Just how big is the gap between superpowered individuals and ordinary people?
If you could browse through all of Vought's confidential PR department archives, you would find plenty of living examples—or rather, examples that are very, very dead.
For instance, the case Ashley is currently handling: A-Train apparently went insane some time ago. While sprinting at full speed, he collided with a woman standing by the roadside. She died instantly. Saying she was torn apart would honestly be an understatement.
Aside from her two hands, every other part of her body was literally pulverized by the high-speed impact. Her remains were spread evenly across the entire road.
This girl—no one even remembers her name—was standing at the curb, talking with her boyfriend when she was killed. And that boyfriend is the real headache: he is currently the only one who hasn't signed a non-disclosure agreement.
"Oh, right—"
Ashley stopped her assistant.
"Keep a close eye on him. If necessary, throw more money at the problem. We can't let him blow this up. Those greedy media outlets won't be satisfied with just forty-five thousand dollars."
"What was his name again?"
The assistant pulled out a notebook and jotted it down.
Hughie Campbell.
An ordinary employee at a New York electronics store. Every day was just work, clock out, flirt with his girlfriend Robin, go home, check out whatever new movies or TV shows Vought's superheroes had released, then sleep. Over and over again, living a quiet, peaceful life.
He lived like that for years—until his faith shattered in an instant.
When 'the fastest man alive,' A-Train, smashed Robin into a puddle of gore at lightning speed, Hughie was still holding the only thing left of her: her severed hands.
He watched A-Train, covered in blood and showing not the slightest hint of remorse, vanish on the spot, as if killing someone was just another mundane inconvenience for a 'superhero.'
By the time Hughie snapped back to reality, Vought's lawyers were already seated across from him at the negotiating table, sliding a check towards him.
Forty-five thousand dollars.
That was the value of one of the most important people in his life, murdered by a so-called superhero.
Reason told Hughie he should sign the NDA and take the check—labeled as 'humanitarian compensation,' but clearly functioning as hush money.
Fear and greed whispered in his ear: [This is Vought. They control every superhero in the country. You saw what happened to Robin. They could do the same to you. Forty-five thousand dollars is already a lot.]
The image of Robin being torn to pieces replayed endlessly in his mind. Rage burned through his heart and his reason.
Hughie absolutely would not sign such an agreement.
In that moment, all he wanted was to scream, grab the man by the collar, and throw him out the window:
"No. I won't sign anything. Get the hell out."
That was what Hughie wanted to say in his heart.
What he actually said was:
"Could you give me some time to think about it?"
As mentioned before, Hughie Campbell was an ordinary man—extremely ordinary, cautious, timid. He lacked both the courage and the capital to openly offend a behemoth like Vought.
But monsters like Vought never retract their fangs because of a decent person's retreat. They only press harder, until the one being crushed falls completely silent.
On TV, in newspapers, on short video platforms, Vought's apology statements played on a loop. A-Train's actions were unintentional. He had merely been chasing bank robbers, and Robin had happened to run into the middle of the road.
Hughie knew perfectly well that A-Train hadn't been chasing any damn bank robbers. Robin hadn't run into the middle of the road either.
But his opinion didn't matter. No one cared. Public discourse was completely drowned out by countless influencers and fan groups shouting that their A-Train was innocent, and that the person at fault was the one standing in the road.
For the next few days, Hughie drifted through life in a haze—work, clock out, go home, work again. He was just an ordinary person. There was nothing he could do.
"That's not necessarily true."
A bearded, burly man appeared near closing time. He reached into his jacket and flashed what looked like an FBI warning badge.
"Billy Butcher. FBI"
---
The moment Butcher laid eyes on the poor bastard in front of him, he stared straight into Hughie's eyes. Beneath that calm surface, he saw a raging inferno of anger—exactly like his own once had been.
He knew he had found the right person.
With just a little push, Butcher could turn Hughie into a bullet aimed straight at Vought.
"Where are you taking me?"
Hughie didn't believe for a second that Butcher was really FBI, but some other force drove him to follow anyway, toward a place he had never known existed.
"Just come with me. I'll open your eyes."
Butcher knew of an underground bar that catered exclusively to superpowered trash and their playthings. Using some decidedly non-cooperative methods, he had secured entry.
He was going to push Hughie onto a road from which there was no turning back.
