Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Oh Beautiful for Spacious Skies
You look to the window at your left. It is half-open, letting in the scents of a New Zealand forest on an early spring morning. You smell damp earth. Sunlight shines on the Manoao trees outside. They glisten with the droplets of a recent rainfall.
You hear a sound like irregular thunder. But you are used to it by now.
That sound means that David and Grace are sparring in the woods. Flying about in the canopy and punching through trees. Exercising and training their Super powers, as they have done often since their early teens. Your twins celebrated their sixteenth birthday several months ago. It is a Sunday morning.
You had green tea with honey earlier and can still taste it on your tongue. Your kitchen smells of the apple-scented dish soap you used to wash your cup. Beneath the open window, the stainless steel sink reflects the morning sunlight. The countertop and cabinets are sage-green, the walls made of pale planks.
Your eyes return to the rich brown wood of the table in front of you. You feel the wooden bars of the kitchen chair against your spine, and the stuffed seat cushion beneath you. Your feet are clad in socks and warm slippers. Your simple green sundress is still wet from washing the dishes.
Lying upon this round table is something the size of your car’s key fob. But it is made of stainless steel, shaped into a single button.
A button you have never pressed.
You have toyed with it many times over the years, feeling its smooth texture with your fingers. You have examined it in minute detail when you couldn't sleep. Now it sits on the polished wood of your kitchen table, next to your cell phone.
Your finger feels cold and clammy as it passes over the cell phone screen, scrolling through the same old photos again. Photos of Grace Mallory, and yourself, with your son and daughter over the years. Sixteen years of single motherhood with frequent visits from GG, her blonde bun growing grayer over time as the lines in her face deepened.
The grief doesn't cut as deep into you as it did last week, when you first heard the news that Grace Mallory passed away. But you keep scrolling through the same old pictures.
You remember her saying to you that dying of old age was a luxury not everyone in the CIA could afford. When it seemed likely to happen before too long, she told you over the phone that she considered herself lucky.
Still, you have lost a friend whom you considered family. David and Grace have lost their godmother. She was the namesake of one of your twins.
They called her “GG” since they were small. Two gs, for Godmother Grace. You began to do the same. Too confusing to have two Graces in the same house every time she came to visit.
She gave you this little steel button fob years ago. Yet again, her words echo in your head. This is your, “press in case of Homelander” button, kiddo. The other three mothers have them too. It pings a satellite, sends a message.
You asked her what it does.
Summons help. That’s all you need to know. And even if I’m six feet under, my successor will know what it means. Keep it with you, always.
You hear raised voices coming from the trees behind your home, as though your kids are shouting at each other. But you cannot make out the words.
There is a muted tittering of birds. You hear them fly off when your kids approach.
Soon the screen door bangs open. Grace enters first. She cleans her brown hiking boots on the mat and walks over to the kitchen sink. You catch the scent of tree sap, as though it has soaked into her blue jeans.
She looks, you think, every bit the art student. Except for those leaves in her hair.
She wears a yellow and white beaded necklace and a shirt of the same colors, with yellow-gold polish on her fingernails to match. Two of the nails are not solid in color, but emblazoned with a design like a sunflower. She wears rings on both hands, on the ring and pointer fingers. Thick, intricate rings encircle her thumbs as well.
Over the shirt, Grace wears an unbuttoned plaid flannel top with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. It is a checkered pattern of white and yellow, reminding you of daisies. On each wrist, a colorful assortment of beaded bracelets. Her shoulder-length, windblown blonde hair is kept in check by a white baseball cap, worn backwards. A few stray leaves are still stuck to the end of her tresses. Pine needles adorn her shirt.
She leans her back against the sink and crosses her arms over her chest. Her lips purse and her eyes harden.
Her brother David follows after her. He closes the screen door behind him and takes his seat at the kitchen table across from you. His back is to the stainless steel refrigerator.
They have the same blue eyes. His eyes. His blonde hair.
David wears jeans and boots as well, and a simple black t-shirt. His hair is cut in a shaggy style that has always reminded you more of a loose pixie cut than the structured, well-combed, short hairstyle that one might associate with a traditional man--particularly a businessman or politician. You have seen his hair flow in the wind, and now it has caught its own share of small leaves. When he shifts his head, the segments of his hair rearrange themselves.
Over the years you have heard other parents mutter that his hair might as well be a rainbow flag. As though he were announcing that he’s gay, simply by wearing his mane in the style he likes best. But he doesn’t care. He’s never made a secret of being gay. As for you, his mother...he never even needed to tell you. You weren’t surprised when he introduced you to his first boyfriend. You just knew.
A stray twig falls to the kitchen floor. You are accustomed to such things by now. Far better that they have the woods as an outlet, than fly around where someone could see them. Supes drew public attention, and public attention might draw the people you came to New Zealand to escape.
Grace fidgets and casts her eyes at her twin brother for a moment, as though eager to talk but wanting him to begin the conversation. You decide to do it yourself.
“I heard you two arguing outside. You okay?”
