Chapter music recommendation: "What Was I Made For?"
(Every chapter comes with a music recommendation.)
Martha said he had been found in a wheat field.
In truth, it had taken John an entire year to barely accept that fairy-tale bullshit on a psychological level.
Seriously, wasn't that a load of crap?
He had clearly fallen out of the sky.
The deep furrow the crashed cockpit had plowed through the cornfield east of the Kent home was still visible.
Though Jonathan had already filled most of it in with dirt.
But what John couldn't accept was the tenderness in every word Martha spoke, so pure it was goddamn unbearable.
Did she really think a flying monster falling from the sky was a gift heaven had sent her?
It was like seeing the alien E.T. standing beside your bed in the middle of the night, and not only being unafraid, but asking if he was hungry and even offering him a midnight snack.
As though nothing had happened at all.
"You know, I heard this enormous crash that evening. I thought Jonathan had flipped his tractor again."
She smiled as she spoke to a neighbor who had come into town to buy seeds, pinching John's disgruntled, collagen-plump cheek.
"But guess what? There was a cute little baby in the wheat field."
The neighbor burst out laughing, saying over and over how lucky the Kents were to have picked up a son who had fallen from the sky.
John sat on the steps beside them, listening to it all without expression.
My lifetime of glory as Homelander!
Sigh... whatever the fuck.
In his previous life, if anyone had dared talk about him like this, even in such a doting, utterly harmless tone...
He would have slapped them into red fertilizer within a tenth of a second, then blasted them into the cracks in the wall with Heat Vision, where they couldn't even be scraped out.
He was Homelander, the strongest, the best, the most awe-inspiring being!
(A tribute to the speech in the original here.)
He would not allow himself to become a talking point for these stupid mortals, much less some poor wheat-field boy named "Jack."
Who the fuck gave you the nerve?
But now, stripped of any say in the story, he could only sit obediently on the steps.
Clutching an ear of corn Martha had stuffed into his hand, he gnawed away at it, unable to do anything.
Because he was John Kent now.
The Kent family's only son, and their most well-behaved one.
To John, maintaining a persona mattered. It was a basic discipline every superhuman ought to possess.
That discipline had kept his image as a good little boy perfectly intact.
At least, that was certainly how Martha and Jonathan saw him.
Besides that, he had a combination-locked metal box, secretly buried beneath the old oak tree in the deepest part of the wheat field.
What was in the box?
The first piece of fruit candy Martha had given him.
He had even rubbed its wrapper until it grew fuzzy.
There was also a wooden spinning top Old Joe had given him for his birthday, its edge chipped long ago by one of his feats of "brute force works miracles."
And that wasn't all.
There was even a golden hair Martha had dropped on the floor half a month earlier, which John had pinched up with his fingernails and carefully pressed between the pages of a book.
These were all treasures. Amazing treasure.
They were ironclad proof that he had enjoyed being "loved" in this world.
Every night, once Martha and Jonathan were sound asleep, John would sneak out.
He would jog all the way over and dig up that metal box, greedily savoring its scent like a miser.
He had lived two lives now.
John was actually very afraid.
He was afraid this was all a fucking hallucination.
He was afraid he would wake up tomorrow morning back in that goddamn, fucking idiotic world, only for that mangy dog Butcher to serve him an American crowbar.
So he had to leave proof.
Leave evidence that "someone once loved me."
But then again...
Adjusting to this new body took John longer than he had imagined.
It wasn't physical maladjustment. Though an infant's body was frail, his basic motor skills had developed quickly.
At six months, he could walk while holding on to the wall, and by one year old, he could already run.
Jonathan said the boy would definitely become an athlete someday, while Martha merely watched John dotingly, smiling and shaking her head, saying she only wanted him safe and sound.
What John truly struggled to adjust to was something else.
It was the difference in values and ways of thinking.
When he first arrived at the Kent home, Martha noticed his love of milk and would often hand him a freshly warmed cup.
Though the look John gave that cup of milk was always a little strange.
Once, he reached out to take it, but before his fingers touched the cup, it slipped to the floor.
