Lynn gripped the black metal card tightly.
The cold metal felt like a block of solid ice in his hand.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he turned and headed for the elevator.
Vought’s legacy archives were located on Sublevel 3.
Far removed from the gleaming luxury of the upper floors, the air down here was thick with the stagnant stench of abandonment.
In front of the heavy alloy door stood a solitary card reader.
Lynn tapped the card against the sensor.
*Beep—*
[Clearance Confirmed: Legacy Archives.]
[Authorization Source: Madelyn Stillwell, residual clearance.]
A cold synthesized voice rang out.
Heavy machinery ground into motion, and the alloy door slid slowly to the side.
Beyond it lay a dim corridor flanked by floor-to-ceiling metal filing cabinets that stood like silent tombstones.
Lynn stepped inside.
The door shut behind him, completely cutting him off from the outside world.
He walked to the terminal in the center of the room and inserted the card.
The screen flickered to life, bringing up Vought International’s internal archive system.
Most of the files were grayed out, indicating insufficient clearance.
However, once Lynn typed in the keywords “Homelander” and “John,” several encrypted files tagged in deep crimson unlocked.
He opened Madelyn’s private observation logs first.
Lines of cold text unfolded with surgical precision.
“Subject harbors an intense craving for validation from authority figures, specifically maternal archetypes.”
“Exhibits extreme violent impulses upon experiencing rejection or perceived risk of abandonment. Short-term de-escalation achievable through praise, physical touch, and public affirmation.”
“Subject’s capacity for empathy displays structural defects; incapable of comprehending ordinary human vulnerability. It is strongly advised not to allow the subject to form genuine, uncontrollable intimate bonds, as this would produce catastrophic consequences.”
A chill ran down Lynn’s spine.
Madelyn hadn’t been loving a son—she had been domesticating the world’s most dangerous beast.
She had weaponized Homelander’s desperate hunger for maternal love, keeping him firmly coiled around her finger. Get faster updates on g.com.
Lynn scrolled further down, uncovering earlier experimental records.
Back then, Homelander had no name, only a designation: Subject #1.
“Subject #1, Age 4. After over 72 hours in isolation, demonstrated strong attachment tendencies toward researchers.”
“Log: Subject requested a teddy bear. Request categorized as ‘material craving response’ and denied.”
“Log: Subject attempted to hug researcher. Behavior categorized as ‘attachment anomaly’; subject placed into solitary confinement.”
Lynn’s gaze halted on an incident report.
“Incident Report: Following a routine examination, Researcher Hudson promised to bring Subject a chocolate cake the following day. Hudson resigned abruptly due to an urgent family matter and failed to appear.”
“Subject waited thirteen hours past the agreed time before exhibiting uncontrollable destructive capabilities for the first time. Heat vision punched cleanly through the observation chamber’s reinforced glass.”
Lynn finally understood.
Homelander’s core trauma wasn’t merely being unloved.
It was being ruthlessly abandoned every single time he tried to reach out, tried to trust.
A promise, followed by betrayal.
That was the true spark that stoked his inner fires of destruction.
Just as Lynn prepared to dig deeper, he discovered a separately encrypted file at the very bottom of the directory.
The file was titled: *HL Emotional Breakdown Contingency*.
He attempted to open it, but the system flashed an insufficient clearance warning.
Yet in the file summary’s related keywords field, he caught sight of an unfamiliar name:
“Soldier Boy.”
Lynn committed the name to memory.
As he went to pull out the card, a cool, detached female voice spoke without warning from behind him.
“Every file in here has at least two versions.”
Lynn’s heart gave a jolt.
Queen Maeve stood leaning against the corridor entrance, arms crossed, studying him with an unreadable expression.
He had no idea how long she had been standing there.
“Which version is the truth?” Lynn asked.
The corner of Maeve’s mouth curled into a mocking smirk.
“For Vought, whichever version they need is the truth,” she said flatly.
“You’re the new doctor?” Maeve looked him up and down.
“Homelander didn’t kill you. Guess you’ve got something going for you.”
“Word of advice.” Maeve’s tone turned grave.
“Don’t dig too deep. Homelander’s past is a black hole that swallows people whole. You think you’re getting to know him, but really, you’re just letting him assimilate you.”
Lynn remained silent.
“And another thing,” Maeve said, turning to leave, dropping one last remark: “Don’t trust me, either.”
With that, she melted into the darkness of the hallway.
Lynn stood rooted in place, his mind racing.
Maeve’s warning cast an immediate pall of doubt over the precious intelligence he had just acquired.
He retrieved the card and left the archives.
Returning to his office on the thirtieth floor, Lynn opened the door and instantly froze.
Sitting on his desk was a manila folder that hadn’t been there before.
He certainly hadn’t left it there.
Lynn walked over on high alert.
He slowly opened the folder.
On the title page ran a single bold line:
*Homelander Psychological Collapse Consequence Assessment*.
Lynn’s heart skipped a beat.
He flipped to the first page.
Across the entire sheet, only a single line of printed text stared back, stark and horrifying:
“In the event of subject ‘Homelander’ suffering an uncontrollable, total breakdown: Projected fatalities in New York City: 21,000,000.”