David meets your eyes. “Grace says she’s tired of beating around the bush with you all the time. We were going to wait until the next time GG came to visit...you know, sit down with you both at once. But since that’s not happening now--”
Grace makes a cutting gesture with her right hand. Her voice breaks, as though the words are bursting forth under too much pressure.
“Homelander.” Her eyes meet yours. “Just say it, David. Homelander. He's all over the movies, the television. He looks exactly like we do and we have the same powers. You won’t tell us our father’s name. But did you really think we'd never figure it out?”
You have imagined this moment a thousand times over the years. But it was always on their eighteenth birthday, and you never had to do it alone.
When you imagined having this conversation, Grace Mallory was at your side. Next to her you imagined the young man you have never met in person. Ryan, Homelander's eldest son.
But GG is gone. You think. And they won’t wait two more years, will they?
Alone beneath the gaze of their sharp blue eyes, so like their father's...you find that your strength deserts you for the moment. You bury your face in your hands and begin to sob. Your shoulders shake.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. ”
You feel the warmth of David’s hand upon your arm. Grace steps forward and rests one palm on your shoulder. You hear a chair slide back as she takes her seat at your left, with David sitting across from you.
The words pour forth. “How could I just tell my kids this? Just look you in the eye and say that he hit my building like a drone strike and I woke up tied to his bed, and eventually he put twins in me. Your Godmother helped us escape. How do you tell someone that you love so much...the whole story? He took women...seven of us...like he was harvesting wombs off a damn tree…”
You hear David’s chair scrape against the hardwood floor as he rises from it, then returns to it with a clear glass in hand. The outside is sprinkled with droplets from being hastily filled in the sink.
He sets it down on the table in front of you and gives you a soft smile. “Mom, drink some water before you pass out. No, don't try to talk. I can hear your pulse. It doesn't sound good. Breathe a little.”
You take small sips from the glass. The tightness in your chest begins to fade.
Grace presses on.
“Seven?” She leans toward you. “You always asked GG about the other three women, and Ryan with the dead mother.”
David does a double-take in her direction and his features form a wry smile. “Grace...did you have to give the game away like that?”
The picture begins to become clear in your mind. “You listened in on us? Talking after you went to bed?”
Your daughter rolls her eyes. “Super hearing over here, remember? But did I really need it?” She begins to tick points off on her polished fingers. “You used to be American but if you see one of those American superhero movies on TV, you leave the room. You talk in your sleep. Yes...his name, even. You say it. As well as ‘Stormfront,’ ‘Nazi’ and ‘Lebonsborn.’”
David nods. His hands come to rest on the table and he leans back. His eyes are not on your face but on your torso--on, you know, the heart that beats in your chest. David has told you more than once that his Super senses could make him the best doctor who ever lived, able to watch a heartbeat and see a tumor in the patient’s flesh. He plans on attending medical school, while Grace wants to become a director.
“The only time you really let your shoulders relax was when GG used to visit.” David shrugs. “So we pretended to be asleep. We heard you.”
He glances at the small steel fob on the table. “We looked through the walls and saw her give you that button.”
“I am so sorry.” You take a long gulp of water and set the glass down upon the table with a quiet thunk. “I really had no idea how, or when, your powers would develop. I just said...exercise in the woods and see what you can do. I was trying to protect you, and I failed at it.”
Grace shakes her head. “That’s bullshit, Mom, and you know it. You protected us fine. He isn’t here, is he?”
You find that all you have to do is fill in the gaps. Seven women taken by Homelander for breeding, one for each day of the week. After his first son, Ryan, escaped his clutches, Homelander wanted more kids to replace him.
And then, four women in a Vought maternity ward were sprung from it by people who worked for Mallory. Each one going to a different country, for safety's sake with no details about where the others were. Mallory eventually gave you three first names but no countries to identify them. Greta, Aaron and Gabriel. They are all Super, like your kids, and the same age. That eldest son, Ryan, is now twenty-four.
“I wanted you both to have as normal a life as possible.” You finish. “When you’re not exercising out there, where you fly around and punch down trees.”
Grace leans back in her chair and laces her fingers behind her head. Stretching, getting comfortable. Her eyes focus on her fraternal twin brother for a moment, and then on you once more.
“Old people always think they can keep us in a perfect little bubble, and it never works.”
She doesn’t break your gaze. Her voice rings through the kitchen, reminding you not for the first time of a passionate movie director addressing her actors. “You're terrified of him. You hate him. It's all over your face. I'm the daughter of a raping war criminal. Mom, I've seen your…”
She lowers her arms to her sides, and then lifts her right hand to make a brief gesture at her own stomach. “Your ‘H.’ He branded you and you scream in your sleep. It’s pretty obvious.”
Your hand flies to your belly, out of habit. You feel the old scar through the cotton fabric of your sundress. “You weren't supposed to...I don't change in front of you, I always try to keep it covered.”
“You don’t have to, you know.” Her lips begin to form a wry smile. “I know, I'm supposed to tie myself up in knots over this. But--”
David rests one hand on Grace’s shoulder. “That…” He always speaks slower than his sister does, you think. Softer. At times he talks as though his words are heavy. “Isn’t the best choice of words, is it?”