With a sharp crack, ceramic shards scattered everywhere, and warm milk instantly soaked the hem of Martha's skirt.
Oh, shit!
John's first reaction was to freeze.
In his previous childhood in the laboratory, every mistake John made had been recorded.
Breaking a petri dish meant at least three hours in solitary confinement.
Dirtying the lab bench meant that day's furnace "tolerance treatment" got a super multiplier.
And if a researcher happened to be in a bad mood that day, oh, it wouldn't be as simple as solitary confinement.
They went straight to electroshock, strapped him down, and locked him in that pitch-black storeroom, treating him until he "adapted."
So he stood frozen in place, his lips pressed nervously into a thin line.
His eyes stayed fixed on the fragments on the floor, his mind already imagining at least a hundred kinds of scolding from Martha.
That was how it always went, anyway.
"You didn't cut your hand, did you?"
Martha crouched down.
Not only did she not scold him, but the very first thing she did was anxiously take his wrist, turn his little hand over, and inspect his palm.
John froze, staring blankly at Martha's face.
"Let me see... good, there's no bleeding."
Martha let out a long breath, then carefully moved him half a meter to the side, away from the mess of broken glass.
"Stand here and don't move. Mommy's going to get the broom."
Mommy.
Even though John had been hearing that word for over a year.
Every time Martha called herself that, John's mind still stalled for a fraction of a second.
Like a program encountering an undefined variable, crashing, at a loss.
After all, nobody in his previous life had ever let him call them Mommy.
The scum in the lab weren't worthy, and that bitch Madelyn, who only ever flashed her tits, only deserved to be called by her name.
So...
Martha bent down and picked up the pieces one by one, the hem of her floral apron brushing against the wooden floor.
Even soaked through with milk, she paid it no mind.
Her movements were slow and careful, and once she had finished, she ran her fingers over the floor to make sure no tiny fragments remained.
Throughout the whole process, she didn't even glance at him.
It wasn't deliberate disregard.
It was trust, the peace of mind to leave him be.
That realization made John feel as though something had lodged in his chest.
He awkwardly turned his face away and stared at the wheat field outside the window until the aching pressure in his eyes subsided on its own.
This was his mother, Martha.
And to John, Jonathan was a quiet, practical man.
He carried a grounded silence, like the earth itself.
But John never dared underestimate this silent farmer, and deep down, he couldn't see through him at all.
John had met far too many people in his previous life.
Politicians, businessmen, superhumans-he could more or less tell what any of them were thinking at a glance.
And don't forget, he also had literal X-ray vision.
He could judge other people's emotions by their heart rates.
(Let the kid brag a little. Don't take it too seriously.)
But he couldn't see through Jonathan at all.
More precisely, he couldn't understand the logic behind this man's actions.
This hardworking man got up at five every morning, went to the shed to start that ancient tractor, and puttered out to the fields.
At noon, Martha made sandwiches and had John carry them out to the edge of the field in a basket.
Jonathan would plop down in the tractor's shade, wipe his sweat with a mud-covered sleeve, take a sandwich, and bite into it.
He would say, "Thanks, son," then keep chewing in silence.
At first, that silence made John very uncomfortable.
Because in his previous life, things around him had never been quiet.
That bitch Ashley was always chattering in his ear about some bullshit PR crisis or brand strategy.
Those two idiots, The Deep and A-Train, spent all day testing and guarding against each other. To him, they were just playing house.
Madelyn only ever brainwashed him in that sickeningly sweet voice of hers (compared to her, Martha was practically an angel), telling him how important he was.
Though John, lost in her tender embrace at the time, could be said to have "obeyed her every word," he knew better than anyone-
For a career woman from the world of capital like Madelyn, every sentence had a purpose. She was always scheming.
He wasn't sure what silence meant, but uncertainty often meant danger.
So John always observed Jonathan in secret.
He watched how Jonathan habitually patted the doorframe when he left in the morning.
How he sat leisurely on the porch after dinner, quietly smoking a pipe.
