Antony had enjoyed the spotlight enough.
He took Jessica Jones by the hand and, under her stiff, barely cooperative resistance, led her off the stage and back toward the reserved VIP seating.
The lights in the theater slowly dimmed.
Just before the last trace of brightness vanished, Antony leaned close to Jessica's ear and murmured:
"You did great, Queen. And… tonight, you're beautiful."
"..."
Jessica Jones shuddered from head to toe. Her ears felt like they were on fire.
She yanked her hand away.
"…Shut up, you blond brat," she muttered.
And yet—strangely—she didn't stand up and leave like she usually would.
She stayed seated, stiff as a board, heart pounding like a drum.
----
The massive silver screen lit up.
A gigantic, flame-wreathed title slammed into everyone's vision:
HOMELANDER: ORIGIN
The theater lights went completely dark.
Inside the main hall of the TCL Theatre, the only sound was quiet breathing.
"Fuck."
Jessica muttered under her breath, sitting beside Antony.
She was already being strangled by that ridiculous white "Queen" suit, and now she was trapped here, forced to watch a self-glorifying biopic about this blond asshole.
"How did my life end up like this…" she whispered.
"Shh."
Antony leaned over, face close, putting a finger to his lips. "Watch carefully, sweetheart. This is art."
"Art my ass."
Jessica rolled her eyes, grabbed a fistful of popcorn, and chewed furiously.
-----
Not far away, Tony Stark lounged with one leg crossed over the other, his expression dripping with cynicism.
"Alright, Capsicle," he whispered to Steve Rogers, "ready for a full-body baptism in 'American Spirit'? Ten bucks says there's a slow-motion flag shot in the first five minutes."
Steve didn't answer.
He sat up straight, serious.
He'd never liked Hollywood-style exaggeration—but he wanted to believe.
He wanted to believe the man who stood on the White House lawn and said I just did the right thing was a genuine hero.
-----
In the back rows, hidden in an unremarkable corner, a thin, trembling figure clutched his seat.
A kid who'd snuck out of Queens, spent three months' worth of allowance on a scalped ticket—just to see him once.
"Whoa…"
The screen brightened.
STARR GROUP PRESENTS
A Vought Studios Production
…
The Movie Begins
The Hamptons.
An obscenely luxurious yacht party.
Antony Starr lounged in flashy swim trunks, martini in hand, surrounded by bikini models.
Rich.
Frivolous.
Empty.
"Ha." Tony snorted. "Wow. Solid acting. He plays me really well."
Then—
The storm hit.
Waves smashed down.
Darkness.
…
The scene cut to a dim laboratory.
Antony was strapped to a metal table, tubes piercing his body.
The villains of the so-called Chaos Organization launched into a long, self-important monologue.
"For fuck's sake…" Tony groaned. "Can villains ever write new dialogue?"
Then the syringe plunged into Antony's neck.
And Antony's Oscar-level performance exploded across the IMAX screen.
Bloodshot eyes.
Veins bulging from neck to forehead.
Wild thrashing.
A handsome face twisted by unbearable pain and fury.
"AAAAAAAHHHHH—!!!"
A scream not quite human tore through the Dolby sound system and slammed straight into the audience's chest.
Steve unconsciously clenched his fists.
Images from World War II flashed through his mind—his own injection, his own transformation.
Only Tony switched which leg was crossed.
"…Gotta admit," he muttered, "this guy deserves an Oscar."
…
The film continued.
Antony died in torment—and was reborn in chaos.
He pretended to submit.
Then he struck back.
The moment he broke free for the first time—
The first time heat vision erupted from his eyes and reduced his tormentor to charred ash—
"Fuck!"
Jessica dropped her popcorn bucket.
She remembered.
Kilgrave.
That night.
Those same cold, merciless beams.
…
Homelander destroyed the Chaos base.
Battle-damaged suit.
Hovering over a burning ruin.
He rescued every experimental subject.
The leader of Chaos—half his body scorched—collapsed on the ground and spat his final curse:
"You saved them… hahaha… you saved these ants!"
"You think they'll thank you?! They'll fear you! They'll call you a monster!"
"You have the power of a god! Why—why stand with insects?!"
The veteran actor delivered it flawlessly.
The camera turned to Antony.
Soot-blackened face.
No anger.
Only something close to divine pity.
He descended slowly, crouched in front of the villain, and spoke—his voice carried through the surround sound like a whisper in every ear.
"You asked me why?"
He stood, back to the camera.
The star-spangled cape billowed in the flames, as if burning.
He looked up at the sky—
As if piercing the screen itself, staring directly into the soul of every viewer.
"I don't know… I don't know why this power came to me."
"I only know… I have to use it to do what's right."
"Because—"
He turned.
Close-up.
Those blue eyes burned with unbreakable conviction.
"With great power… comes great responsibility."
"…!"
Steve Rogers snapped upright.
That line hit him like a punch to the heart.
He looked at Tony—and for once, Tony wasn't smirking.
"With great power comes great responsibility…" Steve repeated softly.
Watching the figure on screen, every lingering doubt in his heart dissolved.
Tony Stark stayed silent.
He said nothing.
He only remembered a cave in Afghanistan.
A man who gave his life to protect him.
Don't waste your life.
"Shit."
Tony drained his soda in one gulp.
That blond bastard…
He actually convinced me.
--------------
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