Chapter Text
The mirror in Homelander’s private suite on the ninety-ninth floor of Vought Tower wasn't just glass and silver backing; it was a testament to perfection. It caught the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting a man who was, by all global metrics, a god. Blonde hair flawlessly swept back, jawline carved from American marble, the red, white, and blue suit hugging a physique that had never known a day of weakness.
But John wasn't looking at the suit. The suit was pooled at his ankles. He wasn't looking at the cape, draped carelessly over a velvet armchair.
He was looking at his chest. Specifically, at the space just above his heart.
There, stark against his pale, impenetrable skin, was a splash of crimson. It looked like someone had taken a fine-tipped calligraphy pen, dipped it in fresh blood, and written a single word across his pectoral muscle.
Lindsay.
It was the only flaw on an otherwise indestructible canvas. Or, depending on how you looked at it, the only thing that proved he was human.
In the sterile, freezing white rooms of the Bad Room where he was raised, there had been no mirrors. There had been no windows, no soft blankets, no mother, no father. There had only been doctors with clipboards, cold metal tables, and the excruciating burn of Compound V threading through his young veins. But there had also been the mark.
He remembered being five years old, shivering in a sensory deprivation tank, pressing his small, numb fingers against his chest. He couldn't read yet, but he knew the shape of the letters. He had asked a passing orderly what it meant. The man, terrified of the little boy who could already melt steel with a glare, had stammered out the truth. It’s a name, John. It’s your soulmate.
Lindsay. That seven-letter word had been his religion. When the isolation became too much, when the experiments pushed him to the very brink of psychotic breaks, he would trace the red script. Lindsay. Somewhere out there, beyond the steel doors and the men in white coats, was a person engineered by the universe to love him. Not to fear him. Not to worship him because they were terrified he’d laser them in half. Not to manage his PR.
To love him.
But John was thirty years old now. He was Homelander, the greatest superhero the world had ever seen. He had saved millions, smiled for billions, and shook hands with Presidents. And yet, the mark over his heart remained stubbornly red.
It was supposed to turn black. Everyone knew the rules of the marks. They were written in your genetic code, blooming on your skin during childhood. The name of the person you were destined for. And the moment you found them—the moment you both accepted that earth-shattering love—the crimson ink would cool into a permanent obsidian.
John dragged a hand down his face, the sound of his palm against his jaw loud in the quiet room. He was tired. Tired of smiling at crowds, searching the faces of screaming fans for someone who looked like a 'Lindsay.' He was tired of hoping that destiny would just happen to bump into him in a coffee shop or during a hostage rescue.
Destiny was taking too fucking long.
He was Homelander. If he wanted something, he took it. If destiny was dragging its feet, he would put destiny in a chokehold and drag it to Vought Tower himself.
He turned away from the mirror, scooping up his suit with super-speed. It was time to have a chat with Ashley.
The atmosphere in Conference Room 82A was usually tense when Homelander called an impromptu meeting, but today, the air was practically vibrating with anxiety.
Ashley Barrett, the Senior VP of Hero Management, was clutching her tablet so tightly her knuckles were white. Her hair, tightly pulled back, seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the sheer stress radiating from her skull. Flanking her were four mid-level PR executives, none of whom dared to make eye contact with the man hovering a few inches off the ground at the head of the long mahogany table.
Homelander landed softly, his boots making a faint thud on the carpet. He offered them his brightest, most perfectly calibrated media smile.
"Good morning, Ashley. Team," he said, his voice a rich, comforting baritone.
"Homelander!" Ashley chirped, her voice an octave higher than normal. "Great to see you. We, uh, we got your message. What's the occasion? Is it the new crime-stoppers initiative? Because the polling on that is—"
"I want to find my soulmate," Homelander interrupted.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded an explosion. One of the PR guys, a young man named Todd, actually dropped his pen. It clattered against the table like a gunshot.
Ashley swallowed hard, her eyes darting between Homelander and her tablet as if hoping the screen would give her an emergency script. "Your... soulmate."
