Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In the end, it wasn’t even a spectacular death.

No heroics. No drawn-out drama. Just a slip, a scream, and the distinct crunch of a skull meeting New York concrete after a fall that really should’ve just ended in a sprained ankle. But that was the thing about luck—it was never really on her side, was it?

One minute Frankie Mayfield was sprinting to make her train down a slick subway stairwell, earbuds in, hoodie up, late for a job she didn’t care about. The next, her world went white.

And then black.

She expected a reboot. Or oblivion. Or, at the very least, Morgan Freeman. Instead, she got:

Breath.

Searing. Sharp. Wrong.

Frankie woke up gasping like she’d been drowning for hours. The first sensation that hit her was pain—not the crushing pain of impact, but something internal , like her blood was on fire and her bones were trying to rearrange themselves.

Then came the awareness. The wrongness of her body.

Not her hoodie. Not her jeans. Definitely not her body.

A chest that rose and fell on its own. A heartbeat. 

She shot up in bed. The springs creaking ominously beneath her. “What the—?”

Her voice. It wasn’t hers. Deeper. Stronger. Still feminine, but with a low, confident timbre that didn’t belong in the mouth of a twenty-three-year-old barista who still sometimes got carded for Red Bull.

She looked down. "Jesus Christ, is that my hand?"

It wasn’t.

It was too tan. Too graceful. The nails were done in a pretty red polish. And, when she sat up—wheezing with panic, dark, unfamiliar hair falling in her face— she had boobs. Big ones. Like, gravity-defying . Definitely not hers.

Frankie’s eyes snapped up and inspected the room with such clear vision she could see the dust particles floating in the air. She didn't even know people could have vision this good. She felt like a hawk. 

She spotted the mirror—and bolted toward it. She took a step—and suddenly she was in front of the dresser. She tried to stop. To slow down, but couldn’t. Her thigh slammed into the furniture. 

CRACK!

But no pain... 

She looked down at the mess of wood splinters, half the wardrobe was in pieces, and there was now a fracture running up the plaster from where it had slammed back into the wall. “Jesus, did I just teleport ?” she murmured. Her heart was pounding. She was completely unharmed. 

Hesitantly, she looked up from the carnage and into the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat. 

The reflection looked like a woman out of a magazine: Tall, toned, defined cheekbones. A jawline that looked like it could cut glass. Long, glossy black curls that looked like they had never known the horrors of dry shampoo. Big, startled blue eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

She swallowed and looked around again. 

There! On the bedside. 

She tiptoed over to it carefully. Trying not to do whatever the fuck she’d done the first time. 

Beside the boho style lamp was a pair of black, thick-framed glasses and a press badge that read:

LARK KENT, METROPOLITAN GAZETTE
Staff Writer - Politics / Human Interest

…

What?

Lark Kent… 

That sounded far too suspiciously like Clark Kent. She was not liking where this was going.    

Frankie took a shaky breath and said the only thing she could.

“I think I’m having a psychotic break.”

The bed she’d launched herself out of looked cozy—white sheets, fluffy duvet, disturbingly tasteful throw pillows. It looked like something out of a West Elm catalog.

There were books stacked neatly on the other nightstand. Framed photos on the wall—cityscapes, an old family dog, a group shot at a press junket with people she didn’t recognize. Except… she kind of did.

Her breath hitched.

Memories. Like glitchy pop-ups.

Not Frankie’s.

Coffee at the bodega on 43rd, always with oat milk. A too-long conversation with a coworker trying to set her up on a blind date. The sharp, familiar clack of her heels echoing through the Gazette’s tiled hallways. Her editor, Dave, screaming from three desks away about AP style and clickbait titles.

“Oh god, I know how to spell ‘mayoral,’” she whispered in horror.

Her legs gave out. She dropped onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the glasses like they were a talisman. The furniture beneath her gave a sharp- 

CRACK!

She cringed but didn’t get up. The thing still held together, so whatever. 

Was Lark like… gone? Buried under the weight of Frankie’s soul? Or was she watching, pissed as hell that someone else was piloting her meat suit?

 “Lark Kent.” She said it out loud, testing it like a password.

"Lark Kent. Seriously? Were her parents massive nerds or something?”

But it all felt a little too coincidental for that. Clearly she had fucking superpowers. And Ms. Kent was apparently a journalist and… Did she seriously just get fucking isekai’d into genderbent Clark Kent?

She tried on the glasses and glanced at her reflection in the window. It was dark outside—city-dark, not real dark—but enough to see herself. Instantly, the reflection looked a little less intimidating. Just a hot nerd now. Still striking, but nerdy. She could work with that.

She stood again, slow this time—no more wardrobe carnage. Every step was deliberate. Controlled. She didn’t need another crack in the wall or any more broken furniture.

The city hummed outside the window. Cars. Sirens. Helicopters. All normal sounds. But Frankie could hear them now that she was focusing—every word in a passing conversation, every barking dog. It was like the volume had been turned up on life, and the dial broke off. 

“Agh.” She groaned and blocked her ears with her hands 

What the hell kind of acid trip had she died into?

Her stomach rumbled. Loudly. Like, window-vibrating loudly. Great. Super-hearing and super-metabolism. She wandered into the kitchen on autopilot and opened the fridge.

“Oh, thank god, carbs.”
A whole shelf of labeled meal-prep containers, each stacked with the rigid precision of someone who absolutely had their shit together. Definitely not her doing.

She downed half a Tupperware of pasta cold. And then she cried.

Not dainty crying. Full-on, ugly, can’t-breathe sobbing into a plastic container of penne arrabbiata.

Because Frankie was dead. And not just dead— reborn . Whoever this Lark was, she’d left behind a life that was now trying to wedge itself into Frankie’s brain. And the worst part?

It felt kinda... normal.

She swallowed the last bite and grabbed the press badge again. The laminate caught the morning light like a beacon.

LARK KENT, METROPOLITAN GAZETTE  

Staff Writer - Politics / Human Interest

“So I’m a journalist,” she muttered. “With great tits. And muscles. And-” she raised the hem of the silk tank top she would have never been able to afford. “Six-pack. Cool. Cool cool cool.”

