Tony's frown deepened as he processed Matt's statement. His fingers drummed against the judge's table—a telltale sign of mental calculation running through scenarios and implications. Finally, he leaned forward toward his microphone.
"No matter the situation?" Tony asked, his tone carrying genuine curiosity rather than judgment. "You maintain that principle absolutely?"
Matt stood at center stage, his posture unwavering despite being unable to see the three powerful men evaluating him. In this timeline, without the experience of watching Kingpin walk free after prosecution, without seeing justice repeatedly fail against wealthy criminals with excellent lawyers, Matt's conviction remained unshaken by practical reality.
"Yes. In any situation," Matt replied, his voice firm with certainty.
Tony pressed further, constructing a scenario that would test the philosophy's limits. "Even if the enemy is committing atrocities that endanger innocent lives? Even if the only way to guarantee civilian safety is lethal force?"
Matt nodded with absolute seriousness. "Yes. Even then."
Tony set his phone down on the judge's table and leaned back in his chair, his expression mixing disappointment with frustrated understanding. He shrugged toward Smith and Ivan. "This is idealistic thinking divorced from field reality."
He picked up his phone again, scrolling through notes he'd been taking during the demonstration. "I don't have any further questions."
In Tony's assessment, Matt had just disqualified himself completely. Placing someone with that rigid philosophy on the team would create endless complications—tactical limitations during operations, potential teammate casualties because of hesitation, public relations disasters when principled restraint led to preventable tragedies.
Ivan looked up at Matt with something approaching bewilderment. How did someone develop such absolute convictions in the face of obvious practical problems? "Is Batman your idol?" he asked, genuine curiosity coloring his tone.
DC Comics enjoyed substantial global popularity. While not every superhero was a household name, Batman's "no killing" principle was widely known and frequently debated. The question resonated with the audience—several people nodded, making the connection Ivan had drawn.
Matt's expression brightened slightly. "I strongly agree with Batman's no-killing philosophy. Judgment should be left to courts, not vigilantes acting as executioners."
Agent Coulson, seated in the middle section of the audience, studied Matt with conflicted thoughts. While he didn't personally agree with such absolute principles, having more enhanced individuals who respected legal authority could benefit S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mission. Heroes who worked within the system rather than outside it created fewer complications.
Ivan absorbed the answer, then spoke into his microphone. "I don't have any further questions."
Smith had been watching quietly, letting Tony and Ivan explore different angles. Now he leaned forward, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd spent years making hard decisions in impossible situations.
"As superheroes, we can't treat all criminals identically," Smith began, his tone measured and thoughtful. "Someone who steals a wallet needs correction, not execution. Sending them to the police station for processing is absolutely appropriate."
He paused, letting that acknowledgment settle before continuing. "But when facing truly dangerous criminals—terrorists, mass murderers, people actively threatening innocent lives—we need to eliminate threats as quickly as possible to protect the people around us."
Smith's gaze held steady on Matt, though the blind man couldn't see the intensity there. "If you spare every enemy's life on principle, you're not just risking yourself. You're risking the people you claim to protect. Hesitation kills bystanders."
He gestured toward the audience, encompassing the broader world beyond this venue. "If every police officer on patrol maintained your philosophy, refusing to use lethal force regardless of circumstances, I think police department pensions and line-of-duty deaths would more than double within a year. Your principle sounds noble, but it's a luxury paid for with other people's blood."
Smith pressed the red rejection button on his judge's panel. A large X appeared on the display beneath his position. "My answer is no."
Tony and Ivan pressed their own rejection buttons immediately after, three X's glowing in sequence.
Applause erupted from sections of the audience—particularly from police officers in attendance and viewers who understood the practical realities of violent confrontation. Smith's philosophy resonated with people who'd faced genuine threats: minor crimes warranted minor responses, but extreme violence demanded overwhelming force to protect innocents.
Some criminals watching the broadcast in bars and hideouts throughout the city smiled with contempt. Daredevil was a joke in their assessment—a self-righteous fool who'd handicapped himself with principles that made him predictable and exploitable.
Three rejection tones sounded in sequence, the finality unmistakable. Matt stood motionless for a moment, processing the outcome. Disappointment flickered across his features, but his conviction remained intact. He'd failed to join the team, but he hadn't compromised his beliefs.
He turned and walked off stage with the same confident stride he'd used entering, his enhanced senses guiding him perfectly despite his blindness.
The World Martial Arts Tournament Announcer's voice filled the venue, managing the transition with professional sympathy. "Regrettably, Daredevil Matt Murdock's philosophy proved incompatible with The Paragons' operational requirements. He will not be joining the seven-person team."
