Central Park, New York.
This place is usually an open-air show venue.
The hot dog vendor was figuring out how to sell his two-dollar sausage for five dollars.
Street performers are dressed up as sculptures with cheap paint.
Couples were busy displaying their excess hormones on the grass.
Today was no exception, until that yellow school bus charged in like a mad bull.
The school bus showed no sign of slowing down and crashed directly into the fifty-year-old fountain at the entrance.
"Bang!"
Stone chips flew everywhere, and water splashed all over the ground.
The front of the car was badly dented, and the hood was sticking up with white smoke coming out.
The car door was kicked open roughly.
Four men wearing tactical vests and green hoods jumped down.
Although the AK47s they carried were older models, their Gunpowder was genuine.
The burly leader skillfully attached several plastic boxes with flashing red lights to the vehicle.
"Don't move! Anyone who moves will die!"
The burly man yelled at the top of his lungs, "We're the Earth Liberation Front! Listen up, this truck's loaded with dirty bombs! Enough to send you Manhattan parasites to meet your God!"
The surrounding crowd quickly erupted in uproar.
The old lady who was just feeding the pigeons threw down Breadcrumb and ran off; she was fast enough to compete in the Paralympics.
"What we want is very simple!"
The big guy continued to roar, spitting onto his mask.
"Release our brothers! Otherwise, these bastards will be executed!"
The sound of children crying came from the school bus, which was unsettling.
Two kilometers away, a black command vehicle without any markings.
The air conditioning inside the car was on full blast.
Hans Landa held a steaming cup of freshly ground coffee.
In front of him was a high-definition screen covering an entire wall, illuminating every corner of Central Park clearly.
"What's the name of that guy with the megaphone? Mike?"
Landa frowned and pointed at the large figure on the screen.
"Tell him to stop shaking; he's a terrorist, not a Parkinson's patient. His movement of attaching the bomb to the car was too stiff; deduct two hundred from his pay."
The assistant next to him was sweating profusely and quickly whispered into his earpiece.
"And that old lady who fell down," Landa said, taking a sip of her coffee, her eyes critical. "Was she one of our extras? If so, don't use her next time. Her fall was so fake, worse than someone faking an accident."
"That's just a passerby, sir."
The assistant whispered a reminder.
"Oh? That's just him playing himself." Landa shrugged. "Zoom in the helicopter camera, I want that sense of oppression, that feeling of despair as if the apocalypse is coming. Otherwise, how will our savior make his grand entrance?"
In one corner of the park, there was an inconspicuous van parked.
"Did you hear that, John?" Hannibal's voice rang out. "That's fear. They're calling upon God, calling upon someone who can pull them out of hell."
The Homelander stood before the mirror, his back ramrod straight.
His blue eyes were fixed intently on his reflection in the mirror.
"Remember your script. You must look at that trash as if it were your own child. Your eyes must have light, love, and that compassion that says, 'I am also heartbroken, but I must forgive you.'"
Hannibal patted him on the shoulder.
" Soldier Boy is a warrior, you are a saint. Go on, don't keep your audience waiting too long."
The car door slid open.
The midday sun pierced in like a sharp sword.
The Homelander narrowed his eyes.
With both feet off the ground, the cloak moved automatically even without wind.
The exhilarating feeling of defying gravity made every pore on his body open up.
He slowly ascended into the air, like a god descending to earth—slow, steady, and exuding an overwhelming sense of power.
Above the park.
The crowd, which had been screaming and running around, suddenly fell silent.
Everyone looked up at the figure hovering in mid-air.
" Homelander!"
Someone in the crowd called out that name.
"Fire! Shoot it down!"
The terrorists on the ground professionally let out a shout.
Four AK47s opened fire simultaneously.
"Da da da da!"
Homelander didn't flinch, not even blinking.
The bullet struck the blue combat suit.
Spark flew everywhere.
