◇ I'll be dropping one bonus chapters for every 10 reviews. comment
◇ One bonus chapter will be released for every 100 Power Stones.
◇ You can read 50 chapter ahead on P@treon of which 10 are free Chapters. if you're interested: patreon.com/Heroicverse
------------------------------------------------
If the enhancement were permanent, he wouldn't dare sell it casually.
What if he ended up creating a horde of uncontrollable Supermen? Where would that leave his own dominance?
But something temporary and limited… is the best form of control.
"Dr., you're a genius." Anthony showed a satisfied smile.
"Ashley! Classify this as top-secret for now. Only Vought's core tactical teams and future members of 'The Seven' plus reserves get access."
He couldn't help imagining a private guard where every member could turn into a ten-minute 'Hulk' at the critical moment… beautiful scene.
"But, Anthony," Dr. Connor hesitated, "the board at Starr Group keeps asking what we're developing. The investment is huge; we need a… marketable product."
"A marketable product?"
Anthony smiled.
He placed the green 'Temporary Compound V' back on the tray.
"Dr., dilute this another thousandfold."
"What?" Connor froze.
"A thousandfold? Then it won't enhance at all! At best… at best it'll feel like a mild stimulant, a weak pick-me-up."
"That's enough."
Anthony turned; the hem of his white coat cut an arc through the air.
"What we're selling is a dream."
He snapped his fingers at Ashley.
"Ashley, take notes."
"Initiate the 'Vought Super Energy Drink' production plan."
"Formula: one-thousandth T-Vex dilution, plus lots of sugar, caffeine, taurine—and, most important—make it blue."
He looked back at the stunned Dr. Connor and the thrilled Ashley and continued.
"Roll out the production lines. Within a month I want this blue sugar-water on every 7-Eleven shelf in the U.S."
"Price it… ten times the normal Vought energy drink."
Ashley gasped.
"Ten times?! Will anyone buy it?"
"They'll fight to get it."
Anthony adjusted his collar with confidence.
"Because the bottle… will have my face on it."
"And we're pulling a big stunt." Anthony's eyes glinted. "Hide a 'golden ticket' in every millionth can."
"Golden ticket?"
"Right! Holders visit Vought HQ and get a chance… to experience a real shot of T-Vex!"
"Of course, we'll market it as a 'mystery grand prize.'"
Anthony grinned like a demon.
"Imagine, Ashley: all across America, people chasing the chance to be a superhero for ten minutes… how much sugar-water will they drink?"
Dollar signs flashed in Ashley's eyes.
"Sir… you're a… business devil."
"No, I'm the Homelander."
Anthony left the lab, his silhouette stretching long under the cold lights… New York winters always arrive in a hurry.
One night you're complaining about the bleak autumn wind; the next morning the city is buried in snow.
Vought HQ, advanced training center. The thermostat holds the room at a precise 22 °C.
Bang!
A dull impact of flesh echoed through the training room.
Jessica Jones went flying again, skidding five meters across the energy-absorbing floor before crashing into the guardrail.
Her white training gi was soaked in sweat, clinging to her and tracing the curves that rose and fell with her ragged breaths.
"fuck!" Jessica lay spread-eagle, gasping, chest heaving. "This isn't scientific! You're cheating!"
"It's physics, dear." Anthony stood at center, one hand behind his back, slowly completing a finishing move. "Leverage, plus a dash… of Eastern philosophy."
He wore loose black gi, stepped forward, offered a hand. "It's called 'listening jin,' Queen. Your killing intent is too loud; the fist hasn't arrived but the intention gives you away. In Taiji we call that 'butting'—a cardinal sin in warfare."
"Screw your Taiji." Jessica cursed, yet defiance, not resistance, laced the words now.
She stared at the hand for three seconds, then grabbed it. Anthony pulled her up easily.
"Training's over for today." Anthony tossed her a towel. "You're improving—at least now when you get thrown you know to protect your face."
"Thanks for the compliment, bastard."
Twice a week, every week, she ends up battered, yet she can feel her control over her power transforming.
Ding! Special popularity +1000 gained!
"Shower, change." He glanced at his watch.
"Script meeting this afternoon for your solo movie."
"Can I skip it?" Jessica's face fell.
"I'd rather you throw me around all afternoon."
"No." Anthony flashed a capitalist smile.
"You're the Queen; Queens get biopics. It's business."
…Vought Films, conference room.
Ashley pointed at the projection, spittle flying.
"…Here's the concept! Queen Jones: Manhattan Rose!" She waved her pointer, ecstatic.
"A feminist epic! We need romance, struggle, we need—"
"Need me in a condom-like suit crying in the rain?" Jessica slammed the draft on the table.
"What's this drivel? 'Under moonlight she gazes at her hands, lamenting the curse of power, breaking up with true love'? Thanks, I get true love now?"
"Audiences love it! Brokenness, redemption, unattainable love!" Ashley argued.
"That's crap." Mr. Starr sat at the head, legs crossed, toying with the blue Vought energy drink—now a nationwide sell-out, convenience stores constantly out of stock.
He spoke softly; the room fell silent at once.
"We're not filming a 7:30 soap. Cut the sappy nonsense."
Starr rose, moved behind Jessica, hands on her chairback, glaring at the writers.
"I want hardcore. I want the sound of bones snapping. I want her rolling in the muck, then standing up to yank the villain's spine out and whip it like a flail."
The writers' eyes lit up.
"Plus," Anthony added, "add a scene: she's in despair, gets a phone call… from me. Light breaks through. Got it?"
"Understood, Mr. Starr! Brilliant!" Ashley nodded furiously, scribbling.
Jessica rolled her eyes, secretly relieved—at least no nauseating romance scenes… Time flew; it was December 24 before anyone noticed.
Christmas Eve in New York—cold, yet electric.
Every tree on Fifth Avenue glowed with lights; tourists packed the plaza around Rockefeller Center's giant spruce.
And in Times Square the mega-screens ticked down.
Less than six hours until applications open for Who is the Next Superhero??
Anthony stood at his penthouse window, brandy in hand, watching the ant-like crowds below.
In his past life as a Chinese he'd felt no particular attachment to this Western holiday.
It was just spectacle.
"Ding-ling-ling—"
The phone rang—the one from Nick Fury, whose number only a handful knew.
Anthony glanced at the caller ID and raised an eyebrow.