While the world outside the Helicarrier was beginning to celebrate, Nick Fury remained in the dark, digital heart of S.H.I.E.L.D. He stood before a flickering wall of monitors, his single eye reflecting the cold, blue light of a dozen scrolling data streams.
"Hill," Fury said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I want a Level 7 surveillance detail on our returning war hero. Put him on the short-list for the Insight Project. I want to know what brand of toothpaste this Antony Starr uses to brush his teeth, and I want to know who he's talking to when he thinks the world isn't listening."
"Sir," Hill replied, her tone hesitant. "He's a national hero. The PR optics of a surveillance detail right now would be—"
"I don't care about optics, Maria. I care about variables," Fury snapped. "A dead billionaire kid comes back with the power to level a city? That's not a homecoming. That's a threat assessment. Keep your eyes open."
Mason Vance—now legally and publicly recognized as Antony Starr—didn't go straight to the apartment S.H.I.E.L.D. had prepared for him. He had no intention of being a bird in a cage.
He circled high above the Manhattan skyline, a silent, star-spangled ghost drifting through the clouds. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, he truly listened. With his enhanced hearing, the city wasn't a roar; it was a symphony of millions of voices, and they were all singing the same song.
His name.
On the giant digital monoliths of Times Square, footage of his "sacrifice" played on a seamless, infinite loop. He watched himself—a blur of red and blue—shouldering the nuclear warhead, charging into the maw of the portal, and emerging like a messiah with a ship full of children.
"...Tonight, we witnessed more than a victory! We witnessed a miracle! A mysterious guardian calling himself 'Homelander' has single-handedly saved Manhattan from total annihilation!"
"...Reports are flooding in that the man beneath the cape is none other than Antony Starr, the long-lost heir to the Starr Group empire. Could this be the greatest comeback story in American history?"
"...Move over, Avengers! While the team held the line, Homelander won the war! He is the true MVP of the Battle of New York!"
"...Oh my god, did you see his eyes? He's literally an angel. I want to have his babies!!"
[Ding! Popularity Value: +120! +88! +205!]
The notifications were no longer the violent explosions of data from the battle, but they were steady—a constant, rhythmic heartbeat of adoration. Mason felt the power in his veins thickening, his muscles becoming denser, his senses sharper. Every "Like," every "Share," and every prayer whispered in the dark was fuel for his transformation.
He decided to give them a little more.
He descended toward a crowded intersection in Midtown, landing with a soft, practiced grace that barely disturbed the dust on the pavement. Within seconds, he was swarmed. It was a sea of hands reaching out to touch the fabric of his cape, eyes wet with tears, voices cracking as they called out to him.
Mason didn't push them away. He was an actor; he knew how to "work the room." He smiled—the warm, humble, slightly-shy smile of Antony Starr. He shook hands until his palms felt the heat of a thousand grateful bodies. He hugged sobbing grandmothers and kissed children on the forehead with the practiced tenderness of a saint.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered, his voice projected just enough for the nearby cell phone cameras to catch. "The nightmare is over. As long as I'm here, New York is safe. I promise you."
He relished the worship. It was better than any red carpet, any standing ovation at the Oscars. These people didn't just admire him; they needed him.
High above him on a jumbotron, a news segment caught his eye. A reporter was standing in the ruins of a collapsed luxury high-rise.
"...We bring you a discovery made by our crew amidst the devastation. Right here, Kate, a nine-year-old girl, was trapped for hours. Her father... unfortunately did not survive the initial collapse."
The camera panned to a small, thin girl wrapped in a S.H.I.E.L.D. blanket. Her face was a mask of soot and trauma, but her eyes—large and glassy—flickered with a strange, haunting light.
"Kate, honey, were you scared?" the reporter asked softly.
The girl nodded, then paused. "I... I thought I was gone. The grey monster... it had a spear. It was going to..."
"What happened?"
Kate's face transformed, a spark of pure, unadulterated hope breaking through the grime. "It was him! It was Homelander! He flew down from the clouds. He used the red light from his eyes—'Zzt!'—and the monster was just... gone. He saved me."
"He did?"
"Mm-hmm!" Kate nodded vigorously, clutching a charred, half-burnt Superman comic to her chest. "He was so tall. He gave me a smile, just for me, and then he flew away to save the rest of the world. He's the only real hero there is."
Mason didn't hear the end of the segment. He was already airborne, a faint, predatory smirk playing on his lips. The only real hero. I like the sound of that.
He finally arrived at the address S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided. It was a luxury apartment near Columbia University, the place where Antony Starr had lived his quiet, unremarkable life before the shipwreck.
Mason landed on the fire escape and used his X-ray vision to scan the interior. "Empty. A year's worth of dust. Perfectly preserved."
He pushed open the window and stepped inside. The air was stale, smelling of old paper and abandoned dreams. This was the sanctuary of a boy who was long dead. He saw a guitar in the corner, a basketball resting against a desk, and a stack of literature textbooks.
