Most superhumans had no interest in working to make money.
They wanted to live off their powers.
They wanted to be superheroes.
Even when factories or corporations offered exorbitant salaries to hire them for specialized work, most superhumans sneered at the idea.
To them, labor was beneath heroism.
But reality was cruel.
No company—not even Vought—could provide career paths for all superhumans.
At its core, the superhero industry was an entertainment business.
Heroes were stars.
And stars had to be controlled.
If they became too common, they lost value.
Even a giant like Vought never trained large numbers of heroes at once. Oversupply meant devaluation, and resources were limited. Every company had to concentrate its strength, take a refined approach, and cultivate only those heroes who could generate enough profit.
The difference between heroes was brutal.
A thousand mediocre supes—like the "Blindspot" Homelander once deafened—could never bring in the same revenue as Homelander alone.
That was the gap.
And because of this, over 90% of superhumans were left idle.
No stable income.
No legal work.
In the end, they either wasted away at home—or secretly used their powers for illegal activities just to survive.
The introduction of the Mission Act changed everything.
For the first time, the Superhero Council had the authority to absorb these unemployed superhumans and put their abilities to use.
Under normal circumstances, ordinary humans would never dare command superhumans.
Historically, even to contain them, society had to fabricate the concept of "superheroes"—a glamorous cage designed to restrain their actions.
But now?
With Sebastian and Homelander standing behind the system, fear vanished.
People no longer needed to fear superhumans.
They only needed to pay.
For a relatively small sum, one could legally employ individuals with extraordinary abilities.
Individually, the income of a single superhuman might seem modest.
But once organized at scale—
The benefits became terrifying.
Even for sensitive or morally gray tasks, an unspoken consensus quickly formed.
As long as things weren't dragged into the open.
Clients merely had to phrase their requests vaguely.
Those superhumans already accustomed to dirty work would naturally step forward.
The system didn't need to say anything explicitly.
Everyone understood.
Faced with such overwhelming advantages, all fourteen council members voted in favor almost overnight.
A detailed compensation and welfare framework was finalized at an astonishing speed.
At the same time, Congress approved a special military budget, explicitly earmarked to provide generous benefits for registered superheroes.
Interestingly, however—
A proposal suggesting private individual funding as a temporary operational measure was ruthlessly rejected.
The reason was simple.
The Superhero Council belonged to everyone.
If funding was needed, it had to be public.
Otherwise, even if the system functioned smoothly, heroes would remember only who paid the money, not the institution itself.
More importantly, this rejection sent a clear message.
On matters of fairness, clever shortcuts and personal generosity were meaningless.
Only equity and shared responsibility earned lasting legitimacy.
With the bill passed, the Superhero Council wasted no time.
A large-scale press conference was prepared immediately.
Normally, legislation didn't require such spectacle.
But the Mission Act was different.
It would reshape the entire superhuman ecosystem.
Its impact would be profound.
To ensure public understanding—and to attract future commissions—the announcement had to make waves.
Thus, the Council unveiled its new public service system:
Hero Hotline — 327
Anyone in need could dial 327 to reach headquarters and submit a mission request.
If no response was received within ten seconds, the system would automatically escalate the call, activate location tracking, and mark it as an emergency.
The nearest available superheroes would be dispatched immediately.
For non-urgent tasks, requests would remain open until an appropriate hero accepted them.
At the same time, the Council made one thing clear:
Only officially registered superheroes could benefit from the Mission Act.
Anyone wishing to be recognized as a legitimate hero would have to pass rigorous examinations—
Moral conduct.
Ability assessment.
Psychological stability.
Nothing was overlooked.
The results were immediate.
Public approval of the Superhero Council skyrocketed.
Unemployed superhumans flocked to register.
Ordinary citizens, for the first time, felt that heroes truly belonged to them.
But a new problem soon emerged.
In 1991, mobile phones were far from universal.
Most people relied on pagers, landlines, or PHS systems—the most advanced communication technology of the era.
So what if someone was outdoors?
What if there was no phone booth nearby?
At this critical moment—
Sebastian stepped forward.
He announced the launch of the Council's first self-developed personal communication device.
A revolutionary product that combined:
Mobile phonePagerPHS functionality
Into a single handheld unit.
The price?
$988 for the device.
Users could then apply for a personal number card and enjoy real-time calls and text messaging—anytime, anywhere.
More importantly—
It supported long-distance communication, breaking free from the city-only limitations of PHS.
True global connectivity.
And to lower the barrier further—
Installment payments were supported.
Just like that,
calling heroes—
and calling the world—
became something anyone could afford.
And the age of distance quietly came to an end.
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