Chapter 40: The Captain Who Hasn't Become Captain America Yet
"Hello, I'm Howard Stark, responsible for mechanical engineering."
"Hello, I'm Abraham Erskine, responsible for biological genetic engineering."
"Hello, I'm Allen, responsible for janitorial work."
Allen crossed his hands, shaking Howard's with his right and Erskine's with his left.
Both men had odd expressions. They had heard that a mentally unstable expert was arriving, but they didn't expect the conversation to be offbeat from the very first sentence.
Wilson pointed at his head and reminded them, "He's got a few screws loose."
The two nodded in agreement.
In a place filled with top experts, real skill was what mattered. A little eccentricity was acceptable, as long as they had insights into common problems and could contribute.
If someone was all talk with no substance, they'd eventually be kicked out of S.H.I.E.L.D.
After all, S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't keep freeloaders.
"Dr. Allen, we're currently exploring human enhancement limits. Do you have any thoughts?" Erskine casually asked.
This scruffy old man was, in fact, the mastermind behind the Super Soldier Serum.
Even Howard was just assisting him, helping to build a machine that could integrate the serum.
"If strength isn't enough, then gear makes up for it. Rocket launcher in the left hand, Gatling gun in the right, shout 'Ura!'—even Thanos wouldn't be scary!" Allen replied with utmost seriousness.
"Sorry, I have things to do."
Erskine's face darkened, and he turned back to his workspace.
Not only was this man scruffy, but he was also eccentric.
Howard tried to smooth things over. "Dr. Erskine only likes working with experts who speak his language."
"It's just Super Soldier Serum. Like it's some big deal," Allen scoffed, scratching his armpit as a bold idea suddenly popped into his mind.
"You know how to develop a serum?"
Howard's eyes lit up, wanting to probe Allen's knowledge.
"Simmer it, stew it—I can cook up a whole pot."
Alchemy skills included potion-making, right?
And wasn't potion-making just like those old witches throwing herbs into a cauldron and brewing up a stinky broth?
That was Allen's understanding, at least.
Howard frowned, wondering if Allen had completely misunderstood, and kindly reminded him, "In a month, high-ranking military officials will visit. If we can present results, we'll receive substantial funding."
"Well, isn't that just tailor-made for me?"
Allen confidently declared, "I'll show them something mind-blowing."
After some bonding with his colleagues, he moved to his personal workstation.
The area was filled with various tools, and if he needed anything, it could be arranged.
Wilson, meanwhile, was captivated by the precision micro-lathes. His eyes gleamed.
"Allen, these precision lathes from S.H.I.E.L.D. are two levels more advanced than those in the Soviet Union."
Wilson ran his hand over the machines, marveling, "No wonder America maintains a technological edge. The experts here don't just understand theory—they have hands-on skills too."
But Allen wasn't interested at all. He slumped into a chair, looking bored.
"Allen, where do we start?"
Now convinced of Allen's capabilities, Wilson dared not act like a know-it-all. He wanted to witness an advanced invention.
"Slacking off."
"Slacking off?"
Allen nodded seriously. "If you don't slack off at work, can you even call it work?"
"…"
That made so much sense, Wilson was left speechless.
In an instant, his enthusiasm for work vanished, and he mimicked Allen, flopping onto the couch.
"Slacking off at work feels great, huh?" Allen grinned, showing his big front teeth.
"Yeah, it really does."
Wilson admitted it freely—he'd never experienced this in all his years.
"Arson, it's lunchtime. Let's check out the cafeteria."
"Got it."
From that day on, S.H.I.E.L.D. gained two idlers.
They clocked in on time, drank coffee, and lounged on the couch waiting for lunch.
Whenever Howard asked about progress, Allen would reply that he was conceptualizing a new weapon.
Wilson, on the other hand, just shrugged. "I'm just an assistant—what do you expect me to do?"
Within three days, S.H.I.E.L.D. co-founder Colonel Chester Phillips arrived, bringing along a young man—short and thin.
"This is Steve Rogers, my chosen candidate for the Super Soldier program."
Present at the scene were Carter, Howard, Erskine, Allen, and Wilson—all looking at the future Captain America, who appeared small and timid.
Some immediately objected to Colonel Phillips' decision.
Dr. Erskine spoke sternly, "Colonel, you're playing with a life. He's so frail—his body won't withstand the serum. It could cause genetic collapse and kill him."
As the expert in biology, no one had the qualifications to challenge his judgment.
"I value Steve's character—his willingness to stand against oppression and his courage to sacrifice himself. He's the perfect candidate," Colonel Phillips insisted.
Steve never backed down from bullies, no matter their size.
Steve threw himself onto a grenade to protect his squad, willing to die for them.
Just these two actions were enough for Colonel Phillips to make up his mind.
"Boss, I support you."
Allen stepped forward, shook Steve's hand, and said, "Hello, old man. Where's your Bucky?"
"…"
Steve was momentarily stunned before realizing what Allen meant. "You mean Bucky? He's in the army, training."
"Forget your Bucky, old man. I promise to make you a chiseled, top-tier hunk."
"…"
Steve's shy nature made him unsure how to respond to Allen.
The others naturally ignored Allen.
As S.H.I.E.L.D. founders, they had already decided to give Allen one more month. If he was just freeloading, they'd kick him out.
The discussion grew heated.
Ultimately, Colonel Phillips used his authority to finalize Steve as the Super Soldier candidate.
A lot happened over the next three days.
S.H.I.E.L.D. began preparations for the serum enhancement project.
Meanwhile, Soviet and Hydra agents in America had secretly contacted Allen.
Eager to be a triple agent, Allen gladly met with them and even brought back a small telegraph machine to send information to both factions.
Allen immediately leaked details of the serum project.
But he was plotting something even bigger.
Life, after all, was either about pulling off stunts or preparing to pull off stunts.
On the fourth day, before the Super Soldier experiment began—
"Old man, don't be scared. Everyone has a first time."
Allen pointed at the machine and reassured, "You just lie down in there, and in a moment, it'll malfunction and cremate you instantly."
Steve, initially calm, suddenly felt a wave of unease.
The machine, resembling an ancient sarcophagus, was covered in wires. If it short-circuited or caught fire, he wouldn't even have a chance to escape.
Allen pointed at Howard, who was fine-tuning the equipment. "Trust in Old Howard's craftsmanship. If something goes wrong, they'll bury both you and the machine together—ensuring no evidence is left behind."
"Could you be a little more optimistic?"
Steve looked distressed, even contemplating backing out.
But it was too late. The military officials and various representatives were already in attendance. He had no choice but to go through with it. Besides, Colonel Phillips would just force him in anyway.
"If you want optimism, then best case scenario: the serum works, but your chest ends up uneven, or one butt cheek is round while the other is flat. Not a big deal—I know a doctor from the League of Assassins who can patch you up with some silicone. No one will ever know."
"You really know how to comfort someone."
Steve: o(╥﹏╥)o
(Support me and read ahead on Patreøn: patreøn.com/craxxtranslation. Thanks for your support! Don't forget to send Power Stones—300 Power Stones = +1 bonus chapter!)