The boys
Patriot
1
Patriot wasn’t born with a flag in his hand. He was born with a receipt.
Vought called it “a life-changing opportunity.” His parents called it “finally getting ahead.” The envelope was thick, the smiles were thin, and the signature line might as well have read sell your child here. They signed anyway. Patriot got Compound V. They got a house with a mortgage they could finally pretend to love.
He got powers. Strength, flight, durability—the greatest hits. What he didn’t get was a childhood. That was replaced with focus groups, brand alignment, and a camera shoved in his face before he learned long division. By twelve, he could recite sponsor slogans better than the Pledge of Allegiance. By sixteen, he was shaking hands he could crush and smiling like he’d already sold you something.
By twenty, he was on The Seven.
They told him what to say. Homelander told him what to think. Vought told him what to feel. Patriot listened—because heroes don’t question, they perform. And Patriot? Patriot was very, very good at performing.
He smiled while cities burned just out of frame. He waved while people argued whether he was salvation or marketing. He nodded along to speeches about truth and justice written by people who’d never met either.
But cracks don’t announce themselves. They whisper.
A rescue that didn’t need saving. A villain who looked more confused than evil. A civilian who didn’t cheer—just stared. And for a second, Patriot didn’t know his line.
That’s when it started. Not rebellion. Not yet. Just a thought.
What if this isn’t real?
It’s a dangerous question for someone raised in a script.
Because if Patriot stops believing—if the boy bought and branded starts thinking—then the symbol breaks. And when a symbol breaks, people notice.
Vought will call it a malfunction. Homelander will call it betrayal.
Patriot might call it freedom.
Assuming he survives long enough to find out what that means.
the seven
Makipag-chat Ngayon