They turned into flat pieces of metal scrap, clattering and falling to the ground.
Mike's AK47 emptied its magazine.
The gun barrel made a hollow sound.
Click click.
Mike was stunned.
He acted out the fear as scripted, but he was genuinely trembling.
Under the gaze of those emotionless blue eyes, Mike felt like a skinned frog.
Homelander landed, his black boots crushing the spent cartridge cases on the ground.
Mike instinctively wanted to back away.
But behind him was the school bus.
"Don't come any closer!"
Mike threw away the hot rifle and drew a fighting knife from his waist.
He held the knife to the neck of a little girl closest to the door.
"Take one more step and I'll kill her!"
The little girl was so frightened that she cried loudly.
The crowd screamed.
This isn't in the script.
Hans Landa sat in the command vehicle, his brow furrowed.
What is Mike doing?
Hans asked coldly.
"The script said he should surrender and then be taken away by the police."
The assistant, wiping sweat, explained, "Perhaps he was too nervous and experienced a stress reaction."
Hans put down his coffee cup.
" Homelander, that girl is the focus. She's the daughter of a New York City councilman. If she loses a single hair, tomorrow's headlines will be about Vought's scandal. That's a bonus. Show off your speed, and don't let any blood splatter on the camera."
Homelander heard the instructions in his headset.
He looked at Mike, who was trembling all over, and at the little girl who was crying.
A red glint flashed in his eyes.
He wanted to burn both of their heads off.
Why are these insects always so troublesome?
Why can't we just obediently follow the script and die?
But he held back.
The Homelander took a deep breath.
He disappeared.
Only a blue afterimage remained in the air.
Bang!
A blur appeared before everyone's eyes.
Mike was gone; he was embedded in the metal side of the school bus, and the dagger in his hand was broken in two.
His eyes rolled back, he foamed at the mouth, and he completely lost consciousness.
Homelander stood in front of the little girl, crouching down to be at eye level with her.
"It's alright now."
The Homelander reached out and gently wiped away the girl's tears.
The bad guys have been driven away.
The little girl stopped crying.
She looked at the man in front of her who was wearing a cape draped with the United States flag.
The sunlight shone on his blond hair, giving it a golden edge.
Are you an angel?
The girl asked timidly.
The Homelander smiled.
This time, the smile was much more genuine.
Because he heard the thunderous applause all around him.
Homelander stood up and picked up the girl.
He turned around to face several cameras.
"I am Homelander."
The remaining three terrorists were already terrified.
They threw down their weapons, covered their heads with their hands, and knelt on the ground.
There was no intense gunfight.
There was no bloodshed.
Only absolute power brings absolute peace.
The sirens sounded at just the right moment.
"Bomb! There's a bomb in the car!"
Someone in the crowd shouted.
The red lights were still flashing; only ten seconds remained on the countdown.
Fortunately, everyone on the school bus had been evacuated, Homelander put the little girl down.
He turned and walked toward the damaged school bus.
He gripped the chassis with both hands.
The multi-ton vehicle felt as light as a toy model in his hands.
It shot into the sky amidst the gasps of the crowd.
One hundred meters.
Two hundred meters.
500 meters.
"Boom!"
A ball of orange-red fire exploded in the sky.
Against the backdrop of billowing black smoke.
The Homelander hovered in mid-air, looking down at the city below.
On the ground.
Countless people took out their phones and frantically took pictures of that figure.
Twitter, Facebook, YouTube...
Within minutes, " Homelander " surged to the top of the trending topics list.
#GodsDescendToEarth#
#PerfectHero#
# Soldier Boy #
Inside the command vehicle.
Hans Landa turned off the monitor with satisfaction.
"Not bad, except for that idiot who added scenes at the last minute."
He glanced at his assistant.
"Was Mike taken away?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get rid of him. He's unprofessional. An unprofessional actor will ruin the whole show. Give his family a compensation payment and say he died in a gang fight."