Antony's fingers twitched—then tightened around hers.
Their fingers interlocked, ten held against ten.
Tony watched their joined hands this time without a single joke, lifting his glass and taking a quiet sip instead.
Steve lowered his head, staring into the amber liquid in his cup.
"At least you still have memories," he said softly. "My Christmas… is still stuck in 1943. Bucky was still alive back then. We couldn't afford a turkey—just shared a single roasted potato in a Brooklyn alley."
A faint rasp crept into his voice.
"But I remember thinking… that was the best Christmas of my life. Because everyone was still there."
Silence fell.
"Well," Tony finally clapped his hands, breaking the heaviness, "since we're all officially orphans—how about a toast to a bunch of kids with no parents taking care of ourselves?"
He raised his glass.
"To us."
"To us."
Their glasses clinked together with a clear, ringing chime.
Ding! Special Popularity +1500 (from Tony Stark)
Ding! Special Popularity +2000 (from Steve Rogers)
Ding! Special Popularity +5000 (from Jessica Jones)
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The wall clock slid toward 11:55 PM.
"Alright, enough emotional damage," Tony declared, snapping back into showman mode. "Time for tonight's main event."
At his command, JARVIS switched the living room screen on.
Tony pointed at the display. "So tell me, Antony—your insane reality show is really opening registration at midnight?"
"Of course," Antony replied calmly, reclining against the couch. "It's America's Christmas present."
Onscreen, Times Square's countdown blazed across massive displays.
Vought Media had bought every ad slot for the night.
The massive logo—WHO IS THE NEXT?—flashed across every screen.
Reporters and streamers screamed into microphones amid freezing winds.
"Five minutes to go! Vought's servers are already hitting record-breaking traffic!"
"Superpowered individuals across the country are waiting for this moment!"
"Who will be the next star?!"
Tony's expression darkened.
"Do you actually understand what you're doing?" he asked seriously. "You're opening Pandora's box."
"Before this, people with powers stayed in the shadows. S.H.I.E.L.D. kept a lid on them—messy, sure, but society stayed stable."
He turned sharply toward Antony.
"Now you're telling them: Come out. Be famous. Get rich. You'll drag out lunatics, criminals, psychopaths—this world is going to explode."
"Explode?" Antony shook his head and rose, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, meeting his own reflection in the glass.
"Tony, do you think they stop existing just because you refuse to look?"
"They're already there. In Hell's Kitchen gutters. In rural barns. In padded hospital rooms."
"Repressed. Afraid. That pressure?"
"That's the real bomb."
Steve studied him with conflicted eyes.
"But this feels… cynical, Antony. Heroes shouldn't chase fame or profit."
"That was your era, Captain," Antony replied evenly. "In this one, nobody works for free. If you want people to protect the world—give them something worth protecting."
BONG—!!
Midnight struck.
A new day began.
The moment registration opened, the counter detonated.
1,000…
10,000…
50,000…
Within minutes—over 100,000 applicants.
"My God…" Steve whispered. "That many?"
"This is the American Dream," Antony said, eyes blazing at the screen. "Everyone wants to be the protagonist."
"Hold on," Tony frowned. "There are that many enhanced people in the U.S.? I thought guys like you and Steve were rare."
"Most aren't real," Antony said coolly, swirling his drink. "Some can curl their tongues into flowers or chug two liters of soda and think that makes them superheroes."
"But that just proves one thing."
He pointed at the still-rising number—desire, ambition, mass hunger.
"People crave power. People crave attention."
"Tony. Steve."
Antony turned, spreading his arms, the glowing numbers behind him like a digital crown.
"This is the future I'm talking about."
"A future where superhumans don't hide—
they take center stage."
The screen switched to live applicant videos.
Clip #1:
A pimply overweight guy shouted at the camera.
"I'm the Fart King! I can blow out candles with my farts!"
A thunderous explosion followed.
Everyone: "..."
Jessica: "Ugh—"
----
Clip #12:
A bikini-clad woman snapped her fingers, sparks blooming.
"I'm Fire Girl! I'm hot!"
Tony: "Hmm… I'll allow it. JARVIS, get her contact info."
Pepper: "TONY."
----
Clip #25:
A masked man in a red bodysuit, twin katanas on his back.
He flipped off the camera—then sliced the finger clean off.
"Witness the miracle! Ta-da—ta-da—TA-DA! It grew back! Hahaha! I'm Wade! I wanna sleep with Homelander! Pick me! Pick me!"
Silence.
Steve frowned. "That's… excessively violent."
Antony's pupils narrowed.
Deadpool? Deadpool—Wade Wilson?
So this universe had its own version too.
Interesting.
----
Clip #33:
A silver blur zipped past the camera.
Nothing visible—only arrogant laughter.
"My name's Pietro! I'm the fastest man alive! By the time you read my name, I've already run from coast to coast!"
Antony's lips curved faintly.
Pietro Maximoff.
Quicksilver. HYDRA was getting restless.
"Looks like some real players slipped in," Tony said grimly. "That silver kid—he's fast. JARVIS, analysis?"
"Sir, frame-rate calculations indicate speeds exceeding Mach 20. This is a genuine enhanced individual."
"And that finger-cutting lunatic," Steve added. "His healing factor… it's faster than any Super Soldier I've seen."
Antony's gaze burned with certainty.
"This," he said quietly,
"is exactly what I intend to do, Captain."
--------------
T/N:
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