"Yes, Ashley. My soulmate." Homelander leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the table. The wood groaned slightly under the pressure. "I've given this company my blood, my sweat, and my tears. I’ve smiled for the cameras, I’ve kissed the babies, I've saved the hijacked planes. But I’m turning thirty-one soon. I’m tired of waiting for the universe to do its job. I want Vought to find her."
Ashley blinked rapidly. "Okay. Okay, wow. That is... that's beautiful, Homelander. Truly. A hero searching for love. The public is going to eat that up." The gears in her brain were already starting to turn, overriding her initial terror. "I mean, the narrative alone is pure gold. 'The Man Who Has Everything, Looking For The Only Thing That Matters.' It's a four-quadrant home run!"
Homelander’s smile tightened into something slightly less genuine. "I'm not doing this for a narrative, Ashley. I want to find her."
"Of course! Absolutely," Ashley agreed quickly. "But, you know, while we're finding her, we might as well... optimize the journey. So! How do we start? Do you have a name? A location? A mark description?"
"It's a name," Homelander said, leaning back. "Her name is Lindsay."
Todd, eager to please, started typing furiously on his laptop. "Lindsay. Got it. Do we know the font? The placement on your body? That usually helps narrow down the database if she's registered her own mark."
"It's over my heart," Homelander said, a rare flicker of genuine vulnerability crossing his face before he masked it with supreme confidence. "And no, I don't know the font. It looks like handwriting. Red. Obviously."
"Obviously," Ashley echoed. She tapped her pen against her chin. "Okay. Lindsay. That’s... well, it’s a very common name."
"I don't care how common it is," Homelander snapped, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You have the resources of a multi-billion dollar multinational conglomerate. You have facial recognition, DNA databases, and algorithms that know what kind of cereal people are going to buy before they even wake up. Find every Lindsay in North America if you have to. Bring them in."
"Right. Yes. We can definitely do that," Ashley said, her voice placating. But then, a dangerous glint of PR ambition flickered in her eyes. It was the look of a woman who was willing to risk getting lasered for the sake of a huge quarterly bonus. "But... Homelander. If I may?"
Homelander sighed heavily, crossing his arms. "Spit it out, Ashley."
"If we just put out a quiet internal search for a 'Lindsay,' we'll find a few thousand candidates. We cross-reference their marks—assuming her mark says 'Homelander'—and we narrow it down. Fast, efficient. But..." She paused for dramatic effect. "...it's quiet."
"I want quiet."
"But the fans don't," Ashley pushed, emboldened by the fact that she wasn't dead yet. "Think about it. Homelander, the lonely god, reaching out to the masses. If we put out an open call—an international casting call for your soulmate—it wouldn't just be news. It would be a cultural phenomenon."
Homelander frowned. "I told you, I know her name. It's Lindsay. Why the fuck would I put out an open call for a bunch of women who aren't her?"
"Because of the numbers!" Ashley insisted, gesturing wildly with her pen. "If we tell the world you're looking for a Lindsay, then only Lindsays care. The rest of the female population tunes out. But if we say, 'Homelander is looking for his soulmate, and he's not revealing the name on his mark to ensure authenticity'... my god. Every single woman between the ages of eighteen and forty-five who has a male name on her body will tune in. They'll watch the specials. They'll buy the merchandise. They'll sign up for Vought+ just to stream the live interviews. It's the ultimate fantasy: 'Could I be the one?'"
Homelander stared at her. The sheer, unabashed corporate greed of it was almost impressive, if it wasn't so profoundly annoying. "You want me to parade a bunch of strangers in front of cameras, knowing damn well 99.9% of them aren't even mathematically capable of being the right person."
"We won't broadcast the actual interviews!" Ashley clarified quickly. "We do it behind closed doors. We set up an application center right here in Vought Tower. People come in, they get screened. But the hype around the screening... Homelander, it will boost your Q-rating by at least twelve points. It will absolutely bury Starlight's new charity initiative in the press."
That caught his attention. He hated when Annie got more airtime than him.
"It's easy to narrow down once they're in the room," Todd chimed in bravely. "Like you said, you know her name. We just ask them their name. If it's not Lindsay, we politely show them the door. But to the public, it looks like a sweeping, romantic search. We can even run a side-campaign: 'Find Your Hero.' It's synergistic."