She caught herself in the hallway mirror. Paused. Flexed.

Goddamn. If I had to be stuck in someone else's body, at least its this one.

Okay! Fuck. Focus. You may be a hot chick now, but you’ve gotta focus

She searched around for a laptop before she found it on the dining table between the living room and the kitchen.

She sat in front of it for a minute. Just breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Trying to get used to the feeling of lungs that weren’t hers, skin that didn’t sit right, and a heartbeat that sounded like it belonged to a predator.

“Okay,” she muttered, “Alright. We’re gonna do this the normal way. Step one: don’t Hulk-smash any more furniture. Step two: find out if this is a coma dream or if I really died and woke up as the kind of woman who actually finishes her New Year’s resolutions and fucking meal preps. Jesus. ”

Frankie slipped the laptop open. Password was her birthday—well, Lark’s birthday. The date popped into her head before she even realized she was thinking about it. 02.29.91. February 29th. Pisces. That…annoyingly, seemed to fit.

The computer whirred to life. Chrome was already open, a few tabs bookmarked: Gmail, New York Metro Weather, The Gazette’s website, and— bingo! —YouTube.

She clicked on it.

Instantly, a loud, overly patriotic theme song blared from the speakers. Red, white, and blue exploded across the screen in dramatic 3D animation. She scrambled to turn it down.

VOUGHT INTERNATIONAL: PROTECTING YOU SINCE 1945!

“Meet the Seven! The greatest superheroes in the world!”

She blinked.

“The hell ?”

A banner scrolled across the screen—a guy standing proudly with his weird little flag cape, someone dressed like wonder woman beside him looking like an amazonian Joan of Arc, a tactical ninja looking motherfucker lurking ominously in the back. All of them standing in perfect formation in what looked like the middle of Times Square.

She leaned closer.

And then stared.

She knew that face. The one front and center.

“Oh no.”

Oh no. Oh no no no.

“I’m in The Boys ,” she whispered. 

It was him. The creepy blond guy with laser eyes. She’d recognized him—smirking as he shot down a plane with his red glare. It was brutal. There was a little boy on board. The episode had turned her stomach. She never watched another.

“What was his name?” she muttered. “Hollander? No, what the fuck? Uh… shit. Something patriotic. Hometown-no…Homelander?” 

The screen switched to a cheesy ad: A mother holding her child on a playground. A narrator promising safety. Security. Hope.

“With the Seven watching over us, America is in good hands.”

Ha. Good hands? More like a chokehold.

She saw a logo at the corner of the screen.

“Vought,” Frankie muttered aloud. The name tickled something in her memory. Not hers. Lark’s.

She clicked away and opened the browser again. Typed in: “Vought International.”

The results flooded in. News sites. Social media. A fan wiki with Homelander’s name in gold. A link to Vought+ streaming service. Photos of Supes. Merchandise. Scandals. Carefully buried articles with weirdly similar headlines like ‘Vought Denies Civilian Casualty Allegations in Botched Raid.’

The deeper she went, the more it hit her like a brick to the head.

This wasn’t just some weird off-brand Marvel/DC thing.

She really was in it.

In The Boys.

And not only that. She was now apparently inside the body of a gender-swapped discount Superman. Complete with a press ID, a wallet full of cash, and memories—Lark’s, not hers— beginning to unfurl like hidden file folders.

And she was apparently not one of them. At least, not officially. No superhero name. No dossier. No bright costume hidden in the closet or trading cards with her face on them. 

The web had nothing on “Lark Kent.” Just normal, boring articles with her name on them—some political pieces, some human interest stories. One about a missing dog named Cinnamon that had gone unexpectedly viral a few years ago.

She leaned back in her chair, palms on her temples.

“What the actual hell is happening to me?”

The memories were leaking in more now. Names of city council reps. Street directions in Lark’s hometown in Kansas. The first time Lark drank, and realized alcohol had no effect on her. 

Well that fucking sucks! 

Frankie tried to focus.

Okay. Facts.

She had a new body. Powers—if the mirror and the broken wardrobe were any indication. Super speed. Super strength. Durability. Insane hearing. Maybe possibly laser eyes if she really was Superman? (She decided not to test that one indoors

She was in The Boys somehow. Which meant danger. Corruption. Blood. So much blood.

But she wasn’t on the map. She didn’t think Vought knew about her. The internet didn’t know about her.

And that, actually, might be the only advantage she had.

Her eyes fell on the press badge again.

Lark Kent.

A nobody with a pen, a laptop, and apparently, the power to punch through steel.

She snorted. “Great. I’ve been isekai’d into a fascist superhero satire with the powers of a god and a LinkedIn account.”

She stood up, dragging her fingers through her hair, trying to process all of it at once. Too many emotions crowded in—grief, confusion, awe, dread. 

Frankie wasn’t just alive. She was something else entirely.

She collapsed face-first onto the bed.

CRACK!

The whole bed frame snapped and slumped to the floor. 

“ Motherfucker!!” she shouted in surprise. Then she pouted, her eyes brimming with tears. She shoved her face into the duvet. “I want a refund on reincarnation.”

Chapter Text

The bed was broken.

The mattress tilted at a tragic angle like it had given up on life—which, frankly, same.

Frankie lay sprawled on the slanted sheets, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. It didn’t. Just a tiny crack zig-zagging toward the light fixture like a middle finger from the universe.

So far, reincarnation had been a mixed bag.

Superpowers? Cool.

Mystery identity? Less cool.

Existential panic, body dysphoria, a growing pasta addiction? Yeah, those were definitely winning the scoreboard.

She hadn’t moved much. Sweaty, anxious, lowkey vibrating from the sheer amount of calories she’d inhaled. Apparently being built like a demigod came with the appetite of a starving linebacker. She’d spent most of Saturday in a sleep-deprived haze, attempting to map out the rules of her new reality between stress-eating and breaking furniture by accident.

She’d made a list.

It was titled: “Rules So I Don’t Die.”

1 - Don’t run. You will end up several blocks away. And possibly also hurt someone.

2 - Don’t touch breakable objects. Which is everything. Everything is breakable.

3 - Don’t cry too hard. Crying apparently makes your voice ultrasonic. Dogs had howled.

