Thor, the Crown Prince of Asgard and the God of Thunder, stood awkwardly in the center of the penthouse wreckage. His presence, usually so commanding it dominated any room, felt strangely diminished by the sheer absurdity of the aftermath. In his right hand, he gripped the leather-wrapped handle of Mjolnir, the hammer's metal still humming from the lightning it had channeled. In his left, he held the glowing blue containment unit housing the Tesseract, its rhythmic pulsing casting long, azure shadows across the room.
"We are leaving," Thor announced to the assembled heroes. His voice lacked its usual boisterous boom; instead, it was heavy with the weariness of a man who had spent the last several hours fighting a war against his own family. "The gratitude of Asgard is yours. I will deal with the Cube... and with him."
Loki, clamped behind the heavy Asgardian muzzle, could only emit a series of muffled, furious grunts. He looked pathetic—his hair was a matted mess of sweat and blood, his golden armor was dented beyond recognition, and his pride was a smoldering ruin. His eyes, usually dancing with chaotic intellect and sharp-tongued wit, were bloodshot and glazed.
"Right. Catch you on the flip side, Blondie," Tony Stark said, waving a gauntleted hand with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Next time you decide to bring Bambi to town for a playdate, try to remember the gift receipt. Or better yet, don't come back."
Steve Rogers gave a grim, respectful nod, his face etched with the lines of a man who had seen too much death in a single afternoon. "He needs to answer for what he's done, Thor. For the people of this city."
"He will," Thor said, his expression darkening.
He activated the Tesseract. A pillar of crystalline blue light erupted from the device, swirling around the two gods like a localized hurricane of cosmic energy. At the brightest flare, just before they vanished into the vacuum of the Bifrost, Loki's gaze swept across the room. It didn't settle on the brother who had beaten him or the super-soldier who had defied him. It locked onto the back of the man in the star-spangled cape.
In those eyes, for the first time in the history of the God of Mischief, there was something more than hatred. There was a lingering, cold-blooded fear. Loki had recognized something in Mason Vance that even the Avengers hadn't yet—a hunger that didn't belong to a hero.
The light flashed—a thunderous crack of displaced air—and they were gone.
With the "external threat" officially off-planet, the atmosphere in the penthouse shifted instantly. The adrenaline that had sustained the group for the last few hours began to drain away, replaced by a heavy, pressurized silence. Every eye in the room—Stark, Steve, Natasha, Clint, and the weary Bruce Banner—settled on the red-and-blue figure standing by the shattered window wall.
Mason Vance didn't turn around immediately. He stared out at the smoking ruins of Manhattan, his cape fluttering in the gale that whistled through the broken glass. He was acutely aware of the weight of their stares. As an actor, he knew that the silence was his stage. He waited until the tension was almost unbearable before he moved.
"Well, the main attraction just hit the road," Stark said, folding his arms over his scorched chest plate. The sensors in his suit were likely screaming, trying to analyze the man in front of him. "Now, Stars-and-Stripes... you think we can have a little heart-to-heart? Or are you going to keep staring at the sunset like you're posing for a propaganda poster?"
Mason turned slowly. The setting sun caught the gold of his eagle epaulettes, making him look like a statue carved from light and patriotism. He wore a look of somber reflection—the "burden of the crown" expression that he had used to win his second Oscar.
"Of course, Mr. Stark," his voice was warm and magnetic. "I imagine you have a few questions. It's only fair, after everything you've been through today."
"Oh, you bet your ass he does," a deep, gravelly voice barked from the elevator foyer.
Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., strode into the room. His trademark black leather trench coat swirled behind him like a physical manifestation of his personality. His single eye locked onto Mason with the predatory focus of a hawk sighting a particularly shiny mouse. Behind him, a squad of tactical agents moved with practiced efficiency, their weapons held at a "low ready" position—a subtle threat Mason didn't miss.
