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For the first time, countless "freaks" hidden in the shadows of this vast land saw the light.
Many others—branded as outcasts, forced to survive in circuses or underground fight clubs—now lifted their heads.
The Homelander hadn't lied; this was a ticket.
A ticket that could turn "monsters" into gods.
Desire sprouted like wildfire across the American soil.
Eastern Europe – Sokovia.
A Hydra black site.
No sunlight here, only cold blue glow: the radiation of the Mind Gem embedded in the scepter.
Baron Wolfgang von Strucker stood before bullet-proof glass, the lenses of his spectacles reflecting that frigid light.
"Sounds like our American friends have kicked up quite the storm."
Strucker studied the tablet in his hand; on its screen glowed Vought's reality-show promo page.
"'Who Is the Next Superhero?'…" He snorted.
"Typical American arrogance—turning evolution into entertainment, power into merchandise."
"But it worked, sir." Behind him Dr. List adjusted his glasses.
"He's building a legal army of post-humans."
Strucker turned, looking toward the center of the lab where two figures in lab coats stood.
A man and a woman.
Wanda Maximoff sat cross-legged on the floor, red energy swirling round her fingers like living blood-vessels. She stared into space, eyes twitching with anxious neurosis.
Her brother, Pietro Maximoff, paced like a caged leopard, moving so fast only a silver after-image could be seen in the cramped cell.
The twins had lost their parents at ten to a missile manufactured by Stark Industries; the blast made them war orphans.
That tragedy became the turning point of their lives, planting a seed of hatred toward Tony Stark.
For revenge, the adult siblings volunteered for Hydra's clandestine experiments. Under Baron Strucker they were exposed to Loki's scepter; the Mind Stone's power awakened their gifts.
"We need eyes," Strucker murmured. "Nick Fury's busy hunting moles; our assets inside S.H.I.E.L.D. are frozen for now, but we won't go in blind."
"We need to know what this so-called 'Vought' really is—and where the Homelander's power comes from."
Strucker pressed the comm button.
"Pietro—stop."
The silver blur froze.
Pietro halted before the glass, impatience written across his face.
"What now, Baron? Another test? Outrun a bullet? Punch through this wall?"
"No. This is a mission."
Strucker pressed the tablet to the glass, showing the Who Is the Next? poster.
"Vought International is recruiting superheroes."
"Ha!" Pietro laughed, openly scornful.
"Superheroes? You mean like that tin-can Stark, waving like a clown on camera?"
"Exactly," Strucker said flatly.
"I want you to enter."
"What?!"
Wanda, silent in the corner, snapped her head up; red light flared in her eyes. "No! Pietro's not going anywhere!"
"Wanda—calm." Strucker's voice came through the speaker. "This is for Sokovia. For our revenge."
He looked at Pietro. "Stark is in America, the Avengers are in America—and this Homelander is another American bastard. We need someone inside his inner circle."
"I want you to become one of the Seven."
Pietro stared at the Homelander's perfect smile on the poster, then glanced back at Wanda.
"I'll go," he said.
"Pietro!" Wanda rushed forward and seized his hand.
"That's America—enemy territory!"
"That's the fun of it, isn't it?" Pietro flashed a grin equal parts cocky and reckless.
He looked at Strucker.
"But I have a condition."
"Speak."
"If I become some big-shot member of the Seven…" Pietro's gaze went cold, "you guarantee no one ever touches Wanda again. No more tests, no more pain."
Strucker was silent two beats, then smiled.
"Deal."
"Get ready, Pietro. Your flight leaves in six hours. Remember, your cover is an Eastern-European refugee chasing the American dream—Americans lap that up."
Pietro gave a cold snort.
"A reality show, huh? Then let me give those Yankees a little Sokovian shock."
…Illinois, Chicago.
Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls – actually a dive bar full of mercenaries.
The air was ninety percent nicotine, five percent cheap booze, and five percent vomit.
Wade Wilson occupied the farthest bar-stool in the corner.
He wore a grimy red hoodie, the hood yanked low, his face hidden behind a makeshift mask that looked sewn from red long-johns.
"Weasel, refill," Wade rapped the bar. "And skip the spit this time. My taste buds are shot, but I can still tell you ate asparagus yesterday."
Weasel the bartender—radiation-mutated hamster in human form—slammed down a cloudy glass.
"You're three hundred bucks in the hole, Wade. This ain't a charity; call it a school all you want, I can't teach you how to human."
"Three hundred? Impossible." Wade clutched his chest.
"I pulled a huge job last week! I found that dealer's lost Chihuahua!"
"Then sold the mutt to another dealer for double, lost it all in Knives's card game," Weasel shot back.
"And now the first dealer's offering five grand for your head."
"He just lacks appreciation! The dog clearly prefers its new owner!"
Wade grabbed the glass and drained it.
The alcohol scraped down his throat like a razor.
Nice.
But he still hurt.
Every second of every day.
Since that damn lab blew in '89 every nerve and square inch of skin screamed.
His cells kept dying, only to regenerate like mad under the Cube's energy.
Like ten million ants throwing a rave in his veins—death-metal rave.
Only talking—non-stop, crap talking—kept him sane.
"Fine, I'm… a little cash-strapped." Wade sighed, pulled a crumpled coupon from his hoodie.
"Buy-one-get-one taco voucher—covers my tab?"
"Get lost."
Just then the bar's ancient TV blared that obnoxious anthem again.
"…Are you special? Do you crave glory? Vought… is waiting for you to fight!"
The Homelander's flawless, hi-def face filled half the screen.