Homelander didn't have an official birthday. Well, he did. However, it was in some files buried in some desk in a lab. And Vought wasn't bothered to go check. So, the company had some poor intern put every day on the calendor on a spinner before spinning it. The little spinner ended up on July 26th. So, that's how Homelander got his birth date. The supe originally just thought it was so Vought could put it in their files or mark it down somewhere, but nope. The company had to milk the living fuck out of everything.

For the past twelve years, Vought threw a "small" party to celebrate America's greatest supe on July 26th. And Homelander always had to be in attendance. For the first few years, it actually felt quite nice. The cake, some presents and the day being all about him. However, it soon made Homelander loose interest after the fourth year, as most things do. Same mindless routine like everything was for Vought. Smile, take photos, speak, shake hands, make deals, smile, blow out candles, and fucking smile. It was another one of those things that Homelander charmed his way through.

This year was no difference. It was the thirteenth year of this stupid tradition. The 80th floor cleared out for the plenty of guests. The large bar off to the side, the sound of Dark Noir playing the piano and the chatter of guests. To Homelander, it was irritating at this point. The Supe was perched on one of the staircases leading to the lounge, staring down at everyone on the floor. His blue eyes flickered across everyone, being able to tell who was who. Perks of having a better brain than everyone else in this stupid fucking building. Homelander's jaw clenched and while his lips twitched slightly when he saw Madelyn Stillwell chatting up some fancy rich guy. This night kept getting better and better—

Suddenly, someone bumped into Homelander's shoulder as they were going down the stairs. "Watch yourself." Was all Homelander said, his voice holding no exact emotion so it was difficult to tell that he was quite pissed off.