Antony—
no, Homelander—descended slowly, like a modern-day Atlas, carrying lives that had already tasted despair.
He landed deliberately.
Steadily.
Almost reverently.
Boom.
The massive alloy platform touched down in the very heart of Times Square—without crushing a single taxi.
For a heartbeat…
silence.
Then—
The thirteen survivors trembled as they unbuckled their seatbelts, stumbling off the improvised "lifeboat," legs weak, faces pale.
"HOMELANDER!!!"
"HOMELANDER!!!!"
"HOMELANDER——!!!!!!!"
The roar was deafening.
Homelander stood before the wreckage, the Stars and Stripes cape settling slowly behind him like a fallen banner. He turned toward the nearest Vought News camera and offered a perfectly measured smile—fatigue, relief, and humility blended just right.
"I just… did what I had to do," he said softly.
"Everyone's safe now."
Click! Click! Click! Click—!!!!
Flashbulbs detonated across the square.
That image—
Homelander holding up twisted aircraft wreckage while saving thirteen lives—
became the unquestioned front page of every major newspaper and magazine within twenty-four hours.
DING! Popularity +154,015!
DING! Popularity +201,240!
DING! Popularity +171,552!
The power surged through him like a rising tide.
Homelander closed his eyes, savoring it.
…
While New York celebrated its living god…
Tony Stark had only just begun to understand how deep the nightmare went.
-----
Florida – Roxxon Dockyards
Night clung to the air like an oil-soaked rag. The stench of diesel, dead fish, and saltwater filled the docks.
Because Tony never suffered post-New York PTSD in this timeline, he never locked himself underground to build an army of armors.
He was still Tony Stark—
brilliant, arrogant, and utterly dependent on metal and tech.
The Iron Legion wasn't ready.
Not yet.
And the few armors he did have… were flying in from California at full burn.
"JARVIS," Tony whispered into a stripped-down wrist communicator. "You still with me, buddy?"
"Always, sir. Though signal integrity is… highly unstable."
"Killian's here," Rhodey gestured toward the illuminated oil platform at the tanker's center. "The President's got to be there."
They moved through shadows like ghosts. Tony felt like he was playing Metal Gear Solid—except he didn't even have a cardboard box.
"Shit!" Rhodey yanked him behind a container.
Two soldiers glowing orange-hot passed by.
"Extremis," Tony muttered. "Walking bombs. JARVIS—analyze thermal output. Weak points?"
"Processing… Core temperature localized in the cranial region. Surface temperature reaching 3,000°C."
"Fantastic."
Tony squinted upward. "Hey, Rhodey—look."
Atop a massive crude oil tank—five stories tall—
a figure hung suspended.
The President.
Encased inside the Iron Patriot armor.
"…Jesus Christ," Rhodey breathed. "They hung him over the tank."
"Like Viking funeral prep," Tony said dryly.
"With crude oil."
That wasn't a metaphor.
Ellis dangled like smoked meat, directly above dozens of patrolling Extremis soldiers.
A broadcast loop echoed across the platform:
"Livestream commencing shortly. All units return to positions…"
"Contact!" one soldier shouted.
"Damn it!" Rhodey raised the stolen pistol.
"Don't fire!" Tony yelled.
Too late.
Bang!
The bullet hit an Extremis soldier's chest and melted like butter in a furnace.
"INTRUDERS!!"
Alarms screamed.
Tony grabbed his hair. "JARVIS! How long until my Christmas miracle arrives?!"
"Estimated arrival… four minutes."
"FOUR MINUTES?!" Tony stared at the onrushing human furnaces.
"In four minutes you'll be scraping me off the dock!"
"TONY—DOWN!" Rhodey tackled him.
BOOOOM!!
The ground where they'd been moments earlier collapsed into molten slag.
"Well… this is going great," Tony muttered.
Then—
A calm voice drifted across the deck.
"Well, well… Tony Stark. And Colonel Rhodes."
Aldrich Killian stepped forward casually—unhurried, confident. He didn't even look at the President.
"An unexpected pleasure."
"Killian," Tony said, brushing ash off his jacket. "Nice glow. New cult, or is 'Desperate Artist' back in style?"
Killian's face twisted.
"You're just a turtle hiding in armor!"
"No Mandarin. No puppets," Killian roared. "I am the Mandarin! And tonight—you die by my hand!"
He raised his arm.
The Extremis soldiers surged.
Then—
WHOOOOOSH—!!!
The sky screamed.
From the west, engines tore the night open like angry comets.
Tony's eyes lit up.
"Yes!!"
One by one, armored figures slammed onto the tanker deck:
Mark 17 Heartbreaker.
Mark 19 Tiger.
Mark 20 Python.
And Tony's newest heavy hitter—Mark 24: Tank.
Eighteen suits total.
"Suit up, Rhodey!" Tony pointed.
"About damn time!"
Mark 12 snapped onto Rhodey mid-roll.
Tony was engulfed by the Tank armor.
"All right, glowsticks!" Tony's faceplate snapped shut.
"Party time!"
Reality hit fast.
These suits were early models—designed for conventional warfare.
Extremis… was a bug.
A soldier grabbed Mark 22's arm barehanded—
SSSSSSS—!!!
Three-thousand-degree heat liquefied it into slag.
Rhodey opened up with his rotary cannon. Bullets staggered one Extremis soldier—
—but the bastard charged through it, roaring.
"This is bad," Tony muttered.
Very bad.
And somewhere far above…
Homelander smiled.
Because the family reunion
had finally begun—
and he was right on schedule.