Owen didn't realize the exact moment he lost consciousness. One instant he was standing... the next, nothing.
He awoke sprawled across a cold floor, his mouth as dry as if he'd swallowed sand, and a burning hunger gnawed at him from the inside.
Slowly, heavily, he pushed himself upright — but immediately froze, frowning. Something was wrong.
He stood fully, eyes locked onto his own hands, turning them over as though they weren't his. He flexed his fingers, moved his legs, lifted his shirt… and then he saw it.
His torso, once a canvas of old battle scars, poorly healed wounds, and lingering aches, was now completely unmarked. Every trace, every shadow of his past… gone. Even the pain in his shoulder and wrist — fresh reminders of his recent fight with Black Widow — had vanished entirely.
But that wasn't all. He felt light, agile… powerful. It was as if his body had turned back time, returning to the peak of his youth. He rushed to the bathroom, nearly stumbling in his haste, and stood in front of the mirror.
The face staring back at him was his — but sharper, more defined. His once tightly cropped military hair now fell in unruly strands across his forehead and the sides of his face.
"I'll need a haircut," he muttered at his reflection.
His brown eyes shimmered with an intensity he'd never seen before. His muscles were perfectly sculpted — not larger, but unnaturally refined, as if engineered for balance and efficiency. Oddly, there wasn't a single hair on his body, not even a stubble.
He noticed his height had changed slightly — from his usual 6'1" to maybe 6'0". A minimal loss, yet his build felt more harmonious, more… optimized.
Even his teeth looked different — whiter, sharper. His canines, in particular, seemed made to bite through steel. For a moment, he thought that if they got any longer, he'd start looking like one of those ridiculous glittering vampires from teen dramas.
He struck a few poses in the full-length mirror, testing movements, flexing muscles, studying the unfamiliar yet familiar figure before him.
"Well… not bad at all," he said with a half-smile, heading straight for the shower.
He stank. It was as if his body had expelled years of toxins in one massive purge.
After scrubbing himself clean, he threw on some casual clothes and walked to the nearest barbershop. Long hair wasn't his thing — and he knew it.
He returned to his classic military cut, though somehow, it looked better now. His receding hairline, which had started to bother him at twenty-seven, had completely vanished.
"Tsk, tsk… not bad," Owen said, admiring the result in the mirror before paying and leaving.
As he walked down the street, his phone buzzed.
"Owen? We need you at the base," said a familiar voice on the other end.
His expression darkened immediately.
"Why? I already quit. Tell the old man to stop bothering me," he snapped.
"Well… here's the thing. Your resignation was rejected. By the general."
Owen clenched his jaw.
"That bastard... I knew he wouldn't let me go so easily. What does he want?"
"No idea. Come on, Owen, don't make this harder than it has to be. You're the only one the general listens to."
"Tsk… fine. I'll head over," he said, ready to refuse again — but then he noticed something.
Two familiar figures were stepping out of a parked car: Natasha Romanoff, as implacable as ever, and Phil Coulson, whom Owen had seen more times than he cared to admit.
"Owen, right? We've got some questions," Natasha said, getting straight to the point.
"Thirty seconds," Owen replied, glancing at his watch without even flinching.
Natasha frowned, recognizing the hard limit being set. Coulson, more experienced in dealing with Owen, stepped in immediately.
"We're hoping you can help us investigate what happened to Victor Keim. We figured it might've caught your attention… considering the two of you share a strange kind of friendship forged in fire."
Owen shot him a sideways look. He didn't have a problem with Coulson, but he hesitated to reveal anything about Hydra.
"When I saved him, someone was chasing him. I'd bet they found him again. And if they did, that means they've got moles everywhere.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a pending argument with a general — probably ending in a fistfight."
Without waiting for a response, Owen turned on his heel and walked away, his stride firm and determined.
Coulson watched him go, then turned to Natasha.
"Did he just say… a fistfight with a general?" he asked, half in awe, half in resignation.
Natasha, eyes still following Owen's retreating figure, simply nodded.
......
"Come on, old man! Is that all you've got? One more hit and you're going down K.O.," said Owen with a mocking smile, letting the controller drop onto his leg with an air of superiority.
