Who Is the Next Superhero? wasn't just a reality show anymore.
It was a full-throttle money-printing machine.
Vought New York Headquarters — Conference Room.
Antony sat at the head of the table, casually twirling a Montblanc fountain pen between his fingers, a calm, benevolent smile worn by those firmly in control.
Across from him sat representatives from Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Seattle, and several other major cities.
These were the same politicians who usually barked orders from behind polished podiums in city halls.
Right now, they looked like elementary school students waiting for their papers to be graded—backs straight, hands folded, sweat beading on their foreheads.
"Gentlemen," Antony said mildly, his voice unraised yet somehow deafening, "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
He slid a thick stack of contracts back across the table. The pages fanned out smoothly.
"Vought doesn't sell mercenaries."
"What we provide is… a brand. A sense of security. A reason your citizens can roll over and go back to sleep when they hear something suspicious in an alley at two in the morning."
The Los Angeles representative wiped his forehead, his voice trembling slightly.
"But Mr. Starr… two hundred million dollars a year in 'Hero Service Fees'—that's nearly ten percent of our entire police budget…"
"Last year alone," Antony cut in coldly, "Los Angeles suffered three hundred and fifty million dollars in property damage from superhuman crime."
"And that doesn't even factor in the collapse in public approval ratings—something money can't fix.
Mayor, I assume your reelection campaign next year could use some… very persuasive endorsements?"
"They're worth far more than you think."
He gestured toward the massive screen behind him.
Resumes of Vought-contracted heroes scrolled past in neat profiles.
"Look at these kids," Antony said, sounding like a proud father introducing his children.
"Frost Jack. His cryokinetic ability is exceptional. If L.A. ever sees another large-scale wildfire, how much damage do you think he could prevent?"
"And Ironwall Lady—sure, she's not exactly idol material, but she can tank an RPG head-on. Miami's gangs would be wiped off the map."
"They didn't make it into the Seven," Antony continued calmly, "but they're still Vought assets. Professionally trained. Fully briefed on legal boundaries."
"And most importantly—"
He leaned forward slightly, flashing his signature smile.
"—they follow orders."
"If you sign today, these heroes can be stationed in your cities as early as next month. Full Vought branding. Media coverage. Even dedicated comics and merchandise."
"Your city will have its own guardian angel."
"And if you still think it's too expensive…"
Antony shrugged and leaned back.
"You all have S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number. You're welcome to call Nick Fury and ask whether he can spare that bow-and-arrow circus performer to block bullets for you."
"..."
Five seconds passed.
The Chicago representative picked up a pen first.
"Where do I sign, Mr. Starr?"
-----
Just one week later.
Vought's territorial expansion was moving so fast it left Pentagon analysts gasping for air.
The hundreds of superhumans eliminated during the auditions weren't discarded like trash.
Instead, a single Vought contract turned them into City Heroes.
Ashley stood before a massive holographic map of the United States, dividing it into dozens of glowing zones.
"St. Louis just finalized their deal!" she reported excitedly.
"They're paying one hundred eighty million dollars a year for three city heroes to assist police operations in the South District!"
"Detroit PD caved too!"
"They're broke—but General Motors agreed to sponsor them, as long as the heroes wear Chevrolet logos on their capes!"
"Philadelphia, Boston, Miami—my god, they're lining up to throw money at us!"
Antony lounged in his oversized leather chair, boots propped casually on the conference table.
He swirled a bottle of blue Vought Super Energy Drink in his hand, a satisfied curve tugging at his lips.
"See that, Ashley?"
He pointed at the map.
"This is called—resource reallocation."
While the top hundred elites advanced to the next round of the show, the rejected candidates—those with mediocre abilities, unfortunate looks, or just plain bad luck—weren't shown the door.
Instead, Antony offered them a B-tier contract they couldn't refuse.
Didn't make it into the Seven?
No problem.
Go be a City Guardian in Cleveland.
Become a Rain Night Patrolman in Seattle.
Cities competed for them anyway.
After all, who wouldn't want a living, breathing "superhero business card"?
Even a second-rate hero was better than an overweight cop living off donuts.
The truly dangerous monsters, however…
They stayed in New York—slaughtering each other in preparation for the next round.
The Top 100 list was finalized.
Upstate New York — Vought's High-Tier Training Facility, purpose-built for the show.
A silver blur vanished down the track, the pressure wave flipping a nearby scoreboard.
"Whoosh—!"
Pietro Maximoff stopped at the finish line, silver hair shining, dressed in an outrageously flashy silver compression suit.
"0.02 seconds?" he scoffed at the timer.
"That's impossible. This thing has to be broken."
"Not bad," Antony said from the second-floor observation deck, bourbon in hand.
"The kid's arrogant—but he's got the right to be. Speed-types are born center stage."
Ashley nodded beside him.
"He's insanely popular with younger female audiences. They're obsessed with the 'bad boy' image."
"And the red lunatic?" Antony asked.
Ashley's expression immediately soured.
"Wade Wilson…" She pulled up another surveillance feed.
On-screen, Wade wore a mustard-yellow suit he'd clearly stitched himself.
Blades pinched between his fingers, he gleefully stabbed training robots full of holes while rambling nonstop.
"I'm not your father—I'm your weapon! I am… Wolverine! Hahahahaha—!"
"..."
"As unhinged as he is," Ashley admitted reluctantly, "his social media engagement is number one."
"As long as he doesn't take a dump onstage, I can live with it."
Ashley hesitated, then lowered her voice.
"She's outside. Skye."
"She doesn't look… happy. She's been waiting at your office door for two hours."
A sharp glint flashed in Antony's eyes.
"Send her in."
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