4 - Don’t open YouTube. Homelander’s smile triggers fight-or-flight. (literally)... side note: get the dent in the ceiling fixed.

She’d spent most of Sunday on the couch—laptop balanced precariously on a throw pillow, half a baguette in one hand, Lark’s fake glasses sliding down her nose.—as she fell deep into the internet’s rabbit hole.

She’d Googled things like:

• “Vought International corruption”
• “Are the Seven evil???”
• “How to hide superpowers from a megalomaniac”
• “What do you do when you wake up in a TV show???”

Her search history now resembled a conspiracy theorist’s Pinterest board. And every new link just made the dread sink deeper.

Vought wasn’t just a big company. It was the company. Movies, pharma, talks of military contracts, news networks. The way people spoke about them made Amazon look like a lemonade stand.

And Homelander?

More famous than the Pope and Beyoncé combined.

There were Funko Pops of him. Clothing lines. Fragrance ads. A cologne called “Righteous.” (She’d gagged.)

He had entire YouTube channels dedicated to him—“Top 10 Times Homelander Saved the Day,” “Why Homelander is the Ultimate Patriot,” “Daddy Issues? Homelander Has You Covered.”

She didn’t click that last one. She had limits.

His smile was everywhere. That same terrifying, teeth-baring grin. She’d seen it in the show—smug and hollow, like a shark pretending to do customer service. And somehow, seeing it here, in ads and articles and family-friendly content, was worse.

It was propaganda. A High-def, hyper-polished nightmare.

Which meant:

Whatever this was—this body, these powers—she had to keep it quiet.

Real fucking quiet.

And then there was Lark.

At first, Frankie thought she’d gotten lucky. A nobody journalist. No flashy costume in the closet. Just a name badge, a pretty apartment and a well-stocked fridge.

But then she found Lark’s old articles.

The Gazette archive was easy to access. Password autofilled. There were dozens of articles under Lark’s byline—neat, clean, thoroughly researched. But… 

“Inside the Seven’s New Tech Facility: Vought Leads the Way in Heroic Innovation”

“Interview with Queen Maeve: Behind the Armor, a Woman with Heart”

“Homelander’s Patriot Day Speech: A Beacon of Hope”

Frankie squinted at that one until her eyes hurt.

It praised his speech cadence. 

His fucking speech cadence.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, shoving the laptop back (gently) like a puppy had bitten her.

“She wrote fluff pieces. Lark was a Vought fangirl.”

No wonder she’d had her own press badge— Frankie'd found it tucked in the drawer of her desk.— Vought probably had her on speed dial.

And here was the worst part—somewhere in the back of Frankie’s mind, Lark didn’t seem to see anything wrong with it.

Not in her memories. Not in the warm, blurry images bubbling up: a handshake with Queen Maeve, smiles at a corporate press event, genuine excitement after interviews.

She hadn’t known. She was raised with the idea that Superheroes could do no wrong. Most of the country was!

That thought made Frankie’s stomach churn.

Because now? With Frankie at the wheel? She could see everything wrong with it. The gaps. The silences. The manipulation baked into every headline. And with Larks powers—if people ever found out—she wouldn’t just be a footnote anymore.

What was that saying? You’re either with us or against us? 

Frankie would never be with them which made her–

Dangerous.

To Vought. To the Seven. To herself.

And she couldn’t trust anyone.

Tomorrow, she’d go to Lark’s work. Take notes. Smile. Blend in. Pretend to be just another boots-on-the-ground, coffee-powered journalist with too many questions and not enough answers. Prey she could pull off Lark's personality around her friends and co-workers.

But tonight?

She picked up the badge on the bedside table and stared at it for a long moment. The photo of Lark smiled awkwardly back at her.

She got up and tucked it into the bag by the desk.

Tonight, she was going to wallow.

And if fate had dropped her into this mess with a front-row seat to the apocalypse?

Fine.

She’d buck up, hide all her fresh sorrow in a box and do what she could to prevent it. Hell, she’d already died once. What was another time? 

Frankie had never realized how loud the world was until she heard everything .
She could pick out the sound of the upstairs neighbor brushing their teeth, the steady hum of traffic shifting three blocks away, the sharp click-clack of someone with long nails furiously texting in the hallway. A dog sneezed on the sidewalk outside, and she flinched like it was right next to her.

She grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her ears.
It did absolutely nothing.

“Okay,” she muttered, sitting up. “So… soundproofing. Definitely needs to go on the shopping list. Or maybe I can figure out how to turn this shit down.”

She hugged the pillow like a stress toy and looked around her too-perfect, tastefully curated, definitely-adult apartment. The kind of place Instagram influencers did house tours in—soft neutrals, natural wood, minimalist but expensive as hell. And now? Cracked bed frame. Shattered wardrobe. A slightly dented wall. Basically an IKEA crime scene.

Between the overstimulation and existential spiral, a new memory floated up: Lark Kent jogging at dawn, earbuds in, humming along to Florence + the Machine as she passed the corner bodega and waved to the guy selling newspapers.

God, she was earnest. Like if Snow White and Captain America had a baby and raised it on oat milk, NPR, and Midwestern hospitality.

“I don’t feel like a Lark,” Frankie mumbled miserably. “I feel like a glitch in the Matrix.”

Still, it was all she had. Changing Lark’s name legally? A bureaucratic nightmare. And Francis didn’t exactly suit Lark’s vibe anyway. Francis had always had a million iterations of her own name— primarily Frankie, sometimes An, Franny. Back in high school track, they’d called her Run Run Ranny.

She tiptoed to the bathroom and stared at herself. That face. That body. The sheer wrongness of it all. But those eyes—her eyes, sort of—looking back with a wariness she knew too well.

She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face. The icy shock hit her with an aggressive slap.

“Jesus,” she whispered, wiping away the drops. “Right. Yeah. Gentle.”

She took a deep breath.
“You’re not crazy,” she told her reflection. “You’re just in another world, in another body, with the powers of a war god and the social skills of a brick.”

She got ready for the day. Pulled her hair into a slicked-back bun, though her arms moved faster than intended and snapped the elastic. She sighed and tried again.