And the quiet, unhurried tenderness in his eyes when he looked at Martha.
Only later did John discover that silence could also be a kind of dependability.
When he was three, Jonathan broke a promise to him for the first time.
They had agreed that Jonathan would take him to the market in town on Sunday, and John had been looking forward to it since Friday.
Not because the market was so fucking fun.
After learning to fly in his previous life, John had long since grown bored of all the world's most luxurious places.
A primitive gathering in some small Kansas town?
It wasn't worth a fart.
What he was really looking forward to was Jonathan's casual remark: "I'll take you on a roller coaster."
Quite the contrast, right?
Yes, a roller coaster.
John loved the idea. He was eager. He was excited.
That was because Homelander had never ridden one in his previous life.
Supersonic flight alone was something he had already gotten bored of by eleven.
But right now, he was still a mortal, so a roller coaster was instead a novel experience unlike anything he had ever had.
Then a torrential rain fell on Saturday night, and the drainage ditch east of the wheat field suddenly collapsed.
Jonathan left before dawn with a shovel over his shoulder and worked until dusk, returning covered in mud, so exhausted he could barely take off his boots.
John stood in the kitchen doorway with a dark expression, watching Jonathan slump in a chair and gasp for breath, and sneered inwardly.
Just as I thought.
Promises and all that were fucking bullshit.
The bitches at Vought were like that, and apparently this old country farmer was no different. No exceptions.
Utterly disappointed, he turned toward his room, intending to forget the whole thing completely, as though it had never happened.
He would never believe anyone's bullshit again.
Never.
Just as he was about to step into his room, Jonathan called him back.
John stopped without turning around.
He was already prepared to hear ten thousand excuses about family difficulties and circumstances beyond his control.
"Come here a moment, son."
He walked over slowly, head lowered, his face utterly expressionless.
Jonathan laboriously straightened up and set his large, still-muddy hands on John's shoulders.
"I'm sorry."
His voice was deep, without any embellishment.
"Daddy broke his promise today."
What?!
John's mind buzzed, going completely blank for three whole seconds.
He was... apologizing to me?
In over forty years of life, aside from that cowardly bastard The Deep, who bullied the weak and feared the strong, groveling and apologizing to him every day.
This was the first person to sincerely tell him he was sorry.
Excuses?
Justifications?
None of that.
Only a simple "I'm sorry."
He had gotten what he wished for.
In an instant, a scorching surge of warmth rushed into John's eyes.
He hastily ducked his head, not wanting Jonathan to see what a mess he was.
"It's fine..."
His voice was dry, and it took him ages to squeeze out a sentence.
"The drainage ditch is more important."
"No."
Jonathan shook his head, his tone calm but hard as stone.
"The drainage ditch can be fixed tomorrow, but a promise I made to you can't just be brushed aside."
"Next Sunday, Daddy will definitely take you. A man's word is a nail driven home. If he says it, he has to do it."
That was Jonathan.
His father.
That night, John didn't cry.
He was Homelander. There was no way he would shed tears over such trivial bullshit.
He merely lay on the narrow wooden bed, clutching the corner of his quilt, flipping back and forth like a pancake on a griddle for three hours.
The insects chirping in the field ridges outside were noisy as hell, Martha was humming an off-key lullaby next door, and Jonathan's snores rumbled like thunder.
John buried his entire face in the soft pillow, pressing hard against the burning corners of his eyes.
Fuck...!
Was this home?
Was this the home I'd spent over forty years desperately searching for, the home I hadn't even touched by the time I died?!
In the darkness, a glimmer of crazed, sickly cold light flashed in his eyes.
All mine.
Martha... Jonathan...
You're all mine!
If anyone dares touch a single hair on Martha's head, I'll stuff his whole body down the toilet and flush him away!
If anyone dares lay a finger on Jonathan, I'll grind his bones to dust inch by inch and scatter every last bit into the septic tank!
Perhaps John's obsession had taken effect.
After he fell asleep clutching his pillow, an extremely faint current of warmth quietly spread along the meridians throughout his body, then suffused his entire body...