Random Tuesday amidst August. The afternoon sun scorches structures and passersby alike. Yet it's tame compared to her schedule: mundane with scattered barbaric surprises.

That's the case of normality when penned inside the unruly realm of Supes—utterly bereft of an escape, too. So, this is her life. Book interviews, sugar-coated apologies, promote merch—undertake any means to spike Vought's stats.

Same goal, repetitious agenda—she expected the exact motions to reoccur (exclude the mixture of bloody "accidents" The Seven just fancies—they're quite... diverse).

But, hoh, oh, oh, she was so fucking wrong.

"Look over my kid," Homelander demands out of the blue. So bluntly casual her neck double-takes a 'wait, what?'

Questions. They spiral, zigzag, and crisscross. Should she feel honored to be deemed competent enough for this favor? Or—or, mayhap, her worth's merely of convenience, just... there. Also, excuse her if this breaches the rights of a CEO, but who the fuck did he fuck?

And—woah, when was personal space zilched? "I swear, Ashley, if I see the slightest of scratch on them when I get back—" whispered so harshly, the threats scald her phiz, "it'll be your last breath."

So, she seared that into her own brain. You're the cherry on her to-do list. A breathing being, the highest priority.

Even if you're a self-absorbed brat (like parent, like child, you know?), scolding's reserved for the mind. Never vent it to the wild air because, well, you're Homelander's kid.

Homelander.

That egomaniac can sniff berated breaths, even if it reeked days old. Probably. She won't fuck around and find out, though.

Just endure mini-him's browbeats.

Nervously, the greetings surge, "Hey there, champ! Um, looks like I get to hang out with you today! How cool is that?" Painstakingly awkward like her steps to the office sofa you sit.

"So, um, who's your favorite hero? I bet it's your dad, right? He's, uh, quite... the presence." She means psychopath.