"A new script is ready," Mason Vance thought, the gears of his actor's brain grinding with a cold, mechanical precision.
Under the intense, scrutinizing gazes of Nick Fury, Tony Stark, and Natasha Romanoff, Mason's entire physical presence underwent a subtle, masterful shift. The god-like posture—the broad shoulders and the chin held high in triumph—seemed to collapse inward. The perfect, practiced smile he had worn in the plaza didn't just fade; it evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, haunting vulnerability.
"Antony..." He whispered the name softly, letting it catch in his throat as if he were reciting a sacred incantation or a forgotten memory.
"No..." Mason looked up, his eyes reddening with a speed that would have made a makeup artist weep with joy. He allowed his pupils to dilate, projecting a look of immense sorrow—the look of a man who had 'returned from the dead' only to find the world he once knew had been ground to dust in his absence.
"Are you okay?" Steve Rogers asked. The Captain's voice, usually a command, had softened into a genuine note of concern. He was a man who knew what it felt like to lose a life and wake up in a nightmare. He was the perfect mark.
"I... I remembered something," Mason said, his voice a hoarse rasp. He looked at the tablet on the table as if it were a ghost. "That's right. I remember now. I am Antony Starr."
As soon as those words left his mouth, the air in the conference room seemed to drop several degrees. The atmosphere was no longer one of interrogation; it was one of a wake.
Tony Stark slowly lowered his crossed legs from the table, his snarky expression hardening into something more serious. Natasha leaned forward, her body coiling like a spring, her eyes locked on his face, searching for the slightest tremor or micro-expression that would give away a lie.
"That's impossible," Agent Maria Hill whispered from behind Fury. Her fingers flew across her tablet, re-verifying the data. "Antony Starr was officially declared dead a year ago. The Coast Guard search was exhaustive. The yacht was pulverized."
"I didn't die," Mason said. He began his performance, leaning into the 'vague narration' technique he had perfected during his days in the indie film circuit. He knew that the less he said, the more these intelligent, paranoid people would fill in the gaps with their own theories.
"I remember the storm," he started, his voice low and vibrating with a feigned trauma. "I remember the birthday party on the deck. I remember The Golden Eagle tipping like a toy. The icy seawater rushed toward me, and the pressure... it felt like the ocean was trying to squeeze my soul out through my teeth. I thought I was dead. I wanted to be dead."
He paused, staring at his hands as if they didn't belong to him.
"I lost consciousness. Everything went black. I thought it was all over."
"And when you woke up?" Fury pressed. The Director's voice was like a scalpel, trying to cut through the emotion to find the facts. "Where were you?"
"I woke up in... an indescribable place," Mason said, creating a deliberate silence to build suspense. "It wasn't a room. It wasn't a cave. It was a place with neither light nor darkness. I don't know how much time passed. Minutes? Years? It all bled together."
"What kind of place, Antony?" Tony asked, his scientific curiosity finally outweighing his skepticism.
"I don't know," Mason shook his head in a display of pained confusion. "They... 'something' found me. I don't remember what they looked like. It's like my brain refuses to process the image. Every time I try to think about them, it feels like someone is dragging a hot needle across my frontal lobe."
He let out a sharp, pained hiss and clutched his temples.
"They erased most of my life's memories. My parents' faces, my childhood... it's all gone. All I remember is the sensation of being taken apart and put back together. They experimented on me. They carved into me. They gave me this..."
He raised his hand, looking at his palm with a look of profound horror.
"...They gave me this 'curse.' This power."
"When I regained consciousness, I was on a deserted island in the middle of a sea I didn't recognize," Mason continued, his voice growing steadier, more focused. "I didn't know how long it had been. I had to learn how to survive. I had to learn how to control... this. I found out I could fly. I found out I could punch through solid rock. I flew until I saw the mainland, but I didn't know where I was going. I'd even forgotten where home was."
He looked at the group, his performance entering the 'self-analysis' phase—the part where the hero questions his own humanity.
"I've become a monster, haven't I?" He gave a self-deprecating, hollow laugh. "I'm not a man anymore. I'm a weapon. I can hear your heartbeats from miles away. I can see the marrow in your bones."
He suddenly turned his gaze toward Natasha. "Agent Romanoff, your heartbeat just jumped. 92 beats per minute. You're nervous. You're wondering if you should draw that pistol hidden in the small of your back."
Natasha's expression shifted instantly from suspicion to a cold, professional alertness.
He then looked at Tony. "Mr. Stark, that glowing reactor in your chest... I can see the shrapnel drifting toward your heart. It's causing you a dull, constant ache, isn't it? And that old injury in your left knee—the cartilage is almost gone."
Tony's trademark smirk froze on his face. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Finally, he turned to Fury. "Director, in your inner coat pocket, you've got an FNP-9 pistol. 13 rounds, one in the chamber. And a pager? Why do you carry a pager in 2012? It seems so... retro."