In front of him, sitting at the other end of the couch, a man in his sixties let out a grunt. His body was still strong, covered in muscles hardened by decades of war. The scars across his face told stories that needed no words. Though his tone was tired, his eyes still held the same fire as always.
"Shut up. I'm not as young as I used to be," responded General Nathaniel "Steelbrand" Hawthorne, his voice deep, almost hoarse, full of experience and authority. Yet there wasn't a single drop of exhaustion on his face.
Owen let out a small laugh as the screen flashed "GAME OVER." He had just knocked out the general's character with one last combo.
"Kicking an old man's ass isn't as fun as I thought," he said as he set down the controller and stretched.
Yes, they were both playing. But the man Owen had just defeated wasn't just anyone. He was General Hawthorne, one of the most renowned and feared military leaders of his generation. The stories about his feats sounded like something out of war novels: impossible battles, suicide missions, enemies trembling at the mere mention of his name. He had accumulated so many medals that, during one formal event, Owen had joked that he might as well wear some on his back. He ended up receiving a severe scolding for that comment.
Nathaniel wasn't just a living legend. He had also been Owen's mentor since his first year in the military. He took him under his wing like an adoptive father, trusting that young man with exceptional talent from the start. Owen learned quickly. Too quickly. Soon his name was being mentioned above many veteran officers, and the general's reputation only grew thanks to his star pupil.
Although Owen wouldn't admit it even under torture, he saw Nathaniel as the father he never had. Raised as an orphan, rising through the ranks by merit alone would have been an odyssey. Without the general's support, he would never have reached his current rank.
The atmosphere changed when Owen broke the silence:
"Cut to the chase, old man. Why won't you accept my resignation?" he said with a frown, tossing a water bottle to the general, who caught it with still-sharp reflexes.
"Because you haven't given me a valid reason for why the best soldier under my command wants to retire," the general replied sternly, arms crossed.
"I already told you! Everything's about to go to hell. It's better to find a hole and wait out the storm," Owen shot back.
"And I already told you that's not a valid reason. You haven't even explained what storm is coming!" barked the general, his voice rising with restrained anger. A vein stood out on his neck, trembling with the pressure.
"Whatever! I'm quitting anyway. Call it desertion if you want," Owen snapped.
Nathaniel narrowed his eyes. Then he dropped a bomb with such dangerous calm that the air seemed to grow heavier.
"Unfortunately for you, it's not that easy to quit, Owen. Victor went to your house, right? And he gave you the serum. That serum was made specifically for you."
Owen's face hardened immediately.
"You? How do you know that?"
"Who do you think told him where you lived?" the general replied coldly. "And yes, he needed your DNA to create that serum. I gave it to him. I knew what he was planning, and I helped him."
"Are you insane!?" roared Owen, standing up in rage. "Why did you let him give me that stuff!?"
"What are you talking about?" the general replied, also rising to his feet and stepping closer. "You wanted to be the best soldier. And tell me—what's better than surpassing even Captain America?"
Owen looked at him with a mix of disbelief and fury. Everything became clearer. There had been a misunderstanding from the start. He never wanted to become a living legend. He never sought power out of ego or glory. He just wanted to be strong enough… to survive the inevitable.
He knew the world was heading toward something bigger, something darker. A war between forces humanity couldn't comprehend. When gods fight, the only ones who suffer are the humans caught beneath their feet.
And worst of all… the general thought he was helping him. That he was doing it for his own good.
"Stupid old man…" Owen growled through clenched teeth.
"What did you say, bastard? Show some respect to your mentor and commanding officer!" Nathaniel snapped, a mix of annoyance and wounded pride in his voice.
"I'm in this mess because of you and that idiot Victor! What do you want me to say?"
"Whatever! Just listen to me," said the general, sitting back down and looking at him seriously. "I'll give you special permissions. You can choose which missions to take, but you must complete at least ten per year. In an emergency, you'll be called. The rest of the time is yours."
"I don't want it."
Nathaniel leaned his elbows on the table. His expression shifted. He no longer spoke as an officer. He spoke as an old man who had seen too much.
"Fine, let's be serious. When they find out what you are… do you really think agencies, generals, the government, will just sit still? Ross won't hesitate to arrest you the moment he finds out. He has too much influence. And if you don't have official backing, you'll end up in a cell… or worse. With me, the army will be your shield. You'll keep your rank, your pay. And you'll be a colonel. What more do you want?"
