, her cheek pressed against the couch cushions, with her right arm, now in a chunky white cast, hanging off the edge. Freckles padded over and perched on her head.

Elena moved over to sit on the carpet so she was level with Maeve. “I can imagine. You saved so many people!” She prodded the cast, as if to make sure it was real. “What was it like?”

Maeve groaned. “I did, like, twelve interviews today. I can’t repeat it again.”

“Oh.” That was understandable.

“They even squeezed one in while I was being x-rayed… Plus I signed like, two hundred ‘autographs’… basically just scribbles, with my left hand… Then Vought, they invited me to this fancy party, with the mayor and sh*t…”

“That’s huge!”

“They all were thanking me and it was nuts but…” Maeve yawned, “Madelyn Stillwell, you know, the lady in charge of the hero department? She said they’re launching this new team… like Payback. She wants me to be in it.”

“That’s exciting. How many people? Like, five, or ten?”

“I think seven.” Maeve’s voice faded, and she could barely keep her eyes open. “She said it comes with a lot more money and a free penthouse and… stocks, or something… you’d be proud…”

Elena was suddenly struck by Maeve sitting here. The same Maeve who punched a freaking school bus that morning. A hero, falling asleep on the couch in front of her. “You saved 23 kids today.”

“Mm.”

“I made Kraft. I can heat it up for you…”

“Mm.”

Elena took that as a “yes.” But by the time she returned with the food, Maeve was fast asleep and drooling on the cushions. Close enough to reach out and touch, and Elena had no idea why she felt so very far away.

Chapter 17: Age 23

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-three and freshly recruited for the brand-new team known as the Seven, yet to be announced to the public. There was some branding and asset work to be done first, Vought said, so she headed to the Tower and went where she was directed: to the costume shop on the 33rd floor.

Assistants hustled her to a showroom in the back, where they introduced her to a man they all called “Chess”. He was maybe five-foot-four and stout, with curly brown hair and red-rimmed glasses. He did not introduce himself to Maeve, just barked for assistants to immediately take her measurements.

“Um, sorry, who are you? What is this?”

“Chester Wakefield. Heroes are not truly born until I design them. You are about to be one of Vought’s most important superheroes, so it is now my responsibility to make sure you don’t look homeless. We’ll get you in a costume in no time.”

“I have a costume. I’m in it now.”

Chess laughed. “Darling. It is impressive you managed to get this far like this, but please. Don’t embarrass yourself further.” He ran a finger down Maeve’s torso, the chest-piece she’d sewn and re-sewn over the last four years. “Pleather?” he tsked. He ran his fingers up to her shoulder, plucked her bra strap from underneath the strap of her halter top. “Visible undergarments?” Then up to her hair. He pulled at the round silver circlet she wore atop her head, back in those days. “Bobby pins?”

“So it doesn’t fall out,” Maeve muttered. “While I’m… y’know… fighting crime.”

But Chess wasn’t listening. He had a fistful of her hair now, and was staring at it rather intensely. “Is this natural?”

“Um… yeah?”

An assistant hovered next to Chess. “We can fix it.”

“Fix what?”

Chess stepped back and folded his arms. “It is a bit similar to Countess, isn’t it.”

“Blonde would look good with her coloring,” The assistant suggested.

“Blonde won’t work next to Homelander.” Chess frowned. “Dying it brown would be a crime… It will stay.”

Then commenced a period of several hours where Maeve was prodded and turned and moved like a mannequin. They sent her home, then, once they had their measurements, and brought her back a few days later to fit the costume on her for the first time.

It took nearly forty minutes, that first time, since it wasn’t technically “finished” and didn’t have all the fasteners and such in place, so they could adjust the final fit. The dressers stretched and prodded and told her to suck in about fifty times while they tightened the laces, but when it was all done… as uncomfortable as it was… Maeve had to admit, it looked pretty badass in the mirror. Maybe she wasn’t a huge fan of the neckline, but the one bright side of the stupid metal breastplate was she wouldn’t have to worry about a “wardrobe malfunction”. (She couldn’t bend over, either, well, not without ruining the metal plate forever, but that was a necessary sacrifice, Chess said.) It was mostly strapless, except the starry shoulder-pads added a little bulk that made her feel less waifish. The skirt was a little short, but the boots were so tall it made up for it.

Chess sent one of his assistants to fetch Madelyn Stillwell, who had to sign off on the costume. “Lovely,” she said, circling around Maeve. For a moment, Maeve thought it was a compliment for her, until Madelyn made it quite clear who she was talking to: “Great work as always, Chess.”

But Chess had taken a few steps back, and was wearing that frown he so often did again.

“What?” Maeve said. “Is it bad?”

“It’s almost there.” Chess stared a few minutes longer, then, let out a squeal of inspiration. He stepped forward and ripped her left shoulder-pad off. Maeve had to stop herself from crying out at the suddenness of it all.

“A dash of asymmetry to draw the eye. Should have realized it earlier. Now… we add the final touch…”

Chess grabbed something from an attendant next to him. A little tube of glue or something, which he painted onto something in his hand, then stepped up and stuck it into Maeve’s forehead “A tiara…?”

“Diadem, my dear.” Chess smiled. “No bobby pins.”

“What is that, glue?”

“Spirit gum. You brush it on, stick, it should stay on whether you’re stopping a train or falling on a bomb. You’ll be doing it yourself most mornings, I expect.” He showed her another bottle of liquid. “Here’s the solution to dissolve the glue when you take it off at night, otherwise you might take skin off with it… though I suppose that won’t be much of an issue for your steel-skinned life.” He tsked. “Hard enough to stop bullets, soft as a baby’s ass, what I wouldn’t give…” Then, Chess spun her around, to look at herself in the mirror.

Maeve couldn’t help but drop her mouth open a bit. It was a small difference, but all the difference in the world. It looked so… complete.

“Now,” Chess said, smiling over his handiwork. “You are a hero.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-three, on the brink of her biggest break.

It was harder to adjust to full-time professional Supe work than she anticipated. More hours, more chances to fail, more consequences if she did. The bright side was, as New York City’s first-overall draft pick, she had some qualified people in her corner helping her sort it out. Her agent and manager collaborated with the Hero Management department at Vought to find her patrol routes and sponsorship opportunities. The rescuing was one thing, but there was a lot more on-camera time than she was used to. Even commercials were intimidating—it wasn’t some crappy local restaurant chain throwing together a shoot with film students… These were national brands with high budgets. Everyone else on set knew what they were doing, and Maeve felt out of her depth just trying to remember her lines and stand on her mark.

While it wasn’t always her favorite job, it had some major perks—including a massive paycheck. Without having her dad yank it away, Maeve hardly knew how to adjust with so much money suddenly in her hands. She only knew that it was wise to get more of it.

So, when Madelyn Stillwell told her after that bus save that they wanted her for a new team, it was great news. Maeve felt like an adult for the first time—not faking her way because she had to, but really nailing it. She was in a groove, meeting the new expectations of being a pro Supe, then coming home and spending time with the greatest person in the world. Elena was amazingly supportive through all of it.

Maeve learned the hard way in the months leading up the launch of the Seven, that it was a bigger leap than going from part-time hero to full-time after the draft. Everything was intensified times a thousand. All the behaviors and answers Maeve had worked hard to perfect for the public in the last year suddenly weren’t good enough.

Hours each day, she’d head down to Vought while Madelyn and various other teams in her employ poked and prodded and pointed out every tiny detail about Maeve that would have to be “fixed” before the group launched. sh*t she never could’ve thought of. Costume designs, styling, makeup, photo sessions, sure. But she also received lectures on history, culture, and politics, ensuring she’d never sound stupid (or worse, intelligent in a way that undermined Vought’s political interests). It was back to high school but way harder, as they made her study everything about every U.S. President and every U.S. war and made her sit for f*cking quizzes about them, too. There were endless sessions of mock interviews, too, where every answer she gave was criticized for some absurdly nit-picky reason.

Madelyn, who had seemed like a protective ally in this endeavor, now barked at Maeve any time she zoned out or messed up. Any sign that Maeve didn’t seem completely invested (like, for example, asking to have a break from interview practice to use the bathroom) got her a lecture on how she was so lucky to be here and she’d have to work harder if she wanted this (and by the way, as far as the consumers were concerned, Queen Maeve did not use the bathroom and thus should never refer to it in public).

Maeve didn’t bother arguing because she did want it. And also, she desperately feared not being good enough. Even though there were moments when she wanted to scream and punch Madelyn through the window of the 89th floor of Vought Tower, she came home and ranted to Elena about it and got some sleep and felt ready to go back and face the endless treadmill of criticism the next morning.

Maeve was determined to succeed. No more of those capital-M Mistakes she’d made throughout her life—except she didn’t make those. She pushed those memories away. They didn’t happen to Queen Maeve.

That was the secret, she learned. Not just the costume, but stepping into a different version of her own skin. Maeve hated crowds and was quickly drained by hours on end of interacting with people, but Queen Maeve was a cheerful extravert. Queen Maeve didn’t mind scrutiny. She didn’t get anxious, either. Why should she? She had never made a mistake in her life. Queen Maeve had never killed anyone. Queen Maeve didn’t have a dad who threw a bullsh*t lawsuit at her to attempt to steal money before she even earned it. Queen Maeve did not sweat or sneeze or get her period or piss or sh*t or even know what a bathroom was, apparently.

It was hard to truly become Queen Maeve at first. Changing into the costume and forcing a smile was how she’d gotten through public appearances up to that point, but it didn’t cut it anymore, as Madelyn reminded her with a cutting callout, “Fake,” ordering Maeve to try again.

At first she was really in her head about it, but at some point, over those months… While watching Madelyn’s lips move in some pointed criticism, the words explaining to her who “Queen Maeve” was, became background noise… Meanwhile, Maeve retreated to a small, dark space inside her skull and stopped thinking about what she was doing. She let Madelyn’s criticism guide her like a cattle prod, operating on autopilot to move away from the zaps. That was where Queen Maeve took over.

Progress, but it took a long time to hit that zen space each morning, and nearly as long to wake up regular Maeve when it was time to leave the Tower each night. Elena started asking why Maeve was getting home so late, after eight some days. Maeve told her it took a long time to get out of costume, which was close enough to the truth.

Elena was supportive. Elena was amazing. Coming home to Elena was the only thing that kept Maeve sane in those months.

Yet, something peculiar began to happen. In spite of Elena’s unwavering support… or maybe because of it… Maeve started to dread coming home.

Elena was very concerned about the toll the prep was taking on Maeve. Concern in the sense that she became obsessive about what, exactly, kept Maeve out so late. She also started commenting every time Maeve had a drink in the evening, which she knew, by now, was not the same as it was for a regular person. Yet, she’d tut anxiously every time Maeve just wanted a beer after a hard day. She was especially distressed when she found cigarettes in Maeve’s jacket pocket, launching into a lecture to express how dangerous smoking was for her health (Maeve reminded her it wasn’t) and to ask—always posed as a question—if perhaps it was a bad sign that the job was making her stressed enough to try this habit. Maeve didn’t bother to bring up that she had started smoking months ago—in fact, before Madelyn had extended the offer to join the Seven—and Elena hadn’t noticed until now.

It was patently obvious that Elena was unhappy, but if she wasn’t going to be direct about it, Maeve certainly didn’t have the energy to bring it up. In fairness to her, Maeve understood where it came from. She wasn’t being the best girlfriend, lately. Even when she was home, it took effort to try to listen and be present and spend “quality time” together. It wasn’t ideal, but this was the hump she had to get over to get into the Seven. Which was an objective good. After this rough patch, they’d find a groove, just like they did after Maeve was drafted.

So Maeve didn’t confront Elena about her “concern”, even when it crossed into absurd.

One night, after an unusually relaxed day at the Tower spent shooting some solo B-Roll shots of her posing, smiling, fighting fake crime to be used for various promotional purposes down the line, she went out after they wrapped. Thus, arrived back at her place well after one in the morning. Elena was waiting.

“f*ck, you scared me,” Maeve muttered.

“I wanted to wait up for you… I feel like it’s been days since I saw you.” Elena sat on the couch with Freckles in her lap. Giving a distinct impression of a parent waiting to catch a kid sneaking in after curfew. Maeve exhaled and went to kiss Elena, shaking off the poor comparison.

“You smell like alcohol,” Elena said. Bringing it right back.

“I texted you that I was going out with people from work…”

“Who?”

“Crew from the shoot. Lighting guys, ADs. Translucent and Lamplighter were there too.”

“Was Homelander there?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing, she said. First time she’d ever brought up Homelander unprompted. Totally random, sure. Except it wasn’t the last time.

About a week later, she checked her phone in between back-to-back voice recording sessions for various TV and radio station bumper promos, plus lines for a supposed Seven video game that was already deep into production. She found a message that she did not need smack in the middle of her day:

[1:31 PM] Elena: You left your email logged in on my laptop.

Then, a screenshot of an email from Homelander. Maeve hadn’t even seen it yet; it was sent that morning, by the looks of it. Subject line: “We look great here.” Body text: “Don’t we?” With a photo mockup of the two of them in costume, watermarks all over it, he must’ve pulled it from the marketing department early, wanting a look before anything was approved—his typical vain sh*t. Admittedly, they did both look amazing, with perfect lighting and airbrushing that didn’t look like airbrushing, standing right next to each other in front of Vought Tower. In honesty, the sly smile on her face, her weight co*cked just to the side, and the way he was positioned behind her… it looked a bit, well, flirty.

That was it. Just that screenshot. Maeve had to make an excuse to leave (fortunately the audio guys didn’t know that Queen Maeve wasn’t supposed to know what a toilet was) and so she ended up holed in the tiny recording studio bathroom, calling Elena three times until she picked up.

“Aren’t you at work? What’s going on?” Elena said, almost alarmed. Like she had no idea why Maeve was calling.

“Well, I wanted to correct that weird passive-aggressive accusation you just sent me.”

“What accusation?”

“Come on.”

“About your email? I wanted to let you know.”

It took all of Maeve’s patience not to scream. She knew the last time she’d borrowed Elena’s laptop had to have been weeks ago; she hadn’t been to Elena’s apartment in quite a while. Elena knew it too. So the fact she’d waited this long to tell Maeve…

“Why were you looking through my messages?”

“I wasn’t. A notification popped up. I didn’t realize it was such a big deal, unless you’re hiding something…”

“Elena, I don’t have time to play games about this. Whatever crazy suspicions you’re putting onto that photo, they’re unfounded. Okay? We weren’t even in the same room when that was taken. It’s f*cking Photoshop. I wasn’t in front of the Tower, I was on a soundstage, standing on a box in front of a green screen with a f*cking wind machine in my face, smiling until it hurt. It’s not fun, and it’s definitely not romantic.”

“You’re putting a lot of energy into denying something I never said.”

“Maybe if you’d actually f*cking say it, then I wouldn’t have to work so hard.”

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. “You okay in there? We have a lot more lines to get through…”

“I don’t think we should do this over the phone,” Elena said.

“Me neither.” Maeve hung up before she could say something she’d regret. She splashed her face quickly with water from the sink. Dried it. Looked in the mirror. Almost a relief to get back into character. Queen Maeve didn’t have any relationship issues. Queen Maeve didn’t even have a relationship.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve poured more energy into being the best version of Queen Maeve than she had into anything else in her entire life, because she hated when Madelyn said she was doing it all wrong for the stupidest reasons, and it made her day on those rare occasions when Madelyn admitted she did something right.

The day before the official launch of the Seven, Madelyn prepared an intense gauntlet of mock interviews. Maeve figured it’d last an hour, tops, because Madelyn would have to go do the same with the other six members (or at least the other five, if Noir got a pass on account of not speaking). No such luck. She spent the entire day grilling Maeve declaring, “You need the most practice.”

She was going all in on loaded political questions today—questions Maeve hoped to God no one would really be asking her, because who wanted her opinion on the Iraq War? Madelyn was impassive, her reading glasses on, reading from notecards, quizzing Maeve on the specifics of whether she thought the troops ought to withdraw from Iraq.

Maeve went to that dark place inside her skull and let the shock-trained Queen Maeve instincts she’d honed over the last few months take over. Keeping in mind all the mistakes she’d been chastised for—don’t show any sway right or left. Don’t call for any distinct action. Never imply the current administration has done anything wrong. Or the last one. War is bad, but war is necessary. But never get caught saying nothing at all.

“It’s going to be hard,” Queen Maeve said. A calculated degree of solemnity, commensurate with the gravity of the situation. “It’s going to be very difficult, but I think this country will rise to the challenge, because I believe in the American people.”

Maeve thought she nailed it. But Madelyn shook her head. “You’ve learned nothing.”

“What the f*ck was wrong with that?!”

“It’s distant. Are you setting yourself apart from the American people? You should have said: ‘I believe in us.’”

It was so typical and in line with everything Madelyn had chided her about so far, yet so tiny, and Maeve was so angry at herself and at Madelyn and maybe a tiny bit anxious about the possibility of real reporters asking her about US foreign policy tomorrow and so profoundly exhausted from her grueling schedule that she put her head in her hands, trying hard not to cry.

“Maeve.”

“Stop. I know I’m not supposed to show an emotion. I f*cking know.”

Then, Madelyn was next to her. A reassuring hand on her knee. “That’s not what I was going to say.” She took off her glasses. “I know I’ve been hard on you these last few months. Because I want you to succeed, Maeve. And the world is going to be far harder on you than it will on any of the others. That’s the sad reality. If Deep makes a mistake tomorrow, it’ll be a joke for a news cycle. If Homelander misspeaks, it’ll probably inspire some wannabe senator from South Carolina to model a campaign after whatever came out of his mouth. But if you make a mistake, they will turn on you. You’ll be vapid. Ignorant. Evil. You name it. I’ve been harsh because that is the standard you have to meet. Because I don’t want to see those vultures out there to tear you to pieces.” Madelyn eased back. “And they won’t. You’ve come so far from where you began. I knew you were right for this. You have the hardest job out of the Seven, but I hope it can also be the most rewarding. Tomorrow, you will meet the world, and you will dazzle them, and you will get the reception that you deserve.”

By the end of that exhausting final day, Maeve wanted nothing more than to have one very stiff drink to calm her nerves, then to pass out in her bed. She didn’t even bother to change out of her costume at the Tower, and just threw on a jacket to cover it as she hurried back to her apartment.

When she unlocked the door, and Elena was there, a small part of Maeve said: crap. The better part of her got ready to lay on the guilt for even thinking that, but it turned out Elena was ready for that. “You’re home late.”

“Yeah. Long day.” Maeve shucked off her jacket then went to pour a nice tall glass of her better vodka.

“They’ve been working you ’til eleven every night this week.”

“If you’ve got an issue with that, you should probably know tomorrow I won’t be home at all.” Maeve prepared herself for the self-righteous rebuttal if Elena dared to suggest she shouldn’t go out and celebrate after the Seven, the thing she’d been working towards all these months, finally launched (not to mention the fact she was probably required to attend those afterparties, anyhow). “I’m already exhausted, and I have a 5:45 makeup call… I’m going to bed.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Elena said. “Maeve, my sister’s coming home tomorrow. You agreed we’d go to dinner so you can meet her. I made a reservation—”

“You should’ve asked me.”

“I did ask you, weeks ago, and you said it was fine.”

Maeve had no memory of such a conversation, but it was very possible that one night, in exhaustion, she had simply said yes in order to get Elena to leave her alone. But she couldn’t admit that. “Why would you expect I could hang out the day of the Seven launch? It’s like you don’t understand how serious this is at all.”

“Oh, I understand,” Elena muttered.

“What does that mean?”

“We’re gonna have to talk about it sometime, Maeve.”

“Oh?” Maeve took a swig of vodka. “What, pray tell, are we going to talk about?” Was Elena finally going to admit she was upset?

“The future. How this situation works from now on. You can’t avoid it forever.”

“I’m the one avoiding it?” That was rich, coming from the president of passive-aggression.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Maeve’s head pounded. An awful ache that definitely meant she needed sleep. She felt the strong urge to put her head in her lap like back with Madelyn earlier, but she centered herself. “You’re right. We should’ve had this conversation a long time ago.”

It was incredible how much Elena relaxed with those simple words. Maeve led her over to the couch and sat next to her, rather proud of herself. Finally she’d learned how to handle a situation.

Maeve grasped Elena’s hand and looked her directly in the eye. “It’s going to be hard,” she said. “It’s going to be very difficult, but I think we will rise to the challenge. Because I believe in us.”

She delivered it perfectly. In her head, she saw Madelyn’s rare smile of approval.

But Elena’s face twisted into disgust. “Is that a f*cking line? Are you doing ‘Queen Maeve’ right now?”

f*ckf*ckf*ck. “No, I… I’ve just been in the zone all day, I…”

“You think you can come home in your costume, and charm me like I’m some fan?” Elena shook her head as she sized Maeve up in a new light. “You’re really gonna give your whole life over to this, huh.”

“I have to. That’s the standard.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to have this job.”

“So you finally admit it.” Maeve’s chest felt hollow.

“Admit what?”

“You want me to say ‘No’ to Vought, to bail on this at the last minute, to prove I would give all that up for you.”

“That’s not at all what I—”

“This is big. You get that, right?” Maeve’s voice was hoarse by now, her throat sore from all the talking she’d done all week. “This isn’t the same as just working for New York City. You remember how half the girls growing up had Crimson Countess lunchboxes, backpacks, birthday parties? Madelyn says within a year, those are going to be my f*cking lunchboxes. You know how many houses that bitch Countess owns? Nine!” She sighed. It wasn’t just the money… “This is a huge opportunity. And it’s asking a lot of me because it’s worth it.”

It seemed like it got through. Elena relaxed for a moment, until she turned venomous again. “You’re doing it again. You’re work-talking me.”

“What the f*ck? No, I’m just talking!”

“I wish you would just drop it. You don’t have to be that on-camera person for me.”

“I’m really tired, Elena. I didn’t want to do this now.”

“You never want to, and that’s the problem. We’re here because you shut down every time I breathe a word about the future.”

“Because I can’t give you what you want!” Maeve snapped.

Elena exhaled through her nose. Almost a laugh. “So you finally admit it.”

“Do you know why I’m so exhausted?” Maeve said. “Every day, I go to Vought, and I put on this costume, and I put all my energy into being who they want to see. And then I come home, and I do it all again for you.” Maeve chuckled, “Their demands are insane, and yet, somehow, you are way harder to please. If I avoided talking to you, it’s because you don’t listen when we do. You aren’t even trying to see what it’s like for me, because it doesn’t fit with how you think our future should be. I don’t think you see me at all anymore. You’ve made up some person in your head, who’s nice and supportive and well-adjusted and good and normal.”

“You are all those things.”

“No, Queen Maeve is. Everyone else seems to love her, but you don’t, so I’m out of ideas.”

“I can’t believe that you’re acting like I’m the crazy one. Like you aren’t the one totally dictating the terms of this relationship. We can’t go out in public anymore; I can’t tell anyone we’re together. I don’t like that, but I’ve done it for you. You don’t seem to see all the work I’m putting in just to keep going,” Elena wilted before her eyes. “I don’t mind, so long as there’s a reason for it. When does it end?”

Maeve opened her mouth—the instinct from the last few weeks, to give whatever answer that would satisfy Elena and allow Maeve to go to bed. But even her mighty urge to end this conversation as fast as possible and keep the peace couldn’t summon any answer she felt comfortable saying out loud.

“So that’s how it is.”

Maeve’s defenses kicked in again at the icy tone. “Don’t act like I sprung this on you. You knew from the moment we met that this is my career. It wasn’t a secret. What did you expect?”

“You saved my life that day,” Elena grew solemn, recalling their first meeting. “I guess… I expected that you’d be braver than this.”

That hung heavy in the air for a few seconds.

“I’ve been putting in work, too,” Maeve said quietly. “I guess it isn’t good enough, since you’re so unhappy.”

