"Fuck, damn it, keep firing! Keep firing!" Commander Hanton's voice boomed from the walkie-talkie.
Hundreds of guns fired simultaneously, bullets raining down like a storm, spent cartridges bouncing on the ground, and muzzle flashes forming a blinding white in the sunlight.
Jim, a ruthless killer, did not dodge. Holding a blood-stained watermelon knife, he chased after the retreating soldiers, cutting them down as if walking into the rain, knowing he would get soaked but completely unconcerned.
Compared to firearms with limited ammunition, the stainless steel watermelon knife was much easier for Jim to handle, making him feel like he was back on the battlefield.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Ta-da-da~
A bullet struck his shoulder, blood splattered, and his body swayed, but he didn't stop. A second bullet hit his thigh, he staggered, and then continued walking.
The third, the fourth, the fifth... Blood blossomed all over his body, but he didn't stop walking, nor did he even frown.
The wound was healing, not slowly, taking several minutes to heal, but with the muscles contracting, squeezing, and pushing the Negasonic Teenage Warhead out while it was still inside his body.
The wound begins to close as soon as the bullet leaves the skin; by the time it hits the ground, there's no trace of it left.
Not Wolverine, but not much different from Wolverine in his prime.
"Hey Crab, did you see that? Even as his wounds heal, he's still a... Mutants."
"It's unbelievable! He was clearly injured when he was shot before, so how come he suddenly became like Wolverine after leaving the hotel?"
The police's gunfire began to thin out. Not because they were out of bullets, but because they saw the blood-covered man's wounds disappear without a trace within seconds.
He walked through the hail of bullets as if he were walking in a spring breeze, treating their weapons as if they were mere fire pokers.
Jim paid no heed to the police's exclamations. In his eyes, the police officers who were profiting from the blood and sweat of taxpayers were all in cahoots, accomplices of the corrupt government.
A blood-stained figure rushed into the cordon. The watermelon knife drew an arc in the sunlight. The nearest policeman had no time to react before his gun barrel was sliced off, the cut as clean as if it had been cut by a laser.
The second slash, the third slash, the fourth slash... He moved through the crowd like a shark swimming into a school of fish. Wherever his blade passed, guns snapped, bulletproof vests tore apart, and helmets flew off.
"The God's Whip has come; you are all sinners, destined for Hell."
The words, which seemed to kill without breaking the Demons, echoed in the ears of every policeman, causing them to utter foul language.
"Retreat! Retreat!" Hanton's voice had changed over the walkie-talkie.
The police began to retreat, not as a tactical retreat, but as a rout.
Many people threw away their guns that had been fired, tore off their unused bulletproof vests, scrambled to climb into police cars, started the engines, rammed through the cars in front of them, and fled.
Jim stood on the street littered with corpses, covered in blood, clutching the chipped watermelon knife in his hand, watching the police cars drive away, a happy smile on his face.
He was about to continue the pursuit, determined to terrify his accomplices within the limited time available, when he heard a voice.
"Stop! You've already killed too many innocent people."
Footsteps came from behind, like someone walking on concrete, but each step was so solid, so powerful, so confident.
Those footsteps belonged to someone who knew they wouldn't lose, and they couldn't be an ordinary person.
Jim turned around.
A handsome, sunny man walked from the street corner.
He was wearing a dark blue tactical uniform with a white star on his chest, and holding a round, red and blue shield.
This man was tall with broad shoulders and a sharply defined jawline. His face was expressionless, but there was something in his eyes.
It wasn't anger, nor was it murderous intent; it was the unwavering determination of someone who had witnessed something that shouldn't have happened and decided to stand up and correct it.
Captain America, Steve Rogers.
Even the homeless on the street know about this embodiment of justice, who was promoted with the full support of the nation, not to mention that Jim was once a member of the Marine Corps.
Jim looked at him and smiled. There was bitterness and mockery in that smile, the kind of smile that comes from someone who has been rolling in the mud for too long and finally sees someone in white standing on the shore.
