Times Square. Manhattan.
Deadpool tried to scramble over, arms and legs flailing.
"Get lost."
Antony turned sideways and kicked him without even looking.
BANG!
Deadpool flew like a red rubber ball, landing with pinpoint accuracy inside a still-burning trash can.
"AAAAH—! My ass is on fire!! Oh—my poor little brothers!!!"
At that moment, media crews who had just learned of Homelander's return went completely insane, storming past the distant police cordons.
"MOVE!! MOVE!!"
Reporters, streamers, and civilians holding up phones flooded into Times Square.
Cameras swung up.
Microphones extended.
Flashbulbs erupted, turning night into day.
"Mr. Stark! What was that black monster just now?!"
"Captain! Captain—look here! How do you assess this global crisis?!"
"Deadpool! Can you PLEASE put on pants?!"
The trainees who'd been sprawled half-dead on the ground suddenly snapped upright, backs straight, chins high—each striking their coolest possible pose.
Ashley's first rule of being a Vought hero:
You may be dying—but never look bad on camera.
Then the lenses shifted.
Every camera locked onto Antony.
He stood there spotless, cape drifting slightly in the wind—an island of composure amid the wreckage.
All microphones stretched toward him.
"Homelander! You destroyed the alien fleet and eliminated their leader! You saved the world again!"
"Do you have anything to say about this crisis?"
"Wait."
A steady voice cut through the noise.
Steve Rogers rose slowly under a forest of cameras.
His uniform was torn, his body battered—but the gravity of leadership clung to him like a mantle.
He walked to Antony's side and, before the entire world, extended his hand.
"I owe you my thanks, Homelander."
Steve's tone was solemn—yes, partly for show—but he understood Antony well enough to know this was the right currency.
"If not for your plan, if not for the courage and confidence you gave those kids, we wouldn't have won today."
He met Antony's eyes.
"You saved this city."
"You are a hero."
CLICK—!!!
The moment froze in history.
The spiritual leader of the Avengers, paying respect to the leader of Vought International.
This wasn't just a handshake.
It felt like a changing of the guard.
Antony clasped Steve's hand, wearing an expression of humility and quiet emotion.
"No, Captain."
He turned toward the trainees.
"Look at that thing," Antony said, pointing at the unrecognizable pile of black sludge.
"That was an enemy even gods couldn't defeat."
"But you," he continued, voice low and powerful,
"with mortal bodies—tore it apart."
"That fury in your hearts."
"That instinct to protect your home."
"That courage to charge forward even knowing you might die."
He swept his gaze across them.
"You… are the real heroes."
ROAR—!!!
Applause exploded.
Inside Antony's mind, the Popularity System went berserk.
DING! Special Popularity +8,000 (from Steve Rogers)
DING! Special Popularity +6,000 (from Tony Stark)
DING! Special Popularity +5,000 (from Pietro Maximoff)
DING! Special Popularity +5,000 (from Angelica Taylor)
DING! Special Popularity +2,000 (from Wade Wilson)
DING! …
Antony stared at the scrolling numbers—especially the final line:
Current Special Popularity: 98,500
The excitement tugging at the corner of his mouth was impossible to hide.
"WEE-OO—WEE-OO—"
Ambulance sirens—late by a full century—finally echoed through the ruins.
"Private room for me! With nurses! Hot nurses!"
"Don't touch my face! I've got ratings to protect!"
Amid chaos, laughter, and mutual insults, the heroes who had just saved Earth were loaded into ambulances—
like a bunch of high schoolers after the world's most violent brawl.
-----
Beyond Earth's atmosphere.
A cloaked vessel slipped silently into the dark.
The Dark Elf mothership.
Inside the bridge, silence reigned.
The remaining few hundred Dark Elves stared blankly at the holographic replay.
Their invincible king Malekith, reduced to volcanic ash.
Their strongest warrior—Kurse—beaten into an unrecognizable pulp by Midgardians.
Faith collapsed.
Fear spread.
"We're finished…" a lieutenant whispered, collapsing to his knees.
"The Aether is gone. The king is dead… we're the last ghosts of the Dark World."
"Who says you're finished?"
An elegant voice drifted down from above the command deck.
Every Dark Elf snapped their head up.
Seated upon Malekith's throne was a man in dark green robes, a golden horned helmet resting atop his head—
a dagger spinning lazily between his fingers.
A smile no one could read curved his lips.
"That Asgardian—!!"
"Kill him!"
Several Dark Elves surged forward—
"Enough."
Loki raised a single hand.
They stopped—on instinct.
"Kill me," Loki asked softly, standing and descending the steps, eyes sweeping over them.
"And then what?"
"Drift through space?"
"Wait for Asgard to hunt you down?"
"Or rot forever in exile—homeless in a frozen universe?"
The Dark Elves hesitated.
"You've lost your king. Your purpose," Loki continued, voice honeyed with temptation.
"You're lambs without a shepherd."
He spread his arms.
"But I can give you direction."
"I can take you somewhere Asgard can't touch."
"We can rebuild."
"We can take revenge on those self-righteous gods."
"Malekith is gone—but he left you this ship. This army."
"What you need…"
He tapped his temple and smiled like the devil.
"…is a new king."
"A smarter king."
"One who understands survival in a cruel universe."
Loki ran a hand along the cold control console.
"This ship," he murmured,
"…has so many possibilities."
Silence.
Then—
One Dark Elf lowered his weapon and knelt.
Then another.
And another.
Until all of them knelt before Loki.
His smile widened.
"Excellent."
He reclined back into the command throne, eyes fixed on the endless stars.
"Set sail."
--------------
T/N:
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