"Oh great. Blond Barbie again." Wade Wilson snorted, eyes glued to the TV.
"Look at those teeth—so white they look like a toothpaste commercial test run. I bet the guy craps vanilla ice cream."
"He's the hottest man on Earth right now," Weasel said while polishing a glass. "Heard the grand prize is fifty million."
"…How much?!"
Wade nearly fell off his barstool.
"Fifty. Million. Dollars. After tax," Weasel added calmly. "And you get to join that Super Seven thing. Room, board, medical. Full package."
Wade stared at the screen, eyes bulging through his mask.
50 million…
How many chimichangas was that?
How many gold-plated Desert Eagles?
Could that buy him a new face—one that didn't look like Freddy Krueger's love child?
…No.
The face was a lost cause.
But money?
Money was beautiful.
And then—
The voices came back.
(Wade A: Dude. Global livestream. If we killed someone—no, sorry—performed on TV? Think of the ratings!)
(Wade B: And HYDRA's still hunting us. If we're famous, on TV every day, they'll have aneurysms!)
"Shut up. Both of you," Wade muttered.
"Talking to yourself again?" Weasel asked, unfazed.
"My financial advisors."
Wade shot to his feet, knocking the chair over.
"Weasel! Lend me your laptop! The one full of… ethnically diverse bookmarks!"
"What for?"
"I'm signing up!" Wade leapt onto the bar in a scandalously dramatic pose.
"I'm gonna be a superhero! I'm gonna be Homelander's best buddy! I'm gonna make world fall in love with this sexy avocado!"
"You're insane," Weasel said flatly. "They want heroes, not homicidal lunatics. And that face—planning to keep the mask forever?"
"It's called mystique. You wouldn't understand."
Wade pointed at the screen, where Jessica Jones stood stoically.
"Look at Queen Jones. She looks constipated 24/7 and she's famous. I've got range."
Then his tone dropped—rarely cold, but unmistakably serious.
"I'm a victim of the system, Weasel."
He ran a hand over the ruined skin beneath his hoodie.
"I'm a Cold War bastard. A leftover from HYDRA and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dirty little science fair.
They turned me into this. A walking joke."
"And now Homelander's looking for 'freaks'?"
Wade grinned.
"Then let's show them what a real freak looks like."
"I'm gonna blow that reality show to hell."
-----
Vought Tower – New York
Advanced Physical Training Center
The walls were forged from alloys rated to withstand tank shells.
The floor absorbed impact like a black hole.
The air reeked of ozone and sweat.
BOOM—!!!
A ten-ton hydraulic impact tester screeched to a halt—stopped cold by a pale fist.
The display flickered wildly before settling:
18.5 TONS
"Fuck…" Jessica Jones panted, pulling back her hand.
She was drenched in sweat. The white "Queen" bodysuit clung to every contour of her muscles, soaked through. Dark hair plastered to her face, eyes blazing with feral defiance.
"This suit is trying to suffocate me," she growled, yanking at the collar.
"Stop complaining, Queen," said Antony calmly.
He lounged on a leather couch, ice clinking in a Vought Energy Drink like he was watching a movie.
No cape.
Black tactical training gear.
That perfect V-shaped build on full display.
"Eighteen tons," Antony glanced at the readout, disappointed.
"Jessica… that's your limit?"
"Shut it!" she snapped, chugging water.
"That was a 10-ton machine! I nearly ripped it apart!"
"Yes. Brute force."
"Fuck you. You try."
"Me?" Antony smiled.
He didn't move.
His eyes flickered red.
ZZZT—!
Two razor-thin heat beams severed a hydraulic line.
BOOM!
The machine collapsed, pressure gone.
"I prefer simpler solutions," Antony shrugged.
"Cheating bastard."
Antony stood, setting his drink aside, walking to the center.
"You're like a Ferrari with no steering wheel. Massive power—nothing but openings."
He raised his wrist. A metal ring pulsed red.
"Know what this is?"
"Your shock collar?"
"This," Antony smiled, "is a Vought strength limiter."
"I set it to… three tons. One-sixth of your max."
"If I exceed that, it alarms—and electrocutes me."
Jessica frowned.
"…Meaning?"
Antony crooked a finger at her, grin absolutely infuriating.
"I'll fight you. Using three tons."
"You serious?" She lowered her stance, predator focus locking in.
"Dead serious. If you knock me down—"
He pointed to the liquor cabinet.
"That Macallan 64? Yours."
Her eyes lit up.
"You're asking for it, Blondie."
She cracked her neck.
"Try not to cry for your mommy."
BOOM—!
She launched like a cannonball.
No technique. Just raw street violence—fast, brutal, direct.
That punch carried over 10 tons of force—straight for Antony's face.
"Good," Antony said softly.
He didn't dodge.
At the instant before impact, he shifted slightly—left hand brushing her wrist.
A gentle pull.
"…What the—?"
Jessica felt like she'd punched cotton—
Then her own power came back at her.
Her balance vanished.
Antony stepped in, shoulder touching her chest.
BAM.
No flair.
No wasted motion.
Jessica felt like she'd been sideswiped by a speeding train.
"Ugh!"
She flew backward—seven, eight meters—rolling twice before slamming into the floor.
She lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling.
"…How is that even possible?!"
--------------
T/N:
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