The days bled into a strange, new routine. I was Mazahs, the newest member of The Seven. I attended PR events, smiled for cameras I hated, and followed Mallory's orders with robotic precision. But inside, a storm was brewing.
The voices—the echoes of the Supes I'd absorbed—were no longer just a background hum. They were becoming a chorus. Graviton's cold logic warred with Ember's fiery rage. Compound King's arrogance whispered temptations of power, while the Hypnotist's manipulative calm offered chillingly pragmatic solutions to my problems.
I'd wake up in the middle of the night, my hands crackling with energy I hadn't summoned, my mind replaying memories that weren't my own. I saw Translucent's final, terrified moments. I felt Popclaw's desperate, animalistic hunger. It was like a psychic infection, and it was getting worse.
Homelander sensed it. He watched me like a hawk, a cruel smile playing on his lips whenever I flinched at a sudden noise or zoned out during a meeting. He was waiting for me to crack.
The breaking point came during a live television interview. A smarmy talk show host was grilling me about my "redemption."
"So, Mazahs," the host said, leaning in with a fake-concerned expression. "A lot of people are calling this a PR stunt. How can we be sure you've really changed?"
I was about to give my canned response about finding the light, when Graviton's voice, cold and clear, cut through my own thoughts. He is insignificant. A gnat. Crush him. Show them why they should fear us.
My vision swam. For a terrifying second, I wasn't in the studio. I was back in the forest, my hands wrapped around Translucent's invisible throat. The urge to lash out, to make this smug man hurt, was overwhelming.
I must have gone pale, because the host's smile faltered. "Mazahs? Are you alright?"
I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms. The sharp pain grounded me. I forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just… overwhelmed by the opportunity to do good."
The interview continued, but I was shaking. I'd almost lost control on national television.
Back in my apartment, I collapsed against the wall, sweating. This wasn't sustainable. I was a bomb waiting to go off. I needed help. I needed to understand what was happening to me.
There was only one person in this tower who might have answers, and who might, just might, be an ally.
I waited until the dead of night. Using my powers to mask my presence, I slipped through the silent corridors of Vought Tower and knocked softly on a door.
It opened a crack. Queen Maeve looked out, her face etched with weariness and surprise.
"You," she said, her voice low. "What do you want?"
"I need to talk," I whispered. "Please. It's about… the voices."
Her eyes widened slightly. She glanced down the hall, then opened the door just enough for me to slip inside.
Her apartment was spartan, functional. A warrior's quarters. She didn't offer me a seat.
"Talk," she said, crossing her arms.
"The Supes I… absorbed," I began, the words feeling alien. "Their memories. Their personalities. They're not fading. They're getting stronger. I'm losing myself in them."
Maeve studied me for a long moment. "I'm not a therapist, kid."
"I'm not asking for therapy," I said, desperation creeping into my voice. "I'm asking if you know what's happening to me. If this has happened before. With… with other Supes?"
A shadow crossed her face. She looked away, toward a photograph on her mantelpiece—a picture of her with a woman I didn't recognize. "Vought has done a lot of terrible things. They've created monsters you can't even imagine. But what you are… that's new."
She turned back to me, her gaze intense. "But I'll tell you this. Homelander knows it, too. He's not just testing your loyalty. He's testing your stability. He wants to see if you'll break. And if you do, he'll use it as an excuse to put you down like a rabid dog."
"What do I do?" I asked, the question laid bare.
"You survive," she said, her voice grim. "You fight to hold on to whatever's left of you in there. Because the moment you fully become the monster they want you to be, you're as good as dead. Or worse, you become just like him."
It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the truth. There was no cure. There was only the battle.
As I left her apartment, I felt a strange sense of solidarity. Maeve was trapped, just like I was. She was a prisoner of her own reputation, her own past. We were both caged birds, singing Vought's song while our real selves screamed in silence.
The echoes in my head were still there. But now, I had a name for the enemy. It wasn't just Homelander or Vought. The enemy was inside me. And the war for my soul had just begun.