Become a Homelander and a Marvel superstar

The South Lawn of the White House was packed with people.

Today's press conference was completely open to the public. Reporters from major mainstream media outlets across the country were all pointing their cameras and microphones at the podium.

Behind the press box, thousands of people had completely surrounded the lawn.

Some people held up signs supporting the people of the motherland, while others held up protest placards that read "Get off the stage." The crowd was noisy and the atmosphere was tense.

John walked to the microphone, not looking down at everyone with his head held high as usual, but with his head slightly lowered and his shoulders slumped.

The audience fell silent.

Everyone stared at the band-aid on his nose and the purplish bruise on the corner of his mouth.

"Hey fellow Americans," John said with a self-deprecating smirk, pointing to the band-aid on his nose. "I know what you're thinking right now. Look, that guy in the tights has a band-aid on. He looks awful. Yeah, I look awful."

The reporters below the stage quickly pressed their shutters, and the flashes went off one after another.

"The White House was attacked a few hours ago."

"Former FBI agent Billy Butcher, along with his superhuman terrorists, stormed into the Oval Office."

A commotion arose from the crowd.

“They didn’t come to assassinate me, at least not entirely.” John raised his hand and pressed it forward. “Butcher transformed himself into a long-tentacle bio-monster, and his associates brought a radioactive virus specifically designed to target me. Butcher was trying to use this virus to hold me hostage, turn me into a puppet under his control, and then take control of the entire White House, pushing the country into the abyss.”

A female reporter wearing glasses in the audience shouted, "Do you have any evidence? Why would Butcher do this? This sounds like just another excuse made up by Vought International!"

Secret Service agents nearby immediately stepped forward, ready to drive the reporter away.

"Let her talk, don't touch her." John raised his hand to stop the agent.

He gave the female reporter a wry smile: "Evidence? The FBI is already cleaning up the radiation residue at the scene, and the surveillance footage will be released on the White House website in an hour. But you're right, ma'am, I have indeed lied a lot in the past. Vought International taught me how to smile in front of the camera and how to say nice things. But today, I face two choices."

"Either preserve my invulnerable body and collude with Butcher to become a monster that destroys the country, or deliberately detonate the radioactive energy within me, at the cost of losing all superhuman powers."

John unbuttoned his suit jacket, loosened his red tie, and revealed the bruises below his collar that hadn't yet faded.

"I chose the latter... I am no longer invulnerable to bullets and blades, I can no longer fly, and I can no longer shoot lasers from my eyes. Now, I am just like every one of you here, I feel pain, I bleed, and a single peanut can kill me."

He chuckled self-deprecatingly, his eyes slightly reddening: "To be honest, this feels awful. My whole body aches, and I almost twisted my ankle when I went up the stairs just now."

The die-hard fans in the audience, wearing Homelander merchandise T-shirts, were already sobbing uncontrollably.

In their eyes, a high and mighty god deliberately broke his wings and fell to the dust in order to protect mortals.

But the other half of the public remained indifferent.

Although many were moved by John's sincere tone and put down their protest signs, long-standing skepticism made them reluctant to easily believe in this once capricious superhero.

"Is this just a show? Who knows if it's Walter's new script?" a rebellious young man muttered to his companion.

"Let's see," his companion nodded. "It sounds touching, but this guy is also an actor."

On the podium, John looked at the diverse expressions on the faces of the crowd below and continued, "I know I've made many mistakes in the past. I was arrogant and haughty. I know many of you here dislike me, hate me, and think I'm just putting on a show. I don't blame you; I deserve it."

John's voice rose eight octaves as he continued, "But Butcher is gone, and he and his terrorist accomplices are still lurking in the shadows! The conspiracy against this country is not over! My superpowers may be gone, but the super responsibility on my shoulders has not diminished in the slightest!"

"Even if I lose my superpowers, even if I'm just a mortal now, as long as the people need me, I will still be a Homelander who is willing to stand in front of all of you! You may not believe what I say today, but time will tell!"

The die-hard fans of Homelander, seeing their idols fall from grace, did not break down. Instead, they dragged their battered bodies and vowed to continue protecting them, which immediately excited the group of rednecks.

"Fatherlanders! We love you!"

"You are a true hero, John!"

On the other side of the lawn, the people who had originally held up protest signs looked at each other in bewilderment.

Some people even slowly put down the signs that read "Fascists out".

Although they were also moved by the somber atmosphere, their long-standing doubts prevented them from immediately joining in the cheers; they simply watched the stage in silence.

Just then.

"Bang!"

A gunshot pierced the sky.

The bullet grazed John's cheek, instantly tearing a bloody gash across his right cheek, blood dripping down his chin onto the collar of his white shirt.

"There's an assassin!!"

"Protect the President!!"

The scene erupted in chaos.

The reporters screamed and crouched down, while the crowd behind them panicked.

A dozen Secret Service bodyguards in black suits rushed up from below the stage, set up bulletproof briefcases, and tightly shielded John in the middle, trying to push his head down and drag him backstage.

"Mr. President! Get down! There's a sniper at three o'clock!" the bodyguard captain shouted hoarsely.

John's face stung.

The fear of death made his legs tremble instinctively.

But a second before the agents pinned him to the ground, he remembered his father, Anthony Starr's, words.

"If someone wants you dead, don't hide, John. Look at the camera and show them who the real hero is."

"Let me go!"

John roared, and with a burst of brute force from who-knows-where, he shoved aside the two agents in front of him.

He strode to the very front of the podium, facing the chaotic crowd and countless dark camera lenses.

A gentle breeze lifted the huge Stars and Stripes flag behind him.

John raised his clenched right fist high, facing the sunlight, and roared with all his might:

"Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Sunlight pierced through the clouds and shone directly onto the podium.

He wore a blood-stained suit, half of his face was covered in blood, but his eyes were like those of an unyielding lion, standing tall in the raging wind with his fist raised.

One of the New York Times photographers in the front row even forgot to run away, and subconsciously knelt on the ground, pressing the shutter button more than a dozen times at an upward angle to capture John.