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California, Burbank.
Hollywood's largest green-screen soundstage.
It had been converted into a secret lab for the organization "Chaos."
Anthony, wearing a battle-damaged prop bodysuit, was strapped to a cold metal gurney.
Around him stood "villain" actors in white coats, their faces twisted with malice.
"Okay! Anthony!"
the director shouted through a megaphone.
"We need… pain! They're injecting you with synthetic chemicals! They're crushing your will! They're mocking you!"
"I want… rage! I want that look, that look of a beast crawling out of hell! Got it?!"
"Action!!"
The clapperboard snapped.
The surrounding actors began snarling their lines: "Deep breath, Starr, the dizziness is normal! You'll be our greatest weapon!"
A prop syringe stabbed viciously into Anthony's neck.
Anthony's eyes closed.
The next second,
he snapped them open.
It wasn't Homelander's perfect smile, nor Anthony's pretty-boy face.
Those were… Anthony's eyes.
He remembered his past life,
remembered being betrayed by the team he trusted most, framed by Liu Xingru, the star he had single-handedly made famous.
Remembered bankruptcy, booze, standing on a forty-fourth-floor rooftop, unzipping for a shooting star like a madman!
Remembered that feeling of being abandoned by the world, plummeting from the clouds into the muck… utter fury and unwillingness!
"Uh… ahh…"
He began to growl, muscles trembling.
"Aaaargh—!!!"
A primal, savage roar burst from his chest!
His eyes bloodshot, veins bulging from neck to forehead!
He thrashed wildly, the metal gurney groaning under him!
The surrounding extras recoiled; the syringe actor's hand shook.
The set fell dead silent.
"…Cut!!"
The director's voice trembled.
He stared at the monitor, forgetting to breathe.
"My… God," the director exhaled, pulling off his headset.
"That… that was Oscar-level acting!"
Anthony slowly calmed his breathing; the savage aura vanished, and he became "fragile" Anthony again.
Acting, huh… this is what I do best!
Ding! Popularity +155 (from: director)
Ding! Popularity +88 (from: Extra A)
Ding! Popularity +120 (from: cameraman)
Anthony's heart bloomed with joy.
"Sorry, Director…"
Anthony sat up, covering his face, voice hoarse, as if still in character.
"Sorry… I… I remembered some… bad memories."
He lifted his head, eyes red; the "natural" pain and vulnerability made every woman on set tear up
…in the corners of their eyes.
"Did I overact? Need another take?"
"No! No!" The director rushed over, gripping his shoulders.
"It's perfect, Anthony! We've got it!"
Anthony lowered his head, a smile tugging at his lips.
Damn, that little gold statue is mine!
…Hell's Kitchen.
Jessica Jones kicked the door open and tossed a bottle of cheap whiskey onto the table.
She switched on the smoking old TV.
On screen, Anthony's handsome face was being interviewed by Time.
"…Yes, I'm putting together a team. More efficient, more relatable than the Avengers. I call them… the Seven."
Jessica spat.
"Super circus is more like it…"
She picked up the black V-card.
"Queen Jones…" she mocked herself.
"Stupid name."
But she remembered that night, the purple bastard whispering commands, the despair seeping into her bones.
And those two cruel heat-vision blasts that had felt so good.
"Fuck."
She grabbed her coat and stuffed the card into her pocket.
"…I'm just going to look. No way I'm joining that blond asshole's circus."
Daily Bugle newsroom.
Bam!
J. Jonah Jameson slammed the desk, his trademark mustache quivering.
"A movie?! He dares make a movie?!"
He snatched the phone and roared at his staff:
"Front page! Headline: 'Narcissist Saves the World? Homelander: A 200-Million-Dollar Kiss-Ass Spectacle!'"
"What?!" Jameson's eyes bulged.
"Vought Media… bought most of our shares and is calling a shareholders' meeting?!"
"When?! Yesterday?!"
"Fuck!!!"
Jameson slammed the phone down and slumped in his chair.
Outside, Vought's giant logo loomed over New York like a mocking grin.
He grabbed a cigar but couldn't light it.
"Homelander… you win," he muttered, relieved at surviving the skydiving ordeal.
For a moment green skin flickered… while on set Chaos goons fired prop guns that went "pew-pew" at Homelander.
Anthony, in a pristine "Origin" suit, hovered in mid-air.
His face: pain, struggle, fury, then… resolve.
"Nooo—!!!" He screamed at the sky as if bearing the world's agony.
Then he opened his eyes and searing light shot out.
"Cut!!!"
The director ran out, nearly in tears.
"My God! Anthony! Did you see the monitor? You're Jesus! You're… America!"
"Ding! Popularity +120!"
Anthony floated down; the pain vanished, replaced by a smile.
"I just did what I had to, Martin," he said, patting the director's shoulder. "For the art, damn it."
Filming on "Homelander: Origin" was past the halfway mark.
Vought's hype machine had pushed anticipation into the stratosphere.
The trailer aired during the Super Bowl—thirty seconds of explosions, tears, and Anthony's soot-streaked handsome face—crashing the nation's ticket servers three times.
"Ding! Popularity +150,210!"
"Ding! Popularity +205,114!"
"…
"Now we're talking." Anthony slipped into the silk robe an assistant handed him and stepped into his private trailer.
"Sir," said his chief assistant Ashley, a sharp blonde in frameless glasses, tablet in hand. "Both Jimmy and Ellen are fighting for your first talk-show slot."
"Let them fight," Anthony said, sipping iced soda. "That's how you keep the heat."
"Also," Ashley's expression shifted, "a woman downstairs says she's Jessica Jones… and she has your V-card."
Anthony paused.
"Oh yes, Queen Jones," he smiled.