Then she faced the closet: a rack of beautifully ironed button-ups and power blazers. Her hand hovered over a high neck navy blouse. She tried not to sigh. She missed her band t-shirt collection.

She pulled on Lark’s stupid non-prescription glasses. Here we go.

Frankie used Lark's incoming memories to find her way to work 

Lark Kent.
She was going to have to wear that name like armor.
For now.

The city was alive in a way she’d never seen before.

Maybe it was the enhanced senses, or maybe it was the low-grade panic attack simmering beneath her borrowed skin, but every car honk sounded like a gunshot, every perfume cloud felt like chemical warfare, and some poor pigeon flapping overhead might as well have been a WWII bomber. She’d ducked reflexively. 

She walked stiffly, trying to move fast without seeming inhuman. Her ID badge swung gently from her lapel with every step.

She still couldn’t believe Metropolitan Gazette was a real place. It sounded like a discount Daily Planet. She half-expected Jimmy Olsen to hand her a coffee and shout, “Hey CK—big scoop today!”

Instead, the lobby was a sleek marble monstrosity. Security gates. Chrome accents. Everyone wore smart blazers and expensive shoes, bustling like extras from The Newsroom.
No wonder Kent could afford that apartment.

Frankie tried to keep her breathing normal, but her heart had other plans—like breakdancing.

How the fuck was she supposed to pull off being a journalist? Sure, that was what she was going to school for… but she hadn’t even graduated yet –Never would. She was a barista, for Christ’s sake. 

The receptionist looked up as she approached. “Morning, Kent.”

“Morning,” Frankie replied, a bit too brightly. “Coffee already tastes like betrayal, huh?”

What the fuck does that even mean? Why did I say that? Oh my god, I haven’t even been here five minutes and I’m already failing.

The receptionist blinked. Then chuckled politely. “Same as always.”

Aww. Frankie smiled. What a nice woman.

Inside, the office floor was chaos in a cardigan. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. People arguing in low, passive-aggressive tones about deadlines and copy edits.

Then:

 “ LARK! There she is!”

A blonde woman in killer heels, phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek, popped up from behind a desk pod. She waved Frankie over without pausing her conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll push it to noon. Just tell his handler the piece isn’t changing, I don’t care how many times they—Hi, Lark! Love the bun. You’re radiating ‘no bullshit.’”

She turned again, hissing into the phone:
“No, I said no edits. Print what we have or I pull the article. Your call.”
Click. She hung up.

Frankie gave a nervous half-salute. “Morning?”

“God, I’ve missed your pretty face,” the woman said, grabbing Frankie’s arm and steering her toward a desk. “How are you? How was your sick leave? You look like you got hit by a yoga retreat and came out zen-as-fuck.”

Ha. Bullshit.

“Oh, y’know,” Frankie floundered. “Just… deep breathing. Detox teas. Staring into the void.”

“God, same,” the woman said without missing a beat. “Anyway, your desks just the way you left it. I told Dave you didn’t need a welcome-back cake because you’ve only been out a week, but he insisted, so. Sorry in advance.”

“Dave?”

“The editor…” she squinted at Frankie. “New guy. Has been trying to not-so-subtly set you up with his son for weeks.”

Frankie let out an awkward laugh. “Oh. Right.”

They reached a desk nestled between two others. It was already piled with manila folders, a computer monitor blinking awake, and a coffee mug that read: Talk Voughty to Me.

Frankie stared at the mug like it might detonate.

The woman leaned in conspiratorially. “Listen. Since you’ve been out, we lost two reporters to PR firms, and one to a nervous breakdown. So if you’re gunning for something juicy, now is definitely the time.”

“What about Supes?” Frankie asked, trying to sound casual. “Anyone covering the darker angles?”

The woman snorted. “You mean besides the interns trolling Deep’s Instagram? No. We’re lucky if Vought lets us print the word crime without a defamation lawsuit…” She looked Frankie up and down “I thought you liked Vought… Don’t they have you at like every press conference?”

“Right,” Frankie said, trying to smile. “I just figured… well I mean, every company has its secrets right?”

Inside, gears were turning.

Frankie wasn’t the hero type. But she hated letting assholes win.

If she wanted to make a difference. To leave this place better than she found it, she was gonna’ have to start somewhere. And while she’d only seen episode 1 of the show. That might just be enough for what she had in mind.

“Depending on when I got dropped into this shit pit.” She muttered to herself.

The woman turned from where she had wandered back over to her desk, “Did you say something?”

Frankie shook her head.

She was going to have to be smart about this. Work the system and its rules. Like a good little reporter with a dark secret and a growing file of Google searches titled, "What to do if you accidentally become a god."

She sat at her desk and booted up her computer. The password was the same as the one on her laptop. That would need to change. Far too easy to guess. Her inbox had 143 unread messages and a calendar invite for a company-wide briefing that afternoon.

She sipped the coffee someone had left for her.

It tasted like burnt dreams and responsibility.

She cracked her knuckles.

Showtime.

When the company-wide briefing rolled around, Frankie was already nursing a tension headache and an unsettling realization that her fingers typed faster than her computer could keep up. Three typos had exploded her email draft into a sentence that read like it had been written by a sentient blender. She deleted the whole thing before it could be entered as evidence in the trial of her rapidly unraveling life.

She needed to practice restraint. Desperately.

The conference room smelled like stale coffee and toner ink. Journalists and editors squeezed into folding chairs packed shoulder-to-shoulder like sardines. Someone wrestled with the projector like it had personally insulted them. It was a vibe.

Frankie slid into a seat near the back. She sat on her hands to keep them from drumming a hole into her thighs. Her muscles were coiled so tight, she felt like she might crack her spine by blinking too hard.

Dave, the managing editor, stood up front with a manila folder and a visible fear of public speaking. God. He looked like someone who kept their pens in a holster.

“Okay, people. Eyes front. Phones off. Or at least pretend.”

A ripple of polite laughter passed through the crowd. Frankie gave a tight smile. She was still pretending she worked here on purpose, so it was good practice.

“We’ve got a city council runoff next week, so I want some boots at town hall. Real coverage, not just live-tweeting the free cookies.”

