This is the worst idea that somehow worked.
I'm standing on a massive S.H.I.E.L.D. soundstage that's been converted into an arena—think American Idol meets Gladiator, with reinforced floors and foam walls for when things inevitably explode. There are cameras everywhere, lights that could probably be seen from space, and a giant holographic logo rotating overhead that reads: THE NEXT AVENGER.
Because apparently, this year we're doing open-entry tryouts instead of the traditional method of "wait for someone to save the world and then ask them to join."
I'm a judge.
Me. Peter Parker. Spider-Man. The guy who still can't consistently remember to wash his dishes before Aunt May shouts at him. I'm sitting at a long table with three other judges, and I already regret every decision that led to this moment.
To my left: Quicksilver, who is vibrating in his chair with enough energy to power a small city. His leg is bouncing so fast it's creating a low humming sound. Every few seconds he leans over to me and stage-whispers something like, "This is gonna be SO SICK" or "Do you think anyone will try to fly and fail? I hope someone tries to fly and fails."
To my right: Black Widow, who looks like she's contemplating all the ways she could make this situation end quickly and efficiently. She's sitting perfectly still, hands folded on the table, face unreadable. When I asked her earlier how she was feeling about this, she said, "I've survived worse," which wasn't exactly reassuring.
And at the center: Captain America, who somehow looks both hopeful and slightly concerned, like a dad at his kid's school talent show who wants everyone to do well but also knows someone's definitely going to fall off the stage.
"Alright, team," Steve says, adjusting the small microphone clipped to his shirt. "Let's remember—we're looking for character as much as capability. Powers are important, but heart matters more."
"HEART!" Pietro shouts, slamming his hand on the buzzer in front of him even though no one's auditioned yet. "Love it! Also speed. Speed matters. Does heart matter more than speed? Discuss."
Natasha reaches over and physically removes Pietro's hand from the buzzer. "If you hit that thing one more time before someone actually performs, I will tape your hands to this table."
"You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
I clear my throat. "So, uh, just to clarify the format—each contestant gets five minutes to demonstrate their abilities. We evaluate based on power, control, application, and—" I glance at my notes, which are mostly doodles of stick figures fighting. "—'hero potential,' whatever that means."
"It means we're looking for people who won't immediately get themselves or others killed," Natasha clarifies.
"Right. That."
A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent waves from the wings, signaling we're about to start. I take a deep breath.
*This is either how we find a hero,* I think, *or how the building explodes.*
---
The first contestant walks out.
He's wearing a cape. Not a good cape—the kind you get at a Halloween store, shiny polyester that crinkles when he moves. Underneath, he's got a homemade suit covered in lightning bolt decals.
"I AM THUNDER LAD!" he announces, voice cracking slightly. "MASTER OF ELECTRICITY!"
Pietro leans over. "Ten bucks says he electrocutes himself."
"I'm not taking that bet," I whisper back.
Thunder Lad raises his hands dramatically. Sparks flicker between his fingers—actual sparks, which is impressive—and then he touches a metal prop on stage to "demonstrate his power."
He immediately shocks himself.
Not badly. Just enough to make him yelp and stumble backward, shaking out his hands while his cape tangles around his legs.
"I'm okay!" he shouts. "That was—that was intentional! Strategic shock absorption!"
Steve leans forward, ever the optimist. "Can you control the voltage? Focus it on specific targets?"
Thunder Lad brightens. "Yes! Absolutely! Watch this!"
He points at a training dummy. Sparks fly from his fingertips, arc through the air, and... miss the dummy entirely, hitting the floor three feet to the left.
"Technical difficulties!" Thunder Lad calls out. "Give me one more—"
Pietro hits his buzzer. "Thank you, Thunder Lad! NEXT!"
The kid deflates but exits with dignity, cape billowing behind him.
---
The next hour is a blur of chaos.
A guy with a jetpack launches himself at the ceiling, realizes too late that he can't steer, and impacts a foam wall with enough force to leave an indent. Natasha gives him points for "commitment to the bit" and nothing else.
A mystic influencer—her words, not mine—attempts to summon a demon for crowd control purposes. What appears instead is a very confused goat that immediately starts eating the stage curtains. Steve tries to be encouraging. "That's... that's something. Can you unsummon it?" She cannot.
Twin siblings insist their power is "perfect synchronization," which sounds cool until they start arguing mid-routine about whose turn it is to do the backflip. They're still arguing when security escorts them off stage.
A woman who can turn invisible demonstrates her power by disappearing and then... not reappearing. We wait five minutes before realizing she just left.
"This is amazing," Pietro says, wiping tears from his eyes. "This is the best day of my life."
"You need better days," Natasha mutters.
I'm trying to give polite feedback to everyone, but it's getting harder. "You've got great enthusiasm!" I tell a guy whose power is "making things slightly damp." "Maybe work on the, uh, the range? The application? The entire concept?"
Steve claps after every performance. Every single one. Even the person who claimed their power was "aggressive meditation" and then just sat on stage for three minutes breathing loudly.
"You're too nice," I tell him during a break.
"Someone has to be," he replies, nodding toward Natasha, who just told a contestant their costume looked like "a cry for help."
---
I'm contemplating whether we should just cancel the whole thing when I notice movement near the sidelines.
Blue hoodie. Familiar posture.
Bluebird.
She's not in the contestant area—just watching from the shadows near the entrance, arms wrapped around herself. When she sees me looking, she straightens hopefully.
I give a subtle head shake.
Not yet. Not like this.
Her shoulders slump, disappointment clear even from this distance, but she nods. Understanding. She turns and slips back toward the exit, hood pulled up.
