Received! Consumed 30,000 Special Popularity Points… Activating "Superhero Blind Box" Lottery… Spinning… Ding! Lottery complete!
Congratulations, Host! You have won a rare consumable: A Bottle of Superman Serum (Red Sorghum Edition)!
Item Description: Derived from a certain red-caped Kryptonian orphan. Drinking grants 30 minutes of magical immunity. Warning: tastes like burning cheap liquor.
Marcus Lee: "…Red Sorghum? Seriously?"
He felt like he had just pulled a joke prize.
"Magical immunity? Not useless… magic in this world can get pretty wild."
…BOOM!!!
Harlem, fifth floor of a crumbling, elevator-less apartment building. Flames licked the sky.
Through thick smoke, a mother clutched her child tightly, huddled in the window frame, desperation etched on her face.
"Help! Somebody save us!!"
Just as consciousness slipped away
Whoosh!
A blue figure crashed through the wall, completely unharmed by the flames. Marcus Lee stood before her like a descending god.
"Don't be afraid." His smile could melt an entire continent. "I've got you."
Cradling them in one arm, he shot out of the fire like a comet and gently landed beside a police car below.
"Oh my God, it's the Patriot!"
"He saved them!"
"I love you!! Patriot!!"
Cameras flashed, cheers erupted, screams filled the air just like always.
Marcus gracefully handed the mother and child to the paramedics, waved to the cameras, and struck his signature hands-on-hips pose, the Stars-and-Stripes cape billowing behind him.
Ding! Popularity +55!
Ding! Popularity +41!
Ding! Popularity +63!
The smile never left his face, but inside, he was cursing.
"Shit !"
His grin froze for 0.01 seconds.
"…63? You've got to be kidding me." He scoffed. "Last week, I saved that damn cat in Queens and got more credit than this. Ungrateful bastards…"
He realized a harsh truth.
The "everyday hero" route was almost impossible.
New Yorkers had become too used to him.
When buildings burned or banks were robbed, people expected the Patriot to appear.
He had gone from miracle worker to… top-tier firefighter.
Intolerable.
Popularity had plateaued; he needed a new path.
…Watt International Media Headquarters
A glass tower in Midtown that had become a landmark in just one month.
Fully owned by Starr Corporation, it was the Patriot's only official agency.
Top-floor conference room.
Marcus Lee, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, sat at the head of the table, legs crossed. His public charm replaced by executive authority.
"Numbers. I only care about numbers." He tapped the table. "This week, global search for the 'Patriot' is down 5%, social media interactions down 14%."
"Why? Look me in the eye and tell me why!"
The room full of PR experts and media executives froze.
"Mr. Lee…" said a sharp, blonde PR lead cautiously, "this is normal decline after the Battle of New York. Our strategy is "
"Your strategy is bullshit."
He cut her off, calm yet deadly.
"You report. Telling people who I saved today is wrong."
He strode to the floor-to-ceiling window.
"Watt doesn't report heroes. Watt defines heroes."
Turning, his sapphire-blue eyes swept the room.
"I don't want gratitude. I want every aspect of their lives damn it to become me."
Silence.
"A documentary?" a young executive ventured.
"Fuck documentaries," Marcus sneered. "Documentaries are for failures who can't control the narrative."
He raised one finger.
We create legends.
We make movies.
A movie about me.
…Hollywood, Beverly Hills
One week later, at a discreet private club:
The screenwriter behind Starbound Chronicles, with a $3 billion global box office record.
An Oscar-winning black comedy genius.
And the hack who wrote that superhero movie terrible film, but killer dialogue.
Plus every top writer with billion-dollar franchises.
Money had drawn Hollywood's brightest minds.
Marcus Lee, producer, investor, and sole lead, sat across from them.
"Ladies and gentlemen." He swirled the bourbon in his glass. "You write the hits; I am the hit."
He sipped, exuding a star-quality presence that filled the room.
"I want my story bigger, sexier, more… American."
No preaching. I want epic scenes, testosterone-charged thrill, every man leaving the theater wanting to be me, every woman wanting well, you get it.
The writers were ecstatic; this was their spiritual nourishment.
"Alright, Mr. Patriot… we have excellent plans."
Writer A: "First idea! Alien orphan! A dying planet launches you to Earth, you crash in a Kansas cornfield "
Marcus stared blankly.
"…Uh," Writer A shivered. "A bit retro. Idea two! Myth awakening!"
Writer B leaped up: "Exactly! You're Odin's illegitimate son, Thor's half-brother your powers awaken during the Battle of New York "
"Out." One word ended it.
Silence.
"Got it!" Chief writer C patted his thigh. "Opening! Hampton! Yacht! Bikini! You, Marcus Lee, billionaire playboy have everything yet… empty. Pure-hearted!"
"Then tragedy!" Genius D added. "Storm! Strange storm! Overboard!"
"You won't die," whispered Writer A, red gleaming in his eyes. "A mysterious terror organization will rescue you… we call them… Chaos!"