*Thud!*
When John opened his eyes, he felt as though he had been stuffed into some cheap, low-quality children’s swivel chair.
“Fuck…”
The violent vibrations of his surroundings traveled through bone conduction straight into his spinal cord, making his teeth chatter like a Parkinson’s patient.
And that wasn’t all—there was also a terrifying g-force pinning him back, combined with a weightlessness that nearly squeezed the lungs right out of him.
John could clearly hear his bones creaking against the tight restraint straps.
Outside?
The noise was chaotic beyond measure.
Was it wind?
He desperately hoped it was just wind.
Because it sounded far too much like the roar of the atmosphere breaking the sound barrier past his ears back when he used to fly at supersonic speeds.
*Thud!
Thud!
Thud!*
Amidst a barrage of violent bumps, John’s eardrums went numb and his chest vibrated, leaving him completely disoriented.
“Fuck…
is this goddamned hell or heaven?”
“Stop fucking with me, Jesus.”
Before John could stabilize himself, another “surprise” struck.
*Boom!*
Outside the cabin, the ground rushed up like a massive wall, slamming head-on.
The entire pod bounced violently, crashed down, bounced again, and plowed a deep trench through the dirt and gravel.
Surprisingly, the pod’s shock-absorption system kicked in.
A built-in transparent force field suddenly flickered to life.
It tightened quietly at the moment of impact, wrapping him and the cockpit into a single, cohesive unit.
*Hum—*
The explosive kinetic energy from outside felt like hitting cotton; its force was bled off layer by layer by the transparent force field.
Only a dull, residual nudge filtered through, symbolically pressing John against the harness.
Before long, the inertial vibrations of the pod hitting the ground died down, and thick, acrid smoke began to drift in through the cracks.
The pungent smell of charred metal and the earthy scent of dirt from God knows where made John’s eyes water.
Then, everything went quiet.
All that remained was the faint, high-pitched hiss of damaged components and the intermittent static of a shorted-out circuit.
John hung limply from his harness with a look of utter despair, warning lights flashing erratically around him, bathing the interior in alternating red and shadow.
John was at his wits’ end.
From dying to waking up, and then immediately experiencing this “plane crash”—it took him several minutes just to process what was happening.
“So…
I’m not dead?”
*But I clearly died…
Then who is this “me”?*
With that thought, John looked down at his hands.
When he did, his face instantly stiffened.
Because…
they were a pair of tiny, pink hands, wrinkled, with five fingers curled inward.
They were as weak and fragile as those infant test subjects Vought raised, incapable of doing a single thing.
The residual smoke drifted through his fingers as John stared blankly at the tiny hand for a long time.
“Shit!
So…
I’m a fucking weak-ass baby?!”
John’s brain short-circuited.
Just seconds ago, his memories had been vividly frozen in that humiliating Oval Office—
“I am—Homelander!”
*Crack!*
The dull, heavy thud of a lead-lined crowbar slamming into his skull.
And the fucking agonizing pain.
Like a boulder falling into a deep pool, it sent a final ripple through John’s hallucinating, shattering consciousness.
It was all like a fleeting dream, a popping bubble.
There was no slow-motion cinematic grace in his final moments, nor was there a tragic superhero’s end…
None of that.
All that remained was the moment his cheek hit the cold floor, with Butcher’s rough, demonic face leaning in.
His lips sneered, his eyes bloodshot.
He gasped for air, looking down at him from above.
Like looking at a dead dog.
John had known his fate.
But he refused to accept it.
“No…
this goddamned world can’t do this to me!”
On the verge of death, John’s eyes had glazed over as he stared up at the ceiling of the White House, his damaged brain barely piecing together his fragmented memories.
He had lived for over forty years.
For forty years, he was the world’s greatest protector, the leader of the Seven.
Looked up to by hundreds of millions, treated as an honored guest by countless politicians.