He shuffled a page. “Food and Culture desk: I don’t want another article titled ‘Top 10 Bagels That Might Be Trying to Kill You.’ You can be clever or accurate, not neither.”

Someone groaned behind Frankie. Another whisper: “That was mine.”

Dave didn’t look up. “Traffic desk—congrats on whatever the hell you did to get picked up by Vought News. Let’s try not to jinx it by doing anything new.”

He flipped to the next page. “Now. Regarding Supes.”

The room shifted. Just a hair. Frankie felt the pulse of a dozen skeptical heartbeats tighten in unison.

“We’re not in the business of pissing off the giants,” Dave said, tone casual, almost bored. “Vought sends us the talking points. So yes, we’ll cover the new ‘community outreach’ initiatives, the splashy events, the canned statements. But anything unvetted goes straight in the trash.”

He looked up. Smiled, dead-eyed at one particular man dressed in an orange sweater.

“And if you do feel like going rogue, just remember: our legal budget is mostly held together with duct tape and prayers to Saint Libel. You’re on your own if you want to get yourself sued. ”

Frankie’s mouth twitched.

Jesus.

“Now,” he continued, voice brighter, “the spring events calendar is live. Who wants to cover the pigeon festival in Queens?”

Frankie blinked.

A second later, four hands shot up. Four.

“We’ll fight for it,” someone said solemnly.

Dave nodded. “That’s the spirit.”

Frankie sat back, biting her cheek.

So that’s how it is. Keep heads down, write fluff, maybe win a press badge to a Supe-hosted charity brunch where no one asks about the body count.

She scanned the room. No one looked surprised. No one even looked disappointed. Just tired. Like this wasn’t the first time they’d had their leash yanked.

Well Frankie had a bad habit of doing exactly what she was told not to  

She didn’t need to go full Superman on their asses either. She just needed to know where to dig.

Lucky for her she’d done some research. The death of one Robin Ward had happened only two days ago. Her funeral was set in three days. Which meant she had time to get to Hughie before Butcher or Vought’s lawyers did.

And if Dave didn’t want a lawsuit well… there were always anonymous sources. Footnotes. Carefully phrased implications. She didn’t even need to say that Vought was the company backing the Supe she wanted to drag.

All she had to do was plant the question in readers’ minds.

How Much Is a Human Life Worth?

She'd find out.

And she'd make them read it.

The briefing broke up with the scraping of chairs and halfhearted chatter. Dave made a vague announcement about a company karaoke night on Friday. No one gave a shit. People filtered out.

Frankie stayed in her seat for a second longer, watching them go.

Then she stood, rolled her shoulders, and walked straight to her desk.

There was work to do.

And maybe—just maybe—a revolution to start.

HUGHIE

The world felt muffled. Like someone had shoved cotton in Hughie’s ears and turned the contrast down on everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in yesterday’s clothes. Or maybe the day before that. The hoodie smelled like cheap detergent and BO. His fingers were locked together in his lap, bone white at the knuckles. He hadn’t moved in hours. Just existed.

Two days.

It had only been two days since Robin died.

The words sounded foreign in his head, like they belonged to someone else’s life. Because how could something like that happen so fast?

She’d been holding his hands.

They were talking. Laughing. One second she was there, alive and glowing in the way she always did when she teased him—and the next, there was… nothing. Just a wet shockwave. And blood. A smear of red on his face that didn’t register until later. When someone screamed.

No one had explained anything. Not really.

The police report was a joke. The kind of joke that ends in a punchline you choke on. “Accidental contact with a Supe in motion.” Like she’d wandered into traffic. As if a person running through her at Mach 3 was just…

An unfortunate incident.

There hadn’t been a body. Just...

The funeral was in three days. Closed casket. Because there was nothing to bury but her arms.

His dad kept hovering. Quiet. Trying to cook, or clean, or get Hughie to watch Jeopardy, like it might trick his brain into rebooting. Hughie didn’t want to reboot. He didn’t want to be okay. He just wanted Robin.

The TV was off. The lights were off. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in a permanent kind of twilight.

And still, life went on outside.

Ping.

He blinked. His laptop? He didn’t remember turning it on. Maybe it had restarted on its own. Or maybe he had and just forgot…

The email tab flashed in the corner. One new message.

Hughie shifted forward like his body was on autopilot, dragging the computer into his lap with clumsy fingers.

From: [email protected]
Subject: "Inquiry Regarding Recent Supe-Related Incident"

He stared at it for a few seconds before clicking. His heart didn’t speed up. His stomach didn’t drop. He was past all that. Past feeling much of anything except tired.

But something about the name tugged at him. Told him not to ignore it.

And then he started reading.

here is a missing scene from this chapter. Quick drawing of Frankie/ Lark letting her hair down and giving herself a pep talk in the bathroom at work.

I'll be posting any art for this story on my tumblr so if things don't show up on Ao3 they should be easy to find there. 

https://www.tumblr.com/deranged-carrot

Chapter Text

Hughie stared at the email like it might bite him.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Inquiry Regarding Recent Supe-Related Incident

Hi, Mr. Campbell,

I know this message probably feels like another drop in an ocean of things you didn’t ask for right now. I can’t imagine what the past few days have been like for you, and I won’t pretend I can. I’m truly sorry for your loss.

My name is Lark Kent. I’m a journalist with the Metropolitan Gazette. I’m investigating a pattern of Supe-related incidents that never make it past the headlines. “Accidents,” collateral damage, legal settlements. Things most people glance at, then scroll past.

I heard about what happened, and it stuck with me. The coverage doesn’t match the reality. The official statement feels manufactured, and you don’t deserve to have your grief reduced to a shitty press release. I believe people should know the truth. I believe you deserve to tell it. 

If you're willing, I’d like to speak with you. Completely off the record to start. No pressure. No obligation. No tricks. Just a conversation. If you tell me to go to hell, I will. But if part of you wants to be heard, I’m here.

We can meet wherever you feel comfortable. Or I can just listen from the other side of the phone. Or— as I’m sure you’ve already considered— you could completely ignore this email. I wouldn’t blame you. 