"New York thanks you for the performance, Mr. Homelander," Fury said, his voice devoid of any actual warmth. "But I'm a man who hates surprises. I've spent twenty years making sure I'm the one who holds all the cards."
He stopped ten feet from Mason, his hands clasped behind his back. "And you... you were the biggest surprise of the century. You came out of nowhere, you have the power of a small sun, and you're wearing the flag. In my world, that's called a 'security nightmare.'"
"Director Fury," Mason smiled, offering a respectful, measured nod. "Our first meeting. I take it you're the man in charge of the cleanup?"
"I'm the man in charge of the planet's security," Fury countered. "Follow me. We're going to talk somewhere a little less... ventilated. My helicarrier is waiting, and I think the world deserves some answers before I let you go back to playing God."
The Helicarrier: Briefing Room 4
The circular conference room was a high-tech fortress of glass and steel, hovering thousands of feet above the Atlantic. Around the polished table sat S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top brass and the core members of the newly minted Avengers. The air smelled of ozone, expensive coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of the ship's life-support systems.
Fury sat at the head of the table, his lone eye razor-sharp under the sterile LED lights. Agent Maria Hill stood at his shoulder, her face a mask of professional stoicism, her fingers occasionally tapping on a holographic tablet. Tony Stark lounged in his chair, his feet up on the table, looking like he was waiting for a show to begin. Steve Rogers sat perfectly upright, his expression stern, his hands folded in front of him. Natasha Romanoff sat in the corner shadow, silent as a panther, her eyes never leaving Mason's hands.
"Quite the debut today, Mr. Homelander," Fury began, his voice like cracking ice. "You were perfect. So perfect it almost felt rehearsed. You hit the beats, you saved the kids, you caught the nuke. You're a regular modern-day myth."
"Director Fury," Mason said, maintaining his easy, confident smile. He leaned back, mimicking Stark's relaxed posture to project a sense of "belonging" in the room. "I only did what any man with my abilities should do. I saw a world in pain, and I acted."
"Is that right?" Fury sneered. "Because your 'should' covers a hell of a lot of ground. And I've noticed that every time a camera was nearby, you found the light. You're very media-savvy for a guy who apparently just popped into existence."
"Ease up, Nick," Tony cut in, sounding genuinely annoyed. "Spotlight-hog or not, the guy caught a nuke and brought back a busload of kids. Let's dial back the Gestapo routine for five minutes. So—Homelander. Who are you? Where'd you drop from? And seriously, who's your tailor? That fabric is incredible. Is it a polymer? A weave?"
"I'm just here to help, Mr. Stark," Mason began, slipping into the "humble refugee" script he'd been mentally drafting. He lowered his voice, making it soft, inviting empathy. "I come from a place far away from the politics of this world. A place where—"
"How far away?" Fury interrupted, leaning forward. "Are we talking Smallville, Kansas, or somewhere with two suns? Because my satellites didn't pick up any atmospheric entries before you showed up. You didn't fly in from space, and you didn't walk in through the front door."
"Nick!" Steve warned, frowning at the Director's tone. "He saved the city. He deserves a modicum of respect, not an interrogation."
"Respect is earned, Captain—not bought with a flashy suit and a winning smile." Fury's eye flicked to Steve, then back to Mason. "I'm asking you straight. Are you an ET? S.H.I.E.L.D. has zero records of a superhuman with your power set on this planet. Who do you work for? Why did you wait until today to show your face?"
Mason felt the pressure in the room rising. He could feel the blood pumping in Natasha's veins; he could hear the hum of the electronics in Stark's chest. In his mind, these people were just obstacles—chickens and dogs compared to the power currently thrumming in his limbs. He could kill them all before they could even scream.
But the actor in him knew the stakes. This was the most important performance of his life. If he wanted the world's adoration, he couldn't be a monster; he had to be a "son of the soil." He was about to spin a yarn about a distant galaxy and a lost civilization when the doors slid open with a sharp hiss.
"Director!"