In terms of raw power, he could easily burn through steel plates with his bare eyes.
He could effortlessly shatter an F-16 Fighting Falcon above the stratosphere, and he could even fly around the globe in nine minutes.
(An estimation puts his speed after taking Temp V at roughly Mach 218 to 252.)
Yet, a “self” so powerful had died such a pathetic, messy death at the hands of a crappy crowbar.
“Heh…”
The life flashing before his eyes was cruel, offering him no warmth.
There were no flowers, no applause.
No woman he had ever loved smiled at him from within a holy light.
Instead—
Cruel scene after cruel scene was laid bare before him, like a file folder carelessly flipped open.
The white laboratory, the pungent smell of disinfectant, and cold needles piercing into his young mind countless times.
Back then, he was small.
He had no father, no mother.
He only knew pain; he only knew how to cry.
He only knew how to clutch an unnumbered grey blanket to wrap around himself, trying to muster courage for his own cowardice.
Then, John grew up.
The small grey blanket became a star-spangled cape.
He became the Homelander.
Under Vought’s PR machine and the constant flattery of the media, he was omnipotent.
He was the leader of the Seven, he had hundreds of millions of fans, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
Maeve, Madelyn…
Clara…
his father, Soldier Boy, and even Black Noir, whom he had once poured his heart out to—quite literally.
They were all people he had once invested “love” into.
And then there was Ryan.
His precious son who inherited his “divine” bloodline, with eyes identical to his.
Yet, at the final moment, Ryan had ridiculously sided with Butcher, allowing this ragtag band of fools to slay a god.
“Of course…
no one in this world will ever love me.”
He was no longer angry.
There was only a profound, dead-hearted peace, as if an answer he had known all along had finally been confirmed.
Gradually, John’s consciousness grew thinner in the darkness, like a wisp of smoke slowly scattered by the wind.
“What a bullshit life…”
Darkness swallowed everything.
But now, as his thoughts gradually became active again, his logic finally returned to normal.
Looking at the wreckage around him, which was clearly a spaceship crash site, John couldn’t possibly associate this place with either heaven or hell.
If it were, Yahweh and Satan would be the biggest fucking con artists of the last twenty centuries.
Fuck!
He had been reborn, or reincarnated.
He had become an unknown little baby lying in the cockpit of an unknown ship.
Furthermore, the ship had clearly just completed some sort of catastrophic crash landing.
“…”
Using the “ten-year-old giant infant” psychological coping mechanisms he had honed over his previous life, John gritted his teeth and accepted this bullshit reality within about five seconds.
Besides that, he realized his current condition was terrible.
It was no different from when he was depowered during the final battle.
Simply put, he was currently a fragile human baby, completely powerless.
A fucking nightmare start.
At this thought, John’s baby face began to twitch unnervingly, and he clenched his jaws.
*So the ship crashed…
is it going to explode?
I need to fly out of here—wait, my superpowers are gone…
Fuck, someone save me!*
As if in response to John’s silent prayers, before long, the cockpit door was suddenly forced open from the outside.
*Clang—*
Golden evening sunlight flooded in, causing John to squint.
Soon, two figures appeared against the light, their silhouettes looking exceptionally soft in the warm glow.
They appeared to be a farming couple.
The man wore a faded plaid shirt, his shoulders broad and his hands rough.
The woman wore a floral apron, her blonde hair slightly disheveled by the wind.
Her eyes were clear.
They lacked the fear and greed John had grown so familiar with in his previous life.
Instead, they held surprise, and something entirely foreign to him.
He blinked several times, taking a moment to identify what it was.
It was tenderness.
An unprompted, unconditional love for a child she didn’t even know.
“Jonathan, look!” The woman’s voice was as gentle as a breeze rustling through wheat.
“He’s alive!”
“Oh my god, Martha.” The man stepped closer, bending down to look at the tiny baby in the cockpit, his voice thick with disbelief.