Take care of yourself,
— Lark Kent
Investigative Reporter

It didn’t say thoughts and prayers , so that was already a step up.

Still, he hovered over the trash icon for a good thirty seconds.

A pair of Robin’s shoes were still in the hallway. He hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She’d just… disappeared. Exploded. A smear of blood across his face like a nightmare he couldn’t rinse off.

So yeah, the last thing he needed was some reporter looking to turn it into clickbait.

But something about the tone of the message stuck.

His curiosity won.

The coffee shop smelled like burnt espresso and floor cleaner, and Hughie was already regretting saying yes.

It had been three days since Robin died. Three days since his world had gone sideways, and it still felt like the rest of the city hadn’t noticed. He’d gone to get groceries. He’d come home. He’d stared at her toothbrush. Her coat. Her goddamn shampoo in the shower. He hadn’t moved any of it. Like if he did, it would mean she was really gone.

And now he was here, jittery and numb, staring at a lukewarm coffee he hadn’t touched. The place was mostly empty. A barista with dyed blue hair ignored him in favor of her phone. A man in a suit snored openly at a table by the window.

He checked the door again, already working on an excuse to leave.

That’s when she walked in.

She didn’t look like a hard-hitting investigative reporter. She looked like she’d sprinted here from a college class she was late to teach. Tall. Dark, oversized sweater. Glasses too large for her face. Hair in a messy bun held together by what might’ve actually been a pen. She was pretty—strikingly so—but not in a way that tried to be. More like her face hadn’t gotten the memo about how tired the rest of her looked.

She scanned the café quickly, spotted him, and offered a small, nervous smile.

“Mr. Campbell?” she asked, approaching the table.

Her voice was warm. Low. Like she was trying not to speak too loudly around a skittish animal. 

“Yeah. Uh—yeah, that’s me,” Hughie said, standing halfway before immediately regretting it.

She stuck out a hand. “Lark Kent. Thank you for agreeing to meet.”

He shook it. Her grip was surprisingly strong and steady.

They sat across from each other in the chipped, sticker-covered booth.

“I know this is weird,” she said, carefully setting a notebook and recorder down but not opening or turning on either. “You don’t owe me anything. We can talk or not talk. I’ll leave if you want.”

“You said in your email,” Hughie began slowly, “that you’re investigating a pattern?”

Lark nodded. “Yeah. Quiet ones. The kind Vought likes to bury under charity campaigns and splashy photo ops. Most of them never even make local news. Yours did. Barely. Probably because it happened in public. Couldn’t be helped.”

“And you think there’s more?”

“I know there is.” Her voice was firmer now. “But knowing doesn’t mean much if no one’s willing to talk.”

 “I will. I just… well I don’t know if it’ll help with whatever… story you’re writing.” He said. 

“It’s not a story yet,” she said gently. “It’s just me listening. And you deciding if any of this ever gets seen.”

He looked her over again. His gaze faltering at her eyes. There was something behind them. Not just determination, but something personal. Like she wasn’t just chasing some big brake. Like what happened to Robin mattered.

“What do you need from me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not need. Just want. Whatever you remember. Whatever you feel comfortable sharing”

After a long moment, Hughie rubbed his temple and stared at the table.

Then he talked.

About how he’d met Robin at a concert. How she always corrected his grammar but couldn’t do math. How she never put her dishes in the sink. How she hated cilantro.

Lark didn’t interrupt. Didn’t look away when his voice cracked.

“I keep thinking about her shoes,” he said quietly. “There’s still a pair in the hallway. She always kicked them off first thing when she came over. I can’t—can’t move them. It’s like the only proof she was even there.”

Lark’s expression didn’t change. It was pure unflinching attention.

“We were laughing. She stepped off the curb and… it was like she exploded. Gone. It was one fuck-ing step, I swear.”

His voice cracked.

“I saw the police report,” he added, eyes burning. “‘Tragic accident,’ it said. Nobody’s even apologized.”

“That’s fucked.”

Hughie snorted a humorless laugh. “Yeah… yeah, it is.”

He looked up at her and hesitated. “Why you? Why this?”

Lark bit her lip. “Because someone should care. And like you said, most of them don’t. They haven’t even said they were sorry.”

She slid her recorder toward him, the little red light blinking.

“You can delete this talk. Keep it totally off the record, just between you and me. But if you want someone to get it out there… make Robin more than a footnote in last week’s news— I can do that. I won’t print either of your names. I won’t have to. Implications are a reporter’s and a lawyer’s best friend.” She tapped a red nail against the tabletop. “This story is just the beginning. The tip of the iceberg.”

He didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t stand up either.

After a long moment, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly. He slid her recorder back over to her.

She smiled gently. Then grimaced. “When Vought gets in touch, please—” she wrote something on the back of his napkin with the pen that had been in her hair.  “Give me a call. Or if you just want someone to talk to. I’m a good listener.”

“Yeah.” Hughie swallowed roughly dragging her number closer. “Thanks.”

Lark shook her head. “No. Thank you, Hughie. Really. This must’ve been painful. I appreciate it. I’ll owe you one, yeah? Just give me a call and I’ll be there. No questions asked.”

She gathered up her things. Her tote bag was stuffed to capacity, but she slung it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.

He nodded absently. “Sure.”

She offered him one last smile as she left.

The door swung shut behind her, and Hughie realized he hadn’t touched his drink the whole time.

FRANKIE / LARK

The Metropolitan Gazette office was buzzing as reporters ducked and wove around each other, trying to get to the printer, their desks, the coffee machine. The workday was in full swing.

Frankie paused at Lark’s designated desk, letting her bag slide off her shoulder with a thud. Her notebook was still warm from her coat pocket, pages filled with Hughie Campbell’s raw heartbreak. She sat slowly, flipping it open. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Her brain did that annoying thing where it replayed a moment she didn’t ask for. Hughie’s mouth tightening when he talked about Robin’s shoes. The crack in his voice. The goddamn silence after.

“Yikes,” someone said behind her.

Frankie’s head lolled to the side. Julie was approaching. Folders and printouts balanced precariously in her right arm.

Julie (AKA, Caffeine Queen) was the only person in the office under forty who knew how to use the ancient espresso machine without breaking it. She was the one who had spoken to Frankie yesterday with such easy enthusiasm.