“I don’t want to be,” Elena drew closer. Almost a gesture of surrender. “It’s been hard, lately, but I care about you, Maeve. I like being your girlfriend.” She hardened. “But I refuse to be your mistress.”

“Then let’s stop kidding ourselves.” After so many hours, and knowing she had to be up again in less than six, Maeve was tapped out. She finished her vodka and dropped the glass in the sink. Unable to pretend anymore. “I’m going to bed. You can come get your things tomorrow. Or whenever. I probably won’t be back here, since I’ve got that penthouse in the Tower. So, no rush.”

“Maeve?” Elena tilted her head. “You don’t mean that…”

“Leave the key with the doorman, I guess. I don’t f*cking know. I’ll deal with it later.”

Maeve shuffled towards her bedroom while Elena remained frozen in place. She could stand there as long as she wanted.

Perhaps Maeve would regret it in the morning, but at that moment, whatever got her to face-plant on her mattress felt like the greatest decision of her life.

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was twenty-seven the first time she had her heart broken.

She’d had breakups before, sure. Her first “girlfriend” at summer camp was a mutual parting when summer ended. No hard feelings. Stephanie she dated for almost a year in college, even introduced her to Mom and Dad… Only for the criticism they subjected her to to end up making Elena notice all the flaws she didn’t like in Stephanie, either; she let her down as gently as possible a month later.

Elena had been fortunate enough to be the dump-er, not the dump-ee, in most situations. Which left her incredibly unprepared for what, in retrospect, she had to admit was a gigantic, obvious, iceberg that she’d steered into full steam ahead like the Titanic. Didn’t make it any less devastating, though.

Perhaps due to how unprepared she was, Elena went into some sort of shock immediately following the breakup. She managed to pretend it hadn’t happened for about twelve hours, until a knock at the door the next morning.

Isa practically bowled her over with a hug. “Lena!” she exclaimed. “Oh my god, it took forever to get a cab. Full disclosure, it was Sammi's birthday party last night, so I may be slightly hung over, but that will not stop me from being here for this visit. I know how important it is to you. Oh… before I forget…” She dragged her suitcase into the apartment then dug in the pocket of her carry-on. “Antonio is so jealous that I’m meeting Maeve, he made me promise to ask if she would sign this rookie card.” Isa retrieved a plastic holder with a Queen Maeve Vought Hero Draft collectible card. “He thinks it’ll be worth thousands of dollars, but if you think it’d make her uncomfortable, I won’t even bring it up, I’ll just tell him she said no.”

Elena burst out sobbing.

“Lena?” Isa asked. “I don’t have to ask about the card. The bad card is going away now…”

“Sh-she dumped me.” Elena could barely get it out. It didn’t matter. Isa wrapped her up in her arms, so tight. Tight like they only could for each other.

Elena was glad to have her there. At times, while they were growing up, it was a little frustrating. Isa always trailing behind, always getting more attention and more benefit of the doubt from their parents. But now that she was fresh out of college, and they were both grown, they had become fiercely close. And Isa was the perfect support, having counseled her straight friends at college through dozens (her words) of awful let-downs by the worst men Northwestern University had to offer.

Next thing she knew, she was on the couch tearfully recounting the fight, with Isa plucking used Kleenex from her hand and immediately replacing them with clean ones. “I knew we were having a hard time,” Elena sobbed. “I don’t know why she couldn’t say anything earlier.”

“She’s an idiot.”

“I’m the idiot for expecting anything different… because, of course right? I should’ve seen this coming… She’s that, and I’m…”

“Way too good for her!”

“You can’t say that. You never got to really meet her.” Elena wiped her nose. “She’s not usually like this. The last few months, with this whole Seven thing, it’s like she became a different person. Maybe she didn’t mean it.” A rush of adrenaline at the thought. “She’s been tired, making bad choices… And she didn’t really say it. She didn’t say, ‘It’s over,’ it was so quick… She just went to bed and told me to get my things, so…”

Even Elena didn’t believe her own desperate thinking. At that very moment, if they turned on the TV, they’d see the breaking news coverage of Queen Maeve and the rest of the newly-established “Seven” with the entire world fawning over them. Probably thousands of men who hadn’t heard of Maeve before and now would do anything to be with her. Not to mention the six men she now worked (and lived) with who were just as incredible and famous as her. Not to mention Homelander, the most incredible of them all. Yeah, she wasn’t gonna be taking back that breakup anytime soon.

“This tells me everything I need to know.” Isa offered another tissue. “You looking like this is not the work of a good person. She is shallow and dumb and doesn’t deserve you and you have dodged a bullet. It’s okay to hurt now, but I know you’re going to come out of this stronger.”

“I hate that this ruined your trip.”

“Ruined? No way. We can still go out for a fancy dinner. If you want. Or we can stay right here and order pizza… Or, call Mom and get her to cook for us.”

“Definitely not that.”

They decided not to let the reservation go to waste. They had a classy meal and ordered extra co*cktails and tried very hard not to acknowledge the billboards and posters and video ads all over Times Square, with Queen Maeve smiling smugly over the entire city.

Chapter 18: Age 24

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-four when she got the sex talk.

Not the first one, obviously; that one came when she was eleven and her Dad decided to “get ahead of it”, spending a lot less time educating her about what sex meant and more telling her not to have it (and not to kill anyone when she had it anyway).

The second sex talk came from none other than Madelyn Stillwell, her new boss. Ahead of Maeve’s first photoshoot with Maxim, for their “50 Sexiest Women of 2010” list. It wasn’t her first shoot, of course, but it was her official induction into being a “sex symbol”, which Madelyn told her, was on a different level from just being sexy.

Madelyn sat Maeve down in her office, and gave her a very clinical lecture about sexiness. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. I want to be as clear as possible. Our goal is that every single man in America will masturbat* over these pictures. And some of the women, too.” Maeve must’ve looked freaked out at that, because Madelyn added: “Lesbians spend money, too.”

“This shoot’s important. I got it.”

“It’s not just this shoot,” Madelyn said. “From now on, it’s serious. You need to make this entire country want to f*ck you. But you can’t seem like a slu*t. You need to keep them on the hook, make them think they have a chance, but also make sure they know you’d never be easy. And the easiest way to have a will-they-won’t-they with the entire male population, is by proxy.”

“What?”

“I know it’s a lot I’m asking of you. So I’ll let you choose.” Madelyn opened a file folder and spread out photos on her desk. Photos of the other six members of the team.

“One of them… I have to… date?”

“No. Certainly not yet. But an ongoing storyline, a tease for the public that we can draw out over years. Make them think you might date. Make them want you to date. So they can project onto it. You can pick any of them,” Madelyn said, then frowned. “Well, Mr. Marathon is out, because he and his wife are already beloved by the public. Noir’s a little old for you, though… if you wanted to go there, I wouldn’t judge. Translucent’s engaged, but the public doesn’t know his girlfriend, so if it’s him you want, we can keep her hidden. But of course, there are the others.”

Maeve shook her head. “I do not want him that badly.” She considered the others. Lamplighter was kind of sad, always having a jerk-*ff about something; she didn’t need to give him more material. Noir might be appealing, ‘cause he didn’t talk, so less annoyance… but then she realized all the burden of ‘acting’ the relationship would be on her. So it was down to the last two. Deep was certainly good-looking… but did she really want to tie herself to that second-rate Supe who barely had business being in the Seven at all…?

“I guess… If I have to pick one…” Maeve shrugged. “Homelander makes the most sense.”

“I’m glad you think so too.” Madelyn gathered up the pictures. “I think it’ll work very well. For both of you.”

Maeve realized after, that maybe it wasn’t her choice at all.

It didn’t stop what happened next… as she left Madelyn’s office, turned the corner, and almost had a heart attack when Homelander was waiting for her in the hallway.

“That was an interesting conversation.”

“Jesus. You snooping?”

He tapped his ear gently. “I’d hear you even if I was up in my room. And I believe I heard… you have a crush on me?” He smirked.

“No, I just decided you are the lesser of six evils here.”

“I’m flattered, regardless.”

Maeve began to walk off but Homelander called after her. “Hey.” She turned. “I’m kinda hungry. You in the mood for pizza?”

“Uh…”

“Wanna head to Naples?”

“Right now?”

“Unless you don’t think you’ll be hungry in the next few hours…”

And then they were flying across the Atlantic.

They got some fresh f*cking pizza and sat on a rooftop of some rustic historic building in Naples while they ate.

“What is this, anyway?” she asked.

“Figured we should get comfy with each other. If we’re gonna do the whole PR relationship thing.”

“Not even a relationship,” Maeve clarified. “A will-they-won’t-they.”

“Same diff.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Loosen up, Maeve. We’re in this together. We’re friends, right?”

Maeve wanted to deny it, but there wasn’t another person in the world she could really call a friend, at this point. She hated the rest of the Seven, and had no one else in her life. And she had gone to another continent to eat pizza with him. That seemed above workplace acquaintance.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” he said. “But, y’know, we should know each other. So we can sell it well. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“What’s your ideal man?”

“That’s… forward.”

“Fine. I’ll go first, if you’re scared.”

“Your ideal woman?”

“Strong. That goes without saying. The best of us. Confident. A leader, but not unwilling to listen. Someone who’d always stand by me. Help me help our country. Wants a family. Good values. Beautiful. Red hair…”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“You’re describing me!”

“I’m describing Crimson Countess, so check that ego, missy.”

“Countess? Really?”

“Yeah. I mean. Used to watch the old Payback movies. Her and Soldier Boy… didn’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

Homelander looked down. “I kind of related to Soldier Boy, I guess. He was the first American Hero. And… it must’ve been lonely for him.”

“Yeah… it must’ve been.”

“But having someone like Countess… by his side, until he went down in that reactor accident? I bet that helped a lot.” Homelander met Maeve’s eyes then, and something passed between them. Then he added: “And the rest of the team, too. Like a family.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“Your turn.”

“What?”

“Your turn. You have to describe your ideal man.” Homelander smirked. “And don’t worry if he bears a resemblance to me. I’ll know if you’re lying, anyway…”

Maeve’s heart picked up a bit. “I think…” she began. Forced down the memories that bubbled to the surface; the face that came to mind, that wasn’t a man’s face at all. “I think that when you meet the right person, you just know.”

“First glance?”

“Maybe not right then. But like, hindsight, at least… Once you know, it’s obvious.”

He stared at her. The sun was setting… it was turning to dusk. And the low light reflected in his blue eyes. So blue. “Don’t fall in love with me, Maeve.”

“Gee, I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“Good. Because if you do, it won’t be casual. If you and I got together… whew, our love would change the world.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-four when her love life was raffled off with every eligible purchase at VoughtBurger.

This was after the Maxim “Sexiest Women” photoshoot, and many months in to Madelyn’s meticulously crafted fake will-they-won’t-they campaign between Maeve and Homelander. It caught the interest of the tabloids for a month or so, but then everyone got excited about Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart instead. Searches for “Homelander and Queen Maeve” were down forty percent, Madelyn said with great disdain.

Thus, the VoughtBurger promotion, “WIN A DATE WITH QUEEN MAEVE”. Every purchase of three dollars or more would include a scratch-off card, with one lucky winner getting a meal with Queen Maeve herself.

“I’m sure you have questions,” Madelyn said, after she showed the marketing team’s presentation.

“Just one. Are you running a contest like this for Homelander, too?”

Madelyn just smiled. She knew it was rhetorical.

In the year Maeve had been one of the Seven, she’d learned that it didn’t matter how many people she saved, compared to the guys: she was only as profitable as she was f*ckable.

Whatever. It was a clear directive, and if Queen Maeve’s job was to be f*ckable, then f*ckable Queen Maeve would be. Maeve-Maeve didn’t have to do much of anything for this promo. It would be one meal with one random stranger with no obligation to continue; in fact, Madelyn assured her, there would be a strict time-limit and attendants would step in should the lucky winner have any ideas, because Queen Maeve had to be f*ckable, but Queen Maeve could not be easy.

One meal with one stranger—not even a real “date”, just a performance, like everything at this job. It didn’t bother her ever since she realized that she was playing a character. Queen Maeve did a few commercial spots, blowing kisses at the camera and asking handsome men to eat at VoughtBurger. Queen Maeve went on Live With Regis and Kelly and told them about her ideal date while they winked at the cameras and told everyone watching to take notes. Maeve-Maeve went home and didn’t think about it at all.

Instead, she thought about how she hadn’t been on a real date since joining the Seven, and about how she might never go on a real date again. She thought about the last person she went on a real date with. She wondered if that person had seen this promotion (probably; it was inescapable). She thought about that person winning this contest and showing up for a date with Queen Maeve (they had to show up, it was a contractual obligation on the person who pulled the winning ticket, probably), and it all spiraling into a wonderful love story they’d laugh about one day.

It didn’t matter that Maeve had been the one to end things, or that she’d never known Elena to eat at VoughtBurger. The fantasy (or was it a nightmare?) spiraled out of control, perhaps to avoid thinking about the much more likely reality that she’d never be able to date like a normal person again, and might very well die alone in the gilded prison of fame. The only way to make her mind go quiet was to drink.

By the final day of sales, she was shocked that no one had pulled the winning ticket and come forward by now. She wondered what would happen if no one did, if Madelyn would extend the campaign…

“I gotta tell ya,” Homelander said, as he walked in on her pacing the boardroom. “This promo worked. Made me crave VoughtBurger more than ever.” He had a bag of fast food in one hand, a drink in the other. “You excited for your date?”

“Whatever,” Maeve grumbled.

“Chin up! The whole world’s talking about it. You are a hot ticket.”

“I’m ready for it to be over.” Maeve stole a few fries. “Please don’t make me fake exuberance any more.”

“Aw, Maeve. Keep an open mind. You could meet your future husband this way!”

Maeve rolled her eyes. “I’ll hold my breath through the terrible date with whatever smelly creep inevitably shows up, and hopefully everyone will forget it.”

“Hm.” He stared at his burger without taking a bite. “I was gonna share some good news, but now I don’t know how I feel.”

Maeve stared at him quizzically.

Homelander dug in his VoughtBurger bag and pulled out a scratched-off ticket. “I won.”

Maeve snatched it from him. “There’s no way.” It looked real, but then again, it wasn’t her job to verify the winner… “This is a joke. You’re f*cking with me.”

“Nope, just lucky.”

“Was this Madelyn?”

“I’m ashamed you’d even think that.” Homelander took the ticket back. “In fact, I asked her why she was pushing this, and she said everyone’s bored of the idea of the two of us. But I read the terms of the sweepstakes. There’s nothing that says that your coworker who noticed you’ve not been acting like yourself, on edge since this promo started—who also happens to enjoy the wonderful food at VoughtBurger—can’t go and make a valid purchase, and choose a ticket, same as any other paying customer.” Homelander blinked. “There’s nothing in the rules, either, that says if that coworker happens to have X-ray vision, he can’t pick a ticket that gives him a good feeling…”

“You motherf*cker.” Maeve tried to sound annoyed, but her lips pulled into a smile against her will.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Madelyn won’t let this stand.”

“She’ll be hearing from my lawyers if she doesn’t. I’ve got my receipt and all.”

Madelyn was not happy with this development, but like Homelander said, there wasn’t much she could do. So she had to spin it as a happy coincidence, though no one in the public bought it.

Naturally, their date was at VoughtBurger. They smiled and played up the casual physical contact for the cameras watching.

“Thanks,” Maeve admitted, quietly enough that the mics couldn’t pick it up. “It’s easier to do this bullsh*t with you than with a stranger. You get how it works.”

“I know you’d do the same for me. We’re friends.” A moment, as he sipped his drink. “And it’s all for the cameras.”

As soon as they returned to the Tower after that outing, Madelyn informed them the numbers were conclusive. After that stunt they pulled, it was decided…

They were dating. Officially.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-five, and she’d been “dating” Homelander for about six months. As it turned out, answering the will-they-won’t-they with “they will” skyrocketed their popularity more than either of them, or Madelyn, could’ve anticipated.

To Maeve’s surprise, Homelander was chivalrous in his adherence to boundaries. In front of the cameras, he was devoted, bordering on possessive. Always a hand on her. Always his body oriented towards hers. A way of throwing her a look, mid-interview, a look that seemed to be “just for them”, and in a sense it was just for them, the only two who knew that said look was really for benefit of the millions of people watching. When the scene was over, he withdrew: a reminder that “we’re friends” above all.

It made it easy for Maeve to play her part, too. Mostly it was scripted, which spared her having to come up with sappy things to say (never her strong suit). Homelander, though, loved to go off script. Keeping the spirit of it, of course, but embellishing. Finding new ways, that Madelyn hadn’t written up, to talk about how marvelous Queen Maeve was and how he was the luckiest guy in the world to have her. Then a wink, a look just-for-us at Maeve, a reminder of the performance. It gave her a strange tingling, creeping sensation in her skin; she knew he had added onto the script, gone above and beyond… and he knew she knew it.

They were still co-workers though, and there was still serious work to be done in addition to holding hands for the tabloids. Maeve greatly appreciated the frequent chances to do good. Saving people was a rush that made it feel alright to be alive, for a day or two at least.

One day, they were called in to the aftermath of a gas line explosion in Maryland. They spent most of the afternoon pulling victims out of the rubble. Maeve saved a lot of lives, but it was grisly. A lot of blood. A lot of burned flesh. A lot of makeup assistants rushing in to try to clean her up and stay pretty in between rescuing each victim. Dozens saved, and only one person Maeve dug out of the debris didn’t hang on long enough to get medical attention. A resounding success.

She and Homelander had a tradition of eating together after saves. Not for bonding so much as for the necessity of fueling up after an extended stint using their powers, eating amounts of food that would garner weird looks and judgment from “normal people” who would never understand the sheer caloric output from shifting thousands of pounds of rubble, or flying at supersonic speeds. It was utilitarian, not gluttonous, and it was another thing they didn’t have to explain to each other.

They tore through the requisite meal, but something else was in the air that night. He offered a hand and took her up to the roof of the Tower, and they sat perched on the edge, 99 stories above New York.

It was all visible, yet they were away, above it. It was the sort of place that made one reflect. Of course Maeve’s mind went to that poor half-charred woman who’d shuddered and died in her arms a few hours ago. It wasn’t Maeve’s fault, but it made her skin creep all the same.

She puffed on a cigarette and nursed a bottle she’d brought up. Homelander side-eyed her each time she sipped—he didn’t share her inclinations in that department—until the wind shifted just as she exhaled, causing smoke to blow into his face. “Ugh.” He plucked the cigarette from her hand, tossing it away into the night.

“Hey!”

“You need to stop these filthy habits.”

“Why?” Maeve countered with a swig of vodka. “Not like it does sh*t to us.”

“It’s gross. And drinking, yes, it does. It impairs you all the same.”

“‘Impairs’,” Maeve scoffed. “You sound like a MADD commercial.”

“Don’t dull yourself down with this stuff. We’re different. We’re better.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna be better. Maybe I wanna be dull.”

He chuckled. “No, you don’t.”

“You don’t know me.” Maeve was growing genuinely annoyed at this point.

“We know each other better than anyone else on the planet. I felt that the moment I met you. I bet you did, too.” He’d gone serious, on a dime. Maeve never knew how to respond when he did that. They’d be bantering like work buddies one second, then he’d whip out some poetic crap that sounded like it was from the script of one of their movies. Except it was all him, all original, because he could do that.

“I’ve waited my whole life for you, Maeve.” He looked her dead in the eye, the two of them above the city of eight million people. “I can wait longer. But I don’t want to.”

He wrapped his hand around hers, lowering the bottle away from her lips. Not forcing her; she let him. They were close, already, on the edge of the tower, but he leaned further into her space. The space that was not coworker space nor friend space nor even pretending-to-be-dating-for-the-cameras space.

“You,” Maeve breathed. Reminding herself who he was, who she was, and where she was, because it was far too easy to forget. “You told me not to fall for you.”

“That’s what I love about you, Maeve. You never do what I tell you.”

They kissed for the first time—the first real time. Not a pre-negotiated peck for the cameras, but a spontaneous desire for each other. And kiss was not all they did… Well, they’d been dating for six months: no one could accuse Maeve of being “easy”.

It was not until the following morning that Maeve realized, in the need to hold him, she’d let go of the bottle, and wondered if it had hurt someone as it fell into Midtown, and realized, there in his arms, in the morning, that she did not especially care if it did.

Chapter 19: Age 25

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-five on her second press tour. Back before the release of the debut movie titled simply The Seven, she’d been very anxious, even though the interviews were diffused across the whole group.

Now, on the press circuit for Homelander: Heart of America, she had a chance to kick back and enjoy it. She had a lot more on-air time, as the second lead, but there was occasional downtime while Homelander was whisked into solo interviews.

Maeve felt comfortable once she realized it was all the same questions over and over. Low stakes, too. If things ever got dull it was easy to pull out a “hilarious on-set story” of flubbing a line or something and everyone would act like it was the funniest thing they ever heard. They were booked just enough that there were no scheduled patrols, no worries about saving lives. It was practically a vacation.

Days, laughing her way though interviews. Nights, drinking, exploring the finest restaurants and clubs each city had to offer. f*cking Homelander in new settings whenever he was free, but arguably having more fun when he wasn’t. Weeks of this. This was the bright side of fame. There was lots of pressure, most of the time, and it was incredibly lonely. But against all odds… there was someone by her side. Homelander was… Maeve didn’t know what to call him. More than a coworker, not quite a friend. Technically a boyfriend, though, that being the publicly-declared label decided by Madelyn, it didn’t feel accurate to describe the reality between them. It didn’t matter: Homelander was who she had, and he was the only person Maeve could imagine being with in this situation. Maeve was nowhere near as anxious and miserable as she had been when the Seven first began, and if things kept improving at this rate… this could be a sustainable life, long-term. Maybe she could be “happy” here, in the way people were supposed to be.

Weeks into the tour, Maeve woke up hungover. The previous night, Homelander was otherwise booked, so Maeve hit the club hard, but… As hard as she’d ever gone before, she seldom woke up feeling it the next day, thanks to her Supe constitution. Weird. She brushed off the vague headache and mild nausea and dragged herself out of bed to prepare for a full slate of dual interviews… Only to find her costume wouldn’t fit.

Her redesigned costume for the Seven had been a challenge to get into at first. She needed two assistants for the first few months, but wearing it every day, Maeve got used to tightening the corset-like chest-piece on her own. Today, no matter how Maeve squirmed or stretched or inhaled, the angle simply wasn’t working.

She was very close to being late, which would mean Madelyn would check in on her, or worse, Homelander—so her only option was to call a wardrobe assistant to her room to help. Though still embarrassing, someone without Supe powers nor the authority to influence Maeve’s employment at Vought was far less likely to make a crack about her body.

The girl, around Maeve’s age with brown hair in a pixie cut, stood behind and tugged at the straps on the bodice. “Suck in…”

“I am.”

“Just a little more…”

The girl got the laces closed and did the double-clasp to secure the bodice. Maeve could barely breathe, but that was standard. At least she was set for the day.

“Should I let Chess and the home base crew know, so they can set up a re-fitting?”

“Not a f*cking word of this to anyone.”

The girl got the message. “It’s no biggie,” she said apologetically. “I get bloated on my period, too.”

That would’ve been a perfectly logical explanation, if Maeve was on her period.

“What day is it?” Maeve asked.

“Thursday.”

“No, what date is it?”

“The 18th.”

She couldn’t remember exactly when her last period was. Was it a week before their tour? Two weeks? A month?

Maeve wouldn’t normally panic, since she had an IUD. However, recently she and Homelander had tried some new “activities” that conceivably could’ve f*cked it up. Homelander’s laser vision aimed at a certain area… f*ck. Maeve needed a test.

As she was doing the rapid evaluation in her head of whether she could get away going to the drugstore with a baseball cap and sunglasses, she remembered the wardrobe assistant, who had clearly put two and two together. Since the harm was already done… “Can you be discreet?”

The girl nodded.

Maeve dug through her things for her wallet and handed over two hundred dollars cash. “Get me a test ASAP. Tell no one. Keep the change.” The girl scurried off.

