Chapter Text
PART 1: ANNIE
July 4, 2022
Annie stood behind the massive backstage screen, arms folded tight across her stomach like she was physically holding her nerves in place. The hum of the stage lights vibrated through the metal flooring, and somewhere out front Ashley was probably sweating through industrial-strength deodorant. Annie kept her gaze forward, focused, breathing slow; but every minute or so her eyes betrayed her, flicking to the left in a quick, guilty side-glance.
Homelander stood there like a marble statue someone forgot to file emotions into. Hands resting perfectly at his sides, chin slightly raised, that ridiculous pout still plastered on his face since the moment he returned on set this evening.
On a normal person, a normal forty-something man, pouting could look comical, pathetic even. But on Homelander? It was the facial equivalent of a loaded gun sitting on a toddler’s highchair. The absurdity should've been funny. But it wasn't. Not when his expression looked seconds away from cracking like a mirror under pressure.
He hadn't blinked in… she didn’t know. Too long. His stare was fixed on nothing, eyes wide, eerie and gleaming under the dim yellow bulbs. Annie swore she could trace her own reflection in them, tiny and doomed. Was he breathing? Hard to tell. Maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe the universe itself inhaled around him out of fear.
Being near Homelander was always a gamble with house odds, but today carried a special flavor of dread. It was his birthday, or more accurately, the meticulously engineered PR propaganda Vought chose for him decades ago in order to make Independence Day about Homelander. A celebratory day fabricated from spreadsheets and branding meetings, packaged in a patriotic color scheme, and shoved down the world's throat until it became tradition. They’d been doing this same circus act for over twenty years. World's largest cake, speeches, annual birthday saves, forced performative smiles. The world's most powerful man blowing out candles none of them could afford to let extinguish.
And this year, the day came with extra confetti from hell.
Stormfront killed herself this morning. Right after they’d left the tower, no warning, no signs.
Just bit off her tongue and choked herself on it.
The timing could not have been worse.
Annie had been on the set of American Hero when the entire day derailed. One second she was sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending to care about contestant drama, and the next, every screen in the studio blared the breaking headline. Stormfront Suicide. A final middle finger to continuity.
The panic hit instantly. Not for Stormfront, Annie wasn’t about to shed tears for a fascist corpse; but for what it meant for the man currently sulking just a few feet away from her.
Homelander had already stormed off earlier, mood foul enough to spoil dairy. He’d insisted Starlight perform a sultry birthday number for him tonight. Not out of lust (though she wouldn't bet money on that), but because he enjoyed reminding her who held the power. His favorite hobby: shrinking people and calling it leadership.
She’d told him no. Edgar had backed her. And Homelander’s pride shattered loud enough Annie swore she heard the break somewhere.
It had been objectively funny watching the world’s strongest man get his ego dented by a woman half his size, but she’d swallowed the laugh before it escaped. Humor was a luxury around Homelander, like standing near a gas leak with a lit cigarette.
He left in a huff for his annual “birthday save,” the mandatory PR mission to make him look altruistic for the cameras. A girl standing on the edge of a rooftop, whatever was convenient to parade on TV later.
That was when the Stormfront news dropped. She had killed herself. And with her, whatever illusion of stability he’d been clinging to.
So here they were, a special flavor of doom unlocked.
Homelander standing there looking like a malfunctioning wax figure. Pouting and unblinking. He hadn’t spoken a single word since returning.
And in minutes, they’d have to step out onstage together, smiling like this was just another wholesome milestone; announcing the launch of Starlight House, her nonprofit for at-risk youth. Annie’s project. Her moment. Of course it had to happen with him simmering beside her like a pressure cooker.
Supersonic wrapped his number on stage to roaring applause, glitter still settling like radioactive snow.
A-Train strutted back onto the stage in a fresh suit so bright it looked sponsored by a smoothie brand. He grabbed the mic with that trademark grin, clapping.