“You look like someone chewed you up and spit you out,” Julie added, leaning on the cubicle wall with a half-finished energy drink in her free hand.

“I feel like it,” Frankie muttered. She glanced down at her outfit. “Had an interview this morning. Woke up late. Kinda threw on whatever was within arm’s reach."

“Oof. Been there.” Julie dumped the folders onto her desk and tilted her head over her shoulder. “Who were you interviewing?”

“The boyfriend of the girl A-Train killed.”

Julie grimaced. “The guy who was holding her hands? Jesus. Did he actually talk to you?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said. “He talked.”

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. Julie gave a slow, understanding nod.

“You want a coffee?” she asked after a beat.

Frankie almost said no, but then thought better of it. “Yeah. If the machine’s still working.”

“I fixed it with the power of rage,” Julie said flatly, already heading for the break room.

Frankie let herself smile for the first time in hours.

Then she turned back to her screen, opened a new document, and gave it a title:

How Much is a Human Life Worth?: A Look at Supe Settlements, Silence, and the Price of Grief.

The cursor blinked. Judgy little thing. 

She needed Hughie to call. And honestly? She was like, 90% sure he would. Maybe 93% if she counted the way his whole face went soft when he talked about Robin. The guy wanted justice. Or revenge. Honestly, same difference in this place. 

Two days later, the article was partially written. Waiting.

She’d spent most of that time combing through settlement records, old case files, and Vought’s quietly buried payouts. That last one may have required sweet-talking a hacker Julie knew in Queens.

The pattern was disgusting. A rinse-repeat cycle of tragedy, silence, and corporate checks with a lot of zeros and no soul. 

Still no word from Hughie. She didn’t know when the funeral was, but she did know the Vought lawyers came afterwards.

Frankie was curled up on Lark’s couch—well, technically her couch now—watching Supernatural on Netflix and slowly realizing she lived in a godless universe.

Because.

No Jensen Ackles.

No Jared Padalecki.

Just two guys with the emotional range of a wet sponge pretending to be Sam and Dean. Okay, fine, they weren’t terrible , but they also weren’t hers . And that hurt more than she wanted to admit.

This universe was truly, irredeemably cursed.

She was spiraling. Full-on emotional nosedive. Episode two was playing and she was holding back tears like a champ (read: failing). Devastated didn’t even begin to cover it. 

Then her phone rang.

Not her work cell. Her personal number.

She sniffled and answered on instinct. “Hello?”

Silence for a beat. Then—

“It’s Hughie.”

His voice was tight. Like he’d been holding his breath for hours and wasn’t sure if he’d get it back.

She stood without thinking, heart climbing into her throat. “Hey. Yeah. I’m—I’m here.”

“They came today,” he said. “The Vought people. Lawyers... Smiling like they were doing me a favor.”

Frankie hit pause on the TV. “After the funeral?”

“An hour after,” he said, like he couldn’t believe it either. “They waited until after. Like that made it better.”

She sat back down hard. “God. I’m so sorry, Hughie.”

“They wanted me to sign an NDA, like you said,” he continued. “Said they wanted to do—fuck. Said they wanted to do the ‘right thing.’ ‘Boilerplate NDA,’ they called it. I—”
He cut himself off, breath stuttering. “They brought a check. $45,000.”

“Holy fuck.” It came out in a whisper. “You didn’t sign anything?” she asked carefully.

“No. I told them to shove it. I—well, no, I said I’d think about it. I just—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t know who else to call. My dad thinks I should, but I can’t just… I mean, this was Robin—”

Frankie’s heart twisted. She pulled her pen from her bun, her fingers suddenly itching for something to do.

“Hughie. That was badass,” she said slowly. “You’ve got a good heart. And… I’m really glad you called.”

There was another silence.

“Do you still want to go after them?” he asked. “Tell the truth?”

“I do,” she said, steady now. “I really, really do.”

Hughie exhaled, shaky but calmer. “Okay. Then let’s do it.”

Frankie nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Alright. Let’s make them regret ever showing up with that check.”

How Much Is a Human Life Worth?: A Look at Superhero Settlements, Silence, and the Price of Grief

 By Lark Kent
Investigative Reporter – Metropolitan Gazette

Six days after a young woman was killed in broad daylight, her partner received a check for forty-five thousand dollars.

No charges.
No apologies.
No accountability

Just a non-disclosure agreement, a tight smile, and the unspoken message: Take the money, shut up, move on.

You won’t find her name in this article. You won’t find his, either. Not because they don’t matter—but because, according to the people who caused this, they never did.

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. It likely won’t be the last. 

Over the last week, I’ve combed through dozens of quietly settled “incidents” involving enhanced individuals—cases in which civilians were injured, killed, or simply vanished. In nearly every one, a familiar pattern emerges:

 A “freak accident” makes the news for less than a week. A lawyer arrives. A check is cut. The grieving signs an NDA, and the story ends—if it ever began. The public hardly hears about the girl who stepped off a curb and was run through by a Supe with too much speed and not enough control.

What doesn’t disappear is the body count. However, it is hidden. 

A five-year-old crushed by debris from an “intervention.” A woman who was standing in line for coffee when she was turned into collateral damage.

In each case, the official narrative is vague. A tragedy. A miscalculation. An unfortunate side effect of “heroic engagement.” Sometimes, the details change. But the ending is always the same: no one is held accountable.

Even when law enforcement kills someone, there is—at minimum—an investigation. A suspension. A hearing. With Supes, there’s nothing. No oversight. No questions. Just silence, and a payoffs. 

Survivors are offered hush money dressed up as compassion. Families are coached through statements they didn’t write. Some receive visits from PR teams with gift baskets and staged tears. Others—like the man I spoke to—get nothing more than a dollar amount and a request to stop asking questions.

That man didn’t stop. He told me about the woman he loved—how she laughed, how she danced, how she left her sneakers by the door every time she came over. He told me about the moment she died. About the silence afterward. About her blood that covered him after it happened and the way no one even said they were sorry.

The ink on her death certificate wasn’t even dry when they offered him a check.