Even knowing the test was coming, Maeve was anxious the whole day. Her brain and body brought her to set and gave answers on autopilot while she kicked herself internally. She’d always been more careful with other guys… She got too lax with Homelander.

He was there next to her all day, in those pre-scripted interviews, which was fortunate—less conversation, less chance for him to notice something was up. However, Maeve was unable to come up with a good excuse to decline his invitation to lunch together.

While he chattered on about his thoughts on the latest trailer cut, Maeve asked herself: would it really be so bad? Things were good between them… While Maeve wasn’t exactly kicking her feet and flipping through wedding magazines… Maybe this was the universe telling her, “this is as good as it gets.”

He’d be happy about it; Maeve felt certain without even asking him. He’d never directly questioned her about marriage or children since they’d become… whatever they were, but he talked enough about the values of love and family and America that Maeve knew he’d be overjoyed.

However, he’d also have strong opinions about it. And if they disagreed in any way about how to handle it, then it would not only ruin the situation between the two of them, it would also ruin Maeve’s career. So the only rational course of action was to deal with it before Homelander ever found out.

“What’s going on with you today?” Homelander’s question jolted Maeve back to the present. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”

“I have to use the bathroom.” Maeve excused herself, partly to avoid questioning, but also because she felt quite ill.

Maeve heaved the paltry contents of her stomach into the toilet, unable to tell if it was regular nausea, or morning sickness, or the costume, or the fact that she hadn’t eaten all day, or her own anxiety about said nausea and the costume and everything making her physically sick… Worse, her stupid tight costume kept her from bending over properly, so some got on the seat. She had to wipe it up with toilet paper. Thank god it was a fancy restaurant that had free toothpaste and mouthwash by the sink. What the f*ck was taking that assistant so long? How long did it take to buy a damn pregnancy test?

After the last shoot of the day, Maeve told Homelander she needed to stay in that night and learn lines.

She practically ran back to her hotel room… Freeing herself from that costume felt better than it ever had before. She chugged a glass of water and ordered an obscene amount of room service. Then, she called again and canceled the order, asking for a single entree instead. Then, she called a third time and un-canceled it. She would feel gross either way; might as well not be hungry.

She was in a robe, spinning around in front of the bathroom mirror, squeezing her stomach trying to decide if there was a discernible bump, when there was a knock at her door.

Maeve was relieved, until she found not the assistant at the door, but Madelyn. f*ck.

Madelyn marched inside and held up her phone, with a TMZ headline: QUEEN MAEVE PREGNANT?

f*ckf*ckf*ckf*ckf*ck.

“Is this TMZ bullsh*t as usual?” Madelyn asked. “Or is there a trickle of truth here, and do you have a name for me to fire?”

“I don’t know her name. Whatever wardrobe girl was with me today.” Maeve sat on the edge of her bed and folded her arms. Swallowing back the slight urge to cry. “I gave her two hundred bucks to buy me a test, and she runs to press… bitch.”

“The key is, you have to bribe them enough that it’s more than they could get from a tabloid tipoff… but even then, some people will take the rush of spilling a ‘secret’.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“She’ll be terminated by start of business tomorrow. But in the future… you can just ask me, you know.” Madelyn sat next to Maeve, and then reached into her bag. She pulled out a home pregnancy test.

“Thanks,” Maeve murmured as she took it. The box was very light… something this important ought to have more heft to it.

“Have you ever done one before?”

“No.”

“Well, open it,” Madelyn said. “You can’t just piss on the box, you have to take the stick out.”

Maeve did not find this amusing. “You’re gonna make me take it in front of you? So, what, so you can march me right down to some Vought OBGYN for a photoshoot, craft the Queen Maeve babymaker narrative before I have a say in it?”

“No,” Madelyn said. “Even though, to be blunt, your decision to have a child or not would impact the careers of hundreds of people at Vought, it’s my job to deal with that impact, after you make the decision.”

It was a nice thought, but Maeve knew Madelyn was great at delivering nice thoughts that were seldom fully true.

“I’ll leave if you like,” Madelyn said. “I just know some women don’t want to be alone for this part.”

Maeve let her stay while she went into the bathroom and followed the instructions. Through the door, Madelyn asked, “Are we hoping for a positive or negative?”

“Definitely negative.”

Two very long minutes later, Maeve felt a surge of relief. No baby. Must’ve just been the drinking, and the partying, and the eating out every day, and the weeks without training. Still, Maeve made a note to get her IUD checked out to make sure it was still functional.

“Hopefully that feels better,” Madelyn reassured her. “The story will blow over quickly, and in the future… just talk to me. I’ll help you do what you want.”

“Okay.”

Madelyn tilted her head and paused. “Do you ever think you’d want kids?”

Though most of Maeve’s body revolted at the thought, her mouth replied: “Maybe. When I’m older… with the right person…” As she uttered that, she realized: the “right person” was lost to her forever. Whatever she had with Homelander, maybe it was right for this situation… but it wasn’t as good as it could get, and Maeve knew that. But thinking about it was no use. She’d made her choices that got her here.

“Apropos of nothing…” Madelyn interjected, “You should know, Homelander is sterile.”

“What?!”

“He cannot father children.”

“How the hell do you know that?!”

“That’s not important. Trust that it’s true. He knows it, too. He may not be keen to bring it up, but he knows it. Whatever you may do with other men is your own risk, but—”

“Thank you… for the, um, info.” It was weird for Madelyn to tell her like this, but it made sense. It certainly explained why Homelander hadn’t gone all up in her business once the TMZ story went live. If he saw it, he must have thought it meant she was sleeping with other men; however, he couldn’t confront her about it without admitting his own impotence.

“One woman to another… it’s a big choice to make,” Madelyn said. “You don’t want to rush yourself, but Mother Nature gives a short window… If you want to keep that door open, you might consider freezing some eggs. Vought could help you with that. It’s easy. I did it myself.”

“Um… sure.” Maeve never did end up taking Madelyn up on that offer, but it seemed—at the time—to be one of good faith.

“This has been a stressful day, I’m sure,” Madelyn rubbed Maeve’s arm. “I cleared your morning for tomorrow for an extra workout.” She slid down to pinch Maeve’s side through her robe. “Good night.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-five, and she was growing tired of some of the bullsh*t she was scripted to do. For how much of the Queen Maeve persona was outright made up, she found it baffling why she was still expected to answer with some degree of truth and normalcy when asked about her childhood. She also found it baffling why any fans would care about her childhood. She begged Madelyn to let her out of such interviews, and Madelyn claimed she’d do everything she could to minimize Maeve’s obligations in that regard. Then, she went and arranged a Mother’s Day interview special for all of the Seven.

“You only need to say a couple sentences,” Madelyn assured her. “You can say your mother’s dead, if that’s easier.”

Maeve agreed that was the easiest option—though she found it somewhat odd that Madelyn phrased it that way, given that she had never discussed the details of what she did and didn’t know about her mother’s identity with her boss.

She got through the interview, but it put her in a bad mood to have to sit there and fake-mourn for a fake dead mom while all the others shared nice stories. Homelander had the most. He went on and on about how his mom baked the greatest cookies, and cheered at every one of his Little League games, and always tucked him in at night, and it took all of Maeve’s power not to roll her eyes on camera.

As soon as they were dismissed, she headed off to the nearest lounge on that floor of the Tower to get herself a drink. Homelander followed soon after. As he did. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Maeve replied. As she did.

“You’re in a mood… and don’t tell me it’s PMS, we’re a couple weeks off from that.”

“I just don’t like all this family sh*t.”

“Hm,” he nodded. “That wasn’t your best performance, true. Not a lot of details.”

“I’m sure it’s easy for you. Who’d you get to write that crap? ‘Cause I asked Madelyn, and she said I was on my own. Did you hire your own writers, or what?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your obviously made-up childhood.”

“I’m confused. You think my stories are made up?”

“Jesus Christ. You’ve been inside me, but you won’t drop the f*cking act for me?”

“What act?”

Maeve took a swig of her gin and tonic. “That stars-and-stripes crap might work on everyone else, but not with me. For starters, no one would let you play little league, no matter how much you ‘held back’. I wasn’t even allowed in P.E. class when it was non-contact sports.”

“So because your schoolteachers were unfair to you, you believe everything I’ve said is a lie? What, does that mean that you’re lying out there?”

“Well, duh. That’s why I can’t f*cking stand this.” Maeve realized, as long as they’d been “dating”, they’d never discussed anything outside of their shared present. It felt oddly vulnerable as she laid it out. “My mom didn’t die when I was little. She ran off, presumably because she didn’t want a freak kid. It was just me and my dad, a f*cking alcoholic gambling degenerate; all the other kids either were scared or jealous—either way they all hated me, and every weekend I was making a fool of myself on stage for tiny amounts of money, all while he threatened that if we didn’t make enough to pay the bills, I’d get taken away by Vought and raised in a lab.”

Homelander’s face twitched almost imperceptibly. But it didn’t melt into doubt, or pity. Maeve wasn’t sure which she would’ve preferred.

“So yeah, I get it,” she continued. “Isn’t that our ‘thing’? That we both get what it’s like, for us, even more than other Supes? I just don’t buy that baby John had this perfect All-American childhood. And I think it’s weird and immature that you’re lying about it to me, of all people.”

His face remained frustratingly neutral. He revealed a small book he’d had tucked under his arm. A photo album. “I was on my way to bring this to Visuals for them to digitize and add to the promos…” he said, holding it out to her.

Maeve opened the pages. Dozens of photos of a young blonde boy with an adorable smile. Wrapped up in a blue blanket. Taking his first steps. On a baseball diamond, up at bat.

Humiliated, she threw the album back at him and stormed off.

It was their first fight—if one could call it that while they still saw each other every single day at work, which also involved acting lovey-dovey for the public aspect of their relationship. They didn’t have sex for a week, though, which was unthinkable at that point; they didn’t speak outside of scripted encounters, either.

To her surprise, that week, Maeve felt… lonely. It made her realize the extent to which Homelander had become her… ally? Her person? The one she could vent with, or tell the truth with, at least more than she could with anyone else at this company. That bond had little to do with their scripted romance, and only somewhat to do with the unbelievable sex they had, but she felt its absence all the same.

She didn’t know how to handle it. If this was a fight with Elena, then Elena would’ve been the one to suggest they sit down and talk, by now.

Maeve considered try to apologize to him, but that felt like admitting fault, and he certainly could’ve tried by now, too! Why should Maeve have to be the one to approach? Wasn’t she the one who was hurt and humiliated by that encounter? Even if she was wrong, she was the one with the sh*tty childhood, so why should he be upset if she questioned something that was true? Shouldn’t he show a bit more sympathy to her?!

She was mulling over all those reasons while they sat in a joint interview for either Teen Vogue or Seventeen or one of those. The interviewer, a twink with gelled hair and a silk shirt, asked them about their astrological signs.

“I don’t know the dates,” Homelander said, with a charmingly humble smile.

“Just tell me your birthdays, then. Queen Maeve?”

“March 26th.”

“You’re an Aries,” the interviewer gasped. “That totally makes sense. You’re fiery and strong and fight for what you believe in. That’s so Queen Maeve.”

“Hit me then. What’s June 4th?”

“Ooh, Gemini! That means you’re two-faced. Or there’s two sides to you.” The twink turned to Maeve. “Is there a private Homelander we don’t get to see?”

“When the cameras are off… He’s even more of a sweetie.” She exchanged a smile with him while also playfully nudging his leg with her foot. If the cameras caught that, the Internet would have a field day.

“Of course, your signs are super compatible, so that explains why you’re such a super couple.”

Then the director called cut, and Homelander moved away swiftly.

They were booked for another interview in an hour in the same studio… an early pre-taped Father’s Day segment (Maeve had put her foot down and demanded a brief, unimpeachable script from Madelyn for that one). There wasn’t much point leaving, so Maeve went to the private green room, where Homelander was sulking on the couch. With that same photo album; of course he’d brought it along.

The awkwardness was palpable, and Maeve was tired of being lonely. She decided to take a chance and do what, oddly enough, Elena and Homelander both did regularly for her regularly: check in.

The one hitch was she had no idea how to approach it, being on the opposite side of the conversation than usual. As she struggled to figure out what to say, he clocked her hovering. “Do you need something?”

“No, I just… you seem upset, so I was wondering… if something was wrong.” She didn’t apologize, nor call attention to the tangible reminder of their argument, but he obviously felt it.

“I’m not a Gemini,” he said as he cracked the album open.

“You mad about them saying you’re two-faced? You know astrology’s bullsh*t—”

“June 4th… that’s made up. I don’t know what day I was born.”

“What?” Maeve was confused. “No one remembers being born.” She felt she was doing badly at the “check in” thing, but she didn’t understand what he meant.

“You must’ve been scared, huh? With your dad saying they’d send you to a lab.”

His tone was different. He was trying to express something… Something non-bullsh*t. Maeve didn’t know what to say, but she sat next to him on the couch and listened.

Homelander flipped through the photos, showing one of parents in a delivery room, holding a baby in their arms. “That isn’t me,” he said. The next page, a baby on its own, swaddled in a blue blanket. “This one is.” The next page, of the boy in the Little League uniform. “This one, too. But you’re right. I wasn’t on a team. We used to have ‘field trip’ days, I’d get dressed up in different clothes, taken out, just to take pictures…” He turned to another photo, him blowing out candles on a birthday cake with his parents behind him. “The models were nice. Sandra, Tim, they came in a couple times a year, and we’d spend a day doing a whole bunch with different sets and costumes. I don’t remember when we took this one, but it sure wasn’t June 4th.”

“What are you saying?” Maeve asked softly. He hesitated, so she reached out and rubbed his back, up and down, gently. It felt odd, but it was what Elena would’ve done. “Tell me.”

“I grew up in a lab at Vought,” he said plainly. “Since I was born. All I ever knew. They looked out for me, sure, but they looked out for themselves, too. Always scared. Testing what I could do. My bedroom was made of steel, two feet thick all around. I guess you could say I’m your ‘cautionary tale.’”

It sank in with horror and clarity. At once, it made perfect sense to Maeve, and explained so many of the subtle oddities about him. However, it was also too terrifying to get her head around. Maeve had spent so much of her own childhood fearing that exact scenario, yet largely assuming it was a scary story made up by her Dad that would never really happen to anyone—the whole time, it was happening to him.

Maeve had no idea what to say to make that better. Nothing could make it better. So, she said, “I’m sorry… John.” She pulled him close as he let out tears. She had never seen him like this. He nuzzled into her chest as she continued to rub his back. All she could think was how it must’ve been pretty uncomfortable, his nose pressed into her metal chest-plate. He didn’t seem to mind though, as he sobbed for about five minutes.

That moment in the green room gave them a new understanding of each other. But it wasn’t a scenario they replicated often. In fact, they rarely spoke of it again. Sure, they had a lot in common, and sharing could be cathartic. But they both silently knew some secrets were better kept close to the chest.

And just as Maeve knew she didn’t exactly ace that role reversal, he knew it too. They were back to normal, Homelander dropping in on her when she was “moody”. It was more comfortable for both of them that way. It didn’t bother her as much after that when he kept it infuriatingly light or relished in the script. The script was all he had.

Chapter 20: Age 26

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-six, and she was the closest she ever was with Homelander.

After their mutual teasing gave way to a steady sexual relationship, a bit of that Hollywood shine had come off. Maeve had a clear idea of who Homelander was and what their relationship meant. Or so she believed. What she thought it meant was vigorous sex, constant praise, and getting everyone at work to do what they wanted. When she and Homelander asked for something, people listened. It was a far cry from her first year or so when she’d felt the heavy weight of expectation as the sole woman in the group. …Okay, that feeling cropped up sometimes, but at least now, when Madelyn asked her to do some degrading photoshoot, Homelander would be there right next to her vetoing it.

The public loved them, and Maeve found herself truly comfortable with the attention. Fame had always had its moments, though they came between swirls of anxiety. Now, it was like Maeve could do no wrong. Fans clamored for more of #Queenlander… strangers stopped her on the street and thanked her just for existing… thousands of bits of fan mail proclaimed she changed someone's life… it felt like karmic repayment for her first eighteen years of being bullied and ostracized.

Maeve was so accustomed to getting what she wanted at this point that she didn’t foresee resistance when she and Homelander marched in to Madelyn’s office one morning. The thorn in their side was a new movie announced at the Vought Entertainment shareholder presentation, a solo flick for Lamplighter, which was promised to be the “greatest romance in the Vought Cinematic Universe.” Ice Princess was set to co-star. Didn’t take a genius to figure out the math on that one. Opposites attract. How thrilling.

In fact, Maeve wasn’t concerned about it until Homelander yanked her aside and (while giving it to her from behind) convinced her this was clear evidence that the suits planned to replace them. “Think about it. Why would they need any other ‘romance’ besides us? The only reason anyone would greenlight a movie about f*cking Lamplighter”—he grunted as he repositioned—“is to try to pull the spotlight away from the couple that matters.”

So, after they finished and cleaned up, there they were, in Madelyn’s office, as they were on a daily basis throughout that year. “You can’t replace us with some inferior product,” Homelander said with a trademark finger-wag.

“No one said anything about replacing,” Madelyn replied with trademark nonchalance. “We’re exploring options for our other talent, as we always have. You are not the only two heroes I manage, you know.”

“We’re the only two that matter,” Maeve fired back.

“Are you ready for a dose of honesty?” Madelyn leaned her hip against her desk. “The public’s bored of you. This is not a replacement, but a much-needed break. Give them a chance to see something else for a while—”

“Bored?” Homelander barked. “That’s impossible. Homelander and Maeve are forever.”

“What do you want,” Madelyn sighed. “You want me to scrap the relationship?”

“That’d be a start. Then move our next joint movie up on the slate. Holiday blockbuster. Dominate that Hobbit crap at the box office.”

Instead of acquiescing, Madelyn began mixing a drink for herself. “Go blow off some steam—make love on the Washington Monument or whatever it is you do. We can revisit this topic at your meeting with the film team next month.”

Her dismissive tone snapped some thread of restraint within Maeve. “You can’t just brush us off like this,” she said, stepping forward. “You need us. If we walk out, this whole place falls apart.”

“Are you threatening to go on strike, breach your contract? Over something this dumb?”

“Are you prepared to make us?” Maeve countered. “It seems to me you’re not in a position to deny us anything.”

Maeve stared Madelyn down. She didn’t necessarily disagree that this topic was dumb to dig her heels in over, but it was the principle of the thing! She and Homelander did way more for the company—and the world—than Lamplighter ever did. Or Madelyn, for that matter. Or anyone of the so-called “executives”. They deserved whatever they asked for.

When Madelyn didn’t blink, Maeve turned and grabbed Homelander’s arm. “Let’s go.” He looked absolutely stunned and delighted.

In the hallway, he yanked her close. “You have never been more attractive to me.” He did, in fact, sweep her away to the top of the Washington Monument. It wasn’t very comfortable, but picturing the infuriated look on Madelyn’s face got Maeve where she needed to go.

Thus began the great strike of 2012, with a union of two. The first few days were a rush of travel and f*cking and wondering how Madelyn was going to explain their absence (they watched press conferences online to find she invented a “mission in the Himalayas”).

After a week, though, with no call of surrender from the other side, Maeve’s righteous indignation was fading. “This is silly, isn’t it?” she said to Homelander as they laid on the beach at a remote island in the Caribbean (owned by some billionaire who kept it closed to the public despite visiting only once a year, but they didn’t need a port to get there).

“No.” Homelander waggled his finger as he laid in the sand, naked. “You were right. They need us. Sooner or later the board will wonder why they aren’t making money off of our talents, and Madelyn will have to explain that it’s because she’s insisting on this idiotic plan with Lamplighter of all people.”

“He couldn’t be a convincing romantic lead if he was the only man on earth…” Maeve muttered.

“Exactly. There’s my girl,” Homelander nudged her leg. “Ice Princess can’t hold a candle to you. Or icicle. Whatever. Mark my words, Madelyn will be begging us to come back soon.”

He settled back down into the sand. Maeve scrunched up, arms around her knees. She stared out at the empty beach, the white sand, the turquoise water.

“Do you ever think about retirement?”

Homelander laughed. “Your joints getting creaky? I keep telling you, it’s that disgusting liquor. It ages you.”

“I just wonder… if everyone’s got the right idea. A regular life. No cameras. No fighting with executives. Might be nice.”

“Madelyn was right about one thing,” Homelander said. “You needed a vacation. Soak it up. She’ll call soon, and you’ll be happy to be back.”

Madelyn called the very next day. They flew in to meet her at the Tower, but she made no overtures of apology. “I’ll cut to the chase, since we can’t afford to lose any more minutes,” she said. “A coal mine collapsed in West Virginia. The integrity of the cave is too delicate for machinery to excavate it. We need you to rescue those miners inside before they run out of oxygen.”

Homelander paced the office slowly, with great drama. “Illuminate something for me. Why can’t someone else do it? Like… say… Lamplighter.”

“You want to make me do this? Fine. Lamplighter’s a no-go for such a combustible environment. Deep and Mr. Marathon aren’t strong enough. Translucent’s power is useless here, and Noir’s asthma acts up in unventilated spaces.”

“Surely there’s someone,” Maeve suggested. “You manage so many other heroes.”

“Eleven miners are trapped. Eleven people who have a short window of time before they suffocate. This is more important than petty marketing disputes. Time is of the essence, so can we skip the arguing and just go save them.”

“Time is of the essence, so just give us what we want,” Homelander declared.

“You’d let eleven innocent people die over this?”

“We’re not letting them die,” he said plainly. “You are.”

“Chopper’s on the roof to get you to the airfield, where a high speed jet will get you straight to the site. If you go now… you can save them.” Madelyn didn’t specify who “you” meant; she didn’t even look at either of them in particular. But only one of them would’ve needed a jet, and only if she went alone.

It was too much for Maeve to bear, standing there, pretending not to care. She moved to leave, but Homelander grabbed her arm and held tight. He stared at Madelyn. Calling her bluff.

What must’ve been a few seconds felt like hours. Maeve’s heart pounded as she wondered how much time the miners had. If it was worth fighting off Homelander’s grip to get to that helicopter…

“Fine,” Madelyn said. “I accept your terms… Lamplighter and Ice Princess are over. Now, go.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Homelander blinked and smiled. He loosed his grip on Maeve and casually led her outside to take off—without the chopper.

Saving the miners was easy enough. The rescued and their families thanked the heroes, the media decreed how fortunate it was they were here, while Homelander replied without missing a beat how glad he was they made it back from the Himalayas just in time.

“See?” Homelander said through his teeth as they smiled and waved at the news cameras. “This is why you don’t give in.”

“I wasn’t giving in… I just didn’t want to let them die.”

As the cameras declared they had enough, Homelander and Maeve were free to drop the smiles. “You said it yourself, Maeve: they need us.” He took her face in his hand, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. “They need us to save them. We don’t need them.”

In a way, he was right. For the days after the mine rescue, they were showered with a new level of adoration, but after a week of going without it… Maeve wasn’t certain she needed it anymore.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-six, and she was f*cking Homelander daily. It was more routine than passion, but a pretty fun routine.

Maeve had no illusions that this was a romance for the ages—most of the shine had already worn off after a few years of whatever they were (Fake dating for the public, fake not-dating in private? Coworkers with benefits? Two people uniquely isolated from the rest of humanity who’d started to realize that they had nothing else in common?). Maeve was happy enough to let the couple vibes flow at the annual Christmas party, because the sex was still good, and damn if she didn’t still look forward to their annual tradition of flying up to the North Pole on New Year’s Eve to f*ck against the backdrop of the Aurora Borealis.

It was great. But something felt off, as the calendar changed over to 2013. Maeve realized that she and Homelander didn’t f*ck at all between Christmas and New Years.

It wasn’t unheard of for them to take a break. Sometimes they were just too busy.

