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"Ugh, it's that blond Ken-doll again," Wade snarked. "Look at those teeth—looks like he moonlights as a toothpaste tester. Bet even his crap smells like vanilla."
"He's the hottest thing on Earth right now," Weasel said, wiping a glass.
"Rumor is the grand prize is fifty million."
"How much?!"
Wade almost fell off his chair.
"Fifty million. U.S. dollars. After taxes," Weasel added.
"Plus you get into that Super-Seven thing—room, board, full coverage."
Wade stared at the screen, his mask-framed eyes bulging like bronze bells.
Fifty million… how many burritos could that buy? How many gold-plated Desert Eagles?
Enough to swap this face—one that looked like Freddy Krueger's sex-toy—for something new?
Nah, the face was hopeless.
But money… money was good.
And inside Wade's skull, that lunatic voice piped up again.
(Wade-A: Hey, Wade! Global livestream! Imagine the ratings if we kill—uh, perform! Pure entertainment gold!)
(Wade-B: And Hydra's still hunting us! If we're on TV 24/7, those bastards'll pop a vein every time we wave.)
Wade: "Shut it, both of you."
"Who're you talking to?" Weasel asked, used to it.
"My financial consultant."
Wade sprang up so fast his chair toppled.
"Weasel! Lend me your laptop—the United Nations of porn edition!"
"What for?"
"I'm signing up!" Wade leapt onto the bar, striking a pose that would make a yoga instructor blush.
"I'm gonna be a superhero! Homelander's new BFF! I'll make all America fall for this sexy avocado!"
"You're insane," Weasel said.
"They want heroes, not psycho killers—and that face? You planning to keep that rag on forever?"
"It's called mystique, you philistine!" Wade pointed at the TV.
"Look at Jessica Jones—resting constipated face and she's famous. If she can do it, so can I!"
"Besides…"
His voice dropped, suddenly cold.
"I'm a victim of the system, Weasel."
He rubbed the uneven skin beneath his hoodie.
"I'm the bastard child of the Cold War, the toxic love-child of Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dirty deals."
"They turned me into this—into a walking turd."
"Now Captain Star-Spangled says he wants 'freaks'?"
Wade grinned.
"Let me show them what a real freak looks like."
"I'm about to turn that reality show into a three-ring shit-storm."
…Vought International, NYC HQ, elite training center.
It was the pinnacle of Vought's facilities: walls of tank-proof alloy, floors that could swallow a tank shell's impact.
Ozone and post-workout sweat hung in the air.
BOOM—!!!
A ten-ton hydraulic tester stopped dead under one pale fist.
Numbers spiked and froze: 18.5 tons.
"Fuck…"
Jessica Jones exhaled, lowering her arm.
Her white "Queen" suit was soaked, clinging to every muscle.
Black hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes feral.
"This damn thing's choking me," she muttered, yanking the collar.
"Quit whining, Queen. You need to fight in costume,"
Anthony lounged on a leather sofa, sipping an iced Vought sports drink like he was watching Netflix.
His black tactical suit—no cape—clung to a perfect V-torso.
"Eighteen tons," he sighed, disappointed.
"Jess, that all you've got?"
"Stuff it, Goldilocks," she snapped, chugging water.
"That's a ten-ton rig. I nearly broke the damn machine."
"Yeah—raw power."
"Bite me. You try it."
"Me?" He smiled.
He didn't move.
His eyes just glowed crimson.
ZZZT—!!
Two hair-thin heat beams sliced a hydraulic line.
CRASH—
The rig collapsed.
"I prefer elegant solutions," he shrugged.
"Cheating bastard."
Anthony stood, setting his glass aside.
He strolled to the center.
"You're a Ferrari with no steering wheel—tons of horsepower, zero control."
He stopped in front of her, flashing a red-blinking metal band on his wrist.
"Know what this is?"
"Your dog collar?" she shot back.
"Vought's limiter," he grinned.
"Capped at three tons—one-sixth of your max."
"If I exceed it, the bracelet zaps me—hard."
"So?" Jessica frowned.
"So," he beckoned, smug, "I fight you with three tons only."
"You serious?" Her eyes narrowed, lioness stalking prey.
"Dead serious. Knock me down and that bottle of Macallan 64 is yours."
Jessica's eyes lit up.
"Your funeral, blondie."
She rolled her neck—crack, crack.
"Don't go crying to mama."
BOOM!
Before he blinked, she cannon-balled at him.
No finesse—pure street brawl: fast, vicious, straight.
Her fist, packing ten-plus tons, rocketed toward his pretty face.
"Nice."
His voice was calm.
He didn't dodge.
At the last instant he sidestepped, fingers brushing her wrist.
He redirected her momentum with a soft sweep.
"What the—?!"
Jessica felt cotton, then her own force boomeranged.
Balance gone.
Anthony stepped in, shoulder tapping her chest.
THUD.
Clean.
She felt a freight-train sideswipe.
"Ugh!"
She flew seven meters, rolled twice across the mat.
"No way?!"