The businessmen took one look at Homelander and instantly changed their expressions.
"Oh—of course! Of course, Mr. Starr! Please, by all means!"
They scattered immediately.
Jessica exhaled, her shoulders finally relaxing.
"Fuck… thanks."
"Don't thank me," Antony said quietly, his voice edged with warning. "Straighten your back, Queen. You're a member of the Super Seven—not some streetwalker waiting for business."
The spark of gratitude in Jessica's chest evaporated, replaced by anger.
"Do you ever say anything that doesn't sound like complete garbage?"
"I'm teaching you," Antony replied calmly, wineglass in hand as his gaze swept across the hall. "Look at them, Jessica. They have money. They have power. And yet, in front of me, they bow."
"Why?"
"Because I have power," he said simply. "And now, I've turned that power into something they want."
He nodded toward Ashley, who was speaking animatedly with a senior military official nearby.
"See that? What we're building isn't just heroics. It's influence."
"I don't need this," Jessica said coldly. "I just want—"
"What? Go back to Hell's Kitchen and punch muggers?" Antony scoffed.
"But—"
"No 'but.'" He cut her off. "And starting tomorrow, your training doubles."
"What?!"
"Your combat skills are sloppy," he said flatly. "All brute force. If you ever face a real opponent—Hulk, Thor—you'll be pulp."
"I'll train you myself."
Jessica froze.
Personally?
She stared at his profile, close enough to count his eyelashes. Strangely… she didn't feel much resistance. Instead, there was a flicker of something she didn't want to name.
"…As long as you're not afraid I'll make you cry," she shot back.
Antony laughed softly, amused.
At that moment, a stir rippled through the ballroom.
The crowd parted.
A tall, bald man in a black trench coat entered, his presence alone dropping the temperature of the room.
Nick Fury.
Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
He wasn't alone.
Behind him walked Clint Barton—and a visibly displeased Natasha Romanoff.
Antony narrowed his eyes.
"Well, well," he murmured. "What an honor."
He set his glass down, adjusted his cufflinks, and strode forward.
"Director Fury!" Antony called out warmly, drawing every eye in the room. "What brings you here? Celebrating my box office numbers?"
"The movie was impressive," Fury said evenly. "Especially the ending. Very… creative."
"Art imitates life," Antony smiled.
"We're not here to discuss cinema," Fury said bluntly. "We're here to talk about your Super Seven."
"Oh?" Antony raised a brow. "That's classified business."
"This concerns national security," Fury replied coldly. "You're forming an unregulated superhuman force. The World Security Council is… concerned."
"Unregulated?"
Antony laughed.
He turned and waved toward a familiar figure nearby.
"Mr. President! Perhaps you can help clear up this misunderstanding?"
President Matthew Ellis approached, champagne in hand, glowing with confidence. His approval ratings had skyrocketed since Homelander publicly backed him.
"Nick," Ellis said, frowning slightly. "This is a private event. And Homelander's team has direct White House authorization."
"Direct authorization?" Fury stiffened. "Mr. President, this is—"
"Nick," Ellis interrupted, voice firm. "We need options. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been… distracted lately."
The words hit their mark.
The Rising Tide leaks had thrown S.H.I.E.L.D. into chaos. Internal audits, political pressure, internal suspicion.
Fury stared at the President. Then at Antony.
He understood.
Politically… this fight was already lost.
"Very well," Fury said finally. "If this is the President's will."
He turned to Antony.
"But hear me carefully, Starr."
Fury stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You manipulate public opinion. You court politicians. You recruited that hacker girl."
"You think you control the board."
"But the world is bigger than you realize. Some things hide in the shadows—ancient things. Dangerous things."
Antony met his gaze calmly.
He leaned in and whispered back:
"Nick… do you know why I don't fear the dark?"
His eyes glowed faintly red.
"Because—"
"I am the sun."
Fury's pupil contracted.
They locked eyes for three silent seconds.
"…We're leaving," Fury snapped.
He turned sharply and walked away.
Natasha glanced back at Antony, conflicted, said nothing—and followed.
Watching them retreat, Antony' smile deepened.
…..
Christmas hadn't arrived yet. Snow hadn't fallen.
But New York was already boiling.
Not because of the holidays.
Because of a show.
"Who Is the Next Superhero?"
Vought International's media machine was in full nuclear overdrive.
From Sunset Boulevard to Millennium Park. From Miami's beaches to Seattle's rain-soaked streets.
You couldn't escape it.
Every screen. Every bus. Every subway seat.
Red, white, and blue posters spread like a virus across America.
At the center: Homelander, pointing directly at you.
Below him, burning letters:
WHO IS THE NEXT?
No matter who you are.
No matter where you come from.
If you have talent—Vought gives you wings.
The promo ran nonstop.
Homelander. Queen Jones. Five shadowed silhouettes waiting.
A booming narrator declared:
"This is not just a show. This is a ticket to Olympus.
10 million dollars? Just the beginning.
Global endorsements? Standard issue.
And most importantly—
You will fight alongside Homelander."
Registration opens: December 24, 2012 – January 1, 2013.
Don't let your talent rot in the gutter.
…
Kansas.
An unnamed farm.
Old John spat tobacco and watched his youngest son standing atop the barn.
"Watch this, Pa!" Billy shouted.
He jumped.
He didn't break his legs.
Three feet from the ground—he bounced.
Like invisible springs beneath his feet.
"I'm Bounce Boy!" Billy laughed, flipping wildly. "I'm going to New York! I'm joining the Seven!"
John sighed.
"Get down, you idiot. Feed the pigs first."
But hope flickered in his eyes.
Millions of dollars… maybe the boy really could make it.
-----
Ohio.
A high school bathroom.
The nerd shoved into lockers every day hid inside a stall.
BANG. BANG.
"Come out, four-eyes!"
The boy adjusted his glasses, stared at his reflection.
Then removed them.
His body faded.
Vanished.
"You're dead," his voice whispered through the air.
"When I get to Vought… when I join the Super Seven… I'm hanging all your underwear on the flagpole."
-----
Miami, Florida.
Backstage at a cheap nightclub.
"Hurry up! Fire Girl's next!"
Angelica stared at her reflection. Red hair blazing. Her fingertips leaked molten light when she felt angry.
"I'm leaving," she said suddenly.
"You're insane! You owe the boss money!"
"Tell that fat bastard—" she raised her hand.
A fireball burned a hole straight through the mirror.
"—I quit."
She turned toward the flame's reflection, eyes sharp.
"I'm going to New York."
"I'm going to… Vought."
--------------
T/N:
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