“Alright, yeah! Let’s hear it for Supersonic, everybody!”
The crowd obeyed; cheers, whistles, a few marriage proposals thrown with enthusiasm.
When the volume finally dipped, A-Train lifted his arm with dramatic flourish. “Alright, so now I would like to bring out our co-captains. Let's give it up for Starlight, and—” He paused for effect, teeth flashing, “the man of the hour himself, Homelander!”
His finger shot toward the wing where Homelander was.
Annie inhaled, nerves coiling tight. She cast one last quick look at Homelander—his first movement in twenty tense minutes as he flicked his gaze back at her, an unreadable expression simmering behind it. Then they split toward their designated entrances, each pushing through opposite doors to hit the stage from either side.
The transformation was immediate. Backstage tension evaporated under the glow of audience worship.
Annie stepped into the lights with a smile polished to perfection. And Homelander mirrored it with terrifying ease. Hands raised, applause amplified, both of them soaking in the adoration like professionals who’d mastered the art of pretending everything was fine.
Big grins. Big energy. America’s favorite heroes.
A-Train swaggered up to Homelander, hand outstretched like he owned the room. “Happy birthday, Homelander!”
Homelander’s grin was all teeth, too many, too sharp, as he clasped A-Train’s hand in a grip that was just a little too tight.
“Thank you!” He clapped A-Train’s back like they were best friends, leaned in close enough that A-Train could smell the expensive cologne on him.
“I can see your girdle, you disgusting fat fuck.” The whisper came out sweet as poison. Another clap, harder. “Get off the fucking stage.” Homelander chuckled under his breath, already pivoting toward the cheering crowd, arms raised like a savior descending from heaven. His smile only stretched further, saintly and smug.
A-Train’s expression drained faster than a phone at 2%. He flicked a glance at Homelander, then at Starlight. And she was looking straight at him, smile still pinned on for the cameras, just dulled at the edges. Yep. She definitely heard that.
He swallowed it down, jaw tight, and stalked offstage like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
Center stage now belonged only to Homelander and Annie. She stood beside him, presenting him like some glossy product reveal while the room exploded with applause and whistles, hungry for the show.
When the roar of applause finally settled enough to hear anything human again, Annie leaned toward the mic, eyes flicking across the teleprompter. “Wow, I'm so honored to be with you guys tonight celebrating my dear friend and mentor—” She gestured to Homelander beside her.
He stood stiff, smile glued on, something restless twitching under the surface.
“Homelander!” Annie finished, flashing him a warm grin.
He returned it like a reflex; wide, patriotic, hands tucked neatly behind him beneath the cape like he was holding himself together.
Turning back to the crowd, Annie rolled smoothly into the speech. “I’m here to do more than wish you a happy birthday, though. I'm thrilled to be announcing a project that is near and dear to my heart. The Starlight House is a nonprofit foundation dedicated to helping homeless and at-risk youth—”
And then—
A voice ripped through the room like a beer bottle in a church. Some middle-aged guy, clearly Jewish, shouted from the seats:
“Hey, Homelander, your Nazi died!”
Everything stalled. Annie’s words died mid-air, her jaw slightly parted, frozen in the lights like a deer that wandered onto a highway. A couple seconds dragged on, long enough to make half the room cringe, before she snapped back into host mode and turned to look at Homelander.
He hadn’t reacted. Still smiling, too wide, too calm, rocking gently from heel to toe; like a bomb deciding whether to tick or blow.
Annie’s throat tightened. Anyone would hate having their dead girlfriend thrown into the spotlight that casually, let alone him. She could practically feel the static in the air around him, dangerous and buzzing. So she stepped up, professional instinct kicking in, voice ready to steer the trainwreck back onto the tracks before it derailed in front of thousands.
“Uh…Homelander…” Annie’s voice wobbled for a beat, but she pushed ahead, tapping her tongue against her teeth with a gentle smile and patting her thighs like she was smoothing the moment flat. “He’s just… he's a human. He's just like the rest of us. And we all make mistakes, right?” Her gaze searched the audience, cueing them like a conductor. “But we all deserve second chances.”