But Homelander was uncharacteristically distant—not seeking Maeve out, ignoring her texts. She caught him after a New Year’s Rockin’ Eve promo pre-shoot, with an obvious code-phrase for a quickie, but he claimed he couldn’t miss his next meeting and flew off.

Homelander was the one with the super-hearing and self-proclaimed lie detector ability, but Maeve knew him long enough to tell when he was hiding something.

His disinterest, even temporary, almost made Maeve insecure. Was she not attractive to him anymore? No. There had to be another explanation… especially because after New Year’s, they were back to every day.

Maeve hated feeling like a jealous girlfriend, but they weren’t really dating, so it didn’t count. After the holidays, she sweet talked the exec assistant in charge of Homelander’s calendar (not that he always followed it) and pried into what kept him so busy that week. He had, in total, six hours of meetings labeled as “Social Media Planning”. Maeve knew he couldn’t give a f*ck about that stuff. He cared about his image, but not enough to spend six hours devising Facebook posts with the people who got paid to do it for him.

But a memory came back to Maeve. She saw him in the hallway, talking with that marketing chick who did his Twitter takeover. Come to think of it, he was talking to her at the Christmas party, too. More in depth than he normally did for his requisite “you’re the real hero” gratitude towards any Vought employee who had influence on his brand…

Of course. Homelander liked her. No, “liked” wasn’t the right term. He wanted her.

Maeve had to learn more about her. It was not jealousy. If Homelander wanted to be with other people—fine. It wasn’t like they were exclusive, these days. There was a window of time when they acted that way towards each other, but Maeve doubted that either of them had ever been fully “loyal”.

It was not jealousy. Maeve simply had to warn her. A poor normal woman, who only knew the idealized brand of Homelander… It was easy to get swept up in his charm, and the woman ought to know before getting in too deep. That was all.

So she went to the social media floor and asked the receptionist, a young man with a patterned shirt and gelled hair, “I’m looking for someone. I didn’t catch her name, but probably 29 or 30, brown hair, blue eyes. Really pretty.”

“You mean Rebecca Butcher?”

“I guess I do.” Maeve quickly invented an excuse. “Homelander was raving about how great she was for his takeover, so I came to ask if she’d take over my socials, too?”

“I can let her know to call you when she gets back in office.”

“If she gets back in office,” murmured a balding man at the next desk.

“If?!” Maeve asked.

“She hasn’t been back since the holidays. Didn’t call in. Hope she’s okay.”

“I bet she’s just on vacay with that hot hubby of hers,” offered the receptionist. “Did you hear him? At the party? That accent.”

Maeve checked in on the marketing office every so often after that. She’d already established the excuse, anyway. She stopped by anytime she got a chance when Homelander was safely away from the Tower and wouldn’t catch her snooping (she’d never hear the end of it), to see if Rebecca Butcher was back.

After a handful of visits, Madelyn called Maeve in for a meeting. “I heard you’ve been around the marketing office a lot,” Madelyn asked, with her trademark faux-concern. “Are you not happy with your current social branding?”

“I, um…” Maeve tried to invent a new excuse, one that had nothing to do with Rebecca Butcher, but improv was never her strength.

“What’s on your mind, Maeve? You can tell me.” Madelyn gestured for them to move to the couch across her office.

Lying and leaving wouldn’t help anything. Maeve took a chance. “Did you know this girl, in Marketing?” Maeve was unsure why she used the word “girl”, since they were around the same age. “Rebecca Butcher? She hasn’t come into work since the holidays. Isn’t that… concerning?”

“It is,” Madelyn said. “In fact, earlier today, I was in touch with HR, who were in touch with the police. Ms. Butcher’s husband and sister reported her missing. There’s no news yet, but of course we’ll assist with their investigation how we can.”

Maeve’s heart sank. It could be a coincidence, but coincidences didn’t happen much around here.

“Did you know her?”

“Not really. Met her at the Christmas party. Kind of.”

“It’s awful,” Madelyn said. “All we can do is pray that she turns up safe and sound and all this worry is for nothing.” She returned to her desk, put on her reading glasses, and pulled out some paperwork.

Maeve approached the door. Then turned back. “There’s something you should know.”

Madelyn removed her glasses again.

Maeve struggled to make it through the words. “Homelander… He… I think he was…” She had no idea how to phrase it. She had a hunch? “I think he might have…”

Madelyn understood something from Maeve’s half-sentences. She rose from her desk, and grabbed Maeve by the shoulders. A steadying touch. “It’s okay. I’m glad you came to me.”

“What’s going on?”

“A possible tragedy to one of our employees. As I said, we’re praying for her return.”

“Don’t give me the party line! Please.” Maeve looked Madelyn dead in the eyes. “Did he kill her?”

It should’ve been an easy “yes”. The Seven all had their share of skeletons—Maeve more than most, and Homelander more than her.

So the fact that Madelyn didn’t confirm it was far more troubling.

It was the first time Maeve had seen her without a pre-planned, perfect speech. Then again, maybe her struggle for words was, itself, a performance.

“Your job is already so hard, Maeve. We don’t want to make it any harder.” She stepped forward and hugged Maeve. “You did the right thing, coming to me,” she whispered. Maeve's bones turned to jelly.

Madelyn released her. Back to professional distance. “But I can tell you feel bad. How about we arrange a gift from the Queen Maeve Foundation in Ms. Butcher’s honor? Set up a fund to search for her, plus match donations from the public. I’m sure her family will feel comforted knowing you care… All that, for a woman you ‘kind-of’ met once at a company Christmas party. It’s above and beyond.”

Maeve knew she ought to keep pressing, demand the full story—but she wasn’t sure it was a story she wanted to hear.

Normally, Madelyn talking down to her drove Maeve nuts. This time, it felt like Madelyn was trying to do her a favor. After all, Maeve still had to stand next to him every day, pretending to be in love. She was able to shut off her brain and ignore a lot of qualms she had with Homelander’s behavior to get through the day, but she wasn’t eager to make it harder.

Thanks to Madelyn, Maeve was still able to present with Homelander at the Oscars next month, and kiss him in their next three movies. She was still able to f*ck him for a while after that, pushing her doubts to the side for the distraction of momentary pleasure.

And, thanks to Madelyn, nine years later, Maeve was able to tell Rebecca Butcher’s husband that, at the time, she had no idea what happened. But she couldn’t look him in the eye while she said it.

Chapter 21: Age 28 (part 1)

Chapter Text

△ △ △

Vought was not Ashley’s first choice of employment, or even her fourth or fifth. But at twenty-three with a fresh Bachelor’s in Marketing and a 3.2 GPA, no one better wanted to offer her a summer internship.

It was hard to tell her dad she would not be coming home to help with her brothers, but also not hard at all, because hello apartment, hello New York, hello freedom (even if freedom was on an extremely tight budget).

Long term, Ashley envisioned her career in either politics or finance, on the public relations side of either. Prestige or money—or both, if she played her cards right. Pharmaceuticals was less appealing, but Vought was topping the Fortune 500, so it wasn’t a bad company to have on the resume.

She did her allotted three months of unpaid bitch work in the pharma marketing department before coming up on the prospect of unemployment and next month’s rent due. On her final day, she found herself in an elevator with none other than Madelyn Stillwell (Vice President of Hero Management—Ashley made it a point to memorize the names and headshots of all the VPs and above, in case of a moment like this).

Ashley took that elevator ride and launched into an entirely improvised pitch about how she’d always admired Stillwell as a trailblazer for women in the corporate world and how working in the Hero Management department had been her dream since childhood. It was mostly bullsh*t, but in this industry, spinning compelling bullsh*t was the main qualification, so maybe that’s why Madelyn gave her a chance… “Tell you what. My assistant just put in her notice. See Brenda on 89, and tell her to set up an interview.”

Through stars aligning, Ashley became Madelyn Stillwell’s new executive assistant. Still sh*t work, but it was paid, and it offered a close look into a high-level role. She told herself in those early years that it was still a stepping-stone to some other industry, but somewhere along the line, it became clear that this was Her Path, whether she liked it or not.

Ashley wasn’t too excited about meeting the Seven, not being a fan of the content. All her life, she’d avoided Vought movies; the ones she got dragged to with friends were a painful experience. She never understood the hype—grown adults with insane powers like that, and they spent their time running around on movie sets pretending to use their real powers in pretend situations?

Though she would’ve been far more starstruck in Hollywood, or DC even, it was still morbidly fascinating to be working so close with A-List personalities, to see them up close. Like watching animals at the zoo, in more ways than one.

She’d been Madelyn’s assistant for about a month when she saw it the first time. She was heading up to the boardroom to prep it for an upcoming meeting Madelyn had on the docket.

As Ashley approached the boardroom doors, she heard a peculiar BANG BANG BANG coming from inside. Almost like hammers—was there construction going on? Why the f*ck would there be active construction when Madelyn had a meeting booked with a Senate committee in fifteen minutes? She marched in with purpose, about to shed her assistant skin and act like someone with real authority to tell the workers to clear out fast…

Instead of hammers and hard hats, Ashley was greeted with a bare ass. There was a person attached to the ass, of course, and another person having sex with the person with the ass, and it was all so unexpected that it took Ashley several seconds to process that the f*cker was none other than Homelander and the f*ckee, owner of the aforementioned ass, was none other than Queen Maeve.

Ashley fled and caught her breath outside the doors. She spent the next three minutes fervently composing an apology speech in her head. It sounded alright, but as soon as the boardroom doors whooshed open, her heart jumped into her throat as she faced the two most important members of talent at this company, numbers one and two on the “call sheet” of the everyday workings of Vought, and prepared to say, “Sorry I interrupted your workplace sex.”

But she didn’t have to, because Homelander and Queen Maeve walked right by her. There was no way, with their super-senses, that they could’ve missed her, but she was a non-entity. Part of the background.

That was how it was, with talent: they wouldn’t even acknowledge someone below a certain level of authority, unless you were holding their lunch. Or if they wanted to ask you to get their lunch. Odds were, if they spoke to you, it was lunch-related.

And yet this non-acknowledgement gave the employees a curious amount of power… a grotesque, up-close look at the Supes that evoked godlike worship from consumers. They weren’t so different, apart from being able to kill regular humans. They all had asses.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-eight and rich.

The passage of time was not high in her daily consciousness, as she was suspended in that wonderful agelessness of her twenties, which no one questioned as long as she looked good.

Thus, she was caught with mild surprise when Madelyn called a meeting to inform her: “Your ten-year reunion is coming up.”

Maeve had to think for a moment, reassuring herself it had not been ten years since she’d left Godolkin, before she realized Madelyn meant high school. “Don’t worry,” she replied. “I don’t need time off for that.”

“That wasn’t an offer. You’re going.”

“Why?”

“You’re trending well, everyone’s gaga for the bikini cameo in Deep 2, but polls show people are starting to think you’re too untouchable. Too sexy.”

Maeve let out a snort, as she helped herself to a tumbler of vodka from Madelyn’s drink cart.

“Don’t laugh,” Madelyn chided. “We need to humanize you, and this is the perfect chance. We’ll make a docu-special of you going to your reunion. Organic, fun, grounded, and real.”

“See, what you’re picturing sounds nice,” Maeve said. “But I went to high school with a bunch of assholes, and I can guarantee the public does not wanna see that.”

“That’s what our directors and producers are for.” Madelyn pinched her arm lightly. “Come on. Everyone dreams of going back to their reunion to show off how successful they are.”

“I don’t.”

“Get started, because we’ve already got the permit to film in Modesto.”

Maeve could see it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. There was one condition she was prepared to dig her heels in for, though. “I’m not gonna see my dad.”

“Oh, certainly not.” Madelyn poured herself a drink, too. “Donald will not be a part of this.”

They stood and sipped. “Remember,” Madelyn murmured, “in a couple months you’ll be negotiating your next contract. If you nail this, it gives you excellent leverage with Stan and the board to get whatever numbers you want. Strictly speaking, I’m supposed to be on the other team, but… I’m looking out for you, Maeve.”

It was hard for Maeve to take that to heart as she grew sleepless in the days leading up to the reunion, with an amorphous sense that this was going to go horribly wrong.

She wasn’t scared… not exactly. She no longer cared if her peers thought she was cool. Mostly, she thought Madelyn was dead wrong; how would walking in to the reunion in her costume just to dunk on the normies make her seem “grounded”? It seemed to Maeve that she’d look like a jackass.

However, Madelyn thought of that. This turned out to be one of fewer than five occasions in Maeve’s career that she was allowed (or rather, told) to not wear her costume.

They styled her into the wardrobe team’s idea of what “Queen Maeve off-the-clock” should look like. Typical celebrity faux-casual wear, pants, a sweater and a brown leather jacket that cost $5000 all together. They gave her a blowout, without the usual wave in her hair. It wasn’t Queen Maeve she saw in the mirror, nor Maggie Shaw, but some third person entirely. Maeve wasn’t sure she knew how to be that person.

Liquor proved a handy lubricant for anything Maeve was asked to do at work, she’d discovered. Before Maeve left for California, Madelyn had informed her about fifty times that she was not to drink at this reunion. Maeve rolled her eyes, because Madelyn hardly understood how little alcohol affected Maeve’s ability to do her job—hell, most of her job she did better after knocking back a couple, which was why she got a nice head start throughout the day.

When the driver pulled up to the hotel ballroom where the event was scheduled, Maeve hung back in the limo to finish the flask she’d brought. Anything caught on camera would get her a lecture later, so this had to get her through the night.

As she drained the last drop, there was no more stalling. She stepped out, towards the humble hotel entrance—hardly a red carpet, but the camera crew poised to follow her entrance made it feel not too far off.

The crew made it impossible to slip in casually, so heads turned as Maeve entered the ballroom. Maeve inhaled, and retreated to that place in her brain that she went while filming interviews and VCU films. It’s not me they’re here to see, she reminded herself, it’s Queen Maeve™. Only it was harder to settle into that nook here, when she had no costume, and the check-in table had a name-tag that said “Margaret Shaw”, and the people waiting had seen her with braces at the back of Algebra II.

By force of will, she grinned and bore it… and the first few minutes weren’t so bad. She shook hands, and accepted admiring greetings from people who had never spoken to her back in high school. Madelyn was right; there was a sick satisfaction in girls who used to say nasty things about her now asking for autographs.

They had questions, too. Maeve got in a groove, treating her rounds like the press circuit, offering the same cheerful non-answers.

“What’s it like living in the Tower?” “We all get along, the commute is easy, and the view’s fantastic.”

“Do you ever hang out with Mr. Marathon’s wife?” “I’ve met her. She’s sweet.”

“What’s Black Noir like?” “Quiet.”

All told, Maeve did well for the first hour. Only a bit longer before she could head back to the hotel… or even back to New York, sleep on the jet.

Until she heard a greeting that she was utterly unprepared for.

“As I live and breathe… Maggie Shaw.”

Maeve tensed up as she turned to face Kyle Wicker.

“Sorry, sorry. Queen Maeve.” Kyle moved closer, and Maeve couldn’t tell if he was going for a hug. She stuck out her hand to ensure a handshake instead.

Ten years since he’d been her not-boyfriend, he looked decent. His hairline was further back, and he’d gained a little weight, but clearly knew how to present himself, in a Ralph Lauren suit and sparkling cufflinks. He seemed to be doing better for himself than many of the others.

But he wasn’t sh*t compared to Maeve, and given the way he treated her? Maybe there was one face she had longed to rub her success in.

“You’re the talk of the night,” Kyle said. “As you should be.”

“It’s nothing. I’m excited to see everyone.” With practiced humility, Maeve waited for either the groveling or negging to kick in—his two modes of flirting—so she could knock him down with devastating politeness.

But Kyle remained startlingly polite himself as they squeaked through small-talk.

“I’d ask what you do these days, but…” Kyle laughed.

“What are you up to?”

“Sales up at Oakland Mitsubishi.”

“You always did like cars.”

“Sorry—one second.” Kyle darted away. He returned a second later with a brunette on his arm. “She really wanted to meet you. This is my wife, Cara.”

Maeve was stunned as she shook Cara’s hand. Kyle was married, and his wife was—well, not a model, but pretty.

“Ahh! It’s such an honor!” Cara gushed. “When he said that he went to school with Queen Maeve, I thought he was full of it…”

“Nah, Maggie and I, we knew each other pretty well.” He held eye contact with Maeve for one second, then looked back to his wife. “We used to go steady.”

If Maeve had a drink, she would’ve choked on it. She must’ve made a face, still, because Cara asked: “Is he pulling my leg?”

“I’m just surprised to hear him say that.” To say it so casually in front of his wife; to say it at all, when he refused to admit it all those years ago.

“It was a nice couple months,” Kyle said. “Then, she went a little psycho that I was talking to another girl, and she put my frigging car on top of the school. They almost didn’t let me graduate.”

“She wouldn’t!” Cara gasped. “You wouldn’t, right?”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Maeve smiled. “Must’ve been another Maggie.”

It didn’t seem to get under Kyle’s skin like she hoped it would.

“Anyways…” Kyle put his arm around his wife. “We both did well for ourselves. Me and Cara, you and Homelander.”

Maeve blinked. She almost forgot that, as far as the public knew, she was in a “committed”, “happy” relationship.

“Why didn’t he come with you tonight?” Cara asked.

“He’s got things going on.”

“I’m just glad he came after me,” Kyle said. “That guy’s a tough act to follow!”

“Oh, you’re more like him than you know.”

“Anyways, it’s great to see you. We weren’t gonna come, but when we heard Queen Maeve would be dropping in, I said to Cara, ‘get a sitter, so you can see I’ve been telling the truth!’”

“You have a kid?” Maeve sputtered.

“Two,” he said proudly. “Lucky the baby is just old enough for us to leave for a few hours…”

Suddenly, Maeve was painfully aware of the camera crew, keeping their distance as they remained trained on her face to capture every microscopic reaction. She forced herself back to meet-and-greet mode, congratulated the happy couple, and excused herself to go mingle with other people.

Maeve was more successful than any of her peers, it was true. But all of them… jerks, bullies, burnouts, and nerds… had their own lives now. The more Maeve looked around, the more she saw the signs—people showing off rings, pulling out pictures of toddlers on their phones—a lot of them were married, and a decent chunk had kids.

Maeve had no pictures to show. Everyone already knew about her “success”; it was broadcast on every platform. The narrative was, she was smashing it, but in reality, her job forced her into situations like this, which she’d been dreading for weeks, pre-gaming just to get through it. Not to mention her apparently enviable relationship with Homelander scared her more and more by the day, with his unpredictable bouts of disinterest, which occasionally ended with beautiful Marketing employees disappearing, and bouts of intense possessiveness, which occasionally ended with him murdering anyone who looked at Maeve.

Maeve grew hyperaware of her peers around her. It took her back to how completely lost she’d felt in high school… Back when she was seventeen, applying to college, she figured that by the time she was twenty-eight, she’d be out of the Supe game forever, happily retired to a more normal and fulfilling life.

Here she was, ten years later, with no inkling of what she wanted, let alone how to get it. In fact, there was only one thing Maeve had ever truly wanted in her life, and she f*cked that up a long time ago.

Panic rose in her throat like bile, and Maeve knew of one sure way to keep it in check.

She headed for the open bar. “Whiskey neat,” she mumbled. She pounded it back and returned the empty before the bartender even put the bottle down. “Hit me again.” The same. “Y’know, it’ll be easier if you just pour the next…”

The director, some pliable new recruit hardly older than Maeve, hurried over, high-pitched and cheery. “Hey! Queen Maeve! Great stuff, the night’s going great—just, um, let’s relocate. Keep circulating.”

“I’m not done.” Maeve exchanged her newest empty for the waiting refill—the bartender caught on quick.

“Remember, Miss Stillwell said, it’s best if you don’t drink tonight? We can get you a mocktail if you want something to hold…”

“Miss Stillwell isn’t here.”

The director pleaded, but Maeve didn’t care, as long as the bartender was on her side.

Time dripped by easier with a drink in hand. Maeve melted through the crowd and fielded more interviews and gave answers that weren’t pre-approved to questions that weren’t asked. At one point, she noticed the camera operators had been pulled aside in a huddle with the director, not even filming her anymore. Whatever. She was still doing her job.

She intended to wait it out until 10:30, when the event ended, as she was supposed to. Just shy of 10, the bartender shook his head, said the bar was closed. Though he’d just poured a Sex on the Beach for Kaitlyn Mercer. Closed to Maeve, apparently.

The director stood close by. Arms folded. Withering stare.

Maeve gave the bartender one last look to express the depth of this betrayal, then decided her working hours were over.

As Maeve strode out of the hotel onto the streets of Modesto, she realized she should make an effort to disguise herself. She didn’t have her go-to cap and sunglasses, so she took off her leather jacket and threw it over her head.

She kept a brisk pace, looping around here and there to make sure the Vought crew weren’t on her tail. Once she was sure she’d lost them, she spotted a liquor mart across the street. Bingo.

She strode among the aisles, popping open a bottle of vodka from a nearby shelf and drinking half before she remembered she should probably pay for it first. She approached the register, fumbling in her pockets, finding them empty. No cash on her. “Sorry,” she muttered. “These aren’t my clothes.”

“Don’t worry,” the clerk said. “It’s on the house for Queen Maeve.”

Maeve saw two options: run away before anyone else recognized her… or cash in.

A few seconds later, her arms full of free “merchandise”, she thanked the clerk and made her way out. She’d chugged a bottle or two by the time she reached the end of the block… She wondered what to do with herself, and considered flagging down a passably attractive man and letting him take a spin while she laid completely still, for old times’ sake. Hell, if Kyle and Cara hadn’t left town yet, maybe he’d be up for running her over with his car.

That was about where her memories stopped.

The next morning, Maeve came to face-down in a pile of rocks. She sat up, scraping gravel off her cheek, where it left small indents behind… plus a crusted dribble of something along the side of her mouth. She felt like dried dog sh*t. She must’ve drank twice her body weight.

It was light, but she had no idea what time it was. She reached for her phone, lying a few feet away in the gravel—it was dead.

She dragged herself to her feet, dizzy, and tried to get her bearings. Slowly, her brain pieced together the images… It was the roof of Modesto High. This was where she’d brought Kyle’s car, ten years ago. Fortunately, there was nothing up here besides her and a pile of empty bottles. She must’ve been reminiscing in her drunk state.

Maeve didn’t know what to do, but any plan began with getting off this roof, so she grabbed her phone and the bottles. Hard to climb down with that sh*t in her hands, so she jumped.

Normally, landing on her feet from a two-story jump would be cake, but she stumbled and dropped the liquor bottles, which shattered on the asphalt… partly due to the fact that she was still a little tipsy, and to the figure waiting that caught her by surprise.

Madelyn was in the parking lot with a towncar.

The ride to the airport was not pleasant.

“We’ll have to pay off a lot of people who witnessed your meltdown,” Madelyn ranted. “Everyone at the reunion, plus half the locals—you really painted the town. We’ll salvage the footage from earlier in the night, but it’s not enough for a special… maybe a 10-minute segment for any talk show that’ll bite. If we’re lucky. That’s all we get from two months of planning and flying out a whole crew. Then I get a call in the middle of the night, have to fly across the country to babysit you when I should be prepping for Mr. M’s farewell gala—I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Maeve let the scolding wash over her. She plugged her phone into the charger port of the towncar. As it rebooted, she saw a dozen missed calls from the director, Madelyn, and other Vought personnel. That didn’t matter.

What concerned her far more was a single outgoing call, placed at 2:15 AM, which lasted six minutes and four seconds. The number was not saved, but Maeve had had it memorized ever since she deleted it from her contacts. She remembered that number even when she was blackout drunk…

It was Elena’s number. Maeve called her at 2:15 AM, for six minutes, and had absolutely zero memory of what she said.

“We’re big in the red on this, so you are heading straight to set in Burbank to shoot your new movie. And you better hope it does well, if—”

“Can we push it back, actually?” Maeve asked quietly.

Madelyn narrowed her eyes. “You must have a very good reason to be asking for any favors, after how you behaved.”

“I think I should go to rehab.”

