Chapter 42: I Do Not Approve of This Marriage
The severely injured Steve was brought back to S.H.I.E.L.D. for treatment.
During the serum experiment earlier, doctors and nurses had already been on standby.
As his upper clothing was cut away, three gunshot wounds were clearly visible, blood still seeping from them.
"Forceps."
The doctor took the medical tool handed over by the nurse, but when he looked at the wounds, he froze.
The bullet holes were slowly wriggling, and before long, a bullet head was squeezed out on its own.
It was as if his body was undergoing some kind of rejection reaction, with his muscles gradually expelling the bullets.
"What's going on?"
The doctor didn't dare to act rashly. More importantly, Steve's identity was different now—he was the only successful case of the serum experiment. He immediately instructed the nurse, "Call someone from S.H.I.E.L.D."
Before long, the S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel arrived in the operating room.
"What happened?"
Carter asked anxiously, "Is Steve beyond saving?"
Colonel Phillips stood grim-faced, waiting for the doctor's response.
What had happened today was an unprecedented blow to S.H.I.E.L.D.
Not only had Dr. Erskine perished, but their one and only super soldier had seemingly died as well. That meant the years of research, which had cost over a hundred million dollars, had all gone to waste.
A hundred million dollars was enough to arm an entire army division in this era.
"No, he's fine."
The doctor glanced at Steve lying on the hospital bed, momentarily unsure of how to explain.
As they waited, the wounds had already stopped bleeding and formed scabs. Based on years of medical experience, wounds this deep—where a finger could easily be inserted—should take at least two or three days to begin forming granulation tissue and scabbing. A full recovery would normally take ten days to half a month. But at this rate, Steve might heal completely in just one day.
"Doctor, it's all thanks to you," Carter sighed in relief.
"I didn't do anything. He healed on his own," the doctor said awkwardly.
Self-healing?
That seemed a bit exaggerated.
For an ordinary person, taking three gunshots meant the whole village would be gathering for a funeral feast.
As the doctor lifted the gauze, the darkened scabbed-over wounds were revealed to everyone.
"Is this a result of the serum?"
Colonel Phillips was in disbelief.
On the battlefield, getting shot in the torso was almost always a fatal injury. If every soldier had the serum, they'd only need bulletproof helmets and could charge forward without fear.
"Impossible."
Howard shook his head. "I've reviewed the serum's data. It does enhance physical abilities several times over, but this level of healing isn't just several times—it's dozens of times faster. There must have been some kind of mutation."
If the healing ability was truly this potent, the serum would be worth millions per dose, and the capitalists would be willing to pour in money to get it.
Wilson, who had accompanied the group, turned to Allen and cautiously asked, "Did you do something?"
"Arson, you're ruining the moment by exposing me like that."
Allen huffed, "You're making me seem like some back-alley cybernetics technician, so cheap and unrefined."
"What exactly did you do?" Colonel Phillips asked in shock.
Everyone had originally dismissed Allen as just some lunatic wasting time at S.H.I.E.L.D., but now he was showing unexpected brilliance.
If he could take over the serum research and fill the gap left by Dr. Erskine, it would be a surprising boon.
"I didn't do much, just added a little something of mine," Allen said sheepishly.
"Just a little ingredient of mine… (urine)."
His words carried a double meaning, but no one even considered the possibility of bodily fluids.
"This is bad. If the serum falls into Axis hands, they'll crack the formula and mass-produce super soldiers," Howard said worriedly.
Hundreds of thousands, even millions, of fearless, self-healing super soldiers would be a catastrophe for the Allies.
Imagine enemy troops leaping onto tanks, tearing apart turrets with their bare hands, or charging into defensive lines like an unstoppable tide—it wouldn't be a war anymore; it would be a one-sided slaughter.
Allen picked his nose indifferently. "They won't be able to replicate the serum exactly. I stole the formula and modified it. There are eight versions, split into A and B types. They have to be injected together; using just one will cause side effects. Plus, they'll never figure out what I added. I'm not telling anyone."
What Allen was actually referring to was urine. As for the Bacchus Factor, that wasn't exactly a secret.
The component could be identified through sample analysis, but sourcing it would be a nightmare.
Ordinary, impure Bacchus Factor was controlled by the League of Assassins, and they weren't about to give it up.
The pure Bacchus Factor was in Gotham, and at this point in time, only Allen knew the secret.
"You did well. Keep up the good work."
At this moment, Colonel Phillips fully acknowledged Allen's value. His eccentric behavior was no longer an issue—what mattered was true talent.
"Boss, triple my salary, and I'll come up with even more brilliant ideas for you."
"You're short on money?"
Colonel Phillips found it odd.
Allen had all his living expenses covered by S.H.I.E.L.D. He wasn't spending money outside either, so why was he suddenly asking for more?
"If you don't triple my salary, both my ex and current partners will go on strike."
Allen raised his hands in explanation, then shyly added, "Mainly, I want to buy them lace gloves… to spice things up when we spend time together."
"…"
Could you come up with a worse excuse?
"No problem, I'll arrange it."
Colonel Phillips agreed immediately. In a research budget of millions, tripling one salary was a trivial matter.
"Old Howard, I've got money now—I want to buy shares in Stark Industries."
Allen grinned proudly at Howard. "Name a price. I can afford to be extravagant now."
"What Stark Industries?"
Howard looked confused. He was just an employee—forget owning an industry, he probably couldn't even afford to run a factory.
Now it was Allen's turn to be dumbfounded. He immediately scoffed, "Holy crap. And here I was trying to cozy up to you, but it turns out you're just a broke nobody."
Did he have to be so blunt about it? That was hurtful.
Howard had no choice. His research projects were all incredibly expensive and had little commercial viability. If not for the war, he'd probably be working as a professor.
Within fifteen minutes, Colonel Phillips and Howard left with their team to handle Dr. Erskine's funeral arrangements.
Beside the hospital bed, Carter remained.
She touched the scabbed wound on Steve's abdomen. With just a gentle press, the scab fell off, revealing fresh, smooth skin beneath. Her hand unconsciously traced the contours of his well-defined abs.
Her breathing grew slightly unsteady.
"Have you touched enough?"
"You're still here?"
Carter turned to see Allen crouching in the corner. She had assumed everyone had left.
Allen spoke solemnly, "I do not approve of your marriage to Old Deng's eldest son. Please don't have any improper thoughts."
"…"
Carter was so stunned, she almost laughed. "What right do you have to interfere with Steve's love life?"
"He's my masterpiece. As his creator, it's only natural for me to look out for him."
Allen glanced her up and down and evaluated, "Other than being beautiful, having a great figure, an elegant demeanor, high intelligence, strong moral values, a respectable job, a substantial salary, and a well-off family, you have absolutely nothing going for you. I refuse to let Old Deng's eldest son suffer by being with you."
"…"
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