Across this vast land, countless "freaks" hiding in the dark saw the light for the first time.
So did many who'd been branded as outcasts—shunned, rejected, forced to scrape by in circuses or underground fight pits. Tonight, they lifted their heads.
Homelander hadn't lied.
This was a ticket.
A ticket that could turn them from monsters into gods.
Desire spread across America like wildfire.
-----
Eastern Europe — Sokovia
HYDRA Secret Base
There was no sunlight here—only the cold, bluish glow of radiation spilling from the Mind Stone embedded in Loki's scepter.
Wolfgang von Strucker stood behind reinforced glass, the lenses of his spectacles reflecting that eerie light.
"It seems our American friends have caused quite a stir," he said calmly.
On the tablet in his hand played the promotional page for Vought's reality show.
WHO IS THE NEXT?
"Typical American arrogance," Strucker scoffed. "Turning evolution into entertainment. Power into a commodity."
"Still," Dr. List adjusted his glasses behind him, "he's succeeding, sir. He's building a superhuman force—legally."
Strucker turned toward the center of the lab.
Two figures stood there.
A man. A woman.
Wanda Maximoff sat cross-legged on the floor, crimson energy coiling around her fingers like living veins. She stared into empty space, eyes haunted and unstable.
Her brother, Pietro Maximoff, paced like a caged panther—so fast he was little more than a silver blur.
They had been ten years old when a Stark Industries missile killed their parents, turning them into orphans of war and planting the seeds of hatred for Tony Stark.
Years later, driven by revenge, the twins volunteered for HYDRA's experiments. Under Strucker's direction, exposure to Loki's scepter awakened their powers.
"We need eyes," Strucker said quietly. "Nick Fury is busy hunting traitors. Our assets inside S.H.I.E.L.D. are frozen. We cannot afford to be blind."
He pressed the intercom.
"Pietro. Stop."
The silver blur froze.
Pietro faced the glass, irritation written across his face.
"Another test, Baron? Want me to outrun bullets again? Or punch through another wall?"
"No. This time, it's a mission."
Strucker lifted the tablet, displaying the blazing poster.
"Vought International is recruiting superheroes."
Pietro laughed. "Superheroes? Like that tin-can Stark? Waving at cameras like a clown?"
"Exactly," Strucker replied. "I want you to join."
"What?!" Wanda shot to her feet, red light flaring. "No! Pietro isn't going anywhere!"
"Calm yourself, Wanda," Strucker's voice echoed. "This is for Sokovia. For our revenge."
He looked straight at Pietro.
"Stark is in America. The Avengers are in America. And this 'Homelander'—he's another American. We need to infiltrate his inner circle."
"I want you in the Seven."
Pietro studied the smiling face on the poster… then glanced at Wanda.
"I'll go," he said.
"Pietro!" Wanda grabbed his arm. "That's America—the enemy's home turf!"
"That's what makes it fun," he grinned, arrogance blazing.
Then his eyes hardened. "But I have one condition."
"Speak."
"If I become one of their superstar Seven," Pietro said coldly, "you guarantee Wanda's safety. No more experiments. No more pain."
Strucker paused… then smiled.
"Deal."
"Prepare yourself. Your flight leaves in six hours. Remember—your cover is an Eastern European refugee chasing the American Dream. Americans eat that story up."
Pietro snorted.
"If it's a reality show… then let me give those Americans a little Sokovian shock."
-----
Illinois — Chicago
Sister Margaret's School
(Which was actually just a mercenary-filled dive bar.)
The air consisted of 90% nicotine, 5% cheap alcohol, and 5% vomit.
Wade Wilson sat on a barstool in the darkest corner, wearing a filthy red hoodie pulled low and a mask that looked suspiciously like it had been cut from long underwear.
"Hey, Weasel. Another drink," Wade tapped the counter. "And don't spit in it this time. I may have no taste buds, but I can still tell you had asparagus."
The bartender—Weasel—slammed down a murky glass.
"You owe me three hundred bucks, Wade. This isn't a charity. And despite the name, this 'school' can't teach you how to be human."
"Three hundred? Impossible," Wade clutched his chest. "I pulled a big job last week! Helped a… uh… concerned gentleman find his lost Chihuahua!"
"You sold the dog to another concerned gentleman, got paid twice, then lost it all gambling with Scarface," Weasel snapped. "And the first guy's offering five grand for your head."
"Philistine. That dog clearly preferred his new owner."
Wade downed the drink.
It burned like razor blades.
Sweet relief—followed by pain. Constant, screaming pain.
Ever since the lab explosion back in '89, every cell in his body died and regenerated endlessly under the Tesseract's residual energy. Like ten million ants throwing a metal concert in his veins.
Talking—never shutting up—was the only thing that kept him sane.
"Fine. I'm a little… cash-flow challenged," Wade sighed, producing a crumpled coupon. "Buy-one-get-one burritos. Covers my tab?"
"Get lost."
At that moment, the bar's ancient TV blared that now-infuriating anthem again.
"Are you special?
Do you crave glory?
Vought—awaits your challenge!"
Homelander's crystal-clear smile filled half the screen.
Wade stared at it.
"…Huh," he muttered. "That smug son of a—"
The world was calling.
And the freaks were answering.
--------------
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