The silence following the initial ultimatum was heavy, a suffocating blanket draped over the world's digital infrastructure. Five hundred trillion dollars was an absurd figure, a mathematical joke designed to break the minds of economists and treasurers alike. Aaron, ensconced in the subterranean damp of the abandoned City Hall station, felt the collective hesitation vibrating through the ether. The fear was delicious—a tart, metallic appetizer—but the stagnation was boring. He needed to stir the pot.
He tapped the feral iron of his microphone staff against the mosaic tiles, the sound echoing not just in the station, but across the hijacked frequencies of six billion devices. On screens ranging from the massive Jumbotrons of Times Square to the cracked smartphones of teenagers in desolate suburbs, the static cleared. The Broadcaster's shadow-silhouette leaned forward, a porcelain grin glowing with malicious warmth.
"Oh, dear listeners," Aaron's voice crackled, smooth as velvet over gravel. "I can hear your accountants weeping from here. Five hundred trillion is a tall order, isn't it? A bit steep for a Tuesday afternoon."
He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp as a whip crack. The digital interface overlaying the broadcast shifted. The monolithic countdown timer shrank, replaced by a colorful, spinning wheel reminiscent of a carnival game, yet pulsing with eldritch dread.
"Let's make this more… accessible," Aaron purred, his eyes narrowing into radio dials. "We live in an age of micro-transactions! Why buy the entire library of secrets when you can simply purchase a lottery ticket? I present to you: The Heroic Gachapon!"
A menu scrolled rapidly across the bottom of the screens, detailing the new pricing tiers. It was a gamification of privacy, a commercialization of ruin.
"Tier One: The 'Neighborhood Watch' package," Aaron announced, his voice rising in the theatrical cadence of a 1930s ringmaster. "For the low, low price of one million US dollars, you receive the identity of a random, street-level vigilante. Who is that masked man stopping muggings in Brooklyn? Is he a super-soldier, or just an insomniac with a baseball bat? Spin the wheel and find out!"
He gestured grandly to the higher tiers. "Tier Two: City Defenders. Ten million. Tier Three: Global Icons. One hundred million. And for the connoisseurs among you, a direct purchase—no randomization—for a mere ten times the tier price."
He leaned into the invisible camera, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that seemed to crawl out of the speakers. "The account is open. Crypto, wire transfer, bearer bonds… I'm not picky. Who wants to be the first to pull the trigger?"
The world held its breath. In the Triskelion, Fury was barking orders to shut down the banking grids, but Aaron's shadow-constructs had already infected the SWIFT system, creating a bypass that operated on metaphysical logic rather than binary code. The money didn't need to be processed; it just needed to be *sent*.
Somewhere in the dark underbelly of the internet, likely from a heavily encrypted server in Madripoor or perhaps a bold cartel in Juarez, a transaction cleared. A distinct, cheerful *ding*—like an old cash register—rang out globally.
"We have a winner!" Aaron crowed, delight radiating from his very being. The shadows in the subway station danced, fueled by the sudden spike in global adrenaline.
On the screens, the wheel spun. Colors blurred—red, blue, black, green—before slowing with a rhythmic clicking sound that synced with the heartbeats of millions. It ticked past a spider emblem, skipped over a yellow Power Man icon, and shuddered to a halt on a silhouette of a horned cowl.
"Item number 404: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen!" Aaron announced. The silhouette dissolved, replaced instantly by a high-resolution photograph of a man in a rumpled suit, wearing red-tinted glasses, tapping a white cane along a sidewalk.
"Name: Matthew Michael Murdock," Aaron read, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. "Occupation: Defense Attorney. Address: 45th Street and 10th Avenue. Funny thing about justice… sometimes it's blind."
The image zoomed out to show Murdock entering a confessional booth, juxtaposed with grainy footage of Daredevil leaping from a rooftop in the same neighborhood. The connection was undeniable. The proof was absolute.
Panic, raw and unadulterated, erupted. This wasn't a bluff. The demon in the radio wasn't just threatening to spill secrets; he was practically giving them away as party favors. In the Nelson & Murdock offices, Foggy Nelson stared at the television in the waiting room, his coffee cup slipping from numb fingers to shatter on the floor.
Aaron closed his eyes, savoring the influx of *qi* generated by the chaos. It was a heavy, rich energy, thick with the terror of heroes and the avarice of villains. He channeled it through his *dantian*, performing a subtle, internal Tai Chi maneuver to cycle the power lest it overwhelm his human vessel. The hunger of the Radio Demon roared, sated momentarily by the sheer quality of the fear.
"But wait! There's more!" Aaron laughed, the static in his voice spiking into a screech. "The floodgates are opening! I see transfers from the Maggia! A lovely contribution from the Intergang! Oh, you greedy little sinners."
The *ding* of the cash register began to sound repeatedly, rapidly accelerating into a chaotic rhythm. Ding. Ding. Ding-ding-ding.
"Let's see what you've won!"
The screen flashed rapidly, discarding the wheel for rapid-fire dossiers. Aaron read them out with the speed of an auctioneer on amphetamines, his voice booming across the planet.
"The Vigilante known as Wild Dog? Jack Wheeler, auto mechanic in the Quad Cities! Sold!"
"The Crimson Avenger? Lee Travis, publisher! A bit old-fashioned, but we respect the classics! Sold!"
"Stargirl of the Justice Society? Courtney Whitmore, high school student, Blue Valley! Go get her, tigers! Sold!"
With every name, the tenuous social contract between the protectors and the protected fractured further. Aaron watched through the scrying pool as neighborhoods turned on their local heroes. He saw villains scrambling, mobilizing hit squads not to fight super-powered nemeses, but to firebomb suburban houses and assault law offices.
"Will you protect them?" Aaron taunted the civilians listening in horror. "Your neighbors? Your friends? Or will you check your bank accounts to see if you can afford to peek behind the mask of the Spider? The price is rising, my dears! Supply and demand!"
The money was meaningless to him—fictional numbers on a screen—but the act of purchasing was a ritual. Every dollar sent was a vote for anarchy. Every transaction was a betrayal. Aaron twirled his staff, the shadows around him swirling into a frenzy of applause only he could hear. The game show was a hit, and the ratings were through the roof.