Just when J. Jonah Jameson was certain he was about to die—
about to be splattered across the pavement like a bag of dropped groceries—
WHOOSH.
A blue blur ripped through the air.
At less than a hundred meters from the ground, Antony dove down faster than gravity itself, casually grabbed Jameson out of free fall, and slowed to a gentle descent.
"Oh. Caught you."
"..."
Jameson's brain had completely shut down.
A few seconds later, they were back inside the glass-shattered editor-in-chief's office.
Thud.
Jameson was tossed onto the carpet like a sack of wet laundry, coughing violently, gasping for air as if his lungs were on fire.
A sharp, unmistakable smell spread across the floor.
…He'd pissed himself.
"Ugh."
Antony took two steps back in disgust and casually flicked on his X-ray vision.
"Tsk, Jonah. That bladder's not doing too great.
Prostate's a little swollen too."
Jameson trembled violently, staring up at him like he was gazing at the Devil himself—teeth chattering, eyes unfocused.
Antony slowly crouched down, the perfect, heroic smile returning to his face.
He patted Jameson's soaked cheek lightly.
"Listen carefully, Jonah.
I'm New York's hero. The people… love me."
Then he pointed at the puddle between Jameson's legs.
"And you—
you're a smart man."
"So tomorrow's front page?"
"I'd really like to see something a bit more… positive."
He tilted his head.
"Something like:
'Homelander: Guardian of New York'
—or maybe—
'J. Jonah Jameson: I Owe Homelander an Apology.'"
His smile widened.
"So… which one do you like?"
"…Guardian… Protector…"
Jameson croaked, forcing the words out with what little dignity he had left.
"Good boy."
Antony stood up, straightened his uniform—
—and vanished into the night.
The office was left in silence.
-----
Back in his penthouse apartment, Antony poured himself a glass of Antony Starr's vintage '82 "Happy Juice," took a satisfied sip, and casually turned on the TV.
"—Due to the aftermath of the Battle of New York, Stark Industries experienced major fluctuations earlier today. However—
breaking news—Starr Group, whose sole heir Antony Starr was presumed dead, has officially confirmed his return.
Starr Group stock has surged by 300%."
Perfect timing.
His phone rang.
"Mr. Starr," his personal attorney said respectfully, "the board is fully assembled. All assets have been unfrozen. The Group is awaiting your instructions."
"Good."
Antony walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the city he now owned in every sense that mattered.
"Keep the Group running as-is.
But register a new company for me."
"Yes, sir. What kind?"
"Media. PR."
"And the name?"
"…Call it Vought."
Vought International Media was born.
Backed by the overwhelming capital of Starr Group, it completed registration, staffing, and preliminary operations in just three weeks.
Naturally, as the company's founder—and its only signed talent—Antony fully cooperated with every promotional campaign.
"Mr. Starr, Vought's brand valuation rose another twelve percent after yesterday's rescue," an assistant reported excitedly.
"Our PR strategy is extremely effective. Homelander as an IP is currently the hottest name on the planet—"
"Not an IP," Antony corrected calmly.
He stood before the window again, overlooking New York.
"It's faith."
"…Y-Yes, sir."
"Tonight's schedule?"
"The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. Live nationwide."
"Excellent."
Antony turned, wearing that flawless smile.
"Let America see how approachable their hero really is."
…..
Before the talk show, Antony attended the Battle of New York Victims Relief Gala, hosted at Stark Tower—
or rather, Avengers Tower now.
And unsurprisingly, he ran into Tony Stark.
"Heads up, Pep," Tony muttered lazily to Pepper Potts, martini in hand.
"The blonde sweetheart's here."
Unlike canon history, Tony hadn't gone on a near-fatal joyride into space this time.
No near-death experience meant no PTSD, no sleepless nights inside armor.
He was still the same old Tony Stark—
billionaire, genius, party king.
Tony circled Antony once, champagne glass raised.
"You're wearing that to a gala?"
"Seriously? Is there anything under the suit, or is that just… confidence?"
Still sharp. Still annoying.
"People need a hero who's on call 24/7, Tony," Antony said deliberately louder, drawing glances from nearby guests.
"Not someone who only shows up after people die to avenge them."
Polite applause rippled nearby.
Tony scoffed. "Wow. That line from Vought's PR department?"
"I heard you started a company," Tony continued, smirking.
"So what's this Vought thing do—print posters of your face?"
"Public relations," Antony replied smoothly.
"Someone has to clean up after heroes.
Make sure they look like heroes—
not like arrogant men who keep building weapons that kill people."
Tony's smile froze.
"…You talking about me?"
"Just a metaphor," Antony said, patting his shoulder lightly.
"Relax."
Then he smiled sweetly.
"Nice tower, by the way.
If it weren't for it, those aliens wouldn't have had such a convenient landing zone."
"…."
For once, Tony Stark had nothing to say.
This Antony Starr—
his mouth was deadlier than a repulsor blast.
"Fuck…" Tony muttered, draining his glass.
"You're a boring bastard."
"Tony."
A familiar voice cut in.
Steve Rogers, dressed in a slightly outdated but impeccably pressed suit, approached.
"Homelander," Steve said, offering his hand.
"Good to see you again. What you've been doing lately… it's admirable."
"I'm just following your example, Captain," Antony replied humbly, shaking his hand.
"You're the real hero."
Steve visibly warmed to that.
"You're too modest. You've adapted… remarkably well."
"Oh great," Tony groaned.
"America's Favorite Icons Club."
"You two enjoy the positivity. I'm gonna find people who drink."
And high above Manhattan, bathed in lights and praise—
Vought had taken its first breath.
The age of heroes…
was about to become the age of brands.