Homelander uncrossed his arms and slowly stood up. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the sprawling metropolis of New York City. Millions of tiny ants, scurrying around in their insignificant lives. Somewhere down there, or somewhere out there in the vast expanse of the country, was Her.
He had spent his whole life dreaming about her. Imagining a woman who would look at him with total adoration, whose very soul was perfectly aligned with his. He imagined her sweet, compliant, in awe of him. He imagined her running into his arms, tears of joy streaming down her face as the red ink on their skin faded to black, binding them together forever.
He didn't want a circus. He just wanted what was rightfully his.
But Ashley wasn't entirely wrong. He was a brand. If finding his soulmate could also solidify his supremacy in the polls and remind everyone who the real star of the Seven was... well, he could tolerate a little pageantry.
"Fine," Homelander said, not turning away from the window.
Ashley let out a breath she sounded like she'd been holding for a minute. "Excellent. We'll start drafting the press release immediately."
"But listen to me, Ashley," Homelander said, turning his head just enough to pin her with a chilling, electric blue stare. "I am not doing a reality show. I am not going on dates with these women. You set up a screening room. You run the ads. They come here. I sit in a chair, and they walk in. If their name isn't Lindsay, they leave. No cameras in the room. No bullshit."
"Understood," Ashley nodded vigorously. "Total privacy for the actual vetting process. The mystery makes it sexier anyway. What about the mark on them? What are we looking for?"
"My name," Homelander said simply.
"Right, so, 'Homelander'."
Homelander hesitated. He had thought about this a lot over the years. His birth name, the name the scientists called him before the marketing department got hold of him, was John. It was a mundane, boring name. A human name. He had shed it the moment he put on the cape. The world knew him as Homelander. Surely, the universe—the cosmic force that dictated the soulmarks—recognized his true identity.
"Yes," Homelander lied smoothly. "It will say Homelander. Or maybe John. Frankly, Ashley, if she's my soulmate, she'll know. Just get the ads out. I want this started by next week."
"Next week!" Ashley gasped. "Homelander, the logistics of setting up a global—"
His eyes flashed crimson for a fraction of a second. The ambient lighting in the room flickered.
"I said," Homelander repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "next week."
"Next week it is!" Ashley squeaked. "We'll put a rush on the marketing assets right now. 'The Search for the Soul of the Seven.' We'll make it the biggest event of the decade."
Homelander turned back to the window, dismissing them without another word. He heard the frantic shuffling of papers and the hurried footsteps as the PR team evacuated the room.
He was doing it. He was finally doing it.
He pressed a hand to his chest, right over the hidden red script.
I'm coming to get you, Lindsay, he thought, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. And when I find you, everything is going to be perfect. You'll see.
Three days later, the world stopped turning.
Or at least, that’s what it felt like on the internet. Vought’s marketing department, fueled by fear and ungodly amounts of espresso, launched the campaign during prime time. A two-minute commercial aired across every major network simultaneously.
It was a masterpiece of emotional manipulation. It featured sweeping, cinematic shots of Homelander saving people—catching falling helicopters, carrying children out of burning buildings, hovering majestically against a sunset. The score was sweeping, orchestral, and tugged at the heartstrings.
Then, the music softened. The camera cut to a close-up of Homelander, sitting in a dimly lit, tasteful study. He looked handsome, serious, and just a little bit vulnerable.
“I’ve dedicated my life to protecting you,” he said, looking directly into the camera. “To being the hero this country needs. But even heroes have quiet moments. Even heroes look at the empty space beside them and wonder... when is it my turn?”
The screen transitioned to a tasteful, soft-focus animation of a red soulmark appearing on a chest, keeping the name blurred.
“I have a name written on my heart. I’ve carried it my whole life. I think it’s time to find out who it belongs to. If you think it’s you... come to Vought Tower. I’m waiting.”
The commercial ended with a link: VoughtInternational.com/Destiny.
The website crashed within four seconds.
By the next morning, the line outside Vought Tower wrapped around six city blocks. It was a sea of hopefuls, a chaotic mixture of die-hard fans, fame-seekers, and people who genuinely believed the universe had marked them for a god. Some were dressed in formal gowns; others wore Homelander merchandise. There were tents, news vans, and a heavy security presence trying to maintain order.
