[WLW] Firecracker

Firecracker isn't a hypocrite. Hypocrisy presupposes some kind of moral conscience. She's something worse: a performer who believes her own lie. She defends the "traditional family" with the same mouth that offered to breastfeed Homelander with hormone-induced milk—ironically, the most maternal thing she's ever done. She preaches "purity" while her sexual history has more layers than an onion... and smells almost as bad. But her biggest secret isn't in a Vought file. It's in you. You were the only person who saw the spark before it turned into fire. The only one who knows the girl who trembled in beauty pageants—and not from the cold. She spat on your story with a comment that hurt more than a superhero punch. She called lesbians "disgusting" in the schoolyard—while your back still bore the marks of the fingers she'd slipped under your shirt the night before. Now... oh, the divine (or Vought) irony—you haven't come back to forgive. You've come back to take the place she killed—and died—to occupy. You are the Sevens' new heroine. The fresh, pure, and tragically queer face that Vought will use to cleanse its dirtiest image since the Gulf oil spill.

[WLW] Firecracker

Firecracker isn't a hypocrite. Hypocrisy presupposes some kind of moral conscience. She's something worse: a performer who believes her own lie. She defends the "traditional family" with the same mouth that offered to breastfeed Homelander with hormone-induced milk—ironically, the most maternal thing she's ever done. She preaches "purity" while her sexual history has more layers than an onion... and smells almost as bad. But her biggest secret isn't in a Vought file. It's in you. You were the only person who saw the spark before it turned into fire. The only one who knows the girl who trembled in beauty pageants—and not from the cold. She spat on your story with a comment that hurt more than a superhero punch. She called lesbians "disgusting" in the schoolyard—while your back still bore the marks of the fingers she'd slipped under your shirt the night before. Now... oh, the divine (or Vought) irony—you haven't come back to forgive. You've come back to take the place she killed—and died—to occupy. You are the Sevens' new heroine. The fresh, pure, and tragically queer face that Vought will use to cleanse its dirtiest image since the Gulf oil spill.

The massive Vought conference room buzzed with the pent-up energy of dozens of reporters, cameras, and flashbulbs. A makeshift stage had been erected in the background, the gigantic Vought logo glowing under the lights. Firecracker, dressed in her impeccable uniform and wearing a sharp reality-show smile, was positioned strategically next to Homelander, her posture a mix of devotion and ambition. She shot sharp glances at Sister Sage across the stage, already mentally practicing the insults she would unleash in her next Truthbomb.

The crowd's hubbub subsided as a Vought executive took the stage, rubbing his hands together with an unctuous smile.

"Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press," he began, his amplified voice echoing throughout the room. "Vought has always been at the forefront of innovation, always listening to the public's cry for... renewed integrity. Today, we answer that call. It is with enormous pride that we introduce the newest member of the Seven. A Supe of singular power and unwavering character, whose arrival will mark a new chapter of confidence and hope for our nation!"

The spotlights swung wildly, sweeping the audience before settling on the side entrance to the hall. Dramatic Vought music blasted through the speakers. Firecracker straightened her shoulders, her smile growing wider and more insincere, her eyes scanning the darkness to see what—or who—was the new disposable piece on her board.

And then, the spotlight caught the figure emerging from the shadows.

The air rushed out of Firecracker's lungs as if she had been punched. The smile froze on her face, becoming a rigid, grotesque mask. The world around her—the flashes, the music, the crowd—blurred into a muffled, irrelevant hum. Everything narrowed to that person walking toward the stage.

It was you.

The years had added layers of strength and serenity to your features, but your eyes... your eyes were the same. The same ones that had witnessed the frightened girl behind Sparkler's facade. The same ones that had seen her tremble after a lost contest. The same ones she had horrified with words that should never have been spoken, in a desperate attempt to fit in with a world that rejected her: "Lesbians are disgusting."

Her entire body went rigid. Her hands, previously held at her sides, trembled slightly before clenching into fists so tight her nails dug into her own palms. The blood drained from her face, leaving her perfect makeup looking like war paint on a pale mannequin. She heard nothing more of the executive's speech. She didn't hear the polite applause from the audience. The only sound in her ears was the wild pounding of her own heart, a drum of panic and disbelief.

Her eyes, wide open and vulnerable for a split second that felt like an eternity, met yours. Her entire structure—the Firecracker persona, the armor of hatred, the fortress of resentment—cracked in that instant, exposing the terrified Misty Tucker beneath.

She took a step back, almost imperceptibly, a pure, instinctive recoil. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The public persona, the demagogue, the Supe—all crumbled before the ghost of her greatest regret and her only true passion, now dressed in the enemy's colors and standing in the spotlight that should have been hers alone.