It's the right call. I know it's the right call. But it still feels like crap.
"Parker?" Steve's voice pulls me back. "You good?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."
---
Pietro is in the middle of complaining about the lack of "spectacle" when he suddenly vaults over the judges' table and sprints onto the stage.
"OKAY!" he shouts to the empty arena. "Let me show you all how it's DONE!"
Before anyone can stop him, he's running laps—around the stage, up the walls, across the ceiling, moving so fast he's just a silver blur. He grabs Cap's shield from where it's leaning against the table, poses with it dramatically, and then sets it spinning on one finger.
"THAT'S how you make an entrance!" He takes a bow.
Natasha's voice is perfectly flat. "I regret surviving Sokovia."
"Come on, that was cool!"
"It was showing off."
"COOL showing off!"
Steve sighs and retrieves his shield. "Pietro, please sit down."
"Fine, fine. But you have to admit—"
"Sit. Down."
Pietro sulks back to his seat, still vibrating.
---
The next contestant walks out.
There's no fanfare. No costume. No dramatic entrance.
Just a man in simple, practical clothing—dark pants, a fitted shirt, quiet presence. He moves with the kind of grace that suggests every step is deliberate, controlled.
He stops at center stage and bows slightly.
"My name is Shang-Chi," he says. His voice is calm, measured. "I don't want fame. I don't want attention. I just want to help."
The arena has gone quiet.
Steve leans forward. "What are your abilities?"
"I'm a martial artist. I've trained my entire life in combat, strategy, and control." He pauses. "I'd prefer to demonstrate through sparring, if that's acceptable."
Pietro perks up. "Sparring? Okay, now we're talking. Who wants to—"
"I'll do it."
Taskmaster steps out from the wings. I didn't even know he was here, but of course he is. The skull mask gleams under the stage lights as he cracks his knuckles.
"Kid wants to spar?" Taskmaster says. "Let's see what you've got."
Shang-Chi simply nods.
They face each other. No trash talk. No posturing.
Just ready stances.
Taskmaster moves first—a testing jab, quick and efficient. Shang-Chi deflects it with minimal movement, redirects the energy, and counters with a palm strike that Taskmaster barely blocks.
They exchange blows. Fast. Precise. Technical.
And within thirty seconds, I realize something: Shang-Chi isn't just good. He's *scary* good.
Every movement is economical. No wasted energy. No flashy spins or unnecessary flourishes. Just pure, refined technique that makes Taskmaster—who can copy any fighting style—look like he's working twice as hard for half the result.
Taskmaster tries a leg sweep. Shang-Chi flows over it, lands, and delivers a strike to Taskmaster's solar plexus that makes him stagger.
Another exchange. Faster now.
Taskmaster tries to grab. Shang-Chi redirects, locks the arm, uses Taskmaster's momentum against him, and puts him face-first on the mat.
Clean. Controlled. Perfect.
Fifty-eight seconds, start to finish.
Taskmaster taps out.
Silence.
Shang-Chi helps him up, bows again, and steps back.
My Spider-Sense hasn't made a sound. Not a tingle. Not a whisper. Just... calm. Like it recognizes that this person isn't a threat—he's something else entirely.
Pietro is staring, mouth slightly open. "Okay," he says quietly. "That was actually cool."
Natasha is sitting forward now, eyes sharp with interest. "Where did you train?"
"Many places," Shang-Chi answers. "Many teachers."
Steve stands, walks around the table, and approaches the stage. "Why do you want to join the Avengers?"
Shang-Chi meets his eyes directly. "Because power should serve others. Not itself. I've seen what happens when strength is used for personal gain. I won't be part of that. I want to be part of something better."
The words land like a physical weight.
Steve nods slowly. "Thank you, Shang-Chi. We'll be in touch."
Shang-Chi bows once more and walks off stage. No lingering. No playing to the cameras. Just quiet exit.
---
The judges' table erupts the moment he's gone.
"We have to pick him," Steve says immediately.
"Agreed," Natasha adds. "That was the most efficient combat display I've seen in years."
Pietro crosses his arms. "I mean, yeah, he's good. But is he *flashy* enough? The Avengers need someone with presence. Star power. You know, someone who—"
"Pietro," I interrupt. "He just beat Taskmaster in under a minute."
"Okay, yes, but—"
"In under a minute. *Taskmaster.*"
"...Point taken."
I lean back in my chair, processing. "My Spider-Sense didn't react once. Not even a flutter. That guy is either completely harmless or so controlled that he doesn't register as a threat. And given what we just saw, I'm betting on the second one."
Steve nods. "We need someone like that. Someone with discipline. Someone who understands that power is responsibility."
"Did you just quote Spider-Man at me?" I ask.
"It's a good quote."
Natasha taps her fingers on the table. "We don't announce the winner yet. Let the tension build. Make it a season-long arc."
Pietro groans. "That's so manipulative."
"Yes. It is."
"I love it."
---
We wrap up the day's auditions—twelve more contestants, none of whom come close to Shang-Chi's demonstration—and finally call it.
As we're packing up, I watch through the observation window as Shang-Chi exits the building. No fanfare. No celebration. Just calm, measured steps.
"Yeah," I murmur to myself. "That guy's already an Avenger. He just doesn't know it yet."
Behind me, I hear a commotion.
I turn to see Pietro trying to convince a security guard to let him audition "for fun."
"Come on, I'll be so fast you won't even—"
"Sir, you're already on the team."
"But what if I wasn't? What if this was my chance? What if—"
Natasha physically drags him away.
I smile.
This was the worst idea that somehow worked.
And somehow, despite everything, we might have actually found someone worth fighting alongside.
Not bad for a day's work.