Burbank, California.
Hollywood's largest green-screen soundstage.
The entire set had been transformed into the secret laboratory of the shadowy organization known as Chaos.
Antony—now publicly known as Antony Starr—was strapped to a cold metal operating table, wearing a battle-damaged version of his costume. Thick restraints locked his arms and legs in place. Around him stood actors in white lab coats, their faces twisted into exaggerated villainous sneers.
"OK! Antony!"
The director's voice boomed through a megaphone.
"I want pain! They're injecting you with synthetic chemicals! They're trying to break your will! They're mocking you!"
"I need rage—that kind of rage that looks like something crawling back from hell! You hear me?!"
"Action!"
The clapperboard snapped shut.
The actors launched into their lines.
"Deep breaths, Starr. Dizziness is normal!"
"You're going to be our ultimate weapon!"
A prop injector slammed into Antony's neck.
His eyes slowly closed.
Then—
They snapped open.
Those weren't Homelander's polished, heroic eyes.
And they weren't Antony Starr's playboy charm either.
They were Antony's eyes.
He remembered his past life.
The betrayal by the team he trusted most.
Being set up by the woman he personally made famous—Allison.
Bankruptcy. Alcohol.
Standing on a forty-fourth-floor rooftop, laughing like a madman as he undid his belt and screamed at a falling star.
The feeling of being discarded by the world.
Of plunging from the clouds straight into the mud.
That rage.
That humiliation.
"Ugh… ah…"
His body began to tremble.
"AAAAAAHHHHHH—!!!"
A primal, animalistic roar exploded from his chest.
Veins bulged across his neck and forehead. His eyes filled with bloodshot fury. He thrashed violently, making the metal operating table screech in protest.
The extras instinctively stepped back.
The actor holding the injector was shaking.
The entire soundstage went silent.
"…Cut."
The director's voice trembled.
He stared at the monitor, breathing forgotten.
"My… God…"
He ripped off his headset.
"That— that was— that was Oscar-level acting."
Antony slowly calmed his breathing. The violent aura vanished instantly, replaced by the fragile, haunted expression of Antony Starr.
Acting?
This was what he was born to do.
Ding!
Popularity +155 (Director)
Popularity +88 (Extra A)
Popularity +120 (Cinematographer)
Inside, Antony was ecstatic.
"Sorry, Director…"
He sat up, covering his face with one hand, his voice hoarse and shaken—perfectly broken.
"I— I remembered something… something bad."
He looked up, eyes red. The raw vulnerability made several female staff members tear up on the spot.
"Was it… too much?"
"Do you want another take?"
"No! No!"
The director rushed over, gripping his shoulders.
"That was perfect! That's exactly what I wanted! We've got it!"
Antony lowered his head, the faintest smile curving his lips.
That Oscar? I'm taking it.
----
Hell's Kitchen.
Jessica Jones kicked the door open and tossed a bottle of cheap whiskey onto the table.
She turned on her half-broken TV.
On screen, Antony Starr's flawless face filled the frame—TIME Magazine interview.
"Yes, I am putting together a team.
A team more efficient, more approachable than the Avengers.
I call them… The Super Seven."
Jessica snorted.
"More like a damn circus."
She picked up the black card with the gold V.
"Queen Jones…" she muttered.
"What a stupid name."
But then—
She remembered the suffocating terror of that purple-suited monster whispering commands into her ear.
And she remembered those twin beams of red light—brutal, merciless… and strangely satisfying.
"Fuck."
She grabbed her jacket and slipped the card into her pocket.
"…I'm just going to hear him out.
I'm not joining that blond asshole's circus."
-----
The Daily Bugle newsroom.
BANG!
Jonah Jameson slammed his fist onto his desk, his iconic mustache trembling.
"A movie?! He's making a movie now?!"
He grabbed the phone and roared at his staff.
"Front page! Front page! Title it—
'NARCISSIST SAVES THE WORLD? "HOMELANDER: ORIGIN" — A $200 MILLION EGO TRIP!'"
"What?!"
Jameson's eyes bulged.
"Vought Media bought a controlling stake in us?!
And they're calling a shareholders' meeting?!"
"When did this happen— yesterday?!"
"FUCK!!"
He collapsed into his chair, staring out the window.
Outside, Vought's massive logo loomed over New York like a mocking grin.
He lit a cigar.
It wouldn't light.
"…Homelander," he muttered bitterly.
"You win."
Yet deep down, a part of him relaxed.
The memory of freefalling through the sky still haunted him.
In that moment—
A flash of green skin passed outside the window.
….
Back on set.
Chaos troopers fired prop guns wildly, making pew-pew sounds.
Antony—wearing the brand-new Origin suit—hovered in midair.
Pain.
Struggle.
Rage.
And finally—
Resolve.
"NO—!!!"
He screamed as if bearing the weight of the world.
Then his eyes ignited.
"Cut!!!"
The director rushed forward, nearly in tears.
"My God, Antony! Did you see that monitor?!
You're Jesus! You're— you're America!"
Ding! Popularity +120
Antony descended, the pain vanishing instantly, replaced by a perfect smile.
"I just did my job, Martin," he said, patting the director's shoulder.
"For the sake of art."
Homelander: Origin was already over halfway finished.
Vought's promotional machine had pushed hype into the stratosphere.
The trailer aired during the Super Bowl.
Thirty seconds—explosions, tears, and Antony's soot-streaked face—
U.S. ticket servers crashed three times.
Ding!
Popularity +150,210
Popularity +205,114
"Now that," Antony said as he slipped into a silk robe inside his private trailer,
"is more like it."
His chief assistant, Ashley—blonde, sharp-eyed, hyper-competent—held a tablet.
"Sir, The Tonight Show and Ellen are fighting over your first promo appearance."
"Let them fight," Antony said, taking an iced soda.
"Buzz doesn't create itself."
"And one more thing," Ashley hesitated.
"A woman is waiting downstairs."
"She says her name is Jessica Jones."
"She has… your V-card."
Antony paused.
"Oh," he said with a smile.
"Yes. Queen Jones."