Chapter 22: Age 28 (part 2)

Chapter Text

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was nearly thirty-two and nearly happy. Content, one could say. She was at a new bank, promoted twice, on track for another. Isa had moved with her now-husband to Chicago, but they spoke on the phone nearly every day. Finally, Elena had nearly managed to tune out the constant news about her ex on every platform.

Queen Maeve and Homelander at the Oscars. Queen Maeve and Homelander reveal secrets about their dating life. Queen Maeve and the Seven, more popular than ever.

Five years since they broke up, look at them both. Maeve was doing great, and Elena was doing fine.

Elena hadn’t had another relationship last as long as that one, but two and a half years was a tough record to beat. It wasn’t for lack of trying: she dated and slept with plenty of great women. None of them clicked.

Elena knew there was a “click” when it was right. She’d said as much in her toast at Isa’s wedding. Isa and Toni proved a soulmate was out there for everyone. Elena just hadn’t found hers yet.

Until early one Sunday morning, Elena got a voicemail. A new number, but there it was… her voice.

“Eleeeeeeeenaaaa!” Maeve sang in no discernible musical key. “Man! It’s been five years since I said that name. I, um, I haven’t said it, even though there are other people? Named Elena? I talked around it. I couldn’t think about you.”

Elena had to pause to collect herself. She’d heard that voice nearly every day on TV, but hearing Maeve say her name sent a shiver down her spine.

The message was over six minutes. Elena didn’t have time for this nonsense; she’d delete it and forget it…

Except she didn’t delete it. She listened to the rest. And then listened to it again.

It was only partly comprehensible. Between the slurring and what seemed to be Maeve mistakenly believing she was on speaker when she was not, the words went in and out. Even the bits that Elena could hear were jumbled and missing context.

“Madelyn said I shouldn’t drink, but Madelyn is not the boss of me. Well, technically, she is the boss of me… but she’s not my mom!” Elena caught “Modesto” and “ten year” and inferred it had something to do with Maeve’s high school reunion; the timing checked out. “All these dicks that were rude as hell to me before, now sucking up… saying how cool it was to see me, to know me… Just wanted to be on TV… and Kyle is married, and has a kid, and his wife is like a Modesto eight, New York six… and everyone has stupid jobs and dumb relationships that make them happy. They’re boring, but they’re real lives… I have nothing real. You were the one thing that was real, but I don’t have you.”

It went on and on. Elena listened until she had it memorized, at least the coherent phrases. What did it mean? Beyond the words and sentences. What did it mean that Maeve called her? Should Elena call back—?

Elena caught herself. They’d been broken up for five years, longer than they’d been together—and it was Maeve who wanted it that way. If Maeve actually wanted to be in touch, she’d call during daylight hours, without the influence of alcohol.

The next day, the headlines said Queen Maeve was departing for a top-secret mission, long term. This removed any doubt that the message was just a momentary blip. Maeve was busy in her great new life. She wasn’t waiting for a call back.

This mission proved a wonderful reprieve. Four weeks and counting of not having to hear what Maeve was up to every moment. It was the window Elena needed to forget about that call.

Until the next one.

The second call came shortly after 11 AM on a Saturday. It was a California number. Elena figured it might be her insurance, or a telemarketer, but she was sitting at home with Freckles, so it was easy enough to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

Neither of them spoke for several seconds.

Eventually, Elena managed: “Aren’t you on a top-secret mission right now?”

“Of a sort,” Maeve said. “I’m at a wellness retreat.”

“That sounds like…”

“Rehab. It’s rehab.”

“Oh.” Elena had no idea what to say to that. “Good for you.”

“Did you know that the twelve steps are super f*cking religious? God is involved in, like, eleven of them.”

“I think I heard that, yeah.”

“There’s a lot of cuckoo-cocoa-puffs stuff on top of it, but there are good tips in there. Especially this part about, uh, making amends.” Maeve paused. “I have a lot to make up for with you, beginning with that stupid phone call the night before I checked in here. Would that be okay?”

Elena tried to process this information.

“Elena?”

“Do you have to do it over the phone?”

“Huh?”

“Are you allowed to leave? You could come here. Do it face to face.” As soon as the words escaped her lips, Elena regretted them. What was she getting herself into?

When Maeve showed up the next day, incognito—jeans, sweatshirt, a baseball cap and sunglasses—it was jarring, since, like the rest of the world, Elena had only seen her in costume for the past five years. Maeve shuffled inside, took off her shoes, and the hat and sunglasses, and it was strange how… regular it was.

“This place is nice,” Maeve commented. “How long have you…?”

“Almost a year. Rent’s steep, but it’s close to work, so.”

“And it’s got south-facing windows. I remember that’s important to you.”

They sat at the dining table and made small talk, like colleagues that hadn’t seen each other in a while. Maeve asked about Elena’s new job and nodded along as if she was genuinely interested; then, she showed off her one-month sobriety chip.

“So you know I’m not bullsh*tting you,” Maeve joked. “They’re real strict about those, so you know it’s legit.”

It was clear the small-talk was wearing thin. “So… Whenever you’re ready…”

Maeve took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for that voicemail. It’s been years; I shouldn’t bother you out of the blue. And I’m sorry that it was out of the blue. I’m sorry that I haven’t spoken to you in five years. Technically, I’m supposed to just apologize for ways my ‘addiction’ hurt you, but I feel like this is a good chance to lump in general dick behavior as well.”

“Fair enough.”

Maeve continued to list a number of mistakes she’d made back when they were together. Elena was impressed at the self-awareness; she didn’t even remember some of these incidents herself. Maeve finished up by saying: “And I’m sorry for… how things ended.”

“Alright.” Elena resisted the urge to add an automatic “It’s okay” or “I forgive you”. She wasn’t sure yet. “Do you have other people to make amends to?”

“They made me make a longer list at rehab. Said I had to dig deeper, be honest about who I hurt. Thing is, out of all the people I’ve been sh*tty to, you’re the only one who deserves an apology.”

“I appreciate it.” It spilled out because she did mean it. She felt lighter. Closure, she supposed.

“Okay.” Maeve smiled slightly, then furrowed her brow, like she caught herself. “I’ll let you get on with your day.”

“Are you going back to work?”

“I paid for two months up front, so it’s back to Malibu,” Maeve said. “Unless there’s anything I can help you with, to make up for what I’ve done. Any, um, ‘reparations’.”

“You can stay and talk a bit.”

“That’d make you happy?”

“Yeah, it would.”

They moved to the living room. Freckles eventually crept out from where he’d been wedged under the couch, and walked over to sniff Maeve.

“There you are!” Maeve picked him up. “Were you hiding from me? … Guess I seem like a stranger now.”

“He remembers you,” Elena said. “That’s why he’s suspicious.”

“I have to make amends to you, too.” Maeve positioned Freckles in her lap and addressed him solemnly. “I’m sorry for throwing up on you that one time.”

“You what?!”

“f*ck, I forgot you were asleep for that.” Maeve let the cat get comfortable as she added to Elena: “I’m sorry for throwing up on Freckles one time.”

It was like an optical illusion. Here was Maeve, Elena’s Maeve, sitting here in a crisp Lakers hoodie she probably bought at the airport, talking to her like old days. But it was also Queen Maeve, A-lister, traitor, asshole. It gave Elena a headache trying to decide which version she saw at any given moment.

They moved on from small talk to Big Talk.

“What made you go to rehab, after all these years?”

“Things got bad, I guess. Worse. I don’t know.”

“Did something happen that triggered it?”

Maeve shrugged.

“Was it your school reunion…?”

Maeve ran her fingers through Freckles’ fur. “I was lonely.”

Elena laughed. She didn’t mean to, but she did.

“Is that funny?”

“You’re constantly surrounded by people who love you.”

“That’s not real. Anytime I’m in front of fans, or strangers… even people I used to know, it’s work.”

“What about Homelander?”

That was the elephant in the room. Maeve looked almost affronted. Elena wanted to say: Oh, was I not supposed to mention your incredibly public relationship with the most perfect man in the world?

“We’re not—it’s not like that.”

“Maeve. Come on.”

“It’s part of the character.”

“It was part of the character for, like, a year. Until it wasn’t.”

Maeve was taken aback. “You could tell?”

“When there’s photos of the two of you on every billboard, all over Times Square… I can tell when you’re faking it, yeah, and when you’re not.”

“It’s not like that anymore.”

The longer Maeve was here, the more the illusion began to resolve. It wasn’t two different Maeves. It was just the difference five years made.

“It’s been a long time,” Maeve said. “You must have some new people in your life, too.”

At that point, Freckles seemed to find the discussion boring, or else unbearably awkward, and he scampered off.

“Did you mean what you said? In that voicemail?” Elena asked.

Maeve’s eyes danced around as she admitted, “I don’t remember what I said.”

“It was hard to make sense of. But I think you said that you’re sorry. And you hate Vought. And you wished you never went to the Seven… that we never broke up. That you would give anything for a chance to redo it and have a life together… with me.”

“Huh. That’s more articulate than I thought I was.”

“I edited.”

“Well. If that’s what I said…” Maeve straightened up. “I meant every word.”

“Wow.” Elena had listened to that voicemail dozens of times, but hearing Maeve affirm it, sober, was overwhelming.

“But I shouldn’t have just dumped that on you.” Maeve got up. “sh*t. I’m an idiot, just a drunk rambling idiot.” She grabbed her things. “I should get going. I’ll go…”

“Hey, idiot.” Elena leapt up, and grabbed Maeve’s arm. “Stay.”

Maeve turned back, just in time for Elena’s lips to meet hers. She dropped her hat and shoes back to the floor to wrap her arms around Elena.

From there, the momentum was unstoppable, not that either of them tried. Clothes peeled off, as they weaved through the apartment, clarity of movement restricted by their unwillingness to let go of each other.

Maeve was as flawless as ever… maybe more, thanks to whatever celebrity workout and skincare and styling regimen she was on now. By contrast, Elena felt like the last five years had weathered her, yet Maeve was as receptive and ravenous as ever.

There was no shortage of others who wanted Elena; she never felt a lack of desirability. Still, to be wanted by Maeve meant orders of magnitude more than to be wanted by anyone else.

It was clear: Maeve wanted badly.

They ate a lazy late breakfast as Elena cashed in a personal day at work. Freckles cozied up to Maeve like she’d never left.

“I should’ve had a drunk breakdown and called you years ago,” Maeve joked.

“Why didn’t you? Not the breakdown part. You could’ve called. I’ve been here.”

“I was afraid to check up on you, because I knew one day I’d find out you were with someone else,” Maeve mumbled. “I checked Facebook—just once. Saw pictures at a wedding, and...”

“That was my sister’s wedding.”

“I figured that out after a few seconds, yeah. It still hurt.” Maeve sipped her coffee and cleared her throat. “Is she happy?”

“Oh, yeah. She and Toni have been together since… around when you and I first got together.”

Their love-bubble continued as they played hooky together. It helped that it was winter, so most people were bundled up and hurrying to their next destination, and that nobody thought Queen Maeve was in New York. They clung to each other and giggled as they walked down the streets unnoticed.

As much as Maeve was just “Maeve” without her costume, there were instances where it became clear how five years of celebrity had changed her. She kept accidentally elbowing Elena in the shower, blaming the bathroom for being “ridiculously tiny”—though it was larger than Elena’s old one. Then, there was her habit of simply dropping her dirty clothes on the floor, or the way she half-chuckled when Elena mentioned she needed to do laundry.

They cuddled, they joked, they watched movies. They had sex, and Elena started to get over her private anxiety of measuring up now that Maeve had been with another Supe. On the proper date, Elena made Maeve a handcrafted five-week sobriety chip, which she bestowed with great pomp and circ*mstance.

A few days into this bliss, Isa called to share exciting news: she was pregnant. “My sister’s gonna have a baby,” Elena told Maeve. “Oh my god. She’s gonna be a mom.”

“You’re gonna be an aunt.”

“I know!” Elena squealed. “It’s gonna be so cute, and tiny, and I am going to spoil it so much.”

“You’re really happy.”

“Yeah, Isa wants this a lot.”

“Do you want that too? Kids?”

“I don’t know,” Elena laughed it off. “On one hand, sure, but it’s complicated, and Isa and Toni have been planning and trying for a while, and obviously it’s easier for straight people—”

“I didn’t ask all that. Do you want them?”

“Maybe… Probably… Yeah.” The affirmative was frightening. “But… do you?”

The relevant question. “It depends,” Maeve fudged. “I have trouble picturing it being possible for me. Let alone going well.”

“I didn’t ask all that…” Elena poked her playfully.

Maeve sighed. “It sounds nice to have a family—a real, proper family—with the right person.”

“Isn’t that something. It sounds like we want the same thing…” Elena caught hold of the fantasy before it flew too far. “Pending what’s possible.”

Maeve grabbed Elena’s hand and blurted, “I signed a contract.”

Elena had no idea what this meant.

“I signed a contract with Vought,” Maeve repeated. “Five years, standard term length for a new team. Five years is up at the end of December.”

“Oh.”

“Whenever I go back, they’ll have a fresh one waiting for me. Probably ten years, this time around, and way more cash. But I don’t have to sign it,” Maeve said. “I don’t want to sign it.”

“You would just… leave? All the money?”

“I’ve got plenty of money.”

“And the fame?”

“I have plenty of that, too. More than I need.”

“And the endless adoration?”

“I would so much rather have one day of adoration from you than a million years of that junk.”

“Maeve…” Elena said. “Are you serious? Don’t say this if you’re not serious.”

“My whole life, I’ve had no idea what I’m doing,” Maeve said. “Like there’s some tool kit of how to live normally, but I had no instructions and all the wrong pieces. I took this job, I think, because people telling me what to do, what to say, who to be… it’s easier. But it’s not right. I finally know what I’m supposed to do. It took me this long to get it through my thick skull that it’s you. It’s always been you.”

How could anyone say no to that?

They made plans. Maeve would leave Vought on January 1st, and Elena would quit her job, too. They’d road trip across the country—living in the moment, and under the radar, while the dust settled from Queen Maeve leaving the Seven. When the time was right, they’d settle down, location TBD. Of course, Elena put forth Chicago as an option, to be near Isa; Maeve advocated for somewhere on the west coast (“You’d like it if you ever tried it!”), though nowhere near her hometown. Both of them felt it might be sad to leave New York, so, maybe that would pull them back. Someplace where Elena could find a job again in the future (she didn’t want to retire, even if Maeve had enough money to provide for their whole lives); someplace that had AA meetings for Maeve. Anywhere could work, as long as they were together.

It set butterflies in Elena’s stomach to share the plans, because she knew Isa’s reaction wouldn’t be warm… in her sisterly way, she held a massive grudge against Maeve for the last breakup. “It’s different now,” Elena assured her. “She knows she messed up. We’re getting away from all that. Her contract is up at the end of the year, and then, we’re free.”

“This is really fast,” Isa said.

“It’s not fast when we’ve known each other for so long.”

“Aren’t there warnings against people who are newly sober jumping into relationships?”

“Normally, yeah.” But Maeve was not normal. “This is how it was meant to be. We had a detour on the way, but… this is it. I know it.”

“Then I’m happy for you, Lena.”

This was the “click”. Elena was more sure than she had been of anything in her life. They had to go through that heartbreak to end up here. Their pain was all a part of a f*cking fantastic love story.

Until one morning, after twelve days of happy-ending bliss, Elena woke to an empty bed, with an envelope on Maeve’s pillow. Elena, it said. As if there could be any confusion of whom it was left for. As if it might be for the cat.

Foolishly, Elena tore it open expecting a romantic surprise. An explanation that Maeve was out getting breakfast, or a clue to some cheesy love-themed scavenger hunt.

All the note said was:

I can’t. I’m sorry.

She didn’t even sign her name.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was twenty-eight, and she finally knew what to do. It was always Elena. It just took all these years, and getting sober, to see it. Though she felt no fear about returning to Vought to inform them of her impending departure, she planned to enjoy every drop of this “vacation” while they thought she was in Malibu.

It was unseasonably warm, so they went for a walk in the park that day. Still cold, though, so Elena suggested hot drinks. Though no one recognized Maeve yet, with her hat and scarf on, they agreed it was easier for Elena to venture into a crowded coffee shop without attracting attention. So… Maeve kissed Elena, watched her walk away, counted her lucky stars… then went to reserve a good bench spot.

Only a minute before someone sat next to her. Maeve was about to politely tell the stranger to piss off, perhaps in a fake accent to disguise her voice, until she saw—

Madelyn Stillwell. In a designer winter jacket, and a fabulous scarf, and sunglasses. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

She stared out straight ahead, but Maeve knew she’d been caught. Worse, she had no excuse prepared.

“I called the wellness retreat to check on you, and they said you’d already checked out. We were very concerned. I was about to send the other six on a search, until I thought—let’s not panic without checking that handy GPS chip in your mouth. Imagine my surprise to find you right here in the city.”

“Look, I did rehab. I’m sober. I wanted a break to clear my head before coming back to work. That’s all.”

Madelyn ignored this explanation as a strange, warm smile crossed her face. “She’s beautiful, too.”

Maeve followed Madelyn’s gaze to the coffee shop. There was a line out the door, with Elena towards the end.

“We’re friends,” Maeve stammered. “Old friends, from before I was in the Seven. I needed someone to crash with—”

“Yes, I was aware of your ‘friendship’ when we first recruited you,” Madelyn said plainly. “I can tell what you see in her. Though I’m surprised to see you playing around like this, now of all times. I was thrilled you decided to get your act together, but… replacing one addiction with another? It’s not good for you, or for her. I gave you time, because I hoped you would come to your senses on your own. But it’s time to grow up, leave this domestic role-play behind, and come back to work.”

Maeve felt about seventeen different emotions simultaneously, including flabbergasted, furious, and terrified, but she gathered her courage. “I don’t think I will.”

“Excuse me?”

“My contract’s up; I’m not re-signing. Consider this your notice.”

Maeve steeled herself for the scathing criticism that was sure to come in retaliation. Madelyn took off her sunglasses and looked at Maeve properly.

“You remind me so much of this friend I had, back in school.” Madelyn smiled wistfully. “She was smart, ambitious, first in her family to go to college. She was headed for great things. Until she met this guy, thought he was so dreamy, the only one who got her. Their romance was everything. It was like her brain turned off. She ran off with him, across the country, looking for a house, family, the whole deal. Thought she was headed for a happy ending. Guess what? She ran away again a month later. This time, running from the man she loved.”

“I don’t give a sh*t about your ‘friend’,” Maeve snapped. “That’s got nothing to do with me.”

Madelyn sighed. “I’ve got a two o’clock, so I need to wrap this up. You can either come back to the Tower with me, right now, I found you at rehab, where you were supposed to be, the phones weren’t working, day is saved. Or, you can come back tomorrow after saying your ‘goodbyes’, which will turn into a terrible fight, because lovely Elena will not understand what you need to do, and I think you know that.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can leave your contract. Hell, you can leave New York. But you’ll still be Queen Maeve, even if you’re not getting paid. You think paps will stop following you just because you hang up the cape—boots—whatever? They’ll look harder. Fans, too. At a grocery store? At a restaurant? You’ll get mobbed, and I won’t be able to protect you from the sh*t that’ll come your way.”

“I don’t need protecting. I can look after us.”

“Maeve, please. I don’t want to see you make a mistake. I have been looking out for you since the very start. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who has.”

“You’re not looking out for me. You’re looking out for your career. You just want to have me in your ‘portfolio’.”

Madelyn was losing ground and she knew it. Her tactics grew more desperate. “Think of the people you’ll disappoint. A lot of girls look up to you. If their hero disappears… for what? It’ll crush them.”

A weak argument. Maeve was about to walk away, go join Elena in line—what did she have to lose being seen?

“Don’t forget who you’ll hurt the most,” Madelyn added. “Homelander will be heartbroken.”

Maeve froze. She had managed to ignore, until this point, the possibility of what would happen if Homelander ever heard about this… Not if, but when. If she were to leave the Seven, she’d have to give a reason. Even if she gave a fake explanation and asked the press to “respect her privacy”, Homelander would seek out the truth personally, and he wouldn’t be happy about it. In that moment, the dam of denial broke. Maeve knew Madelyn was right. She was horrible and coercive and snarkier than she had to be, but she was right.

“I can’t just abandon Elena,” Maeve creaked. “She’ll never forgive me.”

“That’s good,” Madelyn stood, replacing her sunglasses. “That’ll make it easier. You need her to hate you.”

Madelyn walked off. Conversation over, agreement reached.

Elena returned with coffees and kisses. Maeve sat there, the rest of the day, the rest of the evening, selfishly drinking it in.

She had no idea how to explain it, except that she couldn’t possibly say any of it to Elena’s face. She sat there trying to compose it in her head while Elena changed into her pajamas. Maeve kissed Elena good night, one last time. As Elena’s breathing steadied into slumber, Maeve watched her, for a while. It was impossible to pull herself away, yet she did.

Maeve wrote at least a dozen drafts of that note. She tried the truth, first. I don’t want to go back, but if Homelander finds out about us, he will kill you. It sounded idiotic. She wrote drafts full of sweet words, listing everything she would miss about Elena, but that came out sounding even more cruel, and Maeve was never good at that poetic crap anyway. She tried a version that was purely objective and emotionless, laying out the facts to convince Elena it was actually best for both of them. That sounded dumb too.

“You need her to hate you.” Madelyn was right. So Maeve went with the draft that was the shortest, the sweetest, the cruelest, and the truest.

Maeve kept her head down as she walked back to the Tower. Security almost stopped her as she headed for the employee-access elevator… then apologized profusely. “Queen Maeve! I didn’t recognize you in—er, I didn’t know you were expected back so soon.”

Maeve shrugged it off, and headed up to her apartment. She put her costume on for the first time in almost two months… the longest she’d gone without it since before the Seven, before college, even. She looked at herself in the mirror and her throat scrunched up like someone was squeezing her trachea in their fist. She headed for her lounge, on pure instinct—the coping mantras they taught her in rehab flying out the window—and found the bar was empty. The fridge, too. Some helpful asshole had cleaned all the liquor out of her apartment.

Muffled, from out in the hallway: “Whatcha looking for?”

A knock at the door. Maeve opened it to let Homelander in. Of course he was waiting for her, snooping with his x-ray vision. “You need groceries after being away?”

“Hello to you, too,” Maeve said.

“I’m just kidding around. I missed you.”

Maeve couldn’t muster a response. She was only grateful that she had time to change before he ambushed her.

“Someone’s seriously un-fun today,” he said. “Look, cards on the table. Madelyn tried to keep it under wraps, what you were really up to, but she’s not so good at the keeping of secrets from me.”

Maeve’s throat tightened even more, and she knew her heart was speeding up like mad. “What do you mean?”

“Relax, Maeve,” Homelander laughed. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Personally, I’m relieved you finally dealt with your sad, gross problem.”

That was all. Rehab was the secret. It was fine.

“You’re welcome, by the way—I knew you’d need a little help—a lot of help—so I tipped off Housekeeping to remove all temptation before you got back.”

“Thanks,” Maeve said, and she half-meant it. Sobriety was the only thing she had to show for the last two months, the only thing that salvaged them from being the biggest train-wreck of her train-wreck life, so it was worth preserving.

“It’s almost ten,” Homelander said. “We better get to the boardroom, huh?”

As Maeve and Homelander headed to 99 for the Seven’s daily briefing, everyone stared at her… Maeve stared, too, because there was a stranger in Mr. Marathon’s chair. Before she could blink, the newbie was in front of her, offering a handshake. “Queen Maeve. It’s an honor to finally meet you. A-Train.”

Right… Maeve forgot that life went on while she was gone. Mr. Marathon’s retirement was made official, and the replacement had already settled in. “Nice to meet you.” They took their seats next to each other.

“I gotta say, it’s pretty amazing you’ve been out on this mission. I’m a New Yorker at heart, but I’d love to go on one of those global missions—if you got any tips.”

Snickers from Translucent.