The Announcer's tone shifted, becoming more encouraging. "However, we wish him continued success as a street hero protecting Hell's Kitchen and helping people in need!"
Polite applause followed Matt's exit—respectful acknowledgment of his dedication even if his approach didn't fit the team's needs.
"Next, please welcome our second candidate," the Announcer declared, his enthusiasm rebuilding. "Black Panther—T'Challa!"
T'Challa emerged from the stage entrance wearing his Black Panther suit, the vibranium weave absorbing light in ways that made the armor seem to shift and flow. He carried his helmet under one arm rather than wearing it, allowing the audience to see his face—a deliberate choice that humanized him before the demonstration began.
The massive display screen behind the stage lit up with his profile information:
T'Challa Son of King T'Chaka, Crown Prince of Wakanda Enhanced Physical Capabilities: Strength, speed, endurance, reflexes, and durability exceeding baseline human by significant margins. Power Level : 50.
The audience erupted in enthusiastic applause. T'Challa's presence carried particular significance—the first prominent superhero of African descent to participate in such a high-profile recruitment. People of color throughout the venue and watching broadcasts worldwide recognized the representation he provided.
The Announcer seized on this narrative, his voice carrying genuine warmth. "Excellence can emerge from any circumstance! From Wakanda, one of Africa's nations, comes T'Challa—proving that extraordinary individuals exist in all walks of life, all backgrounds, all corners of our world!"
He gestured grandly toward T'Challa. "The stage is yours, Black Panther!"
The three judges studied T'Challa with familiar recognition. He'd participated in the Dragon Ball tournament just months ago, his vibranium suit and enhanced capabilities on full display during his brief but honorable showing against Thena. They knew exactly what he could do.
Ivan felt a twinge of frustration thinking about his failed negotiations with T'Chaka. The Wakandan king had maintained his fabrication about having no vibranium reserves, claiming everything except the Black Panther suit had been stolen by Ulysses Klaue. Ivan knew it was a lie, but couldn't prove it without diplomatic incident.
T'Challa accepted a microphone from a stagehand, his movements carrying natural grace and confidence. "I'm honored to stand on this stage before you all."
His voice was measured, thoughtful—the cadence of someone accustomed to careful speech. "Wakanda is a developing nation, and I had limited access to outside information during my youth. It wasn't until I attended Oxford University in Britain that I truly encountered the concept of modern superheroes."
He paused, letting that context settle. "Captain America's story deeply touched me. His spirit—using extraordinary power in service of others, protecting the vulnerable, standing against tyranny—taught me how such abilities should be wielded."
T'Challa's expression grew more animated as he continued. "The emergence of three new superheroes—GOD, Iron Man, and Blue Dynamo—demonstrated that heroism didn't end with Captain America. The spirit lives on in this modern era."
He turned slightly, addressing the judges directly while remaining visible to the audience. "I sincerely hope to join this newly formed superhero team through this selection process. To become part of something larger than myself, to make friends on the path of justice, and to carry out righteous actions alongside like-minded individuals."
Warm applause greeted his statement. T'Challa had struck exactly the right tone—humble without being self-deprecating, idealistic without being naive, respectful of the judges while projecting confidence in his own capabilities.
"Now I'll demonstrate my abilities," T'Challa said, setting down the microphone.
Five large men emerged from backstage, each armed with training weapons—batons, staffs, practice knives. They wore protective padding and moved with the coordination of professional stunt performers hired specifically for these demonstrations.
Smith's scouter registered their power levels around seven each—baseline humans in good physical condition but nothing enhanced. Against T'Challa's fifty, the outcome was predetermined. The question was how cleanly he could execute.
T'Challa donned his Black Panther helmet with a smooth motion, the mask sealing with barely audible clicks. Then he moved.
The first opponent swung his baton in a overhead arc. T'Challa sidestepped, grabbed the man's extended arm, and used his momentum to flip him completely over. The second attacker thrust with his staff—T'Challa deflected it with his forearm, the vibranium absorbing the impact harmlessly, then delivered a palm strike that sent the man stumbling backward.
The remaining three tried coordinating their assault, attacking from different angles simultaneously. T'Challa's enhanced reflexes made their coordination look like slow motion. He ducked under one swing, blocked another with his shoulder, and swept the third attacker's legs out from under him.
Within thirty seconds, all five opponents were on the ground, groaning but uninjured. T'Challa hadn't needed to be brutal—just overwhelmingly superior in every physical dimension.
He removed his helmet, breathing normally despite the exertion, and bowed slightly to the judges and audience.