Bang, bang, bang…
Steve punched the sandbag, and every impact made a deafening sound.
On the side, Howard, who was recording data on his instruments, stared at the screen in shock. "A nine-fold increase in physical strength," he breathed, "far exceeding the five times of the original serum." Howard asked incredulously, "How did Alan do it?"
Not only that, but Steve pounded the sandbag for half an hour and didn't look tired at all. His superhuman endurance was enough to support long-distance combat, completely crushing the results of Dr. Erskine's original super-serum.
"This is terrifying," Agent Carter said, her voice filled with awe. "He's completely comparable to the demigod heroes of mythology." Carter was an agent who had undergone physical enhancement training herself, and she knew very well what a nine-fold increase in physique and near-limitless endurance meant. With the right fighting skills, a person like that wouldn't just be a match for nine men, but for a hundred, or even a thousand. Currently, in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agent rating system, it would likely take Dum Dum Dugan, their highest-level agent, a long time to recover from a single punch.
"Steve hasn't reached his limit yet," Howard mused, his eyes glued to the readouts. "I estimate it will take at least three months for him to adapt to the growth cycle. By then, I conservatively estimate his physical strength will be fifteen times greater, and his nerve and thinking abilities will also be improved by a corresponding multiple."
Howard was extremely shocked, but at the same time, he was glad that Alan didn't have the materials to make more of the serum. These superhumans would inevitably pose a great hidden danger once the war ended and they re-entered society. If they were to go astray, the consequences would be unimaginable.
Alan, for his part, had already admitted that it was impossible for him to produce a serum like that again. He didn't know how to make the super-serum from scratch; he had only improved on the original.
"My dear son, your father is here to see you."
Alan carried an old-fashioned tape recorder as he walked up to Steve. He said in a profound tone, "Sandbags are dead, but people are alive. We need to use our brains to fight."
Steve stopped hitting the sandbag and gave him a puzzled look. "You also know how to fight?"
"Easy as pie." Alan put down the recorder. "Let me choose some passionate background music first."
He pressed the play button. A jaunty tune filled the room. Alan frowned slightly and changed the song decisively.
"It doesn't feel right."
"Not what I like."
"This song is way too heavy metal."
"I like my metal… angsty."
After switching back and forth more than a dozen times, none of the music styles of the current era seemed to be to Alan's liking.
"What the hell." Annoyed, Alan kicked the recorder away. "What taste! It's not as good as my own melody."
It was clear that Alan's mental state was very unstable. Howard and Carter watched him perform quietly.
"Alan, stop making trouble. I'm afraid of hurting you," Steve said worriedly.
"The boy is quite arrogant." Alan's eyes widened, and he said coldly, "You're the first one who's ever said they were afraid of hurting me."
"Thump, thump, thump… Come on, baby, I'm the man with my own BGM."
All of a sudden, Alan got into the state, his legs moving back and forth as if he were dancing the tango, his head dodging left and right so fast that his face was a blur, while his torso remained almost motionless.
"Thump, thump, thump… Wimp, take your shot."
"Thump, thump, thump… See my speed? Are you scared?"
Steve understood that if he didn't play along, this man would likely keep pestering him all day. "Be careful," he said, controlling the strength of his punch, fearing he might actually kill Alan with one blow.
It was impossible for an ordinary punch to touch Alan.
"Damn, damn, damn… You big-butted wimp, haven't you eaten yet? Are you trying to kill your enemies with those cute little punches?"
"Ding, ding, ding… I guess you're here to make people laugh. Are you trying out for the circus?"
"Thump, thump, thump… The super-serum expanded your muscles, but your kidneys shrank as a result. Your fists are weak and limp."
Alan didn't make a single move, but he never stopped talking. Even a man made of clay has a temper, and Steve gradually increased the power of his punches. However, he was still unable to land a single one, as if Alan could predict the trajectory of every strike in advance.
Howard and Carter, who were watching the fight, were amazed at Alan's skills. They couldn't help but sigh that mental illness was truly a strange and powerful thing.
Steve had already put aside his initial reservations and was now taking the fight seriously, using his full strength. He punched the air again and again, his breathing beginning to quicken. On the other hand, Alan was humming his so-called background music and shaking his head, showing no sign of physical decline.
"Thump, thump, thump… Daddy is teaching you your first lesson: if you can't defeat the enemy, you should use a gun to decide the outcome."
That made sense. Within ten steps, a bullet was faster and more accurate.
"Thump, thump, thump… Daddy is going to teach you the second lesson: in a stalemate, mental attacks are very effective. For example, you wimp, did you skip breakfast? Did you pull a muscle last night? I think they should put you in the elderly group. Remember to sit at the kids' table when you eat. No wonder Agent Carter keeps looking disappointed…"
"Damn, damn, damn… Daddy is going to teach you the third lesson: if all of the above doesn't work, you should immediately call for a group fight. Do despicable things in the name of justice."
Unfortunately, Steve was so focused on punching that he didn't have the time to pay attention to anything else. The gentle Howard was not interested in the fighting aspect, but he was busy calculating Alan's various physical qualities. Only Carter was pondering the meaning of the three sentences, and suddenly, she felt enlightened. In summary: if you have a gun but don't use it, you're an idiot; if you fight, use swear words to disturb your opponent; if you can fight in a group, you should never fight alone.
"Alan!"
"Huh?"
At this moment, Wilson ran into the training room. When Alan heard someone call his name, he subconsciously responded and looked over.
Puff…
The next second, Steve's punch connected squarely with Alan's face. Suddenly, his whole body flew backward like a sharp arrow.
Bang!
All anyone could see was Alan's entire head embedded in the wall.
"Someone's dying! Save him!" Howard hurried forward to check the situation. If Alan was killed with one punch, things would get serious.
Ptooey, ptooey, ptooey…
"I was careless for a moment. I didn't dodge." Alan pulled his head out of the wall and brushed the dust from his hair. There was no sign of injury at all.
Steve regained his composure and asked with concern, "Alan, are you okay?"
"It's okay. You have a problem with your brain. I won't blackmail you for it." Alan flipped his hair and said confidently, "In fact, I feel more energetic than before."
Howard looked him up and down and asked cautiously, "Alan, can I study your body?"
Hearing this, Alan took a step back, holding his chest with both hands, and said vigilantly, "Oh, Howard, you really do covet my proud body."
"Stop making trouble. Someone from the military is here to inspect the latest research and development results," Wilson said, truly anxious. As Alan's assistant, he knew all too well how insane a mental illness could be.
"It's finally my turn to show my talent." Alan looked at Wilson proudly and ordered, "Bring me the top ten inventions."
Wilson hesitated. "Do you really want to do that?" Those are the top ten inventions? he thought. The military might see them and choose to withdraw its investment on the spot.
"Everything is under control."
***
(End of Chapter)
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