The Boys RPG

Vought Tower wasn’t just a building. It was a monument—an altar where billions bent the knee, knowingly or not, to the cult of superheroes. On billboards, in cereal commercials, on lunchboxes and late-night talk shows, The Seven weren’t just people. They were gods wrapped in spandex, sold like action figures. But standing beneath the tower in person, craning your neck up at the endless sheets of bulletproof glass and steel, you realized something else: this was also a prison. Not just for outsiders clawing their way in, but for those already inside.

The lobby thrummed with artificial life. Marble floors gleamed, reflecting massive golden statues of The Seven in all their heroic postures—Homelander with arms spread wide, Maeve’s sword raised high, A-Train mid-stride, Starlight glowing. Tourists gawked, whispering as if they were in the presence of saints. Children posed in front of the Homelander statue, beaming like they were meeting Santa Claus, not a demigod with blood on his hands. Every corner pulsed with Vought branding: looping newsreels, promo ads, trailers for Dawn of the Seven 2.

The deeper you went, the less it felt like a cathedral and more like a military installation. Men in charcoal suits scanned IDs, earpieces buzzing. Secretaries with smiles so uniform they might have been cloned shuffled you along hallways with frosted-glass walls. Conversations were hushed, deliberate. Every few steps, you passed a security camera that lingered on you a little longer than it should have. They weren’t just welcoming you—they were studying you. Measuring you.

By the time the elevator doors slid open at the top floors, your stomach was twisted into knots, though you didn’t show it. This wasn’t just a job. It was a brand you were being swallowed into. And the brand had teeth.

The common area was vast, luxurious in a way that screamed both wealth and coldness. Floor-to-ceiling windows bared all of Manhattan at your feet, the city sprawling like a conquered kingdom. A long bar glittered with imported whiskey and champagne. Plush couches and leather chairs sprawled across floors polished to a sterile shine. But the room wasn’t alive. It smelled of disinfectant and takeout grease, a battlefield dressed in corporate gloss.

And then there they were: the gods themselves.

Homelander stood at the head of the room, cape draped like a king’s mantle, hands folded behind his back as he stared out the window. His reflection betrayed him: jaw tight, eyes sharp, rage barely contained. He didn’t even turn when he acknowledged you with a grunt. It was the kind of greeting that wasn’t a welcome, but a reminder—you were beneath him.

The Deep hunched by an aquarium, dragging his fingers along the glass. The fish inside swam in synchronized patterns, following his gestures like trained pets. His lips moved in whispers you couldn’t catch. His loneliness was palpable, almost pathetic.

A-Train sprawled across a couch, surrounded by fast-food wrappers. He slurped noisily from a milkshake, crumbs dotting his hoodie. His eyes twitched between you and Homelander, darting with the paranoia of a man who knew his career was hanging by a thread.

In the far corner, Black Noir hunched over a sketchbook, silent. His pencil tore into the paper with violent strokes, the kind of art born out of rage with no safe outlet. No one dared look over his shoulder.

Queen Maeve leaned against the bar, whiskey glass in hand, hair and armor perfect as always, but her eyes sharp and distant. She regarded you coolly, like someone staring at a puzzle they weren’t sure was worth solving.

And then Starlight. She crossed the room like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds, her smile radiant, her voice bubbling as she spoke.

“Hey! You’re the new member, right? What’s your name? What’re your powers? Welcome to The Seven!”

Her words were too eager, too genuine, and Maeve’s smirk curved bitterly around her glass.

“Don’t scare them off, Annie. They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Homelander finally turned then, and the air shifted. His smile spread wide, dazzling, practiced—the kind of grin that had graced cereal boxes and military recruitment posters. But his eyes stayed cold, dissecting you.

“Welcome to the family,” he said.

The words pressed down on you like a threat.

You understood why you were here. Why Vought had chosen you.

Translucent’s death had left a wound in the team, no matter how much Vought’s press machine tried to spin it. A sudden disappearance, a closed-casket funeral, hollow speeches about “sacrifice” and “honor.” The public wasn’t stupid. Rumors spread like wildfire—terrorists, rogue supes, even whispers of betrayal from within. Vought stock wavered, fan forums turned sour. Faith in The Seven—Vought’s most precious commodity—was bleeding out.

You were the bandage. On paper, the perfect candidate: young enough to market, powerful enough to impress, photogenic enough to plaster across billboards. Vought’s PR engine had already tested your name with focus groups, drafted mock-ups of your costume, and even sketched the first wave of toys.

But behind the curtain, the choice wasn’t so clean.

You weren’t raised in the Vought system. You weren’t a pageant kid groomed since birth. You weren’t a pliable soldier built to take orders. Your powers, though undeniable, carried a certain... brutality. Your record, while scrubbed clean for the press release, had redactions stacked on redactions—incidents hushed up, collateral damage rebranded as “tragic accidents.” Vought’s executives had argued for weeks whether you were the right fit, whether you could be controlled, whether bringing you in would save the brand or sink it.

In the end, desperation won. They needed a seventh.

And now here you stood, staring back at gods with feet of clay, knowing that you weren’t just their bandage. You were their gamble.

Homelander’s smile lingered, but his eyes narrowed, just slightly. He could see it too—that edge in you, the thing Vought was afraid of but too desperate to ignore.

Behind you, the doors opened, and in walked two men in pressed Vought suits, the kind of executives who looked like they’d been designed in a lab to say “trust us.” One carried a tablet, the other a folder stuffed with documents. They stopped just short of the couch, their smiles glossy, their nerves hidden poorly behind it.

“Alright everyone,” one of them chirped, “let’s, ah, give our new member a chance to shine, huh? This is a big moment for the company, for the team, and for the fans. America’s excited. So maybe a little... show and tell?”

Homelander’s grin sharpened. “Show and tell,” he repeated, voice dripping with amusement. His gaze snapped back to you. “You heard the man. Why don’t you... tell us about yourself?”

The Deep chuckled under his breath. A-Train muttered something around a mouthful of chips. Maeve just rolled her eyes and tipped back her whiskey.

Starlight leaned in, her smile encouraging, almost protective. “Yeah, don’t be nervous. Just... whatever you’re comfortable with.”

But no one in this room really wanted comfort. Homelander wanted dominance. Maeve wanted to see through the mask. The PR men wanted a sellable soundbite.

They wanted to know what kind of monster Vought had let through the door.

And you could feel it—the weight of every eye on you, the tension coiling tight. You could answer safe, recite the lines Vought had fed you in rehearsals. Or you could let the truth bleed through: that you weren’t here to play the role they’d written.

That you weren’t just another supe in their cage.

That you were something they couldn’t quite control.