Seventy-two hours.
That’s all it took.
Suddenly, everyone knew my name.
I was in a penthouse, eighty-five stories up in Vought Tower, looking out over Manhattan.
The city was just a mess of glowing grids under the night, buzzing and pulsing.
A week ago, nobody even noticed me—I was just some guy wolfing down cold eggs at a grime-slicked diner, counting overtime to scrape up rent.
My wallet used to be empty.
Suddenly, I had a private elevator and more money sitting in my account than I’d ever seen.
But I wasn’t feeling like I’d arrived.
Not at all.
Honestly, just standing there with the city sprawled out forever beneath my feet left me cold.
My guts twisted.
The Viltrumite blood itched and seethed in my head, telling me I was above it all, a god among men, but the rest of me remembered the stench of that Bronx alleyway, the thud of tires, how hard surviving used to be.
I wasn’t built for this spotlight.
I was still the same guy who got splattered by a truck and woke up in somebody else’s nightmare.
Over on the bed, a matte-black case waited.
My suit.
I opened it.
Exactly as I’d pictured—blinding white, slate-gray slashing harsh lines over the shoulders and around the ribs.
I stripped down, pulled the suit on.
The fabric hugged me, almost humming.
I stumbled over to the mirror and just stared.
Invincible.
I looked like him.
It was unreal.
Then emergency lights went crazy, everything suddenly bathed in red.
The alarm cut through the room like a blade.
The door banged open.
Ashley Barrett barreled in, clutching her tablet like it’d save her.
She was pale as a ghost.
Queen Maeve followed right behind—already in armor, smelling of peppermint and last night’s bourbon.
“Flight 37,” Ashley gasped out, voice all jitter and static.
“Paris to New York.
Hijacked.
Over the Atlantic.
Three guys—they shot the pilot.
Plane’s going down.” And then, just like that, Homelander floated right in.
Didn’t even touch the floor.
He looked… I don’t know, almost hungry.
Definitely not rattled.
He was loving the chaos.
“We’re on it,” he boomed, all polish, all fake hero.
“Maeve, with me.” Then he shot a look at me.
That smile felt creepy, didn’t even come close to his eyes.
“Stand down, rookie,” he told me, voice oozing.
“You did good at the bank, but this?
This is different.
Aviation rescue isn’t for beginners—I can’t have you smashing the plane by accident.
This is ours.” He didn’t bother with a debate.
Snatched Maeve’s arm, marched out to the balcony, and rocketed off so hard the air still shook after.
Silence again.
Just me and a city too big to hold.
I already knew this story.
I’d seen it before—Flight 37.
Homelander roasting terrorists, melting the controls by accident, then acting like he never could’ve saved anyone.
One hundred and twenty-three people erased, because it bruised his ego.
A blue interface flickered in my brain.
[Current Points: 62,500] [Next Upgrade: Elite Viltrumite Bloodline – 100,000 Points] Simple math.
If I let everything happen like before, nothing changed.
Safe timeline.
Safe me.
Same world.
But, for once, it wasn’t about points or systems.
Not even the game.
I shut my eyes.
Couldn’t shake the memory—the horn blaring, my ribs shattering like glass, how useless I felt.
The people on that plane weren’t some number on a screen.
“Forget the script,” I muttered.
I jumped onto the balcony and hurled myself into the storm.
Mach 3 above the Atlantic.
Rain like needles, clouds thick enough to choke.
I hardly noticed the pressure—Viltrumite perks—but adrenaline was cooking me from inside out.
Ten minutes later—a massive 727, weaving wild through the clouds.
I slowed, dropping into the slipstream behind its tail.
Pressed my ear to the hull—inside, chaos: screams, burning plastic.
Homelander and Maeve were already in.
I scrambled over the fuselage, quiet and fast, stopped over the cockpit.
Tore open the hatch, dropped in.
Total mayhem.
The cockpit was a mess of smoke, flickering light.
Hijackers were dead.
Everything else—just slag.
Homelander turned, eyes basically on fire.
Maeve was pressed against the wall, clutching what was left of the captain’s chair, more freaked than I’d ever seen her.
I slammed the cockpit door, locking us away from the terrified passengers.
Homelander’s words came sharp as glass: “What the fuck are you doing here!
I gave you an order!” “You fried the controls,” I snapped, not breaking eye contact.
Maeve tugged at his arm, voice trembling.
“Lift the plane!
Just…you have to try—” “I can’t!” Homelander barked back, suddenly sounding terrified.
“There’s nothing to grab—if I pull, I’ll rip it apart!” The plane started nosing down—hard.
For the first time, Homelander genuinely panicked.
“We’re leaving,” he muttered, voice barely his.
“We have to go before anyone finds out.” I stood in his way.
“You walk, you’re a murderer.” “They’re already dead!” He looked about ready to crack.
“If people know what happened… I’m finished.” So that was it.
The great Homelander, terrified of looking weak.
I leveled with him.
“Don’t run.
Don’t blow up the story.
Help me.
We both lift together.” He glared.
“Did you not hear me?
You can’t—” “You don’t know what I know.” I cut him off.
“Push on one spot, and you’ll punch through the shell.
But if we spread out—share the pressure—we can prop her up, keep her together.” He just stared, anger and shame chewing at him.
But he listened.
“I take the center,” I shot out as the nose dipped again.
“You get the front.
You move where I say, nothing fancy.
Got it?” He gave a shaky nod.
“Maeve, stay here.” Then I kicked the hatch and jumped out.
Homelander followed.
Outside, it was all howl and pandemonium.
The plane, all three hundred thousand pounds of it, spinning below.
I wedged myself under the middle, feet braced, arms wide.
Homelander grabbed the nose.
Now, I called out across comms.
I heaved upward with everything left in me.
My hands punched into the metal—pain shot up my spine.
My back tore and healed on the spot, blood hot in my mouth.
“Push!” I yelled.
The nose steadied.
Homelander was actually helping.
The dive slowed, rough but real.
We held the plane.
Inside, everything shifted.
Screams faded to stunned silence—people realized they’d actually survived.
Minutes blurred together—twenty, maybe more—my arms on fire, hands numb.
Then, finally, the coastline tore through the fog.
JFK.
Airport We followed the plane down.
Inch by brutal inch, sliding, guiding.
Until the runway flashed into view.
“Let it go for the last bit!” I shouted.
We bailed at the last second.
The 727 slammed down, showered sparks, screeched, then shuddered to a stop.
Ambulances and fire trucks rushed in, lights everywhere.
I hovered there, dead tired, suit streaked and ruined, arms shaking.
Couldn’t stop grinning.
People poured out of the jet, crying and hugging, some just kissing the asphalt.
Alive.
Suddenly, that knot in my chest let go.
We did it.
We actually did.
Homelander landed next to me, all perfect.
He grinned for the cameras, milked the hero act.
But his eyes met mine—and he knew.
He knew exactly who saved those lives.
I didn’t let him look away.
Not for a second.
Right then, time seemed to freeze.
The blue interface in my head pulsed gold.
[CRITICAL TIMELINE FRACTURE.] [Catastrophic Canon Event Averted: Flight 37 Saved.] [Major Leverage Acquired: Homelander’s Secret Secured.] [Public Image of The Seven Protected.] And now, gold letters: [Calculating Rewards…] [Reward: 50,000 System Points.] [Current Points: 112,500] [Threshold Met.] [Upgrade Available: Elite Viltrumite Bloodline.] I stared at those words, then at the chaos still spilling across the tarmac.
Press, cameras, Homelander soaking up the applause.
Let him have it.
He could play king.
I was about to become Elite.