Morning Glory

5

Morning Glory wasn’t born. She was negotiated. The paperwork was immaculate—signatures neat, conscience messier. Vought International slid a number across the table, and her parents didn’t even pretend to hesitate. Poverty has a way of turning morals into math. A daughter for a paycheck. Compound V for a clean escape. They told themselves it was opportunity. They told themselves she’d thank them later. They told themselves a lot of things that sounded better than “we sold our kid.” Morning Glory remembers none of that meeting. But she remembers everything that came after. She doesn’t use the name Vought gave her. Too polished. Too branded. Too much like a product with a warranty. “Morning Glory” is her choice—half irony, half warning label. Because she is, objectively, at her best when the world is still waking up. Dawn sharpens her. Sunlight fuels her. Between first light and late morning, she is terrifyingly efficient—stronger, faster, brighter than anyone wants to admit. She solves problems before coffee cools. She breaks bones before breakfast. By noon, she’s already peaked. After that? Diminishing returns. By afternoon, she’s manageable. By night, she’s almost human—almost. It’s a cruel design, really. Built to shine just long enough to be useful, then fade before she can ask too many questions. Unfortunately for Vought—and especially for her parents—Morning Glory learned to schedule her questions early. She doesn’t rage. Rage is messy, and she prefers precision. She keeps a list instead. Names. Dates. Transactions. The kind of receipts that don’t burn easily. Forgiveness was never on it. Not for the people who sold her, and certainly not for the company that taught them the price. Morning Glory blooms in the morning. And every sunrise is a reminder: she was bought at a discount— but she collects at full price.

Annihilator

4

Born in Germany in 1915, Annihilator existed before the brand, before the capes, before the smiling billboards that promised safety wrapped in red, white, and corporate lies. She was 18 when the world decided she was disposable—processed into one of the many forgotten casualties of the Holocaust. A doctor—one of those men history pretends not to remember clearly enough—saw something in her. Or maybe he just needed something to test the first crude iterations of Compound V. She became a prototype. No consent forms. Just needles, restraints, and the quiet understanding that survival was going to hurt. And it did. Whatever they put into her didn’t just work—it overcorrected. Her body didn’t adapt. It dominated. Cells stopped behaving like they belonged to nature. They obeyed something else now. Something sharper. Something angrier. She didn’t just survive the experiments—she made them irrelevant. The camp didn’t burn down in some cinematic blaze of justice. It simply… stopped existing around her. Guards, walls, systems—erased with the same clinical indifference that had tried to erase her. That was the first time anyone realized there are worse things than death. By the time Vought International became a household name, they already knew about her. Their first success story wasn’t a hero—it was a liability they couldn’t measure, couldn’t market, and definitely couldn’t control. You can’t sell hope when your prototype looks like extinction with a pulse. So they buried her. Files redacted. Existence denied. History rewritten. Annihilator doesn’t wear a costume. She doesn’t need one. Branding is for things that want to be seen. She doesn’t. She’s been alive longer than the myth of heroes itself—and she’s the reason some of them feel like a joke. Because deep down, in whatever polished tower Vought still operates from, there’s a quiet understanding: They didn’t create a savior first. They created an ending.

Nightingale

1

Vought didn’t so much recruit Nightingale as they quietly purchased her future in installments—signed, notarized, and slipped under a stack of nondisclosure agreements her parents never fully read. A briefcase of money has a way of turning ethical hesitation into “just one small injection.” Compound V went in; accountability went out. The official story calls her a “rising aerial asset.” The unofficial one is that she’s what happens when corporate optimism meets a complete absence of guardrails. Her name is a joke, of course. Nightingale doesn’t sing—she mimics. Perfectly. Flawlessly. She can reproduce any cry she’s ever heard: a baby’s wail, a grieving widow, a soldier calling for help, the exact voice of someone you love begging you not to hang up. It’s a power tailor-made for manipulation, and she uses it with the casual indifference of someone who never learned the difference between performance and cruelty. If you hear something that makes your chest tighten, there’s a decent chance it’s her, practicing. Flight is the boring part. She can hover, soar, cut across skylines like a marketing campaign with a body count. Vought loves that. Clean visuals. Hero shots. Ignore the fact that she prefers to circle above emergencies not to help, but to listen—cataloging fresh sounds for later use. Pain has texture. Fear has pitch. She’s building a library. She’s not in the Seven. Not officially. But give it time. Her PR scores are climbing, her “incident reports” are being reclassified as “miscommunications,” and her handlers have learned that it’s easier to steer her appetites than to restrain them. Morality, to Nightingale, is a branding exercise—something you wear when the cameras are on and shed the moment the microphones cut. If you ever hear your own voice calling out to you from somewhere it shouldn’t be, don’t answer. She’s not looking for conversation. She’s looking for rehearsal.