Beside her, Homelander looked like a storm stuffed into a man-shaped balloon. The cheerful mask was cracking on the edges, jaw clamped so tight a dentist would cry, teeth flashing under the lights. His shoulders were tense, hands glued behind his back as if he’d break something if he moved them, chin dipped slightly, and eyes sharp.
Annie barreled on anyway, voice pitched brighter than sanity required. “In that spirit, Homelander has agreed to donate ten million dollars to the Starlight House—” She clapped twice, loud and sparkly, polishing the moment with charm and wholesome joy. “—which, I mean.. come on, give it up, give it up.” Her claps grew louder, desperate for momentum.
The audience followed, applause swelling again like nothing horrifying was brewing center stage.
And then it soured. A low laugh spilled from Homelander’s throat; dry, humorless, offended in a way only a god-man could be. It rolled up his chest and cracked open.
“No. No. No. No. No.” He cut through the noise, voice booming, furious. The crowd’s applause stuttered into silence, and Annie froze mid-clap.
She swallowed hard, throat tight as her palms drifted down beside her hips. The applause that had once cushioned the stage was gone, replaced by an unsettling silence.
Homelander stepped forward, and she instinctively eased back, like avoiding a live wire. He leaned into the mic, hungry for it.
“Starlight lied to you just now. She did.”
The grin was still there, stretched too wide, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He didn’t blink, eyes blown wide with manic conviction. “I don't make mistakes. I'm not "just like the rest of you." I'm stronger. I'm smarter. I'm better. I am better.” His voice boomed through the hall, bouncing off marble, banners, and every unfortunate soul present.
His hands moved through the air with every line; grand, dramatic gestures meant for gods, not mortals. “I’m not some weak-kneed fucking crybaby that goes around fucking apologizing all the time. And why the fuck would you want me to be?”
Back in the control room it was pure panic; chairs scraping, papers flying, Ashley practically foaming at the mouth. “Roll to commercial, Roger! Roll to fucking commercial!”
Homelander’s head snapped toward the booth like he’d been possessed. “DON'T YOU DARE STOP ROLLING, ROGER!” he roared, voice cutting through distance.
Annie jerked behind him, a shiver running through her bones. Her pulse thudded loud in her ears, drowning out everything but dread. She’d tried to offer the audience a lifeline, humanize the man, soften the edges. Instead it blew up spectacularly, and in front of the entire nation.
Homelander wasn’t just unraveling, he was doing it live. No edits, no PR mop-up, no take-backs, and definitely no commercial.
Homelander didn’t slow, didn’t breathe, didn’t even pretend to soften. He stalked the stage like a preacher with a god complex, voice booming from his throat.
“All my life, people have tried to control me. My whole life. Rich people, powerful people have tried to muzzle me, cancel me, keep me impotent and obedient, like I'm a fucking puppet.” One hand cut through the air, then clenched into a fist, an angry punctuation mark to every word. “You know what? It worked. Because I allowed it to work.” He spat the line with a scoff like it tasted bitter going out.
“And guess what? If they can control me, then you can bet your ass they can control you. They already do. You just don't realize it.”
He paced now, restless. His gaze never wavered from the cameras; deadly intimate, like he was staring directly into every living room in America.
“I'm done.”
The room held its breath, utterly frozen in shock.
“I am done apologizing. I am done being persecuted for my strength. You people—” He jabbed a finger toward the audience, “should be thanking Christ that I am who and what I am, because you need me. You need me to save you. You do. I am the only one who possibly can.” He threw his hands in the air out of sheer petulant frustration, like throwing a tantrum.
The tension was a living organism by now, crawling, electric. Annie stood just behind him, spine rigid, feet edging back inch by inch. Her practiced pageant smile had dissolved into something closer to shock. She wasn’t blinking. She wasn’t breathing. She just stared at the man tearing down the image Vought had built for him brick by brick over decades in front of millions.
