HOT MILK - HOMELANDER

PROLOGUE

The fierce waves crashed against the shores, their roar echoing through the French beach house.

Rain splattered in from the wide-open terrace door, soaking the white curtains until they clung to the floor like drenched ghosts.

"Dad?" A small, trembling voice broke through the apartment.

"Mama?" Descending the stairs with a weary gait, she rubbed her sleepy eyes with one hand and clutched a teddy bear adorned in a Hello Kitty sweater with the other.

"Dad?" Her voice quivered with uncertainty as it echoed through the silent halls.

Silence save for the haunting melody of the rain and the moon's ethereal glow seeping through the windows, casting elongated shadows across the floor.

The terrace door beckoned, its gaping maw inviting her into the storm's embrace. "Mama, I don't want to play hide-and-seek." She edged towards the terrace door, her heart pounding. Outside, the pool water sloshed violently, like a cauldron on the boil.

Despite her father's stern warnings against venturing alone, a sense of urgency propelled her into the cyclone.

It was then that she heard it—the piercing cry of her mother, carried by the wind like a mournful lament.

With a gasp, she dropped her beloved teddy bear and raced towards the source of the anguish, her feet pounding against the slick tiles in a frantic cadence.

"Mama!" she screamed, her voice piercing the storm as she darted around the house to the front garden. Her heart plummeted at the sight of two bodies lying prone on the ground and a man clad in a black suit looming over her mother, poised to strike with a gleaming knife.

With an unexpected force, he was hurled backwards, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud, only to rise again swiftly, his movements unsettlingly deliberate.

The man in the black suit, his face concealed by the inky fabric covering every inch of his body, seemed to study the girl with an unsettling calmness.

He paused, seemingly studying the girl before advancing toward them again, his pace eerily slow and methodical.

Her mother lay sprawled in the flowerbed where they had planted white roses just weeks before. Those delicate blooms were stained with blood, their petals crushed beneath the weight of violence.

"What did you do to my mom and dad?" she cried, tears streaming down her face as she confronted the masked figure, her small frame trembling with confusion and anger.

"You need to run, sweetheart," her mother's voice, weak and filled with urgency, urged her to flee. But the child shook her head, rooted to the spot by a fierce determination to protect her mother.

The man, or what seemed like a man, picked up his pace, his dark form a looming shadow.

But as he drew nearer, the girl lifted her hand, and an invisible force pressed him to his knees. A groan escaped his lips as the sickening sound of bones cracking filled the air.

"Go away," she sobbed, her voice quivering. The man, attempting to rise again, screamed as she raised her hand once more, the knife slipping from his grasp.

She quickly picked it up, her small fingers clutching the cold metal.

Struggling to his feet, the man clutched his broken arm, his movements laboured and hesitant. He staggered away, leaving the girl standing in the garden, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

She turned back to her mother, who lay clutching her stomach, her white nightgown now soaked with crimson, much like the trampled roses around her.

"Your dad," her mother whispered, her voice barely audible amidst the tumult of emotions swirling around her.

The young girl's gaze shifted to the other figure lying motionless a few feet away, his head nestled in the grass.

"Dad?" she cried out, rushing to his side and gently turning him over. His face was marred with even more blood than her mother's. "Dad, wake up. It's okay now," she pleaded, shaking him gently. "Please, Dad. I did something good. Please wake up. I need to tell you what I did. I think I helped this time."

But her father remained unresponsive, his stillness contrasting with her desperate appeals. She broke down into deeper sobs, her small hands clutching his lifeless form.

"Why won't he wake up, Mom? Is he mad at me for not listening?" She looked down at her hands, her voice catching with grief.

Her mother, despite her injuries, dragged herself closer to where her daughter knelt beside her father's still form.

"No, sweetheart. Your dad would be so proud of you. You are everything he hoped you'd be," her mother murmured, her words carrying both reassurance and a sense of sadness.

With a heavy sigh, she slumped over her husband's lifeless body. The spark that once animated her mother's vibrant eyes faded, leaving behind a profound emptiness in their wake.

When the authorities finally arrived, they whisked her away, their presence a harbinger of fear and uncertainty.

She trembled with apprehension, her young heart racing as she desperately tried to articulate the truth.

But her words fell upon deaf ears.

Who would believe a mere six-year-old, a child with seemingly uncontrollable powers over gravity?

No one.

No one believed her account of a shadowy figure clad in black, a supposed ninja who had robbed her of her parents.

They said it was all in her head—a coping mechanism to shield herself from the grim reality of her actions. A trauma response, they labelled it.

So, they confined her to the sterile confines of a mental institution, her hands shackled by devices that restricted her every movement.

Yet, amidst the suffocating monotony, she caught glimpses of him—the enigmatic figure Black Noir, his face plastered across the television screen, hailed as a hero by the masses.

That day, she broke free from her restraints, and a small army subdued her, their efforts culminating in a haze of sedation.

Once more, she was confronted with the damning accusation—she had killed her parents. Not the revered hero of the Seven, but her.

Day after day, year after year, the narrative was drilled into her impressionable mind until it became her truth.

After a decade of institutionalisation, numbed by medications and confined by chains, she began to doubt herself.

Some days, she almost believed their version of events, especially on days when her powers inadvertently caused harm.

Yet, deep within her core, she held onto fragments of memories that refused to fade. She knew, with unwavering certainty, that she wasn't insane. And no amount of medication could erase the truth buried beneath layers of deceit.

After a decade of captivity, she broke free.

She went on the run, bound no longer by chains of steel and lies.

She didn't care what it took or whom she had to confront. There was a debt to be settled, and Jane was ready to exact her payment.

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Buckle up—it's going to be a wild ride.

While staying true to the characters and the show's mix of dark moments and lighthearted humor, I'm excited to take you on this journey.

Thanks for reading🫶🏼