Chapter 66: The Transformation of Captain America's Life
Diana slowly woke up, her eyes meeting a figure wearing a black helmet.
Instinctively, she reached for the God Killer Sword to defend herself.
"Your Highness, it's me—your prince consort."
Allen lifted his visor, revealing what he believed to be a handsome smile—though in reality, it was more on the creepy side.
"It's you," Diana sighed, closing her eyes briefly.
"Hey, hey, hey! Why do you sound so disappointed? Am I not handsome enough?" Allen puffed up his cheeks in frustration.
"Mm..." Diana responded softly.
"Ugh... My heart feels like it's been crushed into powder, just like those crispy raccoon instant noodles."
Clutching his chest dramatically with one hand, Allen reached into his armpit with the other and declared, "Let me put on some makeup—I'll dazzle you with my charm!"
Diana watched in silence as Allen pulled out a pen and began scribbling furiously on his own face.
Moments later, he tucked the pen back into his armpit.
"See? Handsome, right?"
Allen frowned slightly, shooting her an intense gaze as if trying to look deep and mysterious. He pointed at his face and explained, "Cha-ris-ma-tic."
Diana was dumbfounded—because Allen had literally written the words "charismatic" on his face.
"Why was I unconscious?" she asked, her sharp gaze locking onto Allen. She had a feeling he had something to do with it.
"You were poisoned. I cured you," Allen answered, avoiding eye contact. His tone carried a hint of awkwardness.
"You poisoned me?"
"It was an accident."
Under Diana's icy glare, Allen remained surprisingly calm.
"Why does my throat feel sticky?" Diana rubbed her neck, trying to clear the sensation.
"Maybe you swallowed seawater. Too salty, so your saliva glands overcompensated."
"Really?"
"Really."
Allen tilted his head back, avoiding her eyes. No way he was going to admit that he cured her through—well, let's just say—fluid exchange. The antidote needed time to generate antibodies inside the body, so even his saliva carried detoxifying properties.
"Your Highness, did you run away from home for me? I'm so touched." Allen pouted coyly, trying to change the subject.
"You're overthinking it."
Diana rolled her eyes. "I need to defeat Ares and reclaim my honor."
"All this over a cellphone?"
"..."
---
During the two months Allen had been away, the Allied forces had been making swift advances, crushing enemy lines.
However, the Nazis launched a counteroffensive, revealing cutting-edge laser weapons and an unwavering fighting spirit. As a result, the Allies lost all their hard-earned gains, and the war devolved into a brutal stalemate. Each battlefront had turned into a meat grinder, with both sides continuously throwing in troops to fight for strategic strongholds.
The moment Allen landed in Europe, he headed straight for a military recruitment office—essentially a station for funneling new soldiers into the Allied ranks.
Even though America was far from the battlefield, it couldn't afford to deplete its entire domestic force. Casualties were too high. The only way to manage losses was to distribute them across all Allied nations.
Allen boarded a military aircraft, heading toward Steve Rogers' battlefield.
His status as a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative ensured that he was quickly assigned an escort.
But during his journey, he received bad news—Bucky had died during a mission, and even his body was missing.
"So, he still couldn't escape his fate of becoming the Winter Soldier."
Allen realized that time had a way of self-correcting. No matter how much interference was applied, some destinies were set in stone.
When he arrived at the camp, Allen noticed a lot of new faces in the Howling Commandos.
It seemed that S.H.I.E.L.D. had begun recognizing the value of mutants, actively recruiting them into specialized units. They were probably forming more superhuman teams in secret.
"Hey, Old Man Rogers."
Allen spotted Steve sitting on the steps in the distance, lost in thought, his face clouded with sorrow.
Hearing the familiar voice, Steve looked up and saw Allen clad in armor.
"Welcome back."
There was no joy in Steve's voice. He was still drowning in grief over losing his best friend.
Allen patted the step beside him and sat down. "Stop brooding—Bucky's not dead."
"...Not dead?"
Steve's expression darkened. He tolerated Allen's usual nonsense, but Bucky's death was no joking matter.
"He was probably captured by Hydra. I don't know exactly where, but you'll meet again in the future." Allen described seriously, "If you ever see a guy with a silver metal arm, shoulder-length hair, and a mask, that's Bucky. But he'll be brainwashed and won't remember you."
Yeah, right. As if.
Steve exhaled heavily, brushing off Allen's words as insane ramblings.
"Let me teach you how to vent your emotions."
Allen adopted a solemn tone. "When you're upset, you should curse. Say it with me—Red Skull is a sissy."
Steve frowned, remaining silent.
"Come on, don't be shy. Say it!" Allen encouraged him.
"..."
"Okay, that one's too hard. Let's start simple—Red Skull is a coward who hides behind a mask."
Steve hesitated, then slowly opened his mouth.
"Say it."
"...Red Skull is a coward."
"Louder!"
"Red Skull is a coward who hides behind a mask!"
Steve actually went through with it, and as he did, his frown loosened a bit.
Red Skull was responsible for Bucky's death—he had no reason to hold back.
"Good! Now, let's add some emphasis."
"Red Skull is a cowardly sissy who hides behind a mask."
"Now, spice it up a little more."
"Red Skull is a pathetic excuse for a cowardly sissy!"
...
Thanks to Allen's professional coaching, Steve became a master of creative insults. His whole demeanor brightened, no longer needing any encouragement—he was a natural.
"Red Skull, you one-year-old unwanted orphan, two-year-old crybaby, three-year-old peeping Tom, four-year-old exhibitionist, five-year-old... still wetting the bed at eighteen sissy!"
He launched into a full-on roast, covering every age from one to eighteen.
Steve looked completely revitalized, as if he'd finally found an outlet for his grief.
At this point, Allen quietly slipped away—because the entire camp was now staring at Steve like he was crazy.
"Princess, that guy has no manners. Unlike you DC heroes, Marvel heroes are kind of... lacking."
Allen put on an expression of righteous indignation, pretending he had nothing to do with Steve's sudden transformation.
If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, Diana might've actually believed him.
Look at what he'd done! Steve had been a righteous, grieving man, and Allen had swooped in and turned him into the king of trash talk.
---
Meanwhile, deep inside a Hydra bunker, Red Skull—Johann Schmidt—was meticulously planning his next strike against America.
But halfway through the meeting, he suddenly sneezed.
"Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!"
"Apologies, I must have caught a cold from lack of sleep," Schmidt explained to the scholarly-looking man beside him.
"Please take care of your health, my Führer," the man said with a polite smile, his eyes flashing red for an instant. "You are the future ruler of the world."