She couldn't wrap her head around the fact that this was happening; not in rehearsal, not in private, but live. Unfiltered. Irreversible.
“You're not the real heroes.”
The words came from him quieter now, but they struck harder, followed by another brief unnerving silence. Almost the silence-before-the-gunshot energy that made every person in the audience hold absolutely still. His stance widened, hands planted on his hips like a conquering general surveying peasants.
His eyes swept the crowd, gleaming with vindication and fury all mixed together.
“I'm the real hero.”
A small pause, and then again to make his point: “I'm the real hero."
And just like that, he pivoted sharply, no farewell, no sugarcoating, just pure toxic tornado. He stalked offstage, cape snapping behind him like it was pissed too. He left her there in the spotlight, with the smoldering crater of his ego detonation still crackling around them.
Annie stood alone, smile long dead, lungs tight.
The crowd was a stunned mass, half confusion, half horror, and all of them desperately waiting for someone to pretend things were fine. But there was no clever cleanup for that. No PR bandaid big enough. He hadn't just slipped, he'd leapt headfirst off the public persona cliff and flipped the bird on the way down.
She finally forced her voice steady enough to say they’d be back after a commercial break, then stepped offstage as gracefully as someone walking away from a burning building could.
Backstage was a hive of panic. Staff rushing, voices overlapping in frantic whispers, Ashley looked two seconds from cardiac arrest, and someone spilled coffee on expensive equipment but nobody even cared. The only thing that mattered was the catastrophic sentence: Homelander had already left the set.
So much for his grand Birthday Spectacular.
Annie inhaled, slow and shaky, letting the dread sit heavy in her stomach. There was no undoing what happened, only surviving it. So she swallowed her fear, straightened her shoulders, and returned to the stage to finish the show. Alone. Because that’s what professionals do when god-kings decide to take the nuclear option before cake.
—
Later that night, Annie went straight to the tower, telling herself it was for “work,” but really because her brain felt like it had been stuck in a blender set to liquify. She’d texted Hughie a neat little explanation about staying over at the penthouse to “monitor the situation,” which was code for: I need to stare at a wall in silence so my soul doesn’t leak out of my ears. She promised him breakfast at his place in the morning. Hopefully he bought that.
When she stepped off the elevator, she expected alarms, agents sprinting, maybe Ashley sobbing into a timeout corner. Instead? The place was absurdly calm. The kind of calm where you start wondering if you missed an evacuation notice.
Most of the staff had already left for the day. The ones still around were guards who looked half-asleep and fully uninterested in protecting anyone from emotional trauma.
Meanwhile, the executives were holed up in their respective luxury homes, screaming into laptops as they tried to patch the massive crater Homelander blasted into Vought’s reputation. Crisis Management teams were probably sacrificing goats on Zoom. Careers were hanging from dental floss.
That’s the thing about Homelander, when someone with that much power vomits out a rant on live TV, the public doesn’t treat it like a celebrity meltdown. They treat it like scripture. Every sentence becomes a siren. Every accusation is suddenly a prophecy. And tomorrow, the media would chew on that speech like a pack of starving coyotes.
Sleep had no chance. Annie lay in bed, tossing, turning, mentally replaying every second of the disaster until it felt like her skull was trying to vibrate itself into dust. She even texted Hughie again out of pure restlessness, but he’d already passed out. No surprise there.
Ever since Hughie discovered that Victoria Neuman was the head-popper last night, the poor guy had been running on pure psychological static. He kept short-circuiting all day, like trying to reboot himself manually. Eventually in his infinite please-stop-hurting-yourself determination, Hughie had gone off to Red River alone. Of course he’d also managed to injure himself with the PB jar prior to that.
