"Captain, but I remember you didn't say that back then."
Rumlow said.
Steve looked awkward. His voice was low, every word carrying the sluggishness of someone who had just broken free from seventy years of ice.
"You can't expect someone who slept for seventy years to immediately understand Tony Stark's 'Biomass Processing Unit,' especially when it sounds like some kind of alien weapon."
Rumlow nodded knowingly, his smile carrying the teasing amusement of someone who had been there before.
The embarrassment in Steve's heart was stirred up again by that look—he would never forget the first time he faced that mirror-smooth cubic space called the "Biomass Processing Unit."
Deep beneath the seabed, surrounded on all sides by tens of thousands of tons of seawater and unknown darkness.
Tony had once pointed at that bathroom, transparent to an almost cruel degree—the glass door was supposedly capable of frosting over instantly, though Steve had hardly remembered the control panel in his panic. At that moment, Steve Rogers stood before the faintly blue-glowing Biomass Processing Unit—Tony Stark's "epoch-making human waste Terminator"—with every inch of muscle taut as if he were about to enter battle.
His fingertips hovered above the touch interface, trembling slightly.
Across the smooth curved screen, lines of complex molecular formula charts glowing with fluorescent light and real-time energy flow data scrolled mercilessly. To an old soldier who had just awakened from seventy years of frozen slumber, they might as well have been an encrypted heavenly scripture.
He held his breath, as though he were not facing a device meant to handle biological needs, but a bomb that could explode at any moment.
That damn caution stemmed from the unforgettable incident when he had first stepped into this "Clean Fortress" at the bottom of a deep trench in the Pacific Ocean.