"Captain America, are you here to arrest me?" Jim's watermelon knife was dripping blood.
"I'm here to stop you." Steve's voice was calm, like a still lake.
"Stop me?" Jim slung the machete over his shoulder, tilting his head to look at Captain America. "Stop me from killing those bankers who profit from human suffering? Or stop me from killing those accomplices who point guns at civilians?"
"I'll stop you from killing." Steve's gaze was firm. "No matter your reasons, killing is wrong."
"Heh heh!" Jim chuckled. "Just like you've never killed anyone, at least that Red Skull died by your hand."
Steve paused for a second. "I have killed people."
"Then what right do you have to talk to me like that?"
"The people I killed were those who deserved to die."
"What a coincidence." Jim gripped the hilt of his knife. "The person I killed was the one who deserved to die."
As soon as he finished speaking, knowing that it was useless to reason with the government lackeys, he rushed forward, five times faster and ten times stronger than an ordinary person.
The watermelon knife traced an arc in the air, whistling through the wind, heading straight for Steve's neck.
Steve didn't dodge; he raised his shield and blocked the blow.
The sound of metal clashing exploded in the street like a tolling bell. Jim was pushed back two steps by the recoil, while Steve remained motionless.
Jim looked at the chipped watermelon knife, then at the shield in Steve's hand, which didn't even have a scratch on it.
He simply threw the knife away and clenched his fist. His body was filled with power, the kind of power that could crush steel.
Since the knife is useless, he doesn't need a knife anymore. His fists are knives, and every part of his body is a weapon.
He charged forward again, slamming his fist into the shield, but the shield didn't budge, and his knuckles shattered.
But the bone fragments healed within seconds, as if nothing had happened. He smashed them again, they shattered again, and they healed again.
One strike, two strikes, three strikes, twenty strikes, and finally a shallow dent appeared on the makeshift shield.
Steve's eyes narrowed; he was no longer just on defense.
The shield moved away from his face, revealing a sharply defined face behind it. The next second, the shield flew out—not thrown, but flung, spinning like a frisbee with a whistling sound—and slammed into Jim's chest.
Click!
The sound of breaking ribs rang out, and Jim's body flew backward, crashing into a police car, sliding several meters, leaving a long trail of blood on the asphalt road.
He lay there, his chest caved in, his mouth full of blood.
But his wounds were healing, his broken ribs were rearranging, and his punctured lungs were being inflated again.
A few seconds later, he stood up again, like an unkillable cockroach.
Steve frowned as he watched this scene.
He had seen Wolverine, a man with self-healing abilities; the moment he was injured, his wounds would almost begin to heal, making him the most troublesome to deal with.
"What's your relationship with Russell?" Steve, having caught the boomerang, slowly walked over.
"Bah! You are not allowed to call the God's Whip by his name." Jim spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva. "I am a follower of the God's Whip, and my strength is a gift from him."
"The God's Whip?"
"Yes," Jim said, his voice filled with an almost reverent awe. "You call him the Mutants, you call him the monster, we call him the God's Whip. He came here to punish this corrupt nation, to punish those Demons in human skin."
Steve's brow furrowed even deeper. He had naturally heard of Russell; Nick Fury had sent him to monitor the Mutants's movements.
But he didn't know that some people had already begun to regard him as a god.
"You are no match for me." Jim's eyes were filled with madness. "Your shield is hard, your fists are heavy, and you are skilled. But how long can you last? Can you beat me to a pulp? Can you burn me to ashes? You can't."
Because my self-healing is faster than yours, I have more physical strength than you, and I'm tougher than you.
He walked toward Steve, leaving a bloody footprint on the ground with each step.
"As long as you continue committing crimes, I'll fight you for the rest of my life." Steve assumed a defensive stance.
"Do you know why I know you?" Jim looked at the man he used to idolize.
Steve didn't speak.
"Because you were my idol when I was a child." Jim's voice lowered, as if he were talking about something from a long time ago.
"My grandfather told me your story: you fought the Nazis, you saved your comrades, you are the symbol of the America spirit. You are justice, courage