Burbank, California.
Hollywood's largest green screen soundstage.
It had been transformed into the secret laboratory of the "Chaos" organization.
Marcus Lee was strapped to a cold metal gurney, wearing a battle-damaged costume.
Around him, actors in white lab coats portrayed villains, their faces twisted in malice.
"All right! Anthony!"
The director's voice boomed through a megaphone.
"We need… pain! They inject you with synthetic chemicals! They crush your will! They mock you!"
"I want… rage! I want the look in your eyes, the one that comes from a beast crawling out of hell! Do you understand?!"
"Action!"
The clapperboard snapped.
The actors around him began growling out their lines. "Deep breath, Lee! Feeling dizzy is normal! You will become our strongest weapon!"
A prop syringe plunged sharply into Marcus's neck.
He closed his eyes.
The next second,
he flung them open.
It was not the perfect smile of Patriot, nor the handsome face of Anthony Lee.
It was… Marcus Lee's eyes.
He remembered his past life.
He remembered being betrayed by the team he trusted most, framed by the rising star Liu Xingru.
He remembered bankruptcy, alcoholism, standing on a forty-fourth-floor rooftop, crazily unzipping his jacket to watch shooting stars!
He remembered the feeling of being abandoned by the world, plummeting from the clouds into the mud… pure rage and refusal!
"Uh… ah…"
A low growl escaped him, muscles trembling.
"Ahhhh !!!"
A raw, primal roar burst from his chest!
His eyes turned bloodshot, veins bulging from neck to forehead!
He struggled violently, the gurney groaning under him!
The extras recoiled in fear; the actor holding the syringe's hands began to shake.
Silence fell over the set.
"…Damn!"
The director's voice trembled.
He stared at the monitor, forgetting to breathe.
"My… god," he sighed, removing his headset. "This… this is Oscar-worthy acting!"
Marcus's breathing gradually steadied; the savage aura faded, and he returned to the "vulnerable" Anthony persona.
Acting? Hmm… this is exactly what I'm best at!
Ding! Popularity +155 (from: Director)
Ding! Popularity +88 (from: Extra A)
Ding! Popularity +120 (from: Photographer)
Joy surged in Marcus's heart.
"Sorry, Director…"
He sat up, covering his face, his voice hoarse as if still in character.
"Sorry… I… I remembered some… bad memories."
He lifted his head, eyes red; the raw pain and vulnerability brought tears to every woman on set.
…In their peripheral vision.
"Did I overdo it? Should I do another take?"
"No! No!" The director rushed over, grabbing his shoulder. "Perfect, Anthony! We nailed it!"
Marcus lowered his head, a small smile curling his lips.
Damn, that little golden statue is mine!
…Hell's Kitchen.
Jessica Jones kicked open a door, tossing a cheap bottle of whiskey onto the table.
She turned on the old smoking TV.
On screen, Time magazine was interviewing Marcus's handsome face.
"Yes… I'm assembling a team. More efficient than the Avengers, more grounded. I call them… the Seven."
Jessica spat.
"This is a superhero circus…"
She picked up the black V-card.
"Queen Jones…" she muttered sarcastically. "Ridiculous name."
But she remembered that night, the purple-haired bastard giving quiet orders, desperation seeping into her bones.
And those two cruel, intense stares it had been exhilarating.
"Damn it."
She grabbed her coat, slipping the card into her pocket.
"…Just watching. I am definitely not joining that blond maniac's circus."
The Horn Daily newsroom.
Bang!
J. Jonah Jameson slammed his desk so hard his iconic mustache shook.
"Making a movie?! He actually dares to make a movie?!"
He snatched the phone and bellowed at his staff:
"Front page! Headline: 'Narcissist Saves the World? Patriot: $200 Million Bootlicking Spectacle!'"
"What?!" Jameson's eyes bulged. "Watt Media… bought most of our shares, and they're calling a shareholders' meeting?!"
"When?! Yesterday?!"
"Goddamn it!!!"
He slammed the phone down, collapsing into his chair.
Outside, Watt's massive logo loomed over New York like a mocking grin.
He picked up a cigar, but it wouldn't light.
"Marcus Lee… you win," he muttered, relieved to have survived the skydiving fiasco.
For a moment, green skin flickered… simultaneously, the Chaos extras on set fired prop guns at Patriot with "pew pew" sounds.
Marcus wore a simple "Primordial" suit, levitating in midair.
His face: pain, struggle, anger, and then… determination.
"No !!!" He howled to the sky, as if carrying the weight of every suffering in the world.
Then he opened his eyes, and a scorching light shot out.
"Cut!!!"
The director ran out, nearly in tears.
"My god! Anthony! Did you see the monitor? You are Jesus! You are… America!"
Ding! Popularity +120!
Marcus slowly descended; the pain vanished, replaced by a faint smile.
"I only did what I had to do, Martin," he said, patting the director's shoulder. "For art, damn it."
Half of Patriot: Origins had already been filmed.
Watt's publicity machine had pushed expectations to the extreme.
The trailer aired during the Super Bowl a 30-second explosion of action, tears, and Marcus's handsome, ash-streaked face crashing ticketing servers nationwide three times.
Ding! Popularity +150,210!
Ding! Popularity +205,114!
"…Now that's more like it." Marcus slipped into the silk robe his assistant handed him, stepping into his private trailer.
"Sir," said his chief assistant Ashley, a sharp, petite blonde wearing rimless glasses and holding a tablet. "Jimmy and Allen are fighting over the first airtime for your talk show."
"Let them fight," Marcus said, sipping ice-cold soda. "Keeps the hype going."
"And," Ashley added, her expression shifting, "there's a woman downstairs claiming she's Jessica Jones… and she says she had your first time."
Marcus paused.
"Oh, yes, Queen Jones," he said, smiling.