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◇ One bonus chapter will be released for every 100 Power Stones. or 500 Collections
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"No problem."
Anthony answered crisply, without the slightest hesitation, as though Steve was merely asking for time off to buy a sandwich.
Steve froze; every prepared line—"personal vendetta," "something I have to do," "but I swear it won't harm Vought's interests"—stuck in his throat.
"Anthony, aren't you going to ask what I'm going to do? Or… where?"
"No need."
Anthony stood, walked to the bar, poured himself a glass of milk, and poured one for Steve as well.
"If you hire a man, don't suspect him; if you suspect him, don't hire him—an old saying." He turned, raised his glass in salute.
"You're Captain America; your moral compass is steadier than this building's foundation. If you say it's something you must do, then it's right."
Sunlight danced across the man's golden hair; the gaudy uniform suddenly looked less commercial, radiating a warmth that inspired trust.
That unconditional trust scattered the gloom in Steve's heart.
"Go—do what you have to do."
"But remember one thing."
Anthony tapped the V.G.D Badge on Steve's chest.
"You're not just Steve Rogers; you're Vought's S-Class Registered Hero, Chief Instructor."
"If you run into trouble you can't handle out there…"
Anthony grinned—arrogantly.
"…call Ashley anytime. Remember, Vought is your strongest trump card."
Steve stared at the swirling white liquid, silent for a long moment.
Since arriving in this era, he'd needed ages to get used to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s atmosphere of constant suspicion.
Nick Fury always spoke in one-third truths, even to the so-called "Captain America."
Yet here, in a company Fury scorned as "all show," he felt the same unconditional trust he'd known in the trenches.
"Thank you, Anthony."
Steve downed the milk in one gulp and set the empty glass down hard.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
"No rush; I'm sure the cadets would rather Angela lead them through yoga than be forced to run ten kilometers by you."
Steve laughed, turned, and strode out of the office.
"Bonus Popularity +10,000! (from Steve Rogers)"
…Upper Potomac River, Maryland.
A cold wind whipped fallen leaves against a safe-house hidden deep in the forest.
Within a kilometer radius lay infrared sensors and pressure-plate mines.
It was one of Brock Rumlow's bolt-holes, the very embodiment of his caution.
No lights were on inside.
Rumlow, shirtless, sat in the dim living-room, using alcohol to clean small wounds by the moonlight filtering through the window.
He took a bottle of whiskey, tipped back a huge swallow; the burn eased his taut nerves.
Pierce's "Cleaners" operation had bought a lull, but Rumlow knew it was only the calm before the storm.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was a volcano ready to erupt, and he was sitting on the rim.
Click.
The faint sound froze Rumlow instantly.
A top-tier Agent's instinct made every hair stand on end.
Years of living on the blade's edge had honed that intuition.
It was too quiet.
The forest insects had fallen silent.
Rumlow slammed down the bottle, yanked a Glock from his waist with his right hand, and scooped a tactical dagger with his left.
Holding his breath, he crept toward the window like a wary leopard.
The perimeter sensors hadn't triggered.
The pressure mines hadn't detonated.
The surveillance feeds all showed normal.
Yet the suffocating sense of being hunted by an apex predator grew stronger.
"Who's there?"
Rumlow barked at the dark corridor.
No answer.
Only the wind moaning through the chimney.
Crack.
A faint snap overhead.
Rumlow jerked his head up and fired!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three rounds punched through the ceiling in a triangular pattern.
Splinters flew.
Next second—
BOOM—!!!
The entire ceiling collapsed.
A black shadow crashed to the floor amid broken wood and dust.
Rumlow rolled aside, came up, and fired three more shots.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
All three hit at close range, sparks flickering in the dark.
By that faint flash Rumlow saw the intruder.
For an instant his blood froze and his breath stopped.
The man wore the exact same tactical vest.
Had the exact same haircut.
Even the thin scar on his face was identical.
It was himself.
"What the hell…?"
Rumlow was horrified.
The "Rumlow" straightened slowly, tilting its head with eerie fluidity, as though calibrating.
It spoke.
"What the hell…?"
The same voice, the same tone of shock, perfectly mimicked.
"Who are you?!"
Rumlow stepped back, swapping in an armor-piercing magazine.
The double didn't answer; it glanced at the bullet holes oozing faint blood on its chest.
No trace of pain crossed its face; it even dug out the slug with a finger.
"What… are you?!" Rumlow demanded, voice trembling.
The copy raised its head, the familiar mocking smile curling its lips.
"I'm your Pro Max."
Voice, tone, even that distinctive nasal quality—identical.
"Shit!"
Rumlow fired without another word.
Then he discovered a terrifying truth.
First round: the thing just took it.
Second round: it began tiny tactical evasions.
Third—when Rumlow rolled for the shotgun under the bed—
the clone mirrored the move perfectly!
It was learning.
Faster and more precise than him!
Bang!
A heavy boot slammed into Rumlow's chest; bones cracked.
"Aargh—!!"
Rumlow screamed; the shotgun skidded away.
The copy picked it up, racked the slide one-handed, slick as Rumlow had practiced in the mirror a thousand times.
"Ugh…" Rumlow coughed blood, staring in shock.
That strength reminded him of Steve Rogers!
Yet the copy didn't finish him.
It simply stood, assuming a fighting stance.
That posture… Rumlow's pupils shrank.
It was his own specialty—Krav Maga: weight low, left hand guarding the head, right hand extended in invitation.
"Come." The copy crooked a finger at him.