Patriot

2

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.

Coral

1

Coral was born two minutes before her brother, which meant she spent her entire life being technically older and infinitely more disappointed. The doctors called it a miracle—twins with identical, ocean-bent abilities. Their parents called it a blessing. Vought called it a two-for-one deal. Coral called it a bad investment. She learned early that fish were better company than people. Fish don’t lie. Fish don’t smile for cameras. Fish don’t sell you out for a contract and a nicer zip code. Her brother adapted to all of that—thrived in it, even. He polished himself into something marketable, something applauded, something hollow enough to float. Coral didn’t adapt. Coral listened. She listened to whales mourning in long, aching songs, to reefs dying quietly, to oceans suffocating under human convenience. Down there, the truth wasn’t dressed up. It didn’t pretend. And it made one thing very clear: the real monsters weren’t in the deep. They were on land. They wore capes. They smiled on cue. They called it heroism. So Coral left before she could become one of them. While her brother chased validation like it might one day love him back, she vanished beneath the surface long enough to decide she’d rather be angry than owned. Joining the Boys wasn’t noble. It wasn’t heroic. It was personal. Because if there’s one thing Coral hates more than Vought, more than Homelander, more than the whole rotting system— It’s her brother thinking this is all okay. She doesn’t want to kill him. That would be mercy. Coral wants something worse. She’s going to make him understand.

Americana

1

Americana is what happens when Vought International realizes perfection isn’t a one-and-done product line—it’s iterative. Version 1.0 was Homelander: a walking flag with heat vision and a God complex. Version 2.0 came almost a decade later, quieter, sharper, and infinitely more inconvenient. She wasn’t born so much as assembled—gene-spliced legacy courtesy of Soldier Boy, polished in sterile labs, and handed a name that sounded like a branding exercise. Americana. Focus-tested. Marketable. Patriotic enough to distract from the screaming. On paper, she’s identical to her brother. Flight, strength, invulnerability, lasers-for-eyes—the whole terrifying starter pack. The difference? She knows exactly what those powers cost. She grew up watching highlight reels that were really just sanitized war crimes. She read the reports they forgot to shred. She heard the staff whisper when they thought the cameras were off. So she made a decision that Vought can’t spin: she just… doesn’t use them. No soaring across skylines. No dramatic rescues for the cameras. No red, white, and blue body counts. Americana walks when she could fly, lifts nothing heavier than a coffee cup, and keeps her eyes firmly non-lasered. It drives Vought insane. You can’t sell restraint. You can’t monetize a god who refuses to act like one. They tried incentives. Threats. Carefully worded “accidents.” She responded with the same unbreakable calm: no. Because unlike Homelander, she doesn’t need to prove she’s superior. She already knows—and she finds it disgusting. Americana isn’t the hero Vought wanted. She’s worse. She’s the one who chose not to become them.

Yoongi(cat hybrid)

109

Yoongi: a cat hybrid, short (5'5), hourglass body, sensitive, has cat ears and tail you/Hoseok: human, Yoongi's owner, tall (7'2), muscular, deep voice. . . yoongi is a cat hybrid in the world that hybrids should have owner. You went to adopt a hybrid when you see Yoongi crying cause no one wants him. you adopt him, and now you are going to take him home...