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"Mur…phy…"
The monster's throat rattled like a bellows; black, frothy blood gurgled out.
Before it could finish, its arm went limp, its pupils dilated, and it breathed no more.
"Murphy?" Jessica frowned. "Is that a name… or some kind of code word?"
"Perfect! Absolutely perfect, Jessica!" Dave's excited voice rang out beside her.
"That flying shield strike was off-the-charts cool! And that pose—so stylish!"
"Quick! Face the camera! Say the line!!"
Jessica took a deep breath, pushing down the doubts in her mind.
She turned to face the cameraman crawling out from behind cover.
With a soft sigh she wiped the blood from her lip with her thumb, planted her hands on her hips, and delivered the rehearsed catchphrase.
"When the World needs heroes, The Seven answers the call!"
With that she flicked her cape and strode off the battlefield… to the Director's office at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ.
On the huge screen, a breaking report from Vought News was playing.
In slow motion, Jessica Jones's flawless Tai-chi cloud-hands cycled over and over.
The commentator's ecstatic voice echoed through the office:
"…see that? That's Queen Jones! That's the power of The Seven—efficient, elegant, zero casualties! Compared to them, the 'efficiency' of certain shadow agencies is downright scandalous…"
"Smack!"
Nick Fury killed the feed, face dark.
"Sir." Maria Hill stood nearby, hugging a thick stack of files, expression equally grim.
"Vought's PR department has already issued a press release. They're calling the operation 'the dawn of a new era of law enforcement.' A few more senators have swung behind Starr."
"A new era?" Fury stepped from the shadows, his single eye glinting menacingly.
"More like an era of lawlessness."
"We used to handle supes gone rogue—contain, evaluate, control. Now they're just stepping-stones for that blond bastard's reality show," Hill fumed, stabbing a finger at the dead screen.
"This O'Neill Black—our Agents tracked him for three months, planned to close the net tonight. Then Vought's sharks smelled blood."
"They didn't just steal our collar; they turned it into prime-time TV!"
"It's eroding our purpose, Hill," Fury rumbled.
"When the government gets used to calling The Seven instead of S.H.I.E.L.D., we stop existing."
"Still, from a results standpoint… they solved it with zero civilian casualties."
"So what do we do?" Hill asked.
"Nothing—for now." Fury rose and flipped through the files she'd brought.
"Know what scares me most, Hill?"
"It's not Vought stealing our jobs, and it's not Homelander's skyrocketing ratings."
It's the quiet."
Too quiet."
Fury turned; his lone eye glittered coldly.
"I launched the highest-level internal audit—money trails, comms logs, field ops."
"And?"
"Besides a few junior Agents skimming funds for poker and a couple selling intel to corps… zero organized infiltration."
"Every Agent is loyal as Captain America. Know what that means?"
Hill said nothing; she was old-school—she knew.
"It means," her voice chilled, "the whole system… is lying."
Exactly."
Fury's fists clenched.
"Vought's swagger is just a skin rash—ugly, but not fatal."
"But right here," he tapped the floor of S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, "we've got cancer."
"We're fighting an enemy we can't see yet can't escape, Hill."
"Storm's coming…" Fury exhaled.
"Hill, shelve all overt audits. Resume normal ops."
"What? Sir, we just let it go?"
"Hell no." Fury's eye narrowed.
"If we can't find the mice in our house… let an outside cat hunt them for us."
"Get me… that man."
Hill blinked. "You mean—"
"Yeah." Fury nodded.
"The old soldier still pounding a heavy bag in that Brooklyn gym. Tell him his vacation's over."
"And," Fury called as Hill headed out, "how's the Avengers expansion going?"
"Not great." Hill sighed.
"Tony Stark booked a surgery trip to India. Dr. Banner's off-grid; only Captain's eager. Trouble is, most promising supes are chasing that damn Vought reality show."
"Fifty-million each, sir. We've got other budget drains, and the Council's cut our funds—can't match it."
"Find the ones not in it for money," Fury said flatly.
"Plenty of fools ready to bleed for the word 'justice.' Get them before Vought does."
…Vought Tower, NYC—Homelander's office.
A colossal holo-display streamed real-time votes for Who is the Next Superhero??
Anthony lounged in the boss chair, boots on the desk, bucket of popcorn in hand.
Ashley stood beside him, nervously swiping through reports.
Her fingers flew over the pad: "As of ten minutes ago, first-round audition uploads broke eight hundred thousand—we've tripled server capacity. We've culled most invalid entries; about three hundred look legit. Want to review them?"
"Skip it." Anthony waved.
"Filter out the ugly, the gross, the ones whose rap sheets can't be bleached—gone."
"Er… sir." Ashley hesitated.
"There's a 'Frog Prince'—tongue stretches five meters, sprays corrosive mucus, combat-effective—"
"Cut." Anthony didn't even blink. "I want superheroes, not horror-movie freaks. Who'd put slime-dude on a cereal box? Kids'll have nightmares."
"How about this?" Ashley flicked to the next.
"Calls himself Indestructible Lad, skin like rock."
"Too ugly. Pass. We're The Seven, not the Stone Gargoyles."
"And this?" Another swipe.
"Nickname Big Bertha—can shift body fat at will, crush enemies as a multi-ton blob—"
…Anthony stared for two beats.
"Ashley, are you misunderstanding the word 'idol'?"
"I want beauty! Hotness! Coolness! Something basement dwellers will drool over and teenage girls will scream for!" he snarled at the screen.
"If he's useless but looks like DiCaprio, glows, and viewers can't forget his face—advance him! Villain look's fine too, as long as he's adorable and charming. Got it?!"
Anthony never cared about power; nobody here beat him anyway.
His filter was brutally simple: popularity > looks > ability.