Calling it a bar was generous—it was more like an underground orgy. Hughie, dragged along half-willingly, felt like he'd seen the world for the first time.
A man who could freely grow and shrink demonstrated his amazing diving skills. Nearby, a flying superpowered couple showcased what could only be described as aerial acrobatics.
Even more shocking was a familiar face: Rubber Man, famous nationwide. A devout Christian who ran massive religious gatherings.
The same man who constantly preached on TV that "pray the gays away" was now using his elastic body to engage in very intimate human connections with two or three guys.
Butcher reached out and lifted Hughie's slack jaw.
"There's worse coming."
In a piece of surveillance footage pulled up in the control room, A-Train was sitting in a private booth with one of his buddies, bragging:
"You know what? I ran so fast through that bitch, I accidentally swallowed one of her molars. Like a bug on the fucking freeway. Hahahaha..."
The two of them burst out laughing, like they were talking about accidentally stepping on a cockroach.
They were laughing.
The sound drilled into Hughie's brain. Rage boiled over. Never in his life had he felt such pain and humiliation.
After worshipping these "superheroes" as distant idols for so many years, Hughie had finally stepped into the real world of superheroes.
"Next, I need you to help me with something. I need you to accept that NDA... hear me out first..."
Sensing the timing was right, Butcher pulled Hughie into an empty corner.
"You accept the agreement, and you add one extra condition—go to Vought Tower and make A-Train apologize to you in person."
He handed Hughie a small object that looked like a black plastic disc.
"This is a bug. You'll stick it inside Vought Tower. The closer to those superpowered bastards, the better."
"What? No! Absolutely not! I'm not James Bond!"
Hughie instantly imagined what would happen if he were caught. His anger was doused by fear. He knew he wasn't cut out for this.
[That's right. Go home. Think about what happened to Robin. Oppose Vought, and you'll end up just like her—erased without a trace.]
"Did you just say something?"
Hughie felt like they weren't alone in that corner.
"I didn't say anything."
Butcher was confused, but he could tell Hughie was backing out. That was understandable—not everyone had the guts to go up against Vought.
He reached out and took back the bug, preparing to leave.
"Wait."
Hughie pressed his hand down on the device.
"Tell me exactly what I need to do."
---
What is the meaning of superheroes' existence?
After spending the night in bed with Stormfront, Joey found himself unable to sleep. Even while clocking in at Vought Tower early the next morning, the question lingered in his mind.
In the comics, animations, movies, and TV shows from his previous life, superheroes exist to save the world—or at the very least, to help their neighbors.
Maybe some of them had impure motivations, but there was always an inherent, altruistic morality behind their actions.
Which made their conflicts ideological, or personal.
Not like this.
This was a conflict of interests.
Joey had imagined many times what a Justice League meeting might look like—discussing world peace, or how much blame Batman should shoulder.
But never once had he imagined people discussing how to split money.
And yet, here it was.
At the morning meeting, Translucent—who appeared to be nothing but clothes—was the first to cause trouble, demanding that Homelander immediately pressure Vought's legal department to issue cease-and-desist letters against pirated merchandise of the Seven.
After all, 4% of IP revenue belonged to the heroes themselves. Piracy was basically stealing from their pockets.
A-Train, who had arrived in a wheelchair, immediately took issue with the 4%. Clearly, his background made that number unacceptable to him. Then Queen Maeve, tequila in hand even during work hours, poured fuel on the fire.
Nearby stood Noir, dressed exactly like the shadowy figure from Detective Conan, saying nothing. On the other side was 'Aquaman,' The Deep—quiet the whole time, but with shifty eyes that didn't exactly scream integrity.
Honestly, Joey's first sixteen years in this world had been perfectly normal.
Everything got weird after that raven showed up.S
He rarely thought about things like this before, because dwelling on them led to existential crises.
But now he couldn't help it.
Had he somehow crossed into a superhero universe produced in the San Fernando Valley?
"Everyone, everyone! Stop. Can we please not show such a mercenary side to the new guy right off the bat?"
Homelander, seated at the head of the table, raised a hand to halt the pointless argument. His expression was as righteous and noble as the Superman Joey remembered from his past life.
"I'm not here to criticize anyone for wanting money. But the primary job of superheroes is to save people. That's the only thing I want to hear discussed in today's meeting."
So far, was Homelander the only normal person in this superhero team?