Meanwhile, Annie had spent the entire day trapped in Homelander’s birthday circus; confetti, cameras, branded nonsense, and one final nuclear-grade meltdown.
She was supposed to follow up with Hughie on all of that Neuman stuff tonight. They were supposed to investigate. Compare notes. Strategize. Pretend they were functional adults. But the second Homelander detonated onstage, everything else fell out of her head like marbles down a drain. Every priority rearranged itself around the man in the cape, because that’s what he does. He sucks all the air out of the room when he's not satisfied with the lack of attention and validation.
And so Annie remained awake, adrenaline simmering under her skin, waiting for morning like a punishment. His words kept looping in her mind, sharp and intrusive:
— “I'm not ‘just like the rest of you.’ I'm stronger. I'm smarter. I'm better.”
— “All my life, people have tried to control me.”
— “You know what? It worked. Because I allowed it to work.”
— “I am done apologizing. I am done being persecuted for my strength.”
Each line hit her like a cold slap, again and again, as if he were still up there onstage, ranting directly into her ears. And his voice kept swelling inside Annie’s skull until it felt like someone had wedged a megaphone behind her eyes and set it to “haunting narcissist.” She bolted upright.
Lying in bed was useless. It just gave Homelander more room to pace in her head. Eventually she abandoned the mattress entirely and went for water, gripping the glass like hydration might somehow fix her panic.
She wondered what Stan Edgar was doing right now. Probably icing his face after screaming into a pillow for three hours. She even found herself wondering what Homelander was doing, now that he’d managed to nuke his own image in front of half the country. Was he sulking in the sky? Punching satellites? Practicing his “I’m totally fine” smile in a mirror?
The fallout for her was already creeping up her spine. Co-captain of The Seven, professionally tied to the man who had just delivered a manifesto that sounded like it belonged spray-painted on a bunker wall.
Maeve had managed to keep him in check this past year, holding that Flight 37 footage over him like a guillotine. And honestly, it worked. Shockingly well. Until tonight.
Ironically, he didn’t explode because some guy in the audience mentioned “his Nazi dying” — no, that would’ve been almost reasonable by Homelander standards. He blew up because Starlight tried to defend him. Because she said he was “just a human and he makes mistakes like the rest of us”. Because she tried to paint him as something fallible, relatable, mortal.
That was the insult.
She winced at the memory. Maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut. Let Roger roll to commercial early. Let the whole thing cut to a fabric-softener ad and pretend it never happened. Instead, she opened her mouth and accidentally poked a bear wearing a flag.
A small sigh slipped out of her, the deflating kind. She took another sip of water, shoulders dropping. One thing was obvious: she’d have to camp out around Homelander tomorrow. Eyes open. Ears sharp. American Hero’s finale was tomorrow night, which meant new recruits, more cameras, and a public relations minefield waiting to blow if Homelander so much as twitched wrong.
Too much was stacked on her plate for her to function under stress all night anymore. She dragged herself back to bed anyway, settling under the covers. She tried to trick her brain into quiet, but it kept shoving her thoughts around like aggressive toddlers.
After what felt like an eternity of lying perfectly still and pretending to sleep, exhaustion finally grabbed her by the ankles. She drifted off at last, not peacefully, not fully, but into a thin, restless sleep that felt like a few borrowed hours.
——
The vibration hit first; a rude, buzzing earthquake against her nightstand, and Annie lurched upright like she’d been slapped awake by God Himself. Her eyes blinked unevenly, brain booting up in corrupt-file mode. Once her thoughts stitched themselves together enough to form a sentence, she fumbled toward her phone.
A text from Hughie lit the screen: “Hey, can you drop by for breakfast? I need to tell you something. Urgent.”
She stared at it, still half-asleep, and actually typed a reply so incoherent it looked like her thumbs had suffered a small stroke. Annie clicked her tongue, erased the catastrophe, and decided to skip the alphabet entirely. She hit call instead.
Hughie picked up instantly. “Hey, hey, Annie. Sorry, did I wake you?”