This is the system we’ve built. One where godlike power is protected by fine print, and grief is assigned a market value.

Ask yourself: if this had been a car accident, someone would be liable. If this had been a civilian, someone might be tried for manslaughter. But when the person responsible wears a spandex and signs autographs, accountability vanishes into smoke.

We’ve been told to accept this. To believe it’s the price of protection.
But protection shouldn’t come with a death toll.

And silence isn’t safety.
It’s control.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how many more victims are out there—only that there are too many. But I know this: someone should be asking questions. Someone should be holding them accountable.

Someone should care.

Because the people in charge won’t.
And they sure as hell won’t say they’re sorry.

—
If you or someone you know has been impacted by an enhanced individual and pressured into a settlement or NDA, please contact the Metropolitan Gazette anonymously at [email protected]

Frankie sipped shitty newsroom coffee, eyes gleaming as she hit “publish.”

The article went live.

She exhaled.

Five minutes later, her inbox exploded.

Chapter Text

ASHLEY BARRETT

Her morning had been average. No Supe scandals. No Deep-related HR violations. Maybe that was asking for too much. 

Ashley's phone buzzed five times before she realized it wasn't a Slack ping, a reminder about The Deep's rebrand meeting, or another alert about Homelander tweeting something vaguely patriotic and unhinged.

It was worse.

Way, way worse.

She glanced at the notification and froze mid-step in the hallway, nearly colliding with a junior publicist who mumbled an apology before scurrying off. Ashley didn't notice. Her eyes were glued to her phone screen.

How Much Is a Human Life Worth?

Ashley clicked the link. The page loaded, black text on white.

How Much Is a Human Life Worth?: A Look at Superhero Settlements, Silence, and the Price of Grief

 By Lark Kent
Investigative Reporter – Metropolitan Gazette

"Oh, fuck me."

Over the last week, I’ve combed through dozens of quietly settled “incidents” involving enhanced individuals—cases in which civilians were injured, killed, or simply vanished. In nearly every one, a familiar pattern emerges:

 A “freak accident” makes the news for less than a week. A lawyer arrives. A check is cut. The grieving signs an NDA, and the story ends—if it ever began. The public hardly hears about the girl who stepped off a curb and was run through by a Supe with too much speed and not enough control.

Ashley's heart dropped. Her fingertips went numb. She started skimming faster. No names. No direct callouts. Not even a mention of Vought.

No direct accusations. No technical violations.

It was subtle. It was surgical. It was going to get this woman killed.

Ashley took off at a sprint down the hall, heels clacking like gunfire on the tile floor. She shoved open the door to her office, snatched her laptop off her desk, and started typing before she'd even sat down. Her inbox was a field of red flags and bold subject lines.

SUBJECT: URGENT — Article Alert

SUBJECT: PR CRISIS — "Human Life Worth" Piece Going Viral

SUBJECT: FLAGGED — Trending: Lark Kent

Someone had dumped the entire article into the PR shared folder with panic-highlighting:

Killer paragraph: Page 3, last section — NEON YELLOW

Ashley barely had to scroll to find it.

"We’ve been told to accept this. To believe it’s the price of protection.
But protection shouldn’t come with a death toll.

And silence isn’t safety.
It’s control."

Ashley closed her eyes. "Goddammit."

It was perfect. Just plausible deniability enough . Everyone would know who she meant. Vought had branded "We're here to protect you" on everything from bus stops to bottled water.

It was as subtle as a sniper rifle.

Worse than Maeve's DUI cover-up. Worse than The Deep's lawsuit from that junior marketing exec. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

She snatched her headset and dialed Madelyn Stillwell's private line with shaking fingers.

"Come on, come on, pick up, pick up—"

Ring. Ring. Click.

"Stillwell." Calm. Crisp. Like always.

"It's Ashley. We've got a situation," she blurted, already clicking through her laptop to open her Vought legal protocols folder.

"I saw it."

Ashley blinked. "Wait—how? I only just-"

"She tagged Vought on Twitter. She's trending at number 6 already. Give it another five minutes, and I'm sure she'll be at number 4."

Ashley's stomach flipped. Great. Just fucking. Great.

"We need to release a statement. Neutral tone. Something about community care. Maybe loop in the Vought Victims Foundation, if we still fund that—"

"No."

Ashley's voice pitched up. "No? Mrs. Stillwell, we have to respond. The longer it sits, the more legit it gets—"

"Responding legitimizes it." Stillwell's voice stayed infuriatingly calm. "She didn't name us. We don't confirm what no one's proven. We're going to let Legal scare the hell out of her until she rescinds it."

Ashley pinched the bridge of her nose. "Understood." She was already opening the Legal folder. "Cease and desist?"

"Exactly."

Ashley was already typing. "I'll loop Legal. Do you need me to start a smear campaign?"

"No. Not yet. Stan wants her vetted before we move. She's too clean. No priors, no citations."

Ashley blinked. "And you think she's what?"

"A nuisance." There was finally some bite in Stillwell's voice. "She used to write puff pieces for us . Find out what changed. Who she's sleeping with. Where she drinks. The second she slips, we make it count."

Ashley nodded even though Stillwell couldn't see her. "Got it."

"And Ashley?"

"Yeah?"

"Flag the article for Homelander."

Ashley almost dropped her headset. "Wait—why? He's not even mentioned —"

"Which is exactly why he'll hate it. He won't care about the nuance. If he finds out about this article from someone else, it's going to be blood in the streets. Make it look like we're on top of it."

The line went dead.

Ashley swallowed hard and clicked into the internal alert system. Homelander's smiling headshot stared back at her from the top of the list of Supe's.

She selected his name.

FLAGGED: Potential interest to HL.

SUBJECT: Media Threat — Passive. We're handling it.

Part of her hoped she wasn't about to get this woman killed. He had lasered interns over less.

Ashley slumped back in her chair, watching the numbers climb on Twitter.

Thirty thousand retweets. Fifty thousand likes.

Lark Kent's name was everywhere.

Ashley opened a new document to draft a press statement anyway, even if they wouldn't use it. She always kept a Plan B.

And a Plan C.

And a flask of vodka in her desk drawer.

Just in case.