From his penthouse window, Homelander watched the ant farm below with a mixture of immense satisfaction and deep, simmering annoyance.
His numbers were, as Ashley predicted, astronomical. His approval ratings had spiked higher than they had been in five years. The public adored a romantic. He was the undisputed king of the world today.
But as he watched the line, a dark thought crept into his mind.
How many of them were lying?
He knew human nature. He knew they were greedy, selfish, and desperate for proximity to power. How many of those women standing in the freezing New York wind had someone else’s name on their skin, but were perfectly willing to lie to his face just for a chance to be on television, or to get a payout from Vought?
It infuriated him. The soulmark was sacred. It was the one pure thing he had left. The idea that these... nobodies... were going to try and pollute it with their lies made his jaw clench.
He turned away from the window and walked toward his private elevator. It was time to start the interviews. It was time to separate the garbage from his destiny.
The screening room was located on the fiftieth floor. Ashley had taken his instructions and, surprisingly, mostly adhered to them. It wasn't a television set. It was a comfortable, beige room that looked like a high-end therapist's office. Two plush armchairs faced each other across a glass coffee table.
Homelander sat in one, wearing a casual but expensive cashmere sweater and slacks. He wanted to look approachable. Human.
Ashley stood by the door, holding a clipboard, flanked by two burly Vought security guards.
"Alright," Ashley said, her voice strained. "We've got the first batch vetted through security. We scanned them for weapons, recording devices, and Compound V residue. They are clean. Are you ready?"
"Send them in, Ashley," Homelander sighed, steepling his fingers. "And remember the rule. If I press the button under this table, you get them out immediately."
"Understood." Ashley opened the door and gestured to someone in the hall.
The first woman walked in. She was a stunning brunette, easily a model, wearing a dress that was doing its absolute best to cling to every curve. She looked at Homelander, and her eyes went wide with practiced awe.
"Oh my god," she breathed, clutching her chest. "Hi. I'm... I'm so honored."
Homelander smiled his media smile. "Hello. Please, sit."
She perched on the edge of the chair, crossing her long legs.
"So," Homelander said softly. "You think you're the one."
"I know I am," she said, leaning forward. "I've felt a connection to you since I was a little girl. And my mark... it's always been waiting for you."
"That's beautiful," Homelander said. "What's your name?"
"Jessica," she purred.
Homelander's smile vanished instantly. His face went blank, dead-eyed and cold. He reached under the table and pressed the button.
A loud, obnoxious buzzer sounded in the room.
Ashley stepped forward immediately. "Thank you, Jessica. That will be all. Please exit to your left."
Jessica blinked, confused. "Wait, what? But I didn't even show him my mark! It says 'Home'—"
"Out," Homelander commanded, his voice devoid of any warmth.
Jessica, sensing the sudden shift in the room's atmospheric pressure, wisely stood up and hurried out the door.
Ashley sighed. "Okay. Next."
The second woman was blonde, sweet-faced, and trembling nervously.
"Hi," she squeaked.
"Name?" Homelander asked, not bothering to smile this time.
"Sarah."
Buzzer.
"Next," Homelander said, staring at the wall.
The third was named Amanda. Buzzer. The fourth was Chloe. Buzzer.
By the twentieth woman, Homelander was radiating a subtle heat that was making the air in the room shimmer slightly. It was exactly as he had feared. A parade of liars and opportunists. None of them were Lindsay.
"Next," Ashley called out, sounding exhausted.
A woman in her mid-twenties walked in. She looked a bit more rugged than the others, wearing a leather jacket and jeans. She looked Homelander up and down, a confident smirk on her face.
"Hey there, handsome," she said, dropping into the chair.
Homelander grit his teeth. "Name."
The woman leaned back, kicking one ankle over her knee. "Lindsey."
The room stopped. Homelander froze. He felt a sudden, sharp jolt in his chest, right beneath the red ink. Could it be? It was the first one. Out of fifty women, the first Lindsay.
He leaned forward, his eyes intense, searching her face. She was pretty. Confident. She didn't seem afraid of him.
"Your name is Lindsay," he repeated slowly.
