Marvel: Starting with the Homelander Template

"Your strength surpasses Nocturne and Daybreak's, but only by a margin."

The red-haired man's voice was calm, but beneath its smoothness lay an edge sharp enough to cut steel. He didn't need to raise his tone; his authority was absolute, the kind that pressed down on anyone who heard him like a physical weight.

He turned slightly, his crimson hair glinting under the pale light spilling through the balcony doors, and glanced at Oblivion.

"They were crushed effortlessly. You wouldn't fare any better."

The words weren't an insult—they were a simple statement of fact.

Oblivion's jaw tightened. For the briefest moment, defiance flickered across his face, a shadow of pride whispering that he was different. That he wasn't like the others who had failed.

But the moment passed just as quickly. He lowered his gaze. He wasn't a fool.

As much as it grated on him to admit it, the Master was right.

The Three Horsemen were chosen because their power stood above all others, their strength honed until they were the pinnacle of mutant evolution. They were equals—rivals, even.

If Nocturne and Daybreak had been dismantled so effortlessly, his own chances of victory weren't just slim—they were nonexistent.

"You're correct, Master," Oblivion conceded, his voice losing its edge. There was no shame now, only the heavy weight of reality. "At this point, only you could suppress him."

For a man who had always considered himself unstoppable, the admission tasted bitter. Yet even as he said it, there was a spark in his eyes—an unwilling but undeniable awe.

To think that another mutant, someone outside their organization, had climbed to a level that rivaled even the Master himself…

It was almost unthinkable.

"Shall I prepare for your intervention?" Oblivion asked after a beat, his words eager despite himself.

The Master's gaze shifted to him.

Cold. Unforgiving.

"Do you truly believe Alex Winters warrants my personal attention?"

The question struck like a blade.

Oblivion immediately lowered his head further, spine stiff. "My apologies, Master. I spoke out of turn."

The Master didn't look away from the horizon, but his presence alone seemed to darken the air around him.

"We are not mere brutes seeking glory through mindless combat," he said, his tone icy, deliberate. "Our purpose has never been to chase power for its own sake. We pursue results—not theatrics."

His voice softened, becoming almost a whisper, though the weight behind it only grew heavier.

"There is only one who deserves to be called our true opponent. All others…" His fingers curled around the balcony railing, knuckles whitening slightly. "…are merely tools."

Oblivion bowed deeper, forcing the tension in his body to still.

"Understood."

"Then you know what must be done."

"At once, Master."

Without hesitation, Oblivion reached into the inner pocket of his immaculate suit and retrieved a sleek, matte-black communication device. Its surface shimmered faintly, far more advanced than any piece of civilian or military technology in the outside world.

His thumb slid across the interface, triggering a secure channel.

"Initiate Protocol Two," Oblivion said, his voice calm yet charged with intent. "Capture target: Alex Winters."

---

Control Room – Brooklyn Facility

Deep underground, a man built like a tank sat hunched over a bank of consoles, his massive hands surprisingly precise as they danced across keys and toggled switches. His short-cropped hair and square jaw gave him the look of a soldier forged in war rather than science.

Schwarzenegger—once a mercenary, now the base's chief enforcer—frowned as the order crackled through his headset.

"Protocol Two?" he muttered under his breath.

For a man like him, who respected raw strength above all else, the meaning was obvious:

Even Oblivion doubts he can take this guy head-on.

That was unsettling in its own way. If the strongest of the Three Horsemen wouldn't risk a direct fight, just what kind of monster were they dealing with?

Still, orders were orders. And Schwarzenegger had never been one to hesitate once a command was given.

His fingers moved quickly, activating a series of commands that unlocked hidden panels, armed dormant systems, and prepared the facility for its most dangerous countermeasure.

---

Sealed Corridor

Far above the control room, Alex suddenly paused mid-step.

His head tilted slightly, as though catching a distant sound carried by a wind no one else could feel.

Charles and Hank, walking just behind him, stopped as well.

Alex's lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in something closer to mild interest.

"So that's their 'Protocol Two,' is it?" he murmured to himself, as if commenting on the weather.

Charles blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"Their backup plan for dealing with us," Alex said casually, not slowing his stride.

Hank frowned. "How could you possibly know that?"

Alex's shoulders lifted in an almost lazy shrug. "I overheard their discussion."

For a moment, neither Charles nor Hank responded. They glanced at each other, then around the empty corridor.

There wasn't a single person within sight—or even within the range of their own mutant senses.

Yet Alex had heard not just whispers, but specific words.

Just how far could his enhanced senses really reach?

At this point, they'd lost track of how many abilities he had revealed.

Super strength, flight, invulnerability, heat vision, x-ray vision, super speed, enhanced hearing, and now—what? Some kind of absurd long-range auditory perception that could pick up conversations buried deep underground?

The realization sent a subtle chill down their spines.

Before Hank could voice the question forming on his lips—

CLANG! CLANG!

The corridor shook violently as massive steel barriers dropped from hidden compartments above, slamming down at both ends with a deafening echo.

The sound reverberated through the narrow hall, sealing them into a confined metal chamber.

Almost immediately, faint hissing noises filled the air.

Thin streams of white gas began seeping from nearly invisible vents along the ceiling, swirling downward like ghostly tendrils. The chemical smell was sharp, burning, and unmistakably dangerous.

Charles' eyes widened. "Don't breathe!"

But the warning came too late.

The gas wasn't just meant to be inhaled—it was designed to penetrate skin.

Charles' telepathic shield faltered as his knees buckled. His vision blurred, and his mental focus began to fragment.

Beside him, Hank staggered back, coughing violently before slumping against the wall.

Both men felt their strength draining rapidly, their muscles turning heavy as lead.

---

Control Room

In front of the monitors, Schwarzenegger leaned back in his chair, a grim smirk spreading across his face as he watched the feed.

"Futile," he muttered, his voice low but confident. "The gas works on a cellular level. In seconds, they'll be paralyzed. In a minute, unconscious. Just surrender and—"

He froze.

On the main screen, Alex turned his head.

Not just toward the camera—into it.

His piercing gaze locked directly onto Schwarzenegger as though the walls, the monitors, and the very layers of earth between them didn't exist.

It wasn't just looking.

It felt like being seen.

A chill ran straight down Schwarzenegger's spine.

For the first time in years, the hardened soldier felt the sharp, cold edge of fear.

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