On the mantle sat a photograph in a silver frame. It was a picture of Antony Starr—the real one—hugging a man and woman. They were all laughing, their faces full of the kind of effortless, boring happiness that Mason had always despised.
"Antony... Antony..." Mason picked up the frame, tracing the identical face in the glass. "You had everything. Money, a name, a family that actually loved you. And you wasted it on books and a yacht."
He looked at the boy in the photo—the shy, soft-eyed student. "Your life was truly... pathetic."
He casually tossed the photo frame over his shoulder. It hit the floor with a sharp crack, the glass shattering over the smiling faces of the dead.
"But it doesn't matter now," Mason whispered, walking to the window and pulling back the heavy velvet curtains. He looked out at the city he had just claimed as his own. "Your life belongs to me now. And I'm going to do so much more with it than you ever could."
The following month was the most intoxicating period of Mason Vance's existence.
In his past life, he had been a slave to the "capital"—the studio heads, the producers, the fickle whims of a board of directors. He had fought tooth and nail for every scrap of fame. But now? He was the capital.
The Starr Group was a New York titan. Real estate, clean energy, and high-level biotechnology. When Edward and Martha Starr died, they hadn't just left behind a name; they had left a kingdom. And now, the "Risen Heir" had returned with the literal power of a god and the face of a saint.
Mason moved out of the dusty apartment and into the family's crown jewel: a triple-deck penthouse duplex on the Upper East Side. It occupied the top three floors of a skyscraper, featuring a private helipad, an outdoor infinity pool that seemed to spill into Central Park, and enough marble to build a cathedral.
He stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows at dawn, wearing a three-thousand-dollar silk bathrobe, a glass of priceless Romanée-Conti in his hand. He watched the sun rise over the park, the light glinting off the gold eagle on the suit he had displayed on a custom mannequin in the center of the room.
"Now this," he whispered, "this is fucking living."
A few days prior, the Starr Group's legal team—a small army of men in grey suits—had lined up in his foyer like subjects before a king.
"Mr. Starr... these are the inheritance documents for your parents' estate. The after-tax liquid assets alone are in the billions. You only need to sign here, and the board will be notified of your return to the chair..."
Mason had signed. He had officially taken control of tens of billions of dollars and a global conglomerate. He was now one of the most powerful men in the world, even without the superpowers.
"System," he said, admiring his reflection in the dark glass. "I feel... fantastic."
[Current Popularity: 7,982,301]
[Fame Level: Rising to Fame]
[Ability Enhancement: Steel Body (Planetary Level), Heat Vision (4000°C), Super Speed (Mach 15)]
"Still not enough," Mason narrowed his eyes.
He knew the business of fame. The dividends from the Battle of New York were high, but they were starting to level off. The initial shock of his return was fading into the background noise of the 24-hour news cycle. In the world of hype, if you aren't moving forward, you're invisible.
"The audience is getting bored," he muttered, setting down his wine. "They need a reminder of why they love me. They need a hero."
He looked at the Homelander suit. The red, white, and blue seemed to pulse in the morning light.
"It's time to go on duty."
He didn't need to get dressed. In a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track, the bathrobe was gone, and the star-spangled cape was snapping behind him.
Over the next two weeks, the citizens of Manhattan truly learned the meaning of "security."
Mason didn't wait for a signal. He didn't wait for S.H.I.E.L.D. or a call from the police. He was everywhere.
In Midtown, an out-of-control commuter bus—its driver slumped over from a heart attack—was screaming toward a crowded sidewalk at forty miles per hour. Pedestrians froze, the shadow of death looming over them.
At the absolute last micro-second, a red and blue streak slammed into the pavement in front of the vehicle.
It wasn't a gentle stop. It was a display of absolute, terrifying dominance. Mason didn't even brace himself. He simply stood there, one hand extended, a calm smile on his face as three tons of steel and glass crumpled against his palm like a soda can.
BOOM—!!!
The bus stopped dead, its rear wheels lifting six feet off the ground from the momentum. Inside, the passengers were jolted, but alive. On the sidewalk, a young woman who had been seconds from being crushed stared up at Mason in breathless awe.
Mason didn't just walk away. He reached into the bus, gently pulled the unconscious driver out, and handed him to a nearby paramedic with a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
"Don't worry," he told the crowd of onlookers, making sure to find the lens of a teenager's iPhone. "I've got you. You're safe now."
As he took to the sky, leaving a trail of cheers behind him, Mason felt the popularity numbers tick up again.
The world doesn't want the Avengers, he thought, soaring above the clouds. The Avengers are a committee. They're a mess. The world wants a God. And I'm more than happy to play the part.
Mason is building an empire of adoration, but how long can he maintain the "saintly" Antony Starr persona before the Homelander beneath starts to show?
If you like it, please give power stones.