“What?” A-Train was the picture of innocence. Apparently the other dicks hadn’t rubbed off on him just yet.

“Go on, Maeve,” Translucent said. “Tell him about your ‘mission’.”

Deep and Lamplighter snickered as well.

“Hey, now…” Homelander cautioned.

“What am I missing here?” A-Train asked.

“Nothing,” Deep said. “Maeve was seriously undercover. You might say she was… anonymous.”

“Don’t ruin it for the public,” Translucent laughed. “But the only ‘Mission’ Maeve knows is printed on a bottle of tequila.”

“Our very own Lindsay Lohan,” Lamplighter added.

The others broke into guffaws. Even A-Train let out a chuckle at that one.

“That’s enough!” Homelander snapped. “Maeve was at rehab. Very funny, ha-ha—if you’re eight years old. Addiction is a serious issue that affects millions of Americans.” He circled the table, as he did when he was grandstanding. “I’m ashamed of you all. Is it pathetic for one of the seven greatest superheroes in the world to be a common lush? Absolutely, but Maeve conquered it, and she could use our support.” He stopped behind Maeve, and rubbed her shoulders. Maeve wanted to melt into her chair.

After the meeting, A-Train headed off with Deep and Translucent and Lamplighter. Chattering like schoolgirls. There went any hope for that one.

Homelander whispered in Maeve’s ear: “Don’t worry about them. It’s good to have you back.” He winked as he left.

Black Noir, who had sat through it all with his typical silence, approached Maeve, put a hand on his chest, then walked away.

Maeve tried, she really did. She recalled all the coping strategies and affirmations and crap they taught her in rehab, but she figured if any of those AA yahoos knew what her life was like, they’d say: “Go ahead and drink. You need it.”

By the end of that first day back—which concluded with signing a newly-inked contract to keep being Queen Maeve for ten more years, locking herself into another decade of misery in exchange for truly obscene amounts of money that made her current salary look like minimum wage—every cell in Maeve’s body cried out for alcohol.

Homelander, despite everything, knew her well; he had the foresight to also have all liquor removed from the boardroom, and all the public lounges on the 99th, 98th, and 97th floors. Maeve checked.

It was infuriating, but she knew there was liquor somewhere in this Tower, and at 8pm… she headed for Madelyn’s office. No way Homelander would’ve confiscated Madelyn’s personal drink cart.

The office was empty. Bingo. Maeve didn’t bother turning on the light; she went straight to grab a bottle.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat on the couch, in the dark, holding that bottle. The prescribed advice for this situation was to call her therapist from rehab, but she never spoke a word to that quack in her mandatory sessions back in Malibu, and she wasn’t about to start now. She didn’t have a sponsor or any other person she could confide in; the closest was Elena, and she could not call Elena ever again. She sat alone, with the giant portrait of Queen Maeve on the wall staring down at her. Daring her to do it. What more do you have to lose?

At some point, the light flicked on. “Maeve?”

Madelyn was at the door. Bag in hand. She must’ve forgotten something. Maeve waited for the verbal lashing, to cut her down, make her feel guilty and ashamed and small.

Madelyn took in the situation. She put down her bag. She calmly removed the bottle from Maeve’s hands, placing it back on the cart. She sat next to Maeve, and put her arms around her. “I’m very proud of you,” she whispered.

Maeve began to cry. It was precisely why she wanted a drink in the first place, so this wouldn’t happen. Madelyn rubbed her back up and down. “Good girl,” she cooed. “Let it out.”

Once the crying started, she couldn’t stop. Silent tears turned into loud, honking sobs and half-words. I miss her and she hates me and it hurts.

“Shhh,” Madelyn kept one arm around Maeve, while gently stroking her hair with the other. “You did the right thing. I know it hurts now, but you are so much stronger than you know.”

Maeve cried harder. There was nothing in the universe scarier than being any stronger than she already was.

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was thirty-two and unhappier than she’d ever been.

Maeve fooled her once, five years ago, and Elena had no trouble blaming her. After being fooled yet again, as the saying went, she could only blame herself.

Somehow, it hurt more than the first breakup, possibly because the circ*mstances were even more obviously doomed this time around. Yet, Elena had managed to convince herself that she and Maeve loved each other so much they were the exception to all logic. It didn’t matter that Maeve was just barely sober, having skipped out halfway through her prescribed term at rehab, making huge proclamations about changing her entire life; it didn’t matter that they’d only been back “together” for a couple of weeks. Elena had still believed, somehow, that it was going to work out like a fairy tale.

It didn’t exactly help that she couldn’t confide in her friends, for obvious reasons. Five years ago, based on her sudden and precipitous depression, they sussed out that Elena had some kind of secret relationship which had ended poorly. Though they managed to deduce/bully it out of her that her ex was a famous name, they still had no idea it was Queen Maeve. Out of respect, they didn’t try too hard to figure out who it was, but they did insist upon the creation of a code name for the rare moments when the famous ex came up organically in conversation. “Buttercup”, Elena had conceded, which naturally led her friends to theorize if it was a sort of clue to the ex’s identity (Em suggested Elena had a cheeky generation-gap affair with Robin Wright). None of them guessed that Elena’s inspiration for the nickname came from how many times Maeve had built her up, just to let her down.

Needless to say, Elena was not eager to let them know that “Buttercup” had built her up and broken her heart yet again and invite a fresh round of theorizing—especially with the non-trivial risk that one of them might connect the timing to Queen Maeve’s absence from and return to public appearances.

In addition, Elena worked very hard to avoid the subject any time she was on the phone with Isa, as well. She wished she had never told Isa that she’d gotten back with Maeve in the first place. She wasn’t comfortable with lying to her sister (nor skilled at it), so she dodged Isa’s calls and texts for several days while she stayed in a funk, only leaving her apartment to go to work.

Eventually, Isa texted claiming that she would report Elena as kidnapped if she didn’t answer an actual phone call. “Sorry, I’ve been busy,” Elena answered mechanically as she prepared to get it over with.

“I was only kidding. But it’s been ages. How are you… and how’s Maeve? Oh, I was meaning to ask: when are you going to tell Mom and Dad? Not to rush you, but I almost slipped up and mentioned it when I was on the phone with them the other night, talking about numbers for Christmas Eve… Or have you told them already? Is she coming with you to Christmas?”

“She’s not coming.” Elena spat it out quick. “It didn’t work out; you can get your ‘I told you so’ in now.”

“I’m sorry,” Isa left space for Elena to say more, then filled the dead air, “But I’ll be there soon, for Christmas. We can cry it out, watch all the best movies. With popcorn. And ice cream. I’ve had crazy cravings lately.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Elena insisted both to Isa, and to herself. She may have been foolish enough to get dumped again, but she wasn’t going to let herself mope for months like she did before. As silly as it was to trust Maeve again, it was even sillier to cry over her.

She pushed it out of her mind and went through her routine, until Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad hosted at their condo, and Isa and Antonio flew in for the holiday. The parents couldn’t get enough of touching her belly; Dad swore he felt the baby kick, despite it being about a month too early for that (and Isa herself assuring everyone else she felt nothing).

They made it almost fifteen minutes into dinner before Mom had to ask if Elena was seeing anyone. Obviously, Elena had prepared herself for this inevitable question with a thorough, conversation-ending denial, but in the actual moment it flew out of her head. A terrible stab of anxiety tore through her chest and she got up and left, only able to mutter, “Excuse me.”

She ran off to the “home gym”, which was more accurately used as a storage room; still, years later, with numerous boxes stacked in the corner from where they’d brought them upon moving in. When Maeve had helped them move. Elena’s jaw trembled at the memory, but she couldn’t let herself cry, not here.

The door creaked open. Isa had chased her. “Just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. Go back before Mom comes and scolds us both for running away.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Toni will keep them occupied. He’s telling the story of when he got bit by a shark,” Isa said. “He didn’t actually. He saw a shark while on a scuba tour. But he’s a great storyteller.”

For some reason, at that moment, the tears poured down Elena’s cheeks. There was no stopping it once it started. Elena hadn’t shed a single tear since Maeve left; now, the floodgates were open.

Isa didn’t question it. She stepped close and pulled Elena into her arms.

“She left in the middle of the night,” Elena sobbed. “She snuck out and left a f*cking note. ‘I’m sorry’… She didn’t have the guts to say it to my face.”

“It’s okay. Let it out.” Isa rubbed her back.

“I feel so stupid. Of course it wouldn’t work out. You knew it. Anyone with half a brain could’ve seen it. She said she hated being famous, she wanted to leave it all behind… She said she wanted to have a family together. And I believed her. Like an idiot.”

“Hey.” Isa released her and stared her in the eye. “Don’t talk about my big sister that way.”

“She was sober, Isa,” Elena croaked. “She seemed… different. I really thought she changed.”

“Who was it who said, ‘When someone shows you who they are… believe them the first time?’”

Elena sniffed. “Maya Angelou.”

“See? You aren’t an idiot. You’re still my annoyingly smart sister.”

Only Isa could calm her like this. Elena blinked as the tears stopped. “I’m so embarrassed. And I can’t tell anyone else about it. I can’t even be upset in front of other people.”

“You could. You don’t owe her anything…” Isa paused, seeing Elena’s reaction to that implication. “But you won’t, because you are so much better than her. You are so thoughtful, and protective, and caring, and some woman who doesn’t have her head up her own asshole is going to be so, so lucky to be with you one day.”

Elena smiled, briefly. As she dried her cheeks, she said, “Please, Isa, promise me you’ll never let me get back with her again. No matter what happens. Swear you’ll stop me.”

“Oh, I swear,” Isa vowed. “And if I ever see her in these streets, she’d better walk the other way. I’m not kidding,” she insisted. “I don’t care about superpowers. I will wreck her emotionally, if that’s what it takes.”

Once again, Isa gave Elena the strength she needed—to get through Christmas, at least. While she couldn’t make good on her promise to herself not to let Maeve get her down in the dumps, a few months later, Elena gave in and sought out a therapist. Many appointments and many billable hours later, with Connie’s endless wisdom and strict assurances of doctor-patient confidentiality, Elena finally felt like she was moving past the damage Maeve had done to her. She could finally imagine a light at the end of the tunnel, a life she didn’t waste away hoping the most famous woman in the country would drop everything and come back to her just to break her heart another time.

Chapter 23: Age 33-34

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-three, and she was the first to learn that Madelyn was pregnant.

“You’re the first in the group I’ve told,” Madelyn said. Her pointed phrasing made clear that Homelander already knew—thanks to his super-hearing or x-ray vision more than Madelyn caring to share it.

“Congratulations,” Maeve said. Wondering if Madelyn hoped for some more womanly support, by telling her first. “Does this mean you’re retiring, or…?”

“God, no. I can’t trust this place to those other idiots. I’ll work as long as I can, take a week or two when it’s time.”

Maeve had serious doubts, especially after curiosity got the better of her, and Google revealed that having a baby at Madelyn’s age was neither easy nor fun. One wouldn’t know it from watching her, though—she didn’t miss a beat in meetings, and indeed, only took three weeks off for maternity leave, then was back with a bassinet in her office.

Maeve was also, as it turned out, the first to see the baby. The day after Madelyn had gone into labor, the PR team told Maeve she was to meet Madelyn at the hospital for a photoshoot. Something about female solidarity. The usual bullsh*t; Maeve didn’t question it.

Turning up to that suite, where Madelyn was in a gown, lying in bed, with a small squishy person in her arms, was surreal and awkward. Especially because she greeted Maeve, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the photo op? To smile and hold the baby?”

“Those idiots,” Madelyn muttered. “See, this is why I can’t take leave. I specifically told them not to do this. They thought after that piece Us Weekly pushed about you and I secretly hating each other, that this would be damage control. Unnecessary stunt…”

“I can go.”

“You’re already here.” Maeve beckoned her over, and called out louder, “Come on in, Fabrizio.” The preferred Vought “slice of life” photographer entered at the sound of his name.

Madelyn seemed almost as reluctant to hand the baby over as Maeve felt to take him. He was like a potato in a little hat. “What’s his name?” she murmured, while Fabrizio clicked away.

“Theodore. Teddy.”

Maeve was not especially comfortable around children, but as the little thing blinked and then sneezed, it was almost cute.

“Don’t worry,” Madelyn cooed, so softly that it took Maeve a moment to realize it was directed to her and not the baby. “We won’t have to deal with any more tabloid stories about womanly rivalry between you and me.”

“You think they’ll stop since you’re a mom now?”

“No,” Madelyn laughed. “They’ll have someone else to pit you against. When Lamplighter retires… We’re replacing him with a girl. I got the board to approve it right before my water broke. Auditions won’t start until I’m back, so you’ve got time to practice your playing-nice face.”

It was a massive relief when Fabrizio confirmed, “We got it,” and Maeve handed the child back to its mother.

Mother. Madelyn was a mother. The entire scenario felt bizarre. Not that Madelyn shouldn’t have it if she wanted—in fact, she’d confided to Maeve once or twice before that she hoped to have a child. Maeve had no idea why seeing Madelyn with Teddy on her breast felt like the end of something.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-four when her tenure as “only woman in the Seven” ended.

As soon as Madelyn told the others that a girl would be replacing Lamplighter, they seemed a bit too gleeful over the concept of “fresh meat.” Didn’t seem to get that any woman who was strong enough to get here obviously wouldn’t fall for their bullsh*t. In addition, Deep and Translucent made a point of asking Maeve over and over if she was “jealous” that a young, hot girl was coming in to steal all the attention away from her. Maeve ignored them, which made them giggle and declare, “she totally is.”

Madelyn, on the other hand, seemed to expect a level of excitement out of Maeve. As if she was doing Maeve a favor. She repeatedly offered updates on the process, including telling Maeve the identity of the new candidate before anyone else (not drawing attention to the obvious exception of Homelander). “Starlight,” Madelyn explained, as she showed the girl’s headshot. “Twenty-six, alum of Capes for Christ and Young Americans. Fast-growing fanbase.”

“How come I’ve never heard of her, then?”

“She’s huge in the flyover states,” Madelyn explained. “But we bring her here, I’m sure she’ll get the urban love too. She’s very articulate. Polls well across the political spectrum, which is invaluable. The perfect face to start a new generation of the Seven.”

New generation. That phrase rankled Maeve. What, eight years between them? Hardly a “generation”.

When the official day came for Lamplighter to “pass the torch” (many puns were made in that regard), Maeve realized she had little idea of what to expect. She had never seen anyone new join the group—when A-Train started, she’d been off at the Global Wellness Center in Malibu. The itinerary given to them for the next two days suggested that the new girl was to be introduced at a shareholder conference, and the rest of the Seven weren’t scheduled to officially see her until a board meeting the next morning.

That was fine. Maeve figured she’d get the girl’s vibe—see what exactly lay behind the corn-fed Christian branding—and possibly take her out for a drink if she seemed cool. Or not. Maybe she wouldn’t want that. She wasn’t a child; in fact, she was older than Maeve was when the Seven started, and Maeve certainly didn’t like people talking down to her back then. Whatever. If this girl was already as popular as Madelyn claimed, she should have no problem adjusting. And even if Maeve ought to give some sort of intro, she had some time to think about how to go about it.

That’s what she thought, as she headed to the bathroom after a meeting about that year’s recipients of the Queen Maeve She-ro Scholarship. She was washing her hands and purposefully ignoring the fact that Translucent was lurking again (he almost seemed to enjoy getting caught, these days, maybe that’s why he breathed so loudly), when she heard someone in one of the stalls violently puking. Like, a bunch of times. God, if it was one of her Scholarship staff, the next meeting was gonna be awkward.

But as the toilet flushed, it was the new recruit. Starlight. A teary mess of mascara as she glanced at Maeve, then walked right to the sink.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. sh*t. sh*t. She had to say something, didn’t she? Maeve couldn’t pretend she hadn’t seen her, but she didn’t know the girl. They hadn’t even had a requisite “Congratulations, welcome,” fake-ass handshake. And Translucent was standing a few feet away, surely rubbing one out with glee at this unprecedented drama, an exciting break from his normal lurking to watch people piss. But what the f*ck was Maeve supposed to say to this girl, crying and snotting all over her nice white costume?

“For Christ’s sake,” she muttered. Better just get to the point. “Clean yourself up,” she told Starlight. “Never let them see you like this.”

Starlight had to know there was no such thing as a private moment anymore. No safe space to cry around here. Before someone else humiliated her.

It was the best Maeve could muster at the time, but over the next few weeks, it seemed like Starlight was avoiding her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d got off on the wrong foot, but then again, what did she care? They didn’t need to be friends. Maeve certainly wasn’t friends with any of the other five.

Then that clip of Starlight “speaking her truth” at the Believe Expo went viral. Explaining what happened to her when she first arrived in the Seven. It was unfortunate. No, it was awful. But it wasn’t Maeve’s fault it happened. So why did every f*cking reporter keep asking her about it? It wasn’t her fault. It had nothing to do with her. And why were the reporters only asking her, and not A-Train, or Noir, or Homelander? It wasn’t like she could’ve magically predicted Deep would corner the new girl on day zero and demand a slob job. And even if she could’ve, it wasn’t her job to babysit every other woman in the world.

So why did it still feel like she dropped the ball?

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-four on the worst day of her life.

They flew back in near silence. Homelander said only one thing, as they flew: “We didn’t make it in time.” Maeve understood.

He flew directly to the spot of the wreck. To the general area, at least, and there was a fun few minutes of circling while they looked for where most of the debris had landed. The news vans arrived minutes later, giving them plenty of time to get into character. Horrified. Uninvolved. Maeve played silent grief, by necessity; Homelander was happy enough to play it up for the cameras.

Once the news media was satisfied, there was the real challenge. Reporting to Madelyn. She nodded to Homelander as they entered her office. “Well spoken. With the news.”

“It’s just too bad,” Homelander shook his head. “That we didn’t make it in time.”

“Too bad, indeed.” Madelyn then reminded him, of an engagement he had later, meeting a few senators. He walked out.

Maeve hung back. Unsure if she was looking for further discussion, or simply lost the ability to move…

Madelyn busied herself for a moment, checking on the baby, asleep in his bassinet. A minute or so later, they saw Homelander zoom by the window—flying off to his appointment with Congress. Miles away in seconds. Out of earshot.

Madelyn fixed her gaze on Maeve. “What really happened?”

Maeve’s throat was dry; she hadn’t spoken since she was at 10,000 feet. Eventually she managed, “What he said. We didn’t make it in time.”

“Maeve.”

“The pilot was dead. The controls were shot. There was no saving it. We had to leave.”

“The hijackers killed the pilot? And destroyed the controls?”

Maeve couldn’t bring herself to lie, nor to tell the truth, but it didn’t matter, because Madelyn understood anyway.

She turned away, hands on her hips, and heaved a sigh. “Why did I send you with him, Maeve?”

“What?”

“I didn’t send you to look pretty. I didn’t send you for girl power. I didn’t even send you to save those people. You can’t f*cking fly. What use are you?”

“I…”

“I sent you because when I cannot be out there, watching him, it is your job to make sure that this does not happen.”

“But I…” Maeve tried to explain, but the words wouldn’t come.

“How many people on that plane?” Madelyn’s voice was like ice. “123?”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Maeve insisted. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I’m sure 123 people wish you did.” Madelyn said. Teddy started crying, Madelyn went to attend to him. She picked up the baby, bouncing him in her arms. Turned to Maeve. “Get out.”

And Maeve did. She walked up to her room… how strange, to walk again when there’d been so much flying that day. Solid ground felt foreign, now.

And everything was too muddled for her to even feel any coherent sense of remorse just yet. But she pulled a bottle from the bar and started drinking. It was important to get ahead of it. Before the memories got themselves in order. Before she figured out exactly where she’d gone wrong, to properly regret it.

Chapter 24: Age 35

Chapter Text

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-five at her first family funeral.

“The Seven are a family,” Homelander said at the eulogy, “and Madelyn Stillwell was a part of it. Our eighth musketeer. A guiding light to all of us.”

Maeve hadn’t been to a family funeral before because she didn’t have any family to lose. Probably someone had kicked it—her grandmother might well be dead by now—but she and her father didn’t keep in touch over these things.

If the Seven were a family, Translucent was the first loss, but his memorial wasn’t scheduled until next week, because as far as the world knew, he wasn’t dead yet.

No one asked Maeve to speak. The person who would have, ironically, was Madelyn. Since no replacement was appointed yet, Homelander naturally assigned himself the speaking role, and Maeve did not protest.

Unable to leave without drawing attention, she did her best to be in constant motion around the reception, to minimize conversation, but a few people caught her regardless.

Starlight came for her promptly. Clingy little thing. Maeve never should’ve opened up to her. “Hey. I know you worked with Madelyn a lot longer than me, so this must bring up a lot of complicated emotions.”

“It’s whatever.”

“You know, we can talk. If you wanna share any experiences you had with her. Good or bad.” Starlight was trying to be “supportive”, but her tone made it clear she only wanted to hear about the bad experiences. Maeve walked off.

A minute later, Maeve got ambushed again, by that red-headed Talent Relations chick, her plate loaded with canapés. Didn’t she get fired…? “Queen Maeve. My condolences.”

Maeve mumbled back, trying not to give away that she couldn’t remember the woman’s name.

“I flew back from Europe for this. I was traveling around Barcelona, and I heard Madelyn kicked it, and I thought—boy, if anyone had it coming… I came back here with half a mind to spit on her grave, but… She sucked, but she did a lot for me. Gosh. Here I am feeling bad about her. Something about funerals, isn’t it?”

Maeve just stared at her.

“Anyway, I thought you should know. Madelyn told me once, in confidence…” The girl got a grave look on her face. “That you were always her favorite.” Then, brighter. “Anyway, I need a job, so if you know of any openings…”

Maeve was saved by the bell, in this case Homelander, who appeared out of nowhere—perhaps summoned by that atrocious ‘confession’. “Ashley! Am I glad to see you. Let’s talk…” He swept her away.

Maeve successfully avoided any real conversation for the remainder of the reception and burial.

Later, everyone had cleared out except Homelander, who remained by the grave.

Maeve supposed there was no time like the present to address the bowling ball of suspicion in her gut. She stepped up next to him, staring at Madelyn’s freshly-engraved headstone. “When do we start the manhunt?”

Homelander looked at her quizzically.

“For William Butcher. Don’t you think we should get the guy who killed Madelyn? Aren’t you pissed?”

Homelander blinked, and his lips twitched. “Maeve…”

“f*cking knew it.” He killed her. Homelander killed Madelyn; it was obvious, in retrospect. If anyone else had done it, he’d be losing his sh*t.

“You don’t know sh*t.”

“Calm down, I’m not about to tattle. I’m sure there’s no proof.” Maeve swallowed. It felt like her throat was full of gravel. “But you at least could’ve told me.”

Maeve got in his face, inches apart. She couldn’t say more. Homelander knew what existed between himself and Madelyn, what existed between Maeve and Madelyn, and what existed between the three of them. It was never spoken. It never had to be. It was f*cked up, but it was what they had, and he broke it. Maeve walked away from him, before she said or did something she’d regret.

No one asked Maeve to speak at the funeral, but as she drank the rest of the night away in her apartment, completely alone, she composed what she would have said.

Madelyn once told her that being a woman was full of contradictions. If that was true, Madelyn was the poster example.

Madelyn lowered Maeve’s self esteem like no one else. Madelyn induced constant anxiety in Maeve over how she looked, made her question how much she ate, made her worry she was too aggressive and too meek at once, told her that she had too much sex appeal and none at all. Madelyn was also the only person who ever said she was proud of Maeve.

Madelyn could not be trusted with any bit of personal information; she’d find a way to spin it into a story or else use it to manipulate Maeve to her own ends. Madelyn was also the one person at Vought who knew about Elena and never spilled the secret.

Madelyn had no issue asking Maeve to undress to cater to male fantasies or shill for the military or play happy house with Homelander or any number of activities that pinged her “uncomfortable” meter. Madelyn also never tried to force Maeve to play nice with her father.