Owen didn't reply. Instead, he began tapping the desk with his finger. A steady tapping, growing stronger, until the wood creaked. He was leaving a mark.
A mark made with just the touch of a finger.
His body was no longer that of an ordinary human. He was a biological goldmine. A miracle for any scientist… or a threat to the government. And he knew it.
He was a soldier. He knew exactly what they'd do to him if he was left unprotected.
As they say on the battlefield:
"Knowledge without the power to back it up is a death sentence."
And now, with his altered body, he was living knowledge.
And the clock was already ticking.
"Three missions," Owen said suddenly, breaking the silence as sharply as a sword slicing through the air.
"That's too few… Seven," the general replied without hesitation, with a smile he refused to hide. That proud smile only a veteran warrior wears when his protégé hasn't abandoned him completely.
"The missions I go on would leave any squad in ruins. Even Captain America himself would end up unconscious after facing three battle tanks and two helicopters loaded to the teeth. Four."
"Stop lying," the general scoffed, crossing his arms in mock indignation. "That kid could've done it blindfolded. Six."
"But I did it without a single drop of super-soldier serum," Owen snapped back, his voice heavy with quiet rage. "And while carrying an asthmatic scientist on my back who could barely walk. Five."
The general let out a brief laugh. He couldn't deny the facts. He knew exactly which operation Owen was referring to. He had read the report. Seen the satellite images. Heard the rescue audio. He'd even listened to the scientist sobbing with gratitude for his savior.
"...Fine. Five missions a year," the general finally gave in, raising his hands in surrender. "Your choice. But if there's a real emergency, you will be called. Don't worry — in the last four years, we haven't had anything of that level."
But Owen didn't share his optimism. If there was one thing his instincts —the same ones that had kept him alive through impossible missions— were screaming, it was that the coming years would be hell disguised as peace. He knew it. High-risk missions, global threats, impossible rescues... Dark times were coming. And he had just tied himself, even if partially, to the storm.
"Damn it... And here I was hoping to crawl into some hole and let the world burn without me," he muttered with resignation, gritting his teeth.
Just then, the general's phone began to ring.
As the old man answered the call, Owen walked over to a dusty cabinet in the corner of the office. He pulled out a bottle of aged whiskey the general kept like a war trophy. Without asking, he uncorked it.
"Hey, put that down!" the general shouted without fully turning around. "You've got a mission."
"A mission? Again?" Owen sighed, capping the bottle with a defeated gesture.
"The Air Force is requesting your help," the general said, more serious now as he hung up the phone. "Looks like billionaire Tony Stark was kidnapped during an operation in Afghanistan. Colonel James Rhodes asked for you by name."
Owen frowned. Just hearing the name "Stark" gave him a headache.
"Since when are we babysitters for genius gods?"
"We're not. Another unit is handling it," the general said with a shrug. "But Rhodes asked for someone with deep extraction experience. If you don't want to go, we'll send Second Squad."
Owen closed his eyes for a moment. He thought. He considered. Then sighed.
"Tsk… I'll go. You know I'll go," he said, resigned. "But I want something in return."
The general raised an eyebrow.
"And what do you want this time? A private jet? An island? A new codename?" he asked, more amused than surprised.
"I want you to do me a favor. A big one," Owen said firmly. "Think of it as your ticket to retirement. So you'll finally stop being a damn thorn in my side."
The general burst into a deep, genuine laugh.
"Retire? Me? Haha… No, kid. I'll die working. In combat or behind this cursed desk. But go on, what's the favor?"
Owen stepped closer, looked him in the eye, and whispered his request.
The general listened in silence at first… Then began to laugh.
A loud, hoarse laugh — as merciless as it was amused. The kind of laugh that escapes only when someone proposes something so bold, so twistedly brilliant, that you can do nothing but surrender to its genius.
"You're a devil, kid," the general said, wiping away a tear of laughter. "But damn it, I like it."
And just like that, the deal was sealed.
A new war was coming. And even though Owen knew it, he also understood that sometimes you can't run from storms.
Sometimes… you have to become one.