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Who is the Next Superhero?? is more than a reality show; it's a money-printing machine running at full throttle.
Vought Tower, New York—conference room.
Anthony occupied the head seat, idly twirling a Montblanc pen, the amiable smile of a man at the top dancing on his lips.
Across from him sat envoys from Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Seattle and a dozen other cities.
These politicians, used to throwing their weight around in city hall, now sat like pupils waiting for their homework to be graded—backs straight, tiny beads of sweat on their foreheads.
"Gentlemen," Anthony said, voice soft yet deafening, "I think you've misunderstood something."
He slid a thick sheaf of contracts back across the table; the pages fanned out with a whisper.
"Vought doesn't sell mercenaries."
"We sell brands. Safety. The reason your citizens can roll over and go back to sleep when they hear a noise in the alley at midnight."
The Los Angeles envoy dabbed at his sweat.
"But Mr. Starr… two hundred million dollars a year for 'hero services'—that's nearly ten percent of our Police budget…"
"L.A. lost three-point-five billion to super-human crime last year," Anthony cut in, eyes flashing cold.
"Not counting the approval-rating plunge you can't put a price on. I imagine your re-election next year could use some… powerful endorsements?"
"They're worth far more than you think!"
He jerked a thumb at the giant screen behind him.
Hero résumés scrolled in a continuous loop.
"Look at these kids," Anthony said, proud as a father.
"Jack Frost—his flash-freeze could save L.A. how much in fire damage? And Ironwall Girl isn't idol-pretty, but she eats RPGs for breakfast; Miami's gangs will meet their doom."
"They never made The Seven, but they're still Vought. They'll get pro training, know legal limits, and—most important…"
Anthony leaned forward, showing that trademark grin.
"…they obey."
"Sign today and these heroes can be in your cities next month—full Vought branding, their own comics and merch. Your town gets its very own Guardian."
"Of course, if you find the price too steep…"
Anthony shrugged and reclined in his chair.
"You have S.H.I.E.L.D.'s number. Call Nick Fury and see if he'll send that bow-twirling acrobat to catch bullets for you."
…
Five seconds later the Chicago envoy was first to reach for the pen.
"Where do I sign, Mr. Starr?"
…One week.
Vought's expansion left Pentagon analysts gasping for air.
The hundreds of eliminated supes weren't tossed back into society like trash.
Instead, a Vought contract turned them into "City Heroes."
Ashley split the giant holographic map of the U.S. into countless tiny squares.
"St. Louis City Hall just sent their contract—one hundred eighty million a year for three City Heroes to help the Police crush South-Side gangs!"
"Detroit PD caved! No cash, but GM will sponsor—just stitch a Chevy logo onto the hero's cape!"
"Philly, Boston, Miami… God, the mayors are lining up to throw money at us!"
Anthony lounged in the huge leather throne, feet propped on the conference table, swirling a blue Vought Super-Function drink, a satisfied smirk on his lips.
"See that, Ashley?"
He pointed at the screen.
"It's called—resource reutilization."
While the "Top 100" elites advanced to the next round, the rejects—mediocre powers, unfortunate faces, or just bad luck—weren't shown the door.
Instead, Anthony offered them an offer they couldn't refuse: a "Tier-B Contract."
Missed The Seven? No problem.
You can be Cleveland's City Guardian.
You can be Seattle's Rain-Night Patrol.
Cities bid like crazy; who wouldn't want a living superhero business card? Even a second-rater beats a donut-scarfing fat cop.
The real top-tier monsters stayed in New York to slaughter each other in the next round.
The Top-100 list was out.
Upstate New York, Vought's purpose-built training center for the show—a silver blur vanished on the track, the gust flipping the nearby scoreboard.
"Whoosh—!"
Pietro Maximoff stopped at the finish, silver hair, flashy silver skinsuit.
"Zero-point-zero-two seconds?" He glanced at the timer, pouting. "No way it's that slow—this thing broken?"
"Nice," Anthony said from the second-floor window, bourbon in hand. "Kid's cocky, but he's got the chops. A speedster born for center stage."
Ashley reported, "Young women are eating up this 'bad boy.'"
"And the red freak?" Anthony asked.
Ashley looked like she'd swallowed a fly.
"Wade Wilson…" She opened another monitor.
There he was in a home-stitched mustard-yellow suit, blades between his fingers, stabbing a spar-bot into Swiss cheese while yammering nonstop.
"I'm not your daddy, I'm your weapon! I'm… Wolverine! Hahahahaha—!"
…
"As abstract as it is…" Ashley had to admit, "his social-media engagement is number one."
"Just keep him from crapping on stage and I can live with it."
"She's outside—Skye…"
Ashley lowered her voice. "She looks… upset. Been waiting outside your office for two hours."
A glint flashed in Anthony's eyes.
"Let her in."