Annie rubbed her face and managed a sleepy little laugh. “No, no… it’s fine. Morning. What’s going on? You sound tense.”
Hughie’s breath hit the line before his words did. “Yeah… it’s Vicky. Something happened last night...” He tsked. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I saw something. That's what I meant. Can we meet?”
That chased off the last scraps of sleep. Her brow pulled in. “Hughie… we’ve hit the point where Butcher needs to know about her. I might not have room today, especially after—”
“Oh. Right. Homelander’s birthday thing.” Hughie let out a weak laugh, but the nerves clung to him still. “Wait—how’d you know we should loop Butcher in? And gosh… he’s not gonna let this go til the end of time.”
She snorted. “All the more reason. Call him. I’ll reach out later. Things must be… volatile at the tower.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Talk soon.” Then, softer, “Take care, Annie.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “You too. And stop stressing yourself bald. I’ll swing by when I can. Bye.”
“Right. Bye.”
The line cut, leaving the room quiet again. Annie checked the time: 5:33 a.m. A groan escaped her as she kicked off the covers and stood.
A long, steaming shower followed, heat rolling over her skin, unwinding the leftover panic from the night before. She suited up on autopilot; zip, click, hairspray blast as if fumigating herself for corporate dreads. By the time she stepped into the hallway, she was already in mission mode: find Ashley before Homelander found her. Ideally ever.
Except… no one looked panicked. No frantic executives or interns clutching tablets like life rafts. No PR elves muttering legal incantations. Just cheerful greetings and “Morning, Starlight!” like they hadn’t all witnessed an all-American emotional breakdown on live TV.
She smiled back, because you had to, but it only tightened the knot in her stomach.
She slid into The Seven’s conference room and spotted Ashley leaning against the table, face glued to her tablet, scrolling like she was hypnotized by the color-coded misery on her screen.
“Hey, Ashley—” Annie said, stepping inside and darting a quick look over her shoulder for any sign of him. “What is crisis management saying about last night?”
No answer. Ashley kept scrolling, blissful in that extremely suspicious way.
“Ashley. Hey!” Annie tried again, polite but very much at the end of her pre-coffee patience.
Ashley jolted, attention tased back to reality. “Oh! Starlight, hi! You’re early.” Her smile stretched ear to ear like she’d been practicing in the mirror. “Big day! Homelander’s Birthday Spectacular! So exciting!”
Annie stared at her, waiting for the rest; the panic, the fear, the oh-god-we’re-all-fired tremble.
Nothing. Just sunshine and denial.
“You’re still calling it his ‘birthday spectacular’?” Annie asked, staring wide. “I thought… it looked a lot more like a meltdown. Are you seriously fine after that?”
Ashley blinked at her, expression blank as a loading screen. “Meltdown? What meltdown?” She waved a hand. “It’s his birthday. And we have a tradition. Hence, ‘Homelander’s Birthday Spectacular.’” She even added a tiny corporate scoff, like Starlight had insulted the sacred calendar.
Pushing off the table, she started tapping her tablet. “I’m sending you today’s schedule shortly. Oh! And you excited for the Starlight House announcement tonight?”
Annie felt her stomach dip. “What are you talking about? We already announced Starlight House last night.”
Ashley’s smile shifted into something painfully gentle, usually reserved for recommending therapy brochures. “Oh, sweetheart.” She placed a hand on Annie’s shoulder. “New co-captains get frazzled. Totally normal. But eat something, okay? Big day ahead. I’m triple-booked for Homelander’s celebration marathon, so call if you need anything.”
She gave Annie’s shoulder a patronizing pat and breezed out, heels clicking with all that confidence Annie no longer possessed.
Annie stood there, blinking at the doorway.
As bizarre as that exchange had been, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling Ashley was way too calm for someone whose job was at risk at the moment. Homelander nuked his own PR last night, share prices should be nose-diving. Orders were supposed to be barked all around.
