"Screw you!"
Mason Vance—once a three-time Academy Award winner, now a bankrupt drunk—crushed the cheap beer can in his fist until the aluminum bit into his palm. He flicked it off the roof, watching it spiral into the Manhattan skyline until a muffled curse drifted up from a balcony forty floors below.
Forty-four stories up, the night wind didn't just blow; it bit. It stung his cheeks numb, but he didn't care. He was forty-four stories up and at the absolute bottom of his life.
Bankrupt. Blacklisted by every major studio. The internet's favorite punching bag.
The team he'd built and the woman he'd loved—Chloe Sterling—had orchestrated a masterpiece of a betrayal. In a single night, his life had shifted from the red carpet at the Dolby Theatre to a headline on TMZ. The Digital Entertainment Oversight Committee had revoked his licenses, citing a "moral turpitude" clause that was clearly a setup.
"Hahahahaha!"
Mason's laughter was a jagged, manic sound that tore through the wind. He was an actor—the best in the business. He knew exactly what the public craved and what the studio execs demanded. He'd spent his life thinking he was the player at the table, only to realize he was just the most expensive piece of trash to be tossed aside.
He knew he'd been framed, but Chloe had been surgical. The woman he'd plucked from obscurity and turned into a star had dismantled him without leaving a single fingerprint for the feds to find.
"Die..." he hissed, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and bottom-shelf bourbon. "Every last one of you... just rot and die!"
He snatched a second bottle, tilted his head back, and drained it.
"Just fucking die!" he roared at the skyline, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
That was when the sky tore open. A brilliant, blinding streak of white light cut across the darkness. A meteor.
Mason froze, his breath hitching. Meteor... Shooting star...
The name of Chloe's breakout film. The celestial coincidence felt like a slap in the face. He glared at the falling star, a savage, drunken grin spreading across his face. In a fit of sheer, nihilistic madness, he reached down and undid his belt with a single, aggressive tug.
"Screw this!" he screamed, aiming his defiance at the light streaking overhead. "Screw your meteor! And screw you, Chloe! Look at me! Is this what you wanted?!"
He vented his insanity into the gale, howling like a banshee. "Come on! Kill me! Do it! I'll do whatever I damn well want!"
Then, the universe decided to answer.
The meteor, which should have burned out in seconds, did something impossible. It didn't fade. It didn't pass. It flinched.
As if offended by his taunt, the streak of fire snapped through a sharp, predatory angle. It locked on. What was a distant light transformed into a roaring intercontinental missile of white-hot heat, screaming straight for Mason's skull.
"I... what the hell?"
The booze evaporated from his system in a heartbeat. The madness on his face curdled into pure terror as his pupils reflected the oncoming apocalypse. He didn't even have time to zip up.
"Wait, I was kidding... no need to—"
BOOM.
There was no scream. No cinematic last words. The moment the meteor made contact, Mason Vance wasn't just killed; he was vaporized. Not even ash remained.
Mason's eyes snapped open.
"What the...?"
His first realization was that he wasn't standing. He was drifting. He looked down and saw his boots dangling hundreds of feet above a pristine asphalt street.
Directly ahead of him loomed a gargantuan skyscraper, its glass curtain wall acting as a massive, smoke-tinted mirror. In the reflection stood a man he didn't recognize, yet knew intimately from every comic book and movie trailer he'd ever seen.
He was tall, built like a linebacker, and looked to be in his mid-twenties. His blond hair was coiffed into a military-precise style. He wore a deep blue bodysuit that looked like it cost more than a fighter jet. Gold eagle epaulettes flared at the shoulders, and a heavy, star-spangled cloak billowed majestically in a wind he could no longer feel.
Mason stayed silent for three long seconds, his actor's brain trying to process the "costume."
He flexed a finger. The man in the mirror flexed back. He tried a charming, practiced grin—the kind he used to give the paparazzi. The reflection flashed a row of perfect, blindingly white teeth.
"Uh..." he muttered, his voice deeper, more resonant. "Did I become Superman? No... wait."
He squinted. The eagle motifs. The specific shade of blue. The slightly-too-perfect American aesthetic. The realization hit him like a freight train.
"Holy shit... Homelander?"
He'd transmigrated? He was now the face of Vought International? The psychotic, star-spangled nightmare?
"I'm in The Boys universe?" His scalp prickled at the thought of the gore-soaked world he'd just entered. "Where am I? Vought Tower? Am I about to have Billy Butcher shove a crowbar up my—"
BOOM!
A deafening explosion cut his thoughts short. It wasn't the sound of a supe-terrorist. It was bigger. Much bigger.
He jerked his gaze upward, and his jaw nearly hit his chest.
High above the New York skyline, a massive, swirling wormhole of pulsing blue energy hung like a wound in the atmosphere. Thousands of metallic, insect-like fliers poured out, piloted by grey-skinned aliens spitting lethal energy beams into the screaming crowds below.
A massive, armored Leviathan—a biological battleship the size of a freight train—burst through the portal, groaning with a sound that vibrated in Mason's very bones. It plowed through the side of a nearby office building, raining glass and steel onto the streets.
Mason drifted down, his boots touching the edge of a rooftop ledge. His cloak snapped behind him as he stared at the carnage.
Down in the intersection, a massive green behemoth was currently overhead-pressing a yellow cab and slamming it into a cluster of alien soldiers.
"Hulk... SMASH!"
Nearby, a man in a blue suit with a vibranium shield was barking orders to a group of terrified NYPD officers. "Hold this block! We need to funnel them west!"
A redhead in black tactical gear vaulted onto a passing alien sled, jamming an electric stinger into the pilot's neck, while an archer on a neighboring roof picking off targets with impossible precision. High above, a red-and-gold streak of hot-rod red armor engaged two Leviathans, his repulsors lighting up the smoky sky.
"...Fuck," Mason whispered.
He realized he had a much bigger problem than Billy Butcher.
"This isn't The Boys," he breathed, watching the Hulk rip the jaw off a Chitauri warrior. "This is the Avengers. This is the goddamn Battle of New York."
Suddenly, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in his mind.
[Superstar System Activated... Binding Host... Successful!]
[System Overview: In this world, Image is everything. Popularity is Power. The more the world loves (or fears) you, the stronger you become.]
[Current Template: Homelander (Basic Edition)]
[Abilities: Flight, Super-strength, Steel Body, Super-stamina, Super-speed, Heat Vision, X-Ray Vision, Super-hearing.]
[Current Fame: 0 (Nobody)]
[Note: Once a region's fame reaches 'Superstar' status, all temporary attribute boosts become permanent.]
[Newbie Quest: 'The Perfect Debut'.]
[Objective: During the Battle of New York, ensure you are the center of attention. Outshine the 'Heroes.']
[Reward: Unlock Homelander's Exclusive Indestructible Suit.]
"More fame, more power..."
Mason repeated the words, a slow, predatory smile creeping across his face. He looked at his hands—hands that could crush steel—and then down at the chaotic, war-torn streets of Manhattan.
The world was watching. The cameras were rolling. And he was the greatest actor the world had ever seen.
"Hah..."
The laugh started low in his chest and built into something wild and unstoppable.
"Hahahahahahaha!"
He'd spent his life craving power, money, and the spotlight. He'd been destroyed because he didn't have the muscle to back up his ambition. Well, that was over.
"Superstar System?" he whispered, his eyes beginning to glow with a faint, flickering red heat. "You really do know how to pick 'em."
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