You burst out laughing and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The tension drains from your shoulders as you smile at your little ones. Not so little anymore, you think. And so strong...not just their fists but their hearts. I should have known.
They have each other.
Grace’s fair cheeks redden with a blush but she continues. “I mean, am I supposed to be like…what's his name, the guy with the laser sword in that twentieth century movie you showed us when we were kids? ‘You're my father? No, that's not true, that's impossible ’? And then I cry 'nooooo' and fall down the weird chute thingies? Because I'm not going to.”
It takes you a moment, but you realize what she is thinking of. “Empire Strikes Back, you mean. Luke Skywalker. The big reveal. 'Luke, I am your father...'”
Grace shrugs her flannel-clad shoulders. “Whatever. He couldn't see black helmet's face on a movie poster downtown. He couldn't see it at all, or he would have known. Hey, that’s a guy with my face! Or I have his face. He can choke people with his mind, and I can lift fucking rocks with my mind! That should have been a clue, shouldn’t it? They had the same powers, just like I have Homelander's. I can fly and cut trees down with my eyes. There ya go.”
“Black helmet...um...Darth Vader.” Your smile widens, in spite of yourself. You feel as though the storm clouds around your heart are dissipating. Your children’s warmth is burning them away.
David speaks up. He tosses his head back, blonde tresses dancing. “You kept staring at us during that scene. The hero is finding out that the evil Imperial is his father, and you're staring at us. We didn't forget that for a while, you know.”
You look down at the table. “I didn't realize I was being that obvious about it…”
“You never do.” You look up to see a proud grin on your daughter’s face. “Why do you think I love movies so much? You can watch a person’s reaction to the screen, and learn what makes them tick. People watch movies, I watch them. I can literally see their hearts speed up, remember? I can sit in a movie theatre watching the people and smelling their adrenaline. When they look at the screen their faces are...like a treasure map. Shows you where the emotion is buried.”
You bring your hands up to your own face, hiding it for a moment. But you shake off your embarrassment and meet both of their eyes in turn.
“I love you. Both of you, so much. You’re handling this better than I am.”
“Ghenghis Khan.” Grace waves one hand as though she is tossing the name into the warm spring air. Her colorful beaded bracelets dance upon her wrist. “The warlord. Five hundred concubines, who knows how many kids...did they really all have an identity crisis over it?”
David smiles at his sister, then at you. “We've been talking about this for a while. What she's trying to say is that he has millions of descendants. But there was really only one Ghenghis Khan. It's DNA, it's not you . We don't have a father in the way that actually matters. So? Some of our friends do, and some don't. I have friends with two fathers and with zero. We make do.”
You meet both sets of eyes in turn. “How long have you two been talking about this?”
Your sixteen-year-old twins glance at one another. David shakes his head. “I don’t even know.”
“I'm sorry.” You sigh. “We had a plan. That is, GG and Ryan did. On your eighteenth birthday, your eldest half-brother plans to...well, fly here. He’ll do the same for the three others when their days come. Drop out of the sky, tell you the whole story. Doing it earlier felt too much like I would be grooming child soldiers to defeat their father.”
Grace’s eyes harden and she raises her eyebrows. “We are not children.”
“Okay, teenage soldiers.”
David reaches for his sister’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, then turns back to you. “Fair enough. You keep looking at your phone, do you have a picture of Ryan?"
You shake your head. "No. GG showed me his face on her own phone. She didn't give me a picture to keep. All I know is, he has one hell of a story to tell."
You paraphrase it as best you can. A son born of rape and then hidden from the rapist, raised by his mother Becca in some sort of isolated place. Until he was eight, and Homelander found him.
“Stormfront, and him. They tried to take Ryan as their own...and it ended with him using his laser eyes on that damn bionic bitch. She isn't in the public eye like Homelander anymore, but if you saw her you would know that she's got steel prosthesis for arms and legs. And he's the reason. But unfortunately, his mother died too.
“GG found a family back in the U.S. to take care of him, but he wasn't about to call anyone else Mom and Dad right after that. He called them Aunt and Uncle. The other kids, his cousins. That worked for him.
“What you had with GG, Ryan has with a man named Billy. Except even closer I think. Billy would visit often, and as he got older Billy taught him how to fight. By the time he was your age, he was calling Billy his Dad. I saw a picture of them together, one from this year. Billy has dark hair and Ryan's is just like yours, but they both had a beard and they were both wearing Hawaiian shirts. I think Ryan wants to be just like him. Like the man he calls Dad.”
You meet both sets of blue eyes in turn. “I guess I don’t have any secrets from you, do I? You know that I go to sleep at night imagining the day all of Homelander's kids are old enough to take him on. Together. GG told me that this Billy does too. He has his reasons. Homelander leaves so many bodies in his wake.”
You spread your hands out on the table, fingertips pressed against polished dark wood. “But...that’s not all you are, you know? You’re still teens with dreams and homework. You just happen to have Super powers as well.”