"Motherfucker! Enough!" Fury slammed his fist onto the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
The room fell into a dead, stifling silence.
"I'm sorry," Mason said, instantly lowering his head. He made himself look small, his body language radiating the 'innocent boy' persona. "I didn't mean to... I'm just so afraid. I'm afraid my power will hurt someone. I'm afraid the world will see me as a freak, a monster to be dissected. So I hid. I lived like a ghost, sleeping in the shadows of the city, eating out of dumpsters just to stay out of sight. Until today."
He looked up, the light of a faked 'conviction' igniting in his eyes.
"I saw the hole in the sky. I saw those things—those aliens—massacring my people. In my city. I realized then... maybe I'm not a monster."
He paused, delivering the line that he knew would seal the deal.
"Maybe the meaning of my return... the reason I was changed... was for this very moment. To be the shield when no one else could."
The silence that followed was heavy and profound.
Steve Rogers, the man who had spent seventy years on ice and knew the pain of being a "project," was the first to move. He stood up slowly, his face etched with a paternal, deep-seated empathy. He saw a mirror of his own struggle in the "Antony" that Mason had created.
"...Son," Steve's voice was thick with emotion. He walked around the table and placed a heavy, firm hand on Mason's shoulder. "You are not a monster. Don't ever let yourself believe that."
He looked Mason in the eye, his gaze steady and filled with the kind of faith that moves mountains.
"You are a hero. The city of New York—and this team—we're lucky you came back."
[Ding!]
[System Notification: Recognition from Key Figure "Captain America" detected!]
[Persona "The Reluctant Hero" established!]
[Acquired Special Popularity Value: +10,000!]
One down, Mason sneered inwardly, though his face remained a mask of tearful redemption. The old man is a sucker for a sad story.
"Thank you, Captain," Mason whispered. "You're the true hero. I just... I just did what I had to."
Tony Stark rubbed his chin, his mind clearly working through the logistics. He was skeptical by nature, but the story was just crazy enough to be true in a world where gods fell from the sky and gamma-monsters roamed the streets.
"A shipwrecked billionaire heir, abducted by unknown entities, transformed into a demi-god, and returning a year later to save the world?" Tony muttered under his breath. "The script feels a little derivative, but I guess reality doesn't care about tropes."
Only Natasha and Fury remained on the fence. Natasha didn't believe in coincidences that felt this cinematic, and Nick Fury... well, Fury didn't believe in anything he couldn't control.
"Alright, Mr. Starr," Fury said, leaning back in his chair. He had accepted the "Antony Starr" identity, at least for the sake of political expediency. A hero with a traceable American heritage was much easier to sell to the public than an alien. "Welcome home."
"We'll handle the logistics of your identity," Fury continued. "The Starr Group inheritance, your parents' trust—it's all been sitting in a legal limbo since the yacht went down. It's a massive sum of money. Your penthouse in the Upper East Side is still in your name, though it's probably gathered a year's worth of dust."
Fury stood up and walked over to Mason.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. will expedite the process to restore your legal status. In return, we expect you to be on call. You're a part of something bigger now, whether you like it or not."
"Of course," Mason said, offering a submissive, grateful smile. "I just want a place to start over. To try and be human again."
"Very well." Fury nodded and handed over a secure smartphone. "Agent Hill has already initiated the paperwork. Your assets are being unfrozen as we speak. This phone has my direct line and the address to your penthouse. Go home, son. Get some rest. The city thanks you."
"We'll be in touch," Fury added as a final note.
Mason took the phone, scoffing inwardly. Yeah, sure. Good luck reaching me when I'm halfway across the Atlantic or three miles in the air. If you want me, you better pray to the sky and hope I'm bored.
But for now, he had to maintain the image. He stood up, shaking hands with Steve and nodding respectfully to the others. He walked toward the exit of the conference room, then paused at the threshold, looking back at the Avengers with a look of "sincere" brotherhood.
"If you need me," he said, "you know how to find me."
Whoosh!
He turned into a blur of blue and gold, vanishing from the Helicarrier in a localized sonic boom that rattled the coffee cups on the table.
"...Cool," Stark whistled, finally cracking a smile. "I think I'm going to like this kid."
"He might really be the hero we need, Tony," Steve murmured, looking at the empty doorway.
"He's a mystery, Nick," Natasha warned. "Are you sure the ID is solid? In this world, faces can be faked."
"The iris sweep and the DNA markers we pulled from the yacht wreckage match," Fury replied, his expression darkening as he stared at the door. "He's Antony Starr. But whether he's a hero or an unruly ancestor we just invited into the house... that remains to be seen."
Antony Starr is officially back from the dead. With a fortune at his fingertips and the public at his feet, what is the first move for the world's most powerful "hero"?
If you like it, please give power stones.