Madelyn knew when to keep a cool professional distance. Madelyn also knew precisely when to offer the smallest encouraging word or touch that was at once devastatingly painful and crucially soothing.

Madelyn was powerless middle management, but she knew how to make the most powerful people on the planet absolutely desperate for her approval.

Madelyn lied to Maeve constantly, but was also the only person who was ever straight with her.

Madelyn was the driving force to suck everything real out of the Queen Maeve persona, but also understood the “real” Maeve more than anyone else in her life at that point.

Madelyn was a toxic, corporate boss, who at any given moment was plainly manipulating Maeve to meet her own ends. She was also the closest Maeve had to a mother.

That’s what Maeve would’ve said, if she had even one soul to say it to.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-five, and she was out of the loop.

When Madelyn was in charge, Maeve was the first to know things. Well. Second, because it was impossible to know things before Homelander, what with his super hearing, and X-ray vision, and general intimidation. Whatever. Point was, Madelyn and Maeve had a history, an understanding.

Truth be told, Maeve didn’t remember Ashley’s name until Homelander brought her to the boardroom that day, introducing her as their new SVP of Hero Management. “The new Madelyn!” He proudly proclaimed. And sure, Maeve recognized her face from marketing meetings and generally lurking around (it was a hard face to forget)… but she hadn’t had any reason to distinguish her from the rest of the interchangeable mid-level employees.

“The new Madelyn” was a bold statement, even coming from Homelander… but Maeve knew he was pleased because he’d just found himself a little puppet to order around. She didn’t think too much into Ashley’s personality, because she didn’t see Ashley’s personality mattering much, here.

But Ashley was not Madelyn, and Ashley did not have any kind of “understanding” with Maeve. So Maeve found herself in an uncomfortable position of being the last to f*cking know things. The last to know about Stormfront joining the Seven (Though it made her feel better that Homelander missed that one, too.) The last to know when A-Train got discharged from the hospital… and somehow, ironically, the last to know about the new “Girls Get it Done” campaign, despite being one of the “girls” in question.

Of course she didn’t give a f*ck that instead of filming network promo spots saying “Her Majesty” or “Maeve and Starlight” that it was now “Girls Get it Done”. It was the principle of the thing. Ashley was f*cking new, and had never worked with her one-on-one… so Ashley didn’t see Maeve as any different from the rest of the Seven.

Madelyn claimed she didn’t have favorites, but Homelander and Maeve… she paid the most attention to. The rest of the Seven were established heroes when the team came together—Madelyn just handed them contracts to sign. Homelander, Maeve, and Deep were the ones she found, younger and untested… and Deep was an embarrassment, so. Homelander and Maeve.

But Madelyn was f*cking dead, and now someone younger than Maeve was in her office, pretending to do her job. And it was more annoying than anything. Maeve didn’t believe Ashley could cause an actual problem any more than she could come up with an actual solution.

Until.

Homelander made it his personal mission to make her miserable, and the minion followed suit. The really annoying part was that Ashley didn’t seem aware that she was a cog in a scheme to torture Maeve. She sat smug in those “Brave Maeve” marketing meetings like she was doing Maeve a favor. LGBTQ rights! And raising your profile! You sure need it Maeve, being a girl isn’t special anymore. And having the audacity to bring Elena into it… In fact, she was so gleefully stupid about it, that Maeve felt like she couldn’t push back, that she oughtn’t to; Ashley was far too stupid to understand what she was doing, so she couldn’t be blamed for it. Like a kid.

Somewhere along the line, while Maeve was deep in dismissal and booze, Stupid became CEO, and smirking at Maeve in marketing meetings became locking her in a prison cell and turning on the knockout gas.

Madelyn was cold, cruel, and manipulative, but Madelyn never would have done that.

Or helped Maeve fake her death and escape.

◈ ◈ ◈

Elena was thirty-nine when she decided it was time to get serious about dating. Again. Probably the sixth or seventh time she’d made that resolution in her life. She didn’t buy into the patriarchal and heteronormative idea that her value decreased the longer she was alive and that she ought to become more desperate for a partner… but she’d always wanted a partner, and a family. Watching her sister find it so perfectly and easily—Antonio practically fell into her lap back in college—sparked Elena’s envy, just a bit. Especially when Isa acted blind to her own fortune in that regard.

“Love isn’t magic,” Isa told her on one of their biweekly phone chats (they had to schedule them, these days, to make sure they both had the time). “It’s one thing to want it, but it’s another to make it happen. You’ll be a perfect wife, and yet you keep dragging your feet.”

“I’m not dragging my feet. It’s not that easy. It’s one thing to find a date… it’s another to find someone worth spending your life with. I’m waiting for the right woman.”

“Maeve is not the right woman.”

“I didn’t mean her. No one even mentioned her.”

“You were thinking it.”

Elena regretted having told her sister about the unfortunate incident of a few weeks ago that had brought her face to face with Maeve for the first time in years. Drunk Maeve, barging in without warning and setting a world-record for running through her typical course of red flags in one five-minute encounter. Of course, Elena had to tell someone about it, and Isa was the only option, besides her therapist… Connie knew about Maeve, having helped Elena work through the emotions of their parting. Really extensively. Twice a week appointments for a while after the last breakup, while Elena worked really hard to get centered. Elena hadn’t brought up this latest encounter in her latest (now once monthly) appointment, because… what more was there to say?

“Maeve is exactly why I have to be careful,” Elena countered. “I don’t want to get in deep with someone who’s going to burn me like that. And I really don’t want to make the assumption that just because a woman is not Maeve, that means she’s better.”

“It’s a plus,” Isa snarked. “But… if you’re free later this week, a friend of a friend just moved to Brooklyn…”

Elena groaned internally. Of course Isa was waiting to ambush her with a setup. Just like Mom, though Elena would never say that aloud (At least Isa understood her type better than Mom did).

Despite herself, Elena felt a pit of dread in her stomach at the prospect of entering an age that began with a 4 and still being alone… so she vowed to take this blind date seriously and show up with the best efforts to make it “happen,” like her little sister so sagely declared. It was strange, after so many years of feeling like she looked after Isa… to sometimes feel “behind” her in this way.

So, Elena showed up to the date feeling optimistic—they’d easily agreed on a restaurant, they both liked sushi. Already something in common. And Cristin was certainly attractive. 38, honey-blonde hair tied back in a low ponytail, shucking off her jacket to reveal a form-fitting black turtleneck beneath… acetate glasses, a very deceptively effortless, academic-chic look.

They got through the basic small-talk while browsing the menu—extremely efficient. Another thing they had in common, a decide to cut to the chase and not waste their own time. Cristin explained that she was a forensic psychologist… a profiler, straight out of one of those TV shows. “It’s a lot less exciting in real life,” she claimed.

The conversation flowed smoothly as they put in their order, even more so as they refilled their drinks for a second round. “It’s so nice to be able to just drink and not worry,” Elena marveled as they split a nice red.

They chatted more as they dug into kappamaki and unagi, and Elena found herself having a great time. They discussed books, music, art, and managed some light detours into politics without tension. It was the best date she’d been on in a while, like the universe was encouraging her to forget about that intrusion of the past. There were plenty of great people out there—and Cristin could be the right one.

“This is so refreshing,” Elena professed aloud. “It feels so rare, these days, to meet someone smart and mature. Someone else who wants an adult relationship, with open communication about our wants and feelings.”

Cristin smiled brightly. “I agree. And under normal circ*mstances, here’s where I’d ask you if you’d like to come home with me, but in the spirit of this open communication we’ve got going… I don’t feel right about it when I know it won’t go forward. Plus, at our age, I don’t have time to waste with a relationship that won’t last.”

Elena tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“You’re obviously still hung up on your ex.”

“What?” Elena laughed nervously. “No one said anything about an ex.”

Cristin co*cked an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

Silently, Elena reflected back on the conversation. She was aghast to realize how many tiny offhand comments she’d let slip, subconsciously comparing this lovely woman to Maeve… She didn’t dream that anyone else could pick up on them.

Cristin continued, “It’s nice to know that I’m nothing at all like your ex, who’s, let’s see… a little younger, but not too much, not enough that it’s ‘on purpose’; reckless, indecisive, bad at opening up, problems with alcohol, and—now this is my risky shot—famous?”

“That’s scary.”

“I read between the lines. It’s my job.” Cristin leaned back. “So, tell me about her, then. Get it all off your chest.”

“I don’t think that's appropriate…”

“As long as we’re not having sex… Indulge me. I love drama.”

Elena considered. There was no salvaging this, anyhow. “Um… I suppose, then, as a placeholder, let me call her ‘Buttercup.’”

“Ooh, you had that one in the chamber,” Cristin marveled, pouring herself a new glass of wine.

“And, to be clear, I am over her and have been for many years,” Elena clarified. “She’s just been on my mind again because a few weeks ago, she showed up out of the blue, drunk, clearly in a state about something that happened to her… then refused to talk to me and left. She wouldn’t talk to me when I tried to check in on her the next day and hasn’t answered my calls since. So I’m worried. That’s all. As an old friend.”

“Right.”

“I don’t have feelings for her anymore. Except concern.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not against therapy. In fact, I did the whole therapy thing. Years ago. Sorted it all out. So, it’s done. I don’t have problems. She has problems. She should go to therapy.”

“What kind of problems?”

Bit by bit, with gentle encouragement and one more round of wine, Cristin baited Elena into recounting most of the story, dancing around identifying details.

“So this drop-in, it opened that wound of how the relationship ended because of her drinking issues?”

“Not even,” Elena explained. “She was sober, the last time. We were about to have it all… get away from the city, start a life together. If she didn’t want that, fine, but… she left one day without saying anything. Left a half-assed letter on the pillow, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ I mean, it’s just insulting.”

“Ah. I see. What you need is closure.”

“Closure?” Elena “No, that was, like… six years ago. It’s been closed.”

“I don’t think so,” Cristin said. “Look, I’m not a therapist, but I do read the people in front of me, and you’re certainly not ‘over it.’ You’re upset—understandably so. She led you on and dumped you, twice. You never got to even the scales and break up with her.”

“So you’re suggesting I should call her up out of the blue and dump her as some sort of cathartic revenge role play?”

Cristin shrugged. “It’s what I’d do.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing you’re not a therapist.”

◈ ◈ ◈

It was a downer to go home without at least getting laid that night, and more of a downer that Elena couldn’t stop thinking about what Cristin said. She wasn’t a therapist. She wasn’t serious, either. Elena definitely didn’t need to listen to what a blind date said about her life. She should meet with Connie and sort it all out the right way. She booked an appointment for after work the next day.

While at work, though, Elena couldn’t stop thinking about it. Closure. That word wormed through her head over and over. It was an insane suggestion, yet it sounded more appealing by the second. Maybe it was worth it, solely as an imaginative exercise. It was a slow day, so Elena began composing it in her head. If she was going to give Maeve a call, or perhaps write a solid “f*ck you” letter, what would she say?

Once those gates were open, it spiraled. All the pent-up words that had clogged up her brain and her heart over the years… and a letter didn’t seem like enough. Maeve had dropped in on her at home, after all. She ought to go up to Vought Tower and catch Maeve in public. Force her to acknowledge it. Just fantasizing about letting out all those emotions she never got to, making Maeve hear it, got her blood pumping. Made her feel warm.

Come to think of it, she did feel warm. She checked the thermostat in her office—70 degrees. She felt feverish. And a mild stomachache she’d had since the morning was growing more and more uncomfortable. That unagi wasn’t sitting right.

She vowed to power through the afternoon and get to her therapy appointment, chugging Tums and Tylenol both. By one o’clock, when her colleague, Brian, came to drop off a birthday card to sign for another coworker, Elena was extremely uncomfortable.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like hell. Are you okay?” he asked.

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” Elena admitted, with the stabbing pain in her gut showing no signs of stopping. “Can you call me an Uber?”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-five when she learned how babies were made.

Supe babies, that is.

She was with Elena at the time, which was the only reason she kept it together so well. They were squeezed together in that sh*tty hospital bed while Elena ate her sh*tty hospital breakfast, and Maeve felt for the first time in a long time that things were looking up.

Then, the breaking news report played on the hospital TV. “Superpowers are not natural, but brought on by a substance known as ‘Compound V’, manufactured by Vought Pharmaceutical, which is administered to infants to create special abilities…”

It was an odd sensation. Like that tower-drop ride at theme parks, which Maeve had ridden plenty of times as a kid—not nearly as afraid as the other kids who screamed like they might die. Even though she had no fear of falling, the sudden drop was a strange physical sensation. She felt that again now: like the floor vanished beneath her, and her guts were left floating a hundred feet above her head.

But Elena was there, and that kept Maeve grounded. Helped her gather her guts and her brain back together. At first, Elena stared at Maeve, the same sort of distrust she’d had yesterday, as Maeve told the truth about Homelander… “How could you not tell me this before?” But only for a fraction of a second. Enough for Maeve to catch it, but it must’ve been obvious from her own idiotic slack-jawed expression that she had no idea. Elena switched on a dime to comfort. Reassurance. It was grounding.

But then Maeve had to go into work and deal with whatever nasty plot Vought had to cover their asses.

Superpowers are not natural. It was a simple concept, though it took several hours for it to really sink in for Maeve, while half of her brain said “That’s impossible”, and the other said, “Of course, it’s so goddamn obvious.” Because it was. From everything she knew about Vought worked, and how the world at large worked, it made perfect f*cking sense, and Maeve felt like the biggest moron on the planet for never suspecting it before.

As she arrived back at her apartment to change (and cry for three minutes, just so it wouldn’t come out later), she got a text:

[9:51AM] Deep: HOW COULD THEY DO THIS? HERE IF YOU WANT TO TALK, OLD FRIEND ❤️ WE WILL FIND SALVATION IN HIS DIVINE LIGHT 🦈🐬❤️

A comforting reminder that at most she was only the second-biggest moron on the planet.

At least the others would be shocked, too. Though dealing with their reactions would be another laundry load of drama, at least it’d distract Maeve from her own feelings.

She headed for the boardroom, figuring they’d all be called in for a meeting as soon as Stan and Ashley finished saying “no comment” to reporters.

She passed A-Train power-walking the other way. “This is crazy,” he muttered, though it wasn’t clear if he was addressing Maeve. “I can’t believe this!” he offered a similar comment to every passing executive and assistant as he hurried off like a frenzied pinball. “Who could’ve seen this coming?” Shifty as hell… did he know already?

She almost tripped over Black Noir, seated criss-cross applesauce in the hallway. Watching the news on his phone and… crying? Shaking back and forth, almost making a sound. At least someone else was affected, but then again… was it just a performance? Who could tell with Noir.

Maeve stopped in the bathroom for a quick piss and a double check that her eyes didn’t look puffy. Starlight walked in, and Maeve pretended she was just washing her hands. A nod to acknowledge Starlight’s entrance, and to buy time for Maeve to steel herself for the inevitable emotional plea—“Oh, Maeve, this is so horrible, don’t you have so many feelings about this? Vought betrayed us, and we have to stand up to them together!”

But Starlight only avoided Maeve’s gaze and slipped into a stall.

Really? Starlight knew? Maeve didn’t think it was possible to feel any dumber, yet she did.

Finally, at the boardroom, she was annoyed to find it wasn’t empty. The new girl, Stormfront, was there, watching the news. Just a repeat of the banner headline, plus some historical photos of Frederick Vought and all, his history with eugenics—undoubtedly to fill air-time while they waited for a statement from current leadership.

Maybe it was just to fill the awkward silence, or maybe it was easier to talk to this relative stranger. “Did you know about this?”

Stormfront didn’t take her eyes off the screen. Like she was actually interested in the history lesson. “No,” she drawled. “But I mean, are you really surprised? Some asshole stood up in a board meeting and said, ‘We can create a race of super-beings that we can control, own, and monetize. All we have to do is inject a few babies.’ I bet it took them all of three seconds before they said yes to that sh*t.” She dropped her scowl for a sardonic grin. “But hey. We’re the lucky ones, right? We got the better end of the deal. Don’t forget that.”

Stormfront left, and Maeve was relieved to be alone. Though the news seemed determined to personally humiliate her.

There was her dad. He looked older. sh*ttier. Maeve couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him; over a decade since they’d been face-to-face but once in a while one of his dumb publicity stunts made it in front of her, like this one. Claiming he didn’t know.

Again, Maeve felt tremendously stupid, because of course her dad was the type to expose a baby to experimental drugs for a quick buck. She was only so slow to catch on because he spent her entire life acting like her powers were an unexplained and inconvenient accident. She had to call Elena again just to steady herself.

Then Homelander dropped in. He was acting weird, for sure… but when Maeve brought up the news, he wasn’t aware. He hadn’t seen it. As afraid as she was of what he might do with this betrayal, it was a moment of relief—if Homelander didn’t know either, she wouldn’t feel half as stupid.

As he confronted Edgar later on behalf of all the Seven, Maeve felt vindicated. f*ck these guys. f*ck Edgar, f*ck Madelyn, f*ck her dad, f*ck everyone who lied to her every day of her life just to use her even more.

Homelander’s performance was impressive and exactly what Maeve wanted to hear. Righteous indignation. How she felt herself. But if Homelander was really surprised. If he really had no idea, he should’ve gone off the rails. His powers were his whole identity. If this revelation felt like the floor dropped out for her, then Homelander would be absolutely losing it. But he wasn’t. He was making compelling speeches and rallying all the Seven to stick together—even Deep. Underneath the grandstanding, he was more annoyed than indignant.

He knew too, and he must’ve known the whole time. Almost fifteen years they’d known each other, so many hours spent together… so many conversations where Homelander said they were special, they were better, it was the two of them against Vought and the entire world… and he kept this from her. Although Maeve no longer treasured their relationship in any way, that betrayal hurt the most.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-five, and she was more than a hero now. A symbol. A movement. That’s what Ashley and Adam Bourke kept telling her between takes.

Maeve didn’t care very much about the revisions to Dawn of the Seven. The damage was already done. Making a stink about the new garbage scenes she had to film instead of the old garbage scenes wouldn’t take back what Homelander told the world. It made no difference to her, but it would probably be a huge break for that goth co-star, who got promoted from a glorified extra to Queen Maeve’s love interest, and seemed very excited about it. So Maeve said her lines and hit her mark and waited for the exact moment she was released and could go home to Elena.

She went off towards craft services hoping for a soda after a particularly dry scene.

“This must be killing you, huh?”

Stormfront approached Maeve at the crafty table. Maeve still hadn’t talked to the new girl much. She hardly seemed to need looking after the way Starlight did, so why bother?

“You know this schlock isn’t championing your LGBT-LMNOP cause any more than ‘girls get it done’ is progress for feminism.”

Maeve shrugged. “Not our job to write it. I just say the lines.”

“You’ve gotta care what’s coming out of your mouth. Even though you kiss girls I know you’re not on that woke liberal juice,” Stormfront continued. “Plus, didn’t you have a very public thing with Homelander? Unless they changed the definition of ‘lesbian’…”

“Do you have a point?” Maeve cracked open her soda.

“Why don’t you just fight back? Tell them it’s dumb and you won’t do it.”

“I know you’re new around here… that just doesn’t work, in the long run.”

“The long run?” Stormfront guffawed. “Please, oh Queen of the Seven, Tell me more about the ‘long run’. What are you, thirty? Just because you got famous fresh outta college, you think you understand how the world works?”

The sudden condescension made Maeve’s jaw clench. “I don’t know how things worked for you out in Washington, but here—”

“You’re been in the same job for what, ten, fifteen years… and you think you know how to work it. But sweetie, they’re working you,” Stormfront sneered. “You’re doing what that fricking Vassar reject Ashley says without even negotiating? It’s sad, that’s all. Sad to see a woman so afraid of her own power. Y’know, I was kinda excited to meet you? And I’m not easy to impress. I thought, Queen Maeve, she’s got all this hype—maybe she’s the real f*cking deal. One of the best Supes out there, so they say. But… I gotta say, this is a disappointment. Even dainty Starlight has more spunk in her than you.”

Stormfront started walking off, and even though she’d been the one to begin the conversation, Maeve was left feeling cut off. Stormfront glanced over her shoulder as she went, adding, “The real slogan should be: angry girls get it done.”

Chapter 25: Age 36 (part 1)

Chapter Text

△ △ △

Ashley didn’t tend to make thinking about Queen Maeve’s sexual preferences a big part of her day, until Queen Maeve’s sexual preferences became one of the hottest topics of cultural discussion.

The initial coming-out arc was fun, for sure, but it wore off quickly after that awkward walk in on Maeve’s Devil’s threesome. Once there was no longer a sweet couple story to tell, Ashley found herself sitting through a two-hour design meeting about the upcoming sex toy line based on the Seven, one-and-a-half hours of which were spent debating if it was appropriate if the Queen Maeve toy was a dild*. Was it insensitive to market a phallic toy on a lesbian’s persona? Or did it make perfect sense, since dild*s were often enjoyed by people with vagin*s? Was it cis-normative to be having this discussion at all? Or should they go with an anal toy instead because everyone’s got an asshole? Ashley was a staunch LGBTQIA ally, of course, but it was all she could do to keep her eyes from rolling continuously.

Right after that sh*tfest, Ashley ran to an actually important meeting. Dr. Vernon Mayhew shook her hand. His skin felt like paper. Ashley had seen his name in the directory, been on plenty of e-mail chains… but her job seldom brought her face-to-face with the chief medical officer in Vought’s Research & Development branch.

He filled Ashley in on his newest tech, “Project Failsafe”. Ashley honestly didn’t have the attention span left to process the finer details, but understood it was some sort of implant that would knock out even the strongest Supes if they became violent. “We want to move forward with beta testing as soon as possible,” he said. “Can’t have another Stormfront situation.”

“No, we can’t,” Ashley agreed. Managing the “Nazi Hero” crisis once in her lifetime was once too many.

“All we need’s your go-ahead, as point person for the Seven, for whom to test it on. Someone you can easily arrange that we can get it into… call it a doctor appointment, a health injection, whatever… just need it to get in intravenously, not via digestive tract. Based on our evaluation, Queen Maeve is the ideal test candidate. All we require is your sign-off, and a recommendation on how best to administer it without the subject’s knowledge.”

“Maeve?” Ashley couldn’t help but make a face. These nerds didn’t know the Seven well; they were an entirely different department, after all. “That’d be pointless. Starlight would make a better test candidate, she’s the most prone to going rogue… Though she’s a national hero and we owe her deeply for standing up against white supremacy.” God, it was hard not to gag adding that.

“I suppose. How shall we administer…?”

Starlight was also, unfortunately, the most likely of the bunch to actually scrutinize anything they tried to inject into her, and provide a heaping amount of resistance. Ashley didn’t want the headache. “Or A-Train,” Ashley pitched. “Tell him it’s some new drug to fix his heart, and he’ll shoot it up faster than you can blink.”

“That’s the problem with A-Train, though, isn’t it?” Mayhew said. “Without his capabilities to, shall we say, perform, he’s hardly an effective candidate for whether this technology can protect against the strongest of Supes.”

Ashley didn’t bother suggesting Noir; there was no sneaking up on him. Before she could form another pitch, her phone rang. She went to silence the call… but it was Maeve.

Maeve never called upon Ashley personally. The one time she had in the past year, it turned out to be a butt-dial. This time, the woman herself answered. “Ashley. Meet me in my apartment. Come up. Down. Whatever.”

“May I ask what this is in regards to?”

Maeve had already hung up.

Normally, Ashley would blow this off; random requests were for any of the hundreds of staff that were here to cater to the heroes’ every need, not for the Senior Vice President of Hero Management. But the mere fact that Maeve never made such stupid requests on Ashley’s time made this call concerning.

“Starlight or A-Train. You can have your pick.” Ashley barked at the science guys as she walked off.

As Ashley made her way to Maeve’s apartment on the 97th floor, she made sure to knock quite loudly on each and every door and signal her approach (not wanting a repeat of the last time she’d been here and walked in on some very not-lesbian activity).

