Ashley had only just joined Vought herself and was just as green as Homelander.
The shout made her tremble even harder.
She did not dare turn around.
Her voice came out tiny and shaky.
“Um… the door to The Seven’s conference room is automatic.
I couldn’t knock…” Homelander: “…” His face burned red with embarrassment and pure anger.
He roared, “Get the fuck out!
I don’t want to see your face right now!” “Yes, yes, sir, I’m leaving right now!” Ashley felt like she had just been handed a full pardon.
She bolted for the door so fast she twisted her ankle on the way, but she did not slow down for even a second.
Once that eyesore of an ugly woman was gone, Homelander patted his own face, forced the muscles to relax, and finally managed a smile.
“Let’s go, Black Noir.
Time to pick our future teammates together!” Black Noir did not move to follow.
Instead he started writing on the cardboard again.
[You have to go alone this time.
The selection for The Seven is open to the entire public.
Vought already named you Captain behind closed doors, and that has already kicked up complaints about the whole thing being “unfair.” I need to go through the selection myself if I want a spot on The Seven.
You might also need to step down and show your strength in person later.] Homelander’s face flickered with fresh panic.
“What?!
You’re not coming with me?
You’ve been right beside me since I was a kid.
Without you I… can I even do this?!” [You are Homelander.
You can do anything.] Black Noir held the cardboard up one more time.
Then, without waiting for another word, he set the board down and walked straight out of the conference room.
He was getting real tired of this giant baby who clung to him every single second.
Left alone, Homelander had no choice.
He gritted his teeth, forced the rising anxiety back down, and flew out the conference-room window by himself.
Metropolitan Stadium.
It was the largest stadium in New York, seating a full 82,500 people.
Today the place was packed solid.
Tickets were almost impossible to get.
Prices had been driven up to a ridiculous ten thousand dollars a seat.
What was happening inside was not any kind of ball game.
It was Vought International’s selection trials for The Seven.
For the next two weeks supes from every corner of the world would pour into this stadium.
That was exactly why Vought could jack the ticket prices so high.
After all, who would turn down the chance to watch a live sci-fi blockbuster of colliding superpowers with their own eyes?
And this was only day one.
Once the buzz grew over the next couple of days, those ticket prices would climb into the stratosphere.
“Tsk tsk.
No wonder Vought is so obsessed with turning superheroes into a business.
This ticket money is coming in faster than robbing a bank.” A deep-purple Bugatti sat parked at the curb beside the stadium.
The door swung open and a tall, straight-backed figure stepped out.
Sunlight spilled across Dean’s goddamn handsome face.
Screeech—!
Brakes screamed as a deep-green Aston Martin slid into the spot right behind the Bugatti.
Both doors opened.
Two figures climbed out of the driver and passenger seats.
“Bro, you were driving way too fucking fast!
I almost lost you!” “Uh… I feel like I’m gonna puke, Harry…” Dean turned at the voices.
The first was, of course, his cheap younger brother, the future New Goblin, Harry Osborn.
The second was even more famous: the future Spider-Man, that cheezy bastard Peter Parker.
Right now, though, neither of them had any powers yet.
They were just two ordinary guys.
And Peter, as Harry’s best friend, had been invited by Harry today to watch his older brother Dean’s selection trials.
“I… am never riding in your car again, ugh…” “Peter, you can’t even handle that speed?
You’re so weak!” While Peter was still bent over dry-heaving from the motion sickness, Harry kept needling him from the side.
Dean walked over to the doubled-over Peter.
Purple electricity crackled from his right index finger as he tapped Peter lightly on the back.
Zzzzt—!!
“Oh!
My back!
My back!!!” The sudden jolt made Peter jump forward like a spooked rabbit, frantically rubbing the spot with both hands.
Harry’s eyes went wide.
“Whoa, bro, what the hell are you doing?
Trying to turn Peter into a roast duck?” Dean answered calmly, “Just giving Peter a little wake-up call.
Peter, still dizzy?
Still feel like throwing up?” Peter lowered his hands from his back and only then realized the motion sickness had completely vanished.
“How does that even work?” “Just a tiny bit of electrical stimulation~” Dean waved them forward and said in a lazy voice, “Let’s go.
We should get inside early.
I don’t want a number that’s way in the back.” With that he headed straight for the competitors’ entrance.
Harry and Peter hurried after him.
Along the way Peter stared at the electronic board outside Metropolitan Stadium showing ticket prices with a whole string of zeros.
His jaw dropped.
“My God, Vought is straight-up robbing people.
Tickets starting at ten thousand dollars?
If it was up to me you couldn’t drag me here even if you killed me!” In this universe, thanks to Dean’s earlier interference, Peter had never lost his parents.
His father Richard still worked at Oscorp with a solid monthly salary, so the family was doing fine.
Even so, Peter himself stayed just as tight with money as the public version of Spider-Man always was.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder and grinned.
“Relax, Peter.
We’re here as family of a competitor—my brother.
Not only is it free, we get front-row seats!” … “Name?” “Dean Osborn.” “One second, let me pull up your info.” At the registration desk inside the stadium, Dean gave his name.
A female employee from Vought’s information department started typing at lightning speed.
A few moments later her eyes went huge.
She stared at the screen, then looked up at the tall, handsome man standing in front of her.
My God, not only does this guy have a top-tier body and face, he’s from a billionaire family too!
Is the world really this unfair?
Why does one person get everything good?!
“You done looking?” Dean’s calm voice finally snapped her out of it.
She hurriedly clicked the button to generate a number.
“All set.
Your selection number is 342.
When it’s your turn they’ll call your name over the stadium speakers and you go up.” She handed him the round number plate the machine spat out.
Dean took it, frowned a little, said nothing, and walked off.
The second he was gone the female employee quietly wrote down the phone number listed in his file.
What if she actually stood a chance with the young master of the Osborn family?