But Ashley? Acting like the only crisis on her radar was whether the bakery sent the correct number of birthday candles. Maybe she was so stressed she’d simply overwritten reality in her head. What meltdown?
The idea made Annie give a short, tired laugh. Then she turned toward the cafeteria, hoping caffeine would explain what Ashley clearly wouldn’t.
—
Annie slid her tray onto an empty table by the window, croissant, fruit cup, and lukewarm coffee. She pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over Hughie’s name, ready to call and check in before the day swallowed them both whole.
But then the bling of a new notification barged onto her screen.
Ashley: “Schedule attached!”
Annie groaned, because of course Ashley would pick the exact moment she reached for emotional stability to drop the dread on her. Fine. Pure curiosity, mixed with a little terror, nudged her to tap open the attachment.
Her eyes traced down the document. Then back up. Then down again.
…Nothing. No emergency meetings. No crisis management briefings. No frantic PR huddle to spin Homelander’s televised detonation into something other than career suicide.
Instead, she saw:
“Homelander Birthday Special - Segment Rehearsal and Soundcheck”
“Prep for Starlight House Reveal”
“VTN Stage Blocking | Homelander Entrance”
Annie’s fork froze mid-air. This—this was yesterday’s schedule.
She checked the header. The date stamped boldly at the top:
Yesterday.
She dragged her finger down the screen to double-check the date. Also yesterday.
Her stomach went cold. Like an “okay, who hacked the universe?” cold.
She blinked hard, refreshed the file, even tilted the phone like the date might magically realign itself if she changed the viewing angle.
Nope. Same thing.
Her pulse kicked up. She immediately hit call on Ashley’s contact, the croissant abandoned on her plate.
Ashley picked up quite fast, and Annie didn’t even bother with a greeting. She just sat there, breath tight.
Annie tapped her phone anxiously. “Ashley? Do you… remember what happened last night? You know… Homelander losing it onstage?”
The line was chaotic at first, someone yelling in the background, papers rustling, an alarmed voice cutting through: “He’s gone. Homelander just left the tower for VNN headquarters.”
Annie froze, listening, waiting for Ashley to respond.
Finally, Ashley’s voice came through, clipped but distracted. “Hey, Starlight, what’s up?”
Annie pressed, frustration edging her tone. “Ashley… seriously. Do you remember last night? Homelander? Onstage? The meltdown?”
A soft, amused snort echoed through the speaker. “Again this meltdown thing? Oh honey… sounds like you had a bad nightmare. Morning jitters before the Starlight House announcement—totally normal. Happens to everyone. Really.”
Annie rolled her eyes hard. She didn't need Ashley's templated corporate reassurances. “Ashley—”
“Okay, okay, I gotta run,” Ashley interrupted, already walking away from the chaos behind her. “Good luck today, Starlight. Bye!”
And just like that, the line clicked dead, leaving Annie blinking at her phone, more baffled than before. For the first time that morning, a very uncomfortable feeling settled into her chest.
Something was off. It had happened. She could still see it; the blank, terrifying mask he wore behind the stage, unmoving, unblinking, silent for twenty endless minutes. She remembered every agonizing second she’d spent trying to humanize him onstage, trying to steer them away from disaster, only to watch it spiral into an even bigger corporate apocalypse.
And above all, she remembered Stormfront. The way she’d killed herself. A quiet, shaky gasp escaped her throat, as if the memory had just struck anew.
If today was really Homelander’s birthday… and last night had been nothing but a bad dream, then maybe Stormfront hadn’t died at all. Maybe the stage meltdown had never happened.
“Oh… thank God,” she breathed again, louder this time, drawing the distant attention of Noir, who paused mid-gesture to glance her way.
She gave him a faint, brittle smile before turning back to her breakfast. She had a schedule to follow, sets to run to, announcements to make. It was just a nightmare, after all. Stormfront was alive. Everything was fine.