“Come in,” came the rough reply from within.

Ashley walked in to find Maeve standing in the living room in full costume, though with her shoes off, and hair slightly mussed. She alternated drags on a cigarette with sips from a bottle of Jack Daniels.

On the floor was a bedsheet, covering a large, suspiciously person-shaped lump.

“I need you to call the people… the people who take care of this,” Maeve said.

“Is that…?” Ashley’s voice escaped her.

Maeve stubbed out her dying cigarette and lit another.

Ashley knelt by the lump. She knew that she’d regret looking, but she had to. Under the sheet was a rather handsome man, stripped down to his briefs. Ashley suspected, from his muscular build and tasteful array of scars, that he was one of Maeve’s martial arts trainers. It was impossible to be sure, for though Ashley knew most of the trainers by name (who said only Maeve was allowed to enjoy the eye-candy?!), his head was mangled. Crushed. Ashley only looked for a second before throwing the sheet back and almost losing her lunch. She tried hard not to think deeper into the circ*mstances of how he got this way.

Maeve stood nearby, puffing away. It was a wonder she didn’t catch fire, Ashley thought, with how strong the scent of alcohol was in the room. “I’ll get out of here for a while,” Maeve said, like she was offering Ashley a favor. “Have the crew come in and clean up. I’ll be back later… maybe tomorrow.” Maeve shrugged, as she headed for the door. “Make sure it’s gone by then.” Ashley didn’t dare question more as Maeve left.

Ashley had “cleaned up” after Homelander plenty of times before. And frankly, Ashley had the easy part of the job… all she had to do was call the other people, the people Madelyn had already hired long ago, to do what they already knew how to do, and got paid large sums of money from hidden Vought funds with innocent names to do. The process wasn’t novel.

But it was Maeve. Maeve never required cleanup. Yes, each of the Seven (now five) had their foibles, but Maeve was so notoriously docile that even Madelyn Stillwell, Bitch Empress of Manipulation, didn’t have any material written down in her psychological dossiers about Maeve’s weaknesses, because Maeve never stepped out of line. Ever!

Ashley felt a tightness in her chest, similar to but distinct from the anxiety she felt in Homelander’s presence… things were changing. Slowly, but surely, the foundation was falling apart. Having a failsafe was vital, and suddenly, Maeve didn’t seem like a terrible candidate to test it on.

While she oversaw the cleanup crew, carrying out the body, she poked around the apartment… all manner of alcohol and drugs scattered throughout the rooms without any regard for what Ashley might see, nor for basic cleanliness. Apparently the breakup was Not Going Well.

Ashley placed a call to the R&D folks: “Would snorting the chips work?”

▲ ▲ ▲

It was a few months into Maeve’s alliance with Billy Butcher that she was comfortable enough to show him her biggest shame. Perhaps she should’ve known better than to open up to him at all, after their first meeting.

When they met that first time at an empty parking garage in Jersey City, he greeted her bluntly, “Enemy of my enemy. That’s all this is. I’m not gonna get cozy with you, Supe.”

“Unclench your asshole,” Maeve drawled, unoffended. “I’m ‘one of the good ones’.”

“No such thing,” Butcher shook his head, apparently not one for jokes. “Only good Supe is a dead Supe.”

Given that introduction, Maeve didn’t really know what she expected when she finally showed him the video in full. Maybe she thought after six months of working together, of her giving him tips about other sh*thead Supes, that he’d see she was on the “right side”? Maybe she knew he’d never see that and secretly wanted him to put her in her place. Either way, his reaction was poor… he’d technically seen the video of Flight 37 once before, but it was understandable if he hadn’t taken it in fully, owing to his wife bleeding out at the same moment.

Indeed, the look on his face as the video finished was a mixture of horror and rage similar to how he’d looked that day Becca died.

“I’m not proud of this,” Maeve said, to break the silence. “It keeps me up at night. I swear I haven’t slept right in a year and a half…”

“Boo hoo. Woe is you,” Butcher muttered, slamming the laptop shut to hide the video. “Easy to cry crocodile tears when you’re at the top.” He stomped off to the kitchen to grab himself a glass of water.

“I didn’t f*cking ask for this,” Maeve muttered.

“Pardon?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Maeve said, louder. “Just like your wife’s kid. Wasn’t my choice. If there was a switch, or a drug, or whatever, that would undo it? Take away my powers? I’d take it in a second.”

“Real easy to say that when you know it doesn’t exist.” Butcher swaggered back over, taking a swig as if it were something harder. “Sure you hate being powerful, famous, living without any f*cking consequences. That’s why you’ve been basking in fame and riches all these years. Spouting the Vought party lines, taking them juicy paychecks, riding Homelander’s dick ’til kingdom come. Seems real miserable.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“I don't want to hear your f*cking whining!” Butcher shouted. “When you stood by for years while he ran loose. When you stood by while he f*cking raped Becca. When you stood by while a whole planeful of people went down screaming for their bloody lives. After all that? Stopping him’s the least you can do. But throwing yourself a bloody pity party is like fisting all their corpses, no lube.”

The unfair accusations, even mixed with the truth as they were, twisted Maeve’s self-pity into anger. “So you think you’re better than me? Just because your sh*tty parents didn’t sign you up to get injected like my sh*tty parents did?” She stepped up, getting close enough to feel his breath. “You think if you were in my shoes, you’d be a perfect hero?”

He paused. Inhaled through his nose. Then, on his exhale, “It don’t f*cking matter,” he breathed with a slight shake of his head. “‘Cause I’ll never be a Supe, and you never won’t be one.”

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve was thirty-six, and she was about three weeks sober.

She’d quit drinking a handful of times before, which she considered a testament to her skill in that arena, even if others saw it as the opposite. She already knew that three weeks out was the worst time for her. After the initial physical withdrawal waned, and the satisfaction that came along with passing it. Three weeks was when the self-congratulatory mantra, “See, I don’t need to drink,” gave way to, “I very much want to, though.”

The topic of sobriety never came up in Maeve’s several months of clandestine meetings with William Butcher, but she was certain they mutually understood that they were in those trenches. Maeve caught the itch in his hand when he’d head for the kitchen, then come back with a glass of water instead. In fact, it was clocking that even this furious scumbag was willing to ditch the drinks in the name of this cause that made Maeve decide she ought to get back on the wagon as well—though she’d sooner die than admit that to him.

They used each other as a helpful distraction. That was the unspoken reason that their conversations ever lasted beyond bare-bones exchange of the crimes and whereabouts of various douchebag Supes. When things looked hopeless, when they both knew they really wanted a drink but didn’t want to be the first to break, they’d indulge in descriptions instead.

Butcher went there more than Maeve. He could cuss like the best sailor, but when he talked about his wife, he was a goddamn poet. Rebecca Butcher came alive again in his words, making Maeve desperately wish she’d ever taken the time to meet the woman before Homelander got to her.

Maeve didn’t tend to chime in, for a number of reasons. But that night, around the three-week mark, he must’ve sensed her weakness. After finishing a wonderful ode to Becca’s memory, Butcher turned and asked, “You got a bird, don’t you?”

“Had.”

“Her heart still beating? Then you’ve got her.” His bitter tone stemmed what Maeve knew was a tremendously thoughtful gesture, coming from him. “What’s she like, then? Aside from her poor judgment in falling for a Supe.”

Maeve snorted. “You don’t really want to hear about this.”

“It’s about the only redeeming thing about you, I reckon.” (Maeve couldn’t disagree.) “So don’t be bloody shy about it.”

“Her name is Elena.” As soon as the name crossed her lips—the first time in almost nine months—it was like a vice grip on Maeve’s heart. But it distracted from the echoing urge for liquor, and that was vital. “The second I saw her… sixteen years ago… I knew, I would do whatever it took to keep her forever.” The vice grip tightened. “But then, I didn’t.”

Butcher nodded. He was actually listening.

“She gave me more chances than I deserved. My whole life… she’s the only person I had… like that. It’s over. For good. I f*cked it. Still, I know I’m the luckiest in the entire f*cking world, that there was a time when she was mine, and I was hers.”

That was the first, and perhaps only, time that William Butcher ever looked at her with respect.

There was another night, around five weeks of sobriety, when they realized the tremendous difficulty of the task they’d taken on. In breathless frustration, Maeve muttered something to the effect of: “Why bother? It’ll never f*cking work, and if he catches on to us, he’ll kill a million people just to prove he can.”

Butcher shrugged. “Cost of doing business.”

That made Maeve sit up. “You don’t care at all about collateral? The whole point of this is to stop him from hurting—”

“Don’t care what the point is for you,” Butcher snapped. “He took Becca. The best bloody person on this Earth and he snuffed out her light. That is reason enough.” His voice had crept up a bit, wavered. He collected himself. “That’s enough,” he said, lower.

Maeve forgot sometimes that the plain fact of Becca’s death—a sad fact, but an immutable one—would forever be an open wound for him. She didn’t bother to apologize (he wouldn’t care). Instead, she pivoted to an admission that would either prove sympathetic, or else make him furious. Condemning her would distract him, though.

“I do get it. I had it all planned out,” Maeve said. “What I would do if anyone hurt Elena.”

“Oh? What brilliant plan have you been sitting on, your majesty?”

“Depends who it was and how they did it,” Maeve recounted mechanically. “For most cases—let’s say just about any human who’s not affiliated with Vought. It’d be easy to get away with killing them. So it couldn’t be too quick.”

“You got some right torture in mind, then?”

“Despite what you may think, I’m not a f*cking sad*st browsing thumbscrews online while fingering myself. It has to fit the crime. So whatever they did to her, I’d give them back double.” Simple yet meaningful. Decisive yet noncommittal. Exactly Maeve’s style. “Then end it fast after that, no chance for pleading or redemption. Break their body down to bits and dispose of it in the least traceable and least significant way possible. So goddamn boring that Vought wouldn’t even have to clean up after me.”

“Your little glory-revenge plans lose a bit of shine when you’ve got a Fortune 500 ready to back you no matter what you do.”

“Like I said: that’s the easy scenario. If it’s someone in Vought, it’s a little trickier. I don’t mean powers-wise. Most other Supes I could end easily. A-Train would be annoying, if he can still run at all… Even he can’t run forever. Anyways, that’s a non-factor. More relevant is how Homelander feels about this person. Any rank-and-file employee, even most of the Seven—then we’re talking Plan A, plus a careful conversation with him to make sure he doesn’t know, or doesn’t care what I did. If it was someone he considered valuable... I’d have to convince him it was worth it. Even that, I don’t think would be too difficult.”

“Given he lasered the one c*nt he was supposed to care for before I could do her in, I don’t think you’d have a problem there,” Butcher snorted. “Get to the point then. If it’s the man himself?”

That was always the most likely scenario. And the trickiest. “I’d f*cking figure it out. Same thing we’re doing now.”

That was a lie. In the world she could hardly bear to think about, if Homelander laid a hand on Elena… Maeve wouldn’t waste time plotting out her best shot. She’d come at him immediately and come at him hard. It might end poorly for her. But also, maybe, might end poorly for him. At the very least, a death match between the two strongest members of the Seven would cause a huge ruckus and a huge headache for him. So yes, Maeve understood Butcher’s motives well. Any possible cost was acceptable for any possible chance at hurting Homelander.

Sobriety was a real f*cking drag, convincing her to take the more reasonable route.

Chapter 26: Age 36 (part 2)

Chapter Text

□ □ □

Donald was fifty-nine. Maeve was dead.

No one from Vought had given him a call about the hugely advertised funeral, and they might well have known he hadn’t talked to Maggie in almost eighteen years, but Veronica convinced him to go anyway. She said, “Of course everyone will want to see you there. It’s your right more than anyone’s.”

So he shelled out for a cross-country plane ticket last-minute, got a cab right to Central Park, where there were roads blocked off and massive crowds of fans clamoring to get into the funeral. Donald worked his way forward, hoping to get some sort of pass from the guards that would let him get through. But they wouldn’t give him a second look.

“That’s my kid!” he bellowed as the bouncers held him back. “I’m her dad. I f*cking raised her. You can’t do this!”

“We’ve seen enough fakers today.”

Donald was very close to throwing a punch at the bouncer, feeling that at least a black eye and a possible arrest would be something to show for the trip. But calling Veronica to come across the country to bail him out would be embarrassing, so he turned, figuring he’d find the closest bar and get a drink in her honor.

As he turned, his heart stopped. Just behind him, among the crowd but standing out like a cosmic spotlight was on her. Joan.

“Donnie,” she murmured.

“The only thing that could make this day goddamn worse,” he muttered.

Thirty-six years since he’d seen her. She had aged, but still looked so much like herself. So much like Maggie. Apparently no one else could tell. Hundreds of “fans” with pictures of Maeve on their shirts swarmed past, trying to get closer to the proceedings where other members of the Seven gave trite eulogies. Completely unaware that their hero’s parents were out here on the fringes.

Joan stared at him. Her eyes like saucers, now behind glasses that suited her face so well. Her hair had gone gray; that suited her, too. Donald was married; he shouldn’t be thinking how anything suited her, which only irritated him more. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“You can stuff it. I’m not interested.”

Donald turned away, but she chased. “I know it’s silly to say, but I’m hurting too. Please, stop and talk.”

“f*ck off.”

“Our daughter is dead.”

Our daughter—the audacity. Donald whirled around. “What difference does that make to you?”

“I made a terrible mistake, leaving all those years. I feel awful. Now that we’re here… If they won’t let us in, perhaps we could go somewhere, have a conversation. You could tell me a little about her.”

“You want to know more about her? You come to me, you want to know more about our Maggie?”

“You’ve spent the last thirty years with her…”

“Alone!” Donald shouted. “You left me alone. With a f*cking freak kid. Is that what that whole business was, at the hospital, when they wouldn’t let me in? You signing those papers, jabbing her with that Compound V sh*t, so I couldn’t see?”

Joan shrank. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that. Doesn’t mean sh*t.”

Donald stormed off, too angry to reflect on this moment of the pair of them in Central Park, where they’d strolled through their first date, brought back by the death of the daughter they never raised together.

□ □ □

Back in Modesto, Donald got a call from a lawyer, who explained the monthly payments set up by his client blah de f*cking blah would be terminated, upon Queen Maeve’s death, in accordance with the fine print of their settlement all those years ago. That was fine. The restaurant was doing alright, and in the last few years, since he stopped betting, he’d gotten his debt under control—he was almost back to a passable credit score.

“What about the will? When do I hear about that?”

The lawyer waited a bit too long. “We’ve already begun to execute the will. You aren’t a recipient.”

“Check again. She had to leave something for me. I’m her only family. Some small f*ck-you. A warm beer. A dirty sock. One single dollar. Something!”

The lawyer kept a professional tone.“The will specifies that all of Queen Maeve’s cash, equity, and liquid assets are to be donated in specified proportions to a handful of charitable organizations. You are not listed as a beneficiary. In fact, you are not listed at all.”

Donald was left hanging long after the call ended.

He couldn’t be angry at not getting the payout. Ever since the start, Ma, Lynn, Joe, Caruso, everyone had told him what a losing bet this was. Even Joan knew it was a mistake. But he’d gone all in.

And he’d do the same again.

▲ ▲ ▲

Maeve dreamed of being normal. When she was thirty-six, it came true.

It was a nightmare at first. Hours of hazy half-conscious pain as she was dragged from the rubble, examined by Annie and her friends, then experienced improvised surgery to remove her damaged eye, with only bootleg painkillers… screaming while Annie held her down and the French one went mad with the scalpel. Mercifully, she passed out after a few minutes.

When she next woke, her hand went instinctively to her face. Confusion as her fingers brushed the gauze padding, and a dull ache resumed in her eye. Socket.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” a familiar voice said. Maeve’s gaze came into focus. Annie standing above her. “Are you awake? Finally?” she didn’t wait for an answer before lifting Maeve up into a half-hug.

“Ow,” Maeve groaned.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry.” Annie put her back gently. “You must be tired. Here. You definitely need to drink water.” Maeve didn’t fight as Annie brought the glass to her lips like a war nurse. She could barely manage the swallowing.“You need to eat, too. M.M. made chicken…”

Maeve shook her head. Too much work.

“What do you want? You have to eat something.”

“Only thing I can imagine eating… is mashed potatoes,” Maeve managed. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

“We can do that.”

“But specifically that out-of-a-box kind… that’s basically baby food.”

Annie kept her promise, returning a short while later with the ideal soft, mealy potatoes. Maeve was able to get some of them down. Aside from the pain and exhaustion, her entire body felt… strange.

“Everyone thinks you’re dead,” Annie said.

“Everyone…?”

“Vought, Homelander… We did, too, until we found you. It’s on the news, which means it’s Vought’s official story.”

Maeve didn’t have the energy to get it out of her sandpaper-throat that Homelander wasn’t who she meant by “everyone.” She shifted her baby potatoes to the side of her lap and stretched out her hand. Flexed her fingers. It was different. She was certain. Yet, she still felt apprehensive about “confirming” the change, as she had been afraid to test if it was real after her dreams of losing her powers growing up.

“Do you get what this means?” Annie nudged her gently. “You’re free.”

“Free…” That word was odd.

By all accounts, this was what Maeve had always wished for. A ticket out. No responsibility; no one coming after her.

She was free. Free to do what…?

Annie assured Maeve that she shouldn’t worry about anything other than recovering. Aside from the eye, she’d sustained a ton of bruising, burns all over her torso, a dislocated shoulder, and a few broken ribs. Moving around was painful, so for the next few days, Maeve remained confined to M.M.’s daughter’s bed, with nothing else to do but wait for her body to heal and wonder what the hell would become of her once this “recovery” was over. Annie visited as much as she could, but that was only an hour or two a day. Annie had a boyfriend, a platform, a cause, a life.

Maeve had “freedom.”

Annie being Annie, she was always looking for a way to cheer Maeve up. Which was pretty annoying when it was constant check-ins about if she wanted different food, or if she’d enjoy watching a movie together to break up the monotony. But, Annie being Annie, she found her way to the one surprise that made a difference.

“I hope you’re not mad, but I brought you a visitor…”

◈ ◈ ◈

When Elena was there, with Maeve, as she recovered from the explosion, she didn’t ask many questions. Not about why Maeve was recuperating in this preteen’s bedroom, not about why the man who owned the place was called “Mother’s Milk”, nor about why he told Elena she could stay to keep Maeve company as long as she liked, “As long as you see that she doesn’t dirty the place up.”

She didn’t make any assumptions, or demands, because Maeve could barely sit up, let alone have a serious talk about the future, and… after a year of trying quite hard to put the relationship behind her, Elena wasn’t even sure what she wanted. She was glad Maeve was alive, more than anything. She remained to keep Maeve company while she was on strict bedrest for the first few days; that was enough, for now.

“Nineteen,” Maeve wheezed, out of the blue, one day.

“What?”

“That’s how many people I’ve killed,” Maeve said. Her speech was slow and pained; her injuries made it an effort even to talk. “You said, before… that it upset you, to wonder. So… full disclosure. I don’t want to ask you to go any farther, without knowing…”

“Nineteen.”

“That’s not counting the plane, obviously… and some others where I guess, I could’ve stepped in, ones I should’ve saved, but nineteen people, who were alive, aren’t anymore, because of me.”

Elena tried to picture it. Nineteen people in front of her. They’d barely fit in this room.

“I’m sorry,” Maeve’s voice was hoarse. “I’ll stop if you don’t want to hear this.”

“No… it’s important.” Elena took a breath, steadied herself. “Tell me.”

“My babysitter, when I was three,” Maeve said. “I don’t remember it clearly, but… my dad told me when I was older, and it… it make sense, that was the first. Then there was this kid once when we were out camping… he started fighting me and shoved and I shoved back, he tripped and hit his head on a rock, and my Dad saw and he um… made us leave right away… but … I’m pretty sure the kid died.” She paused, glanced at Elena. “The first time I tried to stop a car accident… it was a minivan, and uh, it was heading for a lady in the street, and I stood in the way, but it crushed around me, and… five people inside, all dead. After I moved to New York, then, a mugger shot at me and the bullet ricocheted and got him.”

Elena couldn’t help but cut in. “I don’t think that’s your fault—”

“He was bleeding badly, and I didn’t know what to…” Maeve grimaced. “I put him out of his misery. That was the first time… on purpose.” A sigh, then she continued. “Called to a state fair once, a bomb threat, some jackass with a homemade explosive. He was gonna blow himself up anyway, so I ran in and sped it up. Next was… Oh, yeah. The bus? They love to talk about how all the kids survived, but the driver died… ‘cause of how I punched it, from the front, she got the worst. They never put that in the Hall of Fame clips. There was an active shooter, once, and the police were really wasting a lot of time debating how to get to him, so I just took a shot with… with a pen.”

“You killed someone with a pen?!”

“Yeah…”

Elena had lost track of how many were accounted for, and how many were left, but Maeve kept going.

“The plane. I mean. Not the whole, but… One of the hijackers. I snapped his neck. Then. One night, uh, after we split, last year… I wasn’t thinking straight, not in a good space, I was really, really drunk and… called one of my trainers, for a hookup, and…” She trailed off, leaving the rest to the imagination (not that Elena cared to picture it). “Then… Six guards in the prison van, a couple days ago.” Maeve shut her mouth, looked down. She was done.

“Wow,” Elena breathed. “Nineteen.”

“I’ve got plenty of other horrible sh*t on my conscience, but that’s that. If you can live with nineteen…”

“I can live with you being honest with me.” Elena squeezed Maeve’s hand. “That helps a lot.”

And it was unsettling, to know… but it was still preferable to not-knowing.

▲ ▲ ▲

Leaving New York was tricky, yet surprisingly easy, at the same time.

Once the destination was set, most of the plan was, too. Air travel was out for numerous reasons, so the only thing to do was for Elena to load up her car (Maeve had nothing to pack but the few clothes Annie had procured for her since the accident) and for them to hit the road. Elena drove the whole way, despite Maeve’s superficial offer to take a shift. She asserted that driving wasn’t that hard and she’d be fine with only one arm, but Elena rebutted that she was more concerned about the one eye.

Car travel meant they were free from scrutiny, so long as they avoided rest areas. Nothing symbolized Maeve’s sudden ejection from the celebrity lifestyle like taking pit stops on the grass beside the highway.

Elena insisted on joining her, too, even after Maeve pointed out that she didn’t have to remain undercover. “You should just use the real bathroom whenever we stop for gas,” Maeve said.

“I don’t mind,” Elena insisted. And there, squatting to piss by the side of the road to maintain the illusion that she was dead to the world, Maeve felt more loved than she ever had. She had someone who could forgive her for killing nineteen people, for hiding her complicity in hundreds more deaths. Someone who’d show up after she was dead and uproot her entire life to rekindle their fantasy of running away together. Someone who’d piss by the side of the road for her. No amount of money, celebrity, or superpowers could buy that.

When they finally “arrived”, Maeve wondered if even more roughing it was in her future, as the car pulled down a dirt road that appeared to only lead to more woods.

“This is the address Antonio sent,” Elena muttered. “It has to be here…”

Sure enough, pulling around another bend, they found an extremely humble cabin. It looked like it could fit in Maeve’s living room from her apartment back at the Tower.

Elena parked, then opened the trunk to grab a few of her bags. Maeve hurried over to help, then was reminded that she wasn’t a one-trip luggage hero anymore. Elena waved her off, “Don’t hurt yourself,” but Maeve grabbed one of the suitcases. It took her whole body to lift the thing. Dragging it 50 feet felt like an accomplishment. She had to get used to this.

Once Elena managed to get the door open, they shifted everything inside. Mercifully, it already had most of the basic furnishings from the previous owner. It would take some additions to be livable—Maeve was happy to adjust to a life of less luxury, but a TV might be nice—but it definitely seemed possible to hide from the world out here.

“So… what now?” Maeve asked, as they flopped down on the couch to rest.

“I don’t know,” Elena said.

“Me neither.” For much of her life, Maeve had felt clueless about what she was supposed to do. She’d never been happier not-knowing.