“Am I dreaming…
Did this really fall from the sky?”
Without hesitation, he bent down.
Using his rough hands, he carefully released the latches of the protective harness and lifted John from the cockpit.
*…No…*
John swore this was the most humiliating way he had ever been held in his entire life.
Actually, his previous life was the same.
This was…
so fucking foreign.
It was entirely different from the cold experience of being strapped to an experimental table as a child.
Nor was it the rough dragging by the bimbo lab techs in black stockings and wire-rimmed glasses on the training grounds.
The man’s hands were broad and warm, supporting his back with a gentle touch, as if holding a fragile piece of porcelain.
Even without his superpowers, John could still hear the steady, powerful heartbeat in the man’s chest.
He could even smell the scent of earth, sweat, and wheat clinging to him.
Yet…
it was surprisingly comforting.
At this point, John’s tightly wound nerves finally began to relax.
Having lived for so many years, he had basic situational awareness.
He could tell this couple meant no harm.
Then, the woman named Martha leaned in.
She gently touched his cheek with her fingertips, her eyes rimmed with red.
“Poor little thing,” she whispered, sniffing back tears.
What?
*Poor thing?* Him?
*Pitiful?*
To John, this was an incredibly foreign concept.
In his previous life, no one had ever pitied him.
People either feared him or used him.
Or they cursed him to die behind his back.
The word “pitiful” had never applied to him.
But right then, he felt a physiological reaction completely beyond his control.
A cruel joke of biology.
His eyes began to sting, welling up on their own.
*No…* John fiercely warned himself in his mind.
Aside from when he was completely alone, or when he was with Soldier Boy, he never let his guard down.
In the eyes of these ordinary humans…
this was pathetic.
This was so fucking embarrassing!
He was the Homelander…
not some sniveling, weak-ass baby!
But the infant’s instincts completely overrode John’s control of his body, exploding in a dominant, primal surge.
“Waaaaah—”
The baby’s wail echoed across the entire wheat field, carrying an emotional weight that even John himself didn’t fully comprehend.
Over forty years of loneliness, cold indifference, and resentment at being treated as a Vought “product” broke through the dam in the most primitive way possible.
*Damn it, this is so fucking embarrassing…* John wailed while cursing himself furiously in his mind.
*But…
this goddamned embrace is so warm!*
“Oh, sweet little baby, don’t cry…” Martha gently took him in her arms, pressing him against her chest while patting his back.
She began to hum a lullaby he had never heard before—a simple melody, yet filled with a soothing magic.
“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart, don’t be afraid…” Her voice was right next to his ear, as soft as a whisper.
“This is your home now.”
*Home?*
John closed his eyes in comfort, resting quietly in the arms of this strange woman.
Listening to her steady heartbeat, inhaling the scent of laundry detergent and the fresh breeze of the wheat field.
In his past life, he had a luxury apartment, private jets, and every material comfort Vought could provide.
But he had never known what a home felt like.
So this was home.
It was so fucking simple.
Jonathan stood beside them, watching the baby gradually stop crying.
Something seemed to settle quietly in his eyes.
He reached out, gently stroking the baby’s forehead with a rough knuckle, and whispered, “Martha, this child is a gift from heaven.
Why don’t we name him Cla…
John?”
“John Kent.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
Just as John was basking in this long-lost “warmth” and preparing to drift off to sleep, a sharp *zzzt—* sound suddenly came from the wreckage of the crashed ship.
Hearing the sound, Jonathan and Martha snapped back to reality and looked at each other.
This scene was all wrong.
If they weren’t mistaken, that looked like a spaceship from a sci-fi movie…
Then they looked down at John in their arms.
“It seems this boy is anything but ordinary…”
Snug in her arms, John lazily half-closed his eyes and yawned.
An almost imperceptible red glint flashed in his pupils, but Jonathan caught it instantly.
“Martha…
did you see his eyes just now?”