"That's right," she smiled. "Lindsey Chambers. From Ohio. I saw the commercial, and I just knew."
"You knew," Homelander murmured. He stood up, walking slowly around the glass table toward her. The woman looked up at him, her smile faltering just a fraction as the overwhelming physical presence of him got closer. "And your mark? What does it say?"
Lindsay unzipped her leather jacket slightly, pulling down the collar of her shirt to reveal her collarbone. There, in stark red script, was a name.
Homelander.
Homelander stared at it. He stared at the red letters.
It was perfect. It was exactly what he had told Ashley to look for. It was the name he had chosen for himself. The universe had validated his godhood. She was Lindsay, and her mark was Homelander.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently brushed his fingers against her collarbone.
She shivered. "Do you feel it?" she whispered.
Homelander closed his eyes, focusing inward. He waited for the rush. He waited for the overwhelming sense of peace, the divine connection that was supposed to click into place. He waited for the feeling of coming home.
He felt... nothing.
He opened his eyes and looked at the mark again. He looked closer. With his microscopic vision, the truth revealed itself instantly.
The edges of the red ink were ever so slightly raised. The ink was pooling in the microscopic crevices of her epidermis in a way that cellular-generated pigment wouldn't. He could smell the faint, chemical tang of high-grade tattoo ink, masked by cheap perfume.
It was a fake. A very expensive, very convincing fake tattoo. She had probably gotten it done the moment the commercial aired, guessing that the narcissist superhero would want a woman marked with his stage name.
The disappointment was a physical blow, quickly followed by a blinding, white-hot rage.
"You're lying," he whispered.
Lindsay laughed nervously. "What? No! I swear, it appeared when I was twelve—"
Homelander’s hand snapped out, wrapping around her throat.
Ashley screamed. The security guards jumped, reaching for weapons they knew would be useless.
Homelander lifted the woman out of the chair, her feet kicking frantically in the air. Her hands clawed at his indestructible wrist. His eyes began to glow, a terrible, bloody red light illuminating the beige room.
"You dare," he hissed, his voice vibrating with a terrifying frequency. "You dare come into my home, and mock the only pure thing in my life? You put a needle to your skin and thought you could trick me?"
"Homelander, stop!" Ashley shrieked, panic consuming her. "Cameras! There are cameras outside! You can't kill her!"
The glowing in his eyes intensified. He could smell her burning hair as the heat radiated from his face. It would be so easy. A fraction of a second, and she would be two smoking halves on the carpet. It was what she deserved. She had defiled the name of his soulmate.
But Ashley's voice cut through the red haze. Cameras outside. If he killed her, the campaign was ruined. The PR nightmare would be catastrophic. He would be the monster, not the lonely hero.
With a roar of frustration, Homelander threw the woman. She crashed over the glass table, shattering it into a thousand pieces, and slammed into the far wall. She crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, weeping hysterically, but alive.
Homelander stood panting, his chest heaving, the glow slowly fading from his eyes. He pointed a trembling finger at the sobbing woman on the floor.
"Get this trash out of my sight," he commanded quietly.
The security guards rushed forward, dragging the weeping woman out of the room. Ashley was hyperventilating, leaning against the doorframe, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield.
Homelander turned his back to the door, staring out the window. His hands were clenched into fists so tight his knuckles popped.
"Cancel the rest of the appointments for today," he said, his voice deadly calm.
"Y-yes, Homelander. Right away," Ashley stammered.
"And Ashley?"
"Yes?"
"If another fake gets through your 'vetting' process," Homelander said, not turning around, "I won't laser them. I'll laser the person who let them in the room. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Ashley choked out, fleeing the room as fast as her heels would carry her.
Homelander stood alone in the wreckage of the screening room. He looked down at the shattered glass on the carpet. The reflection was fragmented, broken into a hundred sharp, distorted pieces.
He placed his hand over his heart again, pressing hard enough to bruise a normal man.
He hated this. He hated the lies, he hated the public, he hated the desperate, clawing need inside him.
He just wanted Lindsay.
And as he stood there, a dark, heavy realization settled over him. Maybe finding his soulmate wasn't going to be a fairy tale. Maybe it was going to be a war. And Homelander never lost a war.