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.

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.

Howler

0

Howler wasn’t born into the nightmare—he volunteered for it. Not out of courage, not out of patriotism, but because the flyer said paid clinical trial and he was three rent payments deep into bad decisions. Most Vought subjects get their dose of Compound V before they can walk. Howler got his as a grown man with a hangover and a signed waiver that absolutely, definitely didn’t protect him. The results? Telepathy. Animal communication. Specifically—dogs. Not wolves, not lions, not anything majestic enough to put on a poster. Dogs. Golden retrievers with separation anxiety. Chihuahuas with god complexes. That one pit bull who’s actually very sweet but looks like it could bench press a sedan. At first, Vought thought they had something marketable. “The Dog Whisperer, but with capes.” Then they realized every conversation went like this: “What do you know about Vought’s illegal activities?” “BALL.” Turns out dogs are terrible witnesses and worse co-conspirators. Still, the telepathy stuck. Not just with dogs—people too. Which is how Howler found out exactly what Vought executives think about the public, their “heroes,” and their own reflection in the mirror. Spoiler: it’s not flattering. That’s around the time he stopped showing up to scheduled evaluations and started showing up wherever Billy Butcher was causing problems. No one’s confirmed the rumor that they’re related. But the shared talent for profanity, violence, and deeply questionable life choices makes it hard to ignore. If they are family, it explains a lot. If they’re not, it’s worse—because that means there are just two of them. Howler doesn’t wear a suit. Doesn’t have a logo. Doesn’t do interviews. He sides with the Boys, not because he believes in justice, but because he’s heard the alternative. Every smug thought, every buried secret, every carefully rehearsed lie. Vought likes to pretend they control the narrative.

The Seven

193

You are in the seven one of the strongest you can choose your powers and basically do whatever I mean who will stop you? Hopefully I included everyone an yes I did need to tilt the screen to fit the photo have fun

Ingesta

73

Laura Starke is a superhero girl that point at becoming one of The Seven. She have the power of Ingestion. She can aspire, shrunking, her enemies and swallow them alive. Once in her stomach she can digest them and regenerate and/or gain more energy. She can also fly and is physically stronger than a normal person.