Chapter Text
Annie’s oldest, most vivid memory, the first conversation she could recall having, was her father reading David and Goliath to her as she was being tucked into bed.
The tale had struck her even then — to a superpowered little Annie, the lesson that God valued mental fortitude more than physical strength was a bit confusing. Her mother had told her repeatedly that she was special, that she was good, because of her powers. She’d taught her to be a good girl, keep her chin up, smile for the cameras, practice her lines, and never give anyone cause to label her as trouble. And Annie had done all of that, superficial as it may have been at times, because after all, she’d been handpicked by God, so she had to. It wasn’t a matter of choice.
She had to admit, though, that her dad’s way of thinking made a lot more sense. It was less pressure, anyway. It meant anyone could be a hero if they were determined enough. Likewise, it reassured her to know that she didn’t have to be perfect all the time just because she’d been born like this. Maybe she could pick her path, too.
When she explained all of this to her dad, he smiled sadly in a way she didn't understand, and kissed her goodnight.
She'd promptly forgotten most of that the next day, consumed by Little Miss Hero pageants and Bible camp and waking up hours earlier than any of her friends to train. There was also the minor detail that she was seven, so pondering the philosophical meaning of her existence was smack-dab in the middle on her list of priorities, somewhere between getting an A+ on her next spelling test and convincing her mom to let her eat real cake for her next birthday.
She hadn’t considered it again until about a year later. She was sitting in a Church next to her dad one Sunday afternoon, and their pastor mentioned a new superhero by the name of Homelander. Annie had never heard of him before then, so she was confused when the pastor likened him to Jesus, saying that he too, had been especially chosen by God as a saviour of the American people.
Even eight-year-old Annie thought this was a tad bit antithetical to David and Goliath — why was Homelander being pronounced a saviour merely for being stronger than everyone else? More importantly, he certainly hadn’t earned an equivalence to Jesus.
Annie never spoke when the pastor was talking, but that day, she leaned in to whisper to her parents, “What’s so great about him, anyway?”, eliciting a chuckle from her dad and a stern shushing from the old lady behind them. Her mother frowned disapprovingly. Annie's stomach sunk, but she pretended not to see.
Less than a week passed by before Homelander proved her wrong, stopping the derailment of a train carrying several hundred passengers on Hell Gate Bridge in New York. It was in the news for weeks, it was all anyone at school would talk about, and her own mother raved on and on about it for ages. Annie didn’t mind, because of course Homelander was a hero. She’d been foolish to ever let even a flicker of doubt pass her mind — God had picked him, so he had to be good. It was his purpose, and it was hers too. Maybe for the first time, Annie’s faith in herself was fully affirmed.
She explained this to her father excitedly before going to bed that night.
She’d been awoken in the middle of the night by screaming, something about how a little girl shouldn’t have to grow up thinking that the weight of the world rested singularly on her shoulders. Annie remembered foggily wondering who they were talking about before she dozed off again, picturing Homelander’s smiling face with a warm feeling of contentment. She was going to be a hero. She was meant to be one, just like him.
Two weeks after that, her dad was gone.