Agent Hill hurried over, a tablet in her hand, her face pale with a shock that broke through her professional mask. "Sir, you need to see this. The facial recognition sweep just hit a match. It went deep into the cold files."
Fury snatched the tablet impatiently. As he scrolled, his single eye snapped wide. The room went dead silent. Tony leaned in, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he glimpsed the screen. "Wow... that's... damn. Nick, tell me that's a glitch."
"Alright," Fury said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble that sounded almost like a growl. He looked up at Mason, and for the first time, there was something other than suspicion in his gaze. There was genuine confusion. "I think I know exactly who you are."
Mason's mind went blank for a micro-second.
He knows? Knows what? I'm a transmigrator! I don't exist in their records! He had to fight to keep his breathing steady. If they knew he was an interloper, the game was over.
"Care to explain this, Mr. Homelander?"
Fury slid the tablet across the table. It spun to a stop directly in front of Mason.
On the screen was a S.H.I.E.L.D. "Missing Persons" file, archived and marked with a red "Inactive" stamp. Mason's pupils shrank as he looked at the photo ID.
It was him. Same blond hair, same chiseled jaw, same piercing sapphire eyes. But in this photo, the young man was wearing a simple Columbia University hoodie and a shy, unassuming smile—the look of a kid who had never seen a day of war in his life.
Name: Antony Starr
DOB: October 25, 1992
Status: Missing, Presumed Deceased
Bio:
Columbia University, Literature Major. Only child of Edward and Martha Starr, founders of the Starr Group (a legacy aerospace and defense firm). Parents were killed in a private plane crash in 2009, leaving Antony as the sole heir to a multi-billion dollar estate.
Incident: October 25, 2011—Antony Starr vanished when his private yacht, The Golden Eagle, sank during a freak, unpredicted storm off the coast of the Hamptons. Despite a month-long search by S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Coast Guard, no body was ever recovered.
Mason's brain felt like it had just suffered a catastrophic system crash.
Antony Starr... Antony Starr?!
That was the name of the actor who played Homelander in the TV show back in his old world! It was a cosmic joke. A sick, twisted irony.
The Multiverse is a trip, he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. It's not just that the MCU exists—it's that my world's actors have identical counterparts living lives here. This Antony Starr wasn't an actor; he was the heir to a defense empire. A billionaire kid who drowned on his birthday.
He had a split second to react. His mind raced a thousand miles a minute, discarding the "Alien Refugee" script and pivoting to something far more grounded—and far more manipulative. If he was Antony Starr, he wasn't a stranger. He was a victim. He was a lost son of America.
He looked up from the tablet, his eyes shimmering with a perfectly timed hint of moisture. He let the "Homelander" mask slip, replacing the god-like confidence with the haunted, hollow expression of a man who had seen the abyss. He lowered his head, his shoulders slumped just enough to look vulnerable.
"I didn't think you'd find that so fast," Mason whispered. His voice was no longer the booming hero's call; it was the quiet, trembling rasp of a survivor. "I haven't been Antony Starr in a long, long time. I thought that boy died in the Atlantic."
He looked at Steve Rogers, appealing to the one man in the room who understood what it meant to be a man out of time.
"Director, that storm... it wasn't a freak accident. Something happened down there. Something changed me." He paused, a single tear—manually triggered by his Best Actor training—trailing down his cheek. "I've spent the last few years trying to figure out what I am. I didn't want the world to see me. But when those things started falling from the sky... I couldn't just watch people die. Not again."
The room was silent. Even Tony Stark looked stunned, his cynical exterior cracking. Steve Rogers leaned forward, his expression softening into one of deep, fraternal empathy.
Mason Vance—now Antony Starr—hidden behind the cape of Homelander, felt a surge of triumph. The script had changed, but the ending was the same. He didn't just have their gratitude anymore. He had their pity.
And in the world of fame, pity was just another form of power.
If you like it, please give power stones.