The writhing flesh quickly filled the void, mending even the severely damaged internal organs until not a single scar remained on the surface.
"He's still alive! After him!"
Voices of the agents drifted down from the apartment above. Alex snapped out of his daze and scrambled to his feet. However, repairing such catastrophic injuries had exhausted his biomass; he had been forced to siphon tissue from other parts of his body to compensate. He felt incredibly weak, his legs wobbling several times before he finally managed to steady himself.
In this state, a direct confrontation was suicide. He had to escape, then find a way to eat and restore his strength.
With his mind made up, Alex bolted into the alleyway adjacent to the building.
"He's running! Open fire!"
Hearing the shouts, Alex pushed his pace. Bang! Bang! Bang! Gunfire erupted behind him. He ducked his head sharply as several bullets whistled through the air, grazing his hair. Terrified, he leapt toward the second floor of a nearby building.
To dodge bullets, he knew he couldn't run in a straight line. He smashed through a window, vaulted over furniture, and dove out the other side of the apartment complex. This erratic, parkour-style escape route was slower than a sprint, but it was unpredictable. Unless the agents had bullets that could turn corners, they weren't going to hit him.
Like a nimble monkey, Alex ascended and descended through the neighborhood, jumping between fire escapes and rooftops. It looked like blind panic, but he was actually following a mental map. Thanks to his prior reconnaissance of the area, he knew the terrain well enough to stay one step ahead.
After crossing three blocks, Alex vaulted over a railing and landed on a main thoroughfare. The street was bustling with nighttime traffic and pedestrians. Alex intercepted a convertible, yanked the driver out, and floored it.
Crack! A gunshot rang out, and a sudden, searing pain bloomed in his right shoulder. He didn't look back. He slammed his foot on the gas and tore away. Screeeech! The tires spun, sending up plumes of acrid smoke as the convertible roared through a gap between two cars, clipping a side mirror in the process.
"FBI! Out of the way!" The agents screamed as they reached the road, commandeering several civilian vehicles to give chase.
New York is the city that never sleeps, and the traffic at night was just as heavy as during the day. The pursuit turned into a high-speed slalom through the streets, punctuated by the occasional crack of a handgun.
Coulson sat in the back of the lead car, leaning out the window with the laser cannon gripped tight. He had tried to pull the trigger several times, but Alex was weaving through traffic so erratically that he never had a clean shot. Worse, he realized the suspect was heading straight for the city center.
"That clever son of a bitch!"
Coulson knew exactly what Alex was doing: he was using the public as a shield. In a densely populated area, Coulson couldn't risk using a heavy energy weapon. Even the agents with handguns had to think twice before firing. If they killed a dozen civilians while trying to take down one suspect, the political fallout would be catastrophic for SHIELD.
Protests across the country had only just begun to simmer down because of the news of Captain America's return. If a headline broke tomorrow about "Government Agents Using Weapons of Mass Destruction in the Streets," the riots would return—longer, louder, and more violent than ever.
Neither Coulson nor Nick Fury could afford that.
Damn it, this is getting complicated, Coulson thought bitterly. He regretted not finishing the job while Alex was on the ground. But there was no use for regret now. He dialed Fury to report the situation and formally request backup.
"Director, the suspect is agile, possesses unknown supernatural abilities, and has high-level counter-surveillance skills. If we lose him tonight, catching him again will be near impossible."
Fury remained calm. "You're on the ground. What are your thoughts?"
Coulson didn't hesitate to play his trump card. "I suggest we ask Captain America for help."
The line went silent as Fury weighed the options.
"Sir, this isn't the time for politics," Coulson urged. "Everything that happens tonight, the Captain will find out tomorrow. If we keep him in the dark now, he'll resent us for it. If a rift forms between him and SHIELD this early, it might never be mended."
As Cap's #1 fan, Coulson understood his idol. Steve Rogers was a man of intense justice and responsibility. If they bypassed him on a matter of public safety, he wouldn't just be annoyed—he might view SHIELD as an enemy.
"Fine," Fury finally relented. "Stay on the suspect. I'll notify him immediately."
*
Steve was in the basement gym of his apartment building. He preferred traditional training over the high-tech gadgets SHIELD had provided. Squats, push-ups, sit-ups, and the heavy bag.
WHAM!
The heavy bag flew backward, the canvas splitting open as the filler spilled across the floor. Steve breathed steadily, his white T-shirt and grey sweatpants soaked with sweat. He turned to grab another bag, only to realize he had already destroyed all five that were available.
He sighed, deciding that was enough for the day. He wiped his face and headed toward the stairs. Near the laundry area, he heard the rhythmic thrum of a washing machine. He glanced over and saw a familiar face.
"Hi," He said.
Sharon, dressed in loose loungewear, looked up and gave him a sweet smile. "Hi, Steve. Did the machine interrupt your workout?"
"Not at all. That wasn't really a workout—more like a warm-up."
Sharon looked at his massive physique and nodded, clearly believing him. "How's Peggy doing?"
Sharon's smile faded slightly. "Her health is... precarious. Even in retirement, she worries about SHIELD, and lately, it's been nothing but bad news."
"Does a good mood really help with recovery?" Steve asked.
"Of course. When it comes to long-term care, morale is more powerful than any drug."
"I see," Steve said confidently. "Then her mood is going to start getting a lot better from now on."
Sharon knew what he meant, but her eyes held a trace of worry. "I hope so."
The washing machine clicked off. Steve stepped forward and lifted the heavy laundry basket for her as they walked upstairs together. "I have a machine in my apartment too. You're welcome to use it."
Sharon laughed. "And what's the price?"
"Just a cup of coffee."
"That's a bargain. I might take you up on that often."
As they reached the top floor, Steve reached for his keys, but he felt the phone in his pocket vibrating violently.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
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