Chapter 43: Only Style Cannot Be Abandoned
At Dr. Erskine's funeral, S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel gathered to pay their respects.
Allen handed over a white envelope and asked Mrs. Erskine, "When does the banquet start?"
"…?"
The elderly lady was utterly confused.
Wilson explained, "Allen, Western funerals don't have a banquet tradition."
"No banquet? Then why am I giving a white envelope?"
Allen casually took back the envelope and handed it to Wilson instead. "Here, return the money to yourself."
The awkwardness in the air was palpable.
Mrs. Erskine, who was already overwhelmed with grief, nearly fainted on the spot.
Allen remarked, "A funeral without a banquet has no soul."
Despite his daily antics at S.H.I.E.L.D., Allen never forgot his true mission—his life as a triple agent.
---
Beep… Beep beep… Beep…
Beep… Beep beep… Beep beep…
Beep beep… Beep… Beep…
The message read as follows:
"Honorable Boss, the proletarian warrior sends you his highest regards.
I have successfully infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. The food here is top-notch, and everyone is incredibly talented. They speak so well that it almost feels like home.
Of course, as a true proletarian warrior, I remain steadfast in my mission. I will never allow the sugar-coated bullets of capitalism to erode my unwavering resolve. So far, they haven't even tried tempting me with ten tall, blonde, G-cup beauties in lace suspenders and white stockings.
It seems I've gained their initial trust.
But let's get to the point.
I must report an important piece of intel: S.H.I.E.L.D. is secretly working on a project that could control the world. Unfortunately, I have not yet penetrated its core.
Rest assured, I have found a breakthrough. However, I require funding to proceed with my operation.
Awaiting approval.
Proletarian Warrior, Allen."
In the Soviet Union, Karpov read the telegram.
He felt somewhat reassured—at least Allen was working for their cause.
"A fascinating man," Karpov mused. "To think he's managed to establish himself within S.H.I.E.L.D."
Picking up his phone, he instructed Soviet operatives in America to approve a $100,000 operational fund.
For the KGB, spending $100,000 to secure a reliable intelligence source was a worthwhile investment.
However, if Allen failed to deliver valuable intel, there would be no second payment.
---
Beep… Beep beep… Beep…
Beep… Beep beep… Beep beep…
Beep beep… Beep… Beep…
The message read as follows:
"Great Leader of HYDRA, the Iron Curtain of the Empire sends you his highest respect.
After overcoming numerous hardships, I have successfully infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D., though I remain ever vigilant in my duty to the organization.
Through my connection with Howard Stark, I have uncovered research on a super-metal known as Adamantium.
Rest assured, I will obtain the formula.
However, I have encountered a problem: I lack sufficient funds to continue my espionage work.
I respectfully request a financial grant.
P.S.: No pounds, only U.S. dollars.
Iron Curtain, Allen."
After reading the telegram, Schmidt smiled with satisfaction.
"He's full of surprises—he's already infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D."
Dr. Zola, standing beside him, chuckled. "A casual decision, yet it solved one of our biggest challenges. He's the first step in HYDRA's infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D."
HYDRA's infiltration into S.H.I.E.L.D. took place after World War II.
With the Axis powers defeated, HYDRA had lost its cover. Seeking survival, they accepted recruitment and integrated seamlessly into S.H.I.E.L.D.
"I must admit, S.H.I.E.L.D. holds some incredible treasures. Adamantium might rival the Super Soldier Serum."
Schmidt ordered, "Send him $100,000."
The Super Soldier Serum was already en route. Once it arrived, Vanguard Technologies would assist in reverse-engineering it.
With it, HYDRA could create an army of super soldiers.
However, even in the original timeline, the Super Soldier Serum never became mass-producible—otherwise, the Axis wouldn't have lost the war.
---
Within three days, Allen received two cash deliveries.
Inside his private apartment, two suitcases full of cash lay open on his bed.
"They actually believed that nonsense? Even I feel a little guilty about it."
Allen had no real interest in money. He just made up random reports, sent them out at regular intervals, and let others decide whether to believe them.
It was merely a way to pass the time.
That night, Allen donned a mask with two eye holes, tied a bedsheet around his neck like a cape, and disappeared into the city.
At the time, the Eastern nation was facing invasion from the Chrysanthemum Empire.
Overseas Chinese communities had spontaneously formed rescue committees, raising funds to support the war effort in indirect ways.
The Chinese Chamber of Commerce led the charge.
Crash!
The window shattered as a figure landed among the robed businessmen.
"Who are you?"
Weapons were drawn immediately—these men had faced repeated assassination attempts by enemy spies and took security seriously.
"Say 'Prince,' then answer the question."
The businessmen exchanged glances, unsure whether to shoot him on the spot.
According to American law, trespassing could justify immediate lethal force.
Allen ignored their tension and placed two suitcases on the table, opening them to reveal stacks of cash. "I'm donating $200,000."
"A patriot!"
Realizing his intent, the Chamber of Commerce president gestured for his men to lower their weapons. Since he came to donate, he was one of them. Courtesy was due.
"Sir, though we are committed to saving our homeland, we cannot accept illicit funds."
The president hesitated. Such a large sum of money might invite trouble if it came from an improper source.
"If you say it's stolen, then sure, it's stolen. I don't mind."
Allen grinned mischievously. "I scammed it from the Soviets and the Axis. Surprised? Shocked?"
"…"
Why not just claim it was an official government grant?
"Sir, we cannot accept money of unclear origins." The president remained firm.
"If you won't believe the truth, I'll make up something."
Allen stroked his chin in thought. After a moment, he snapped his fingers.
"Got it! I earned it by trampling on souls."
Could you be any more ridiculous?
If trampling on souls made that much money, everyone would be lining up to do it.
"If you still don't believe me, burn the cash and offer it to the King of Hell. Maybe write on the bills: 'For those who want a hell-mode start in their next life.'"
Having said his piece, Allen turned to leave. Wandering the streets at night was no activity for a decent person.
"May we ask your name, sir?"
The president, realizing Allen's stubbornness, decided to hold the money for a while and convert it into supplies later.
"I am Bruce Horn. I never leave my name when doing good deeds."
Crash!
Allen kicked through another window, preparing to leap out.
"Wait, Mr. Horn!"
The president sighed at the shattered windows. "Next time, could you use the door?"
"Absolutely not."
Allen rejected the idea outright. "Justice and soul may be discarded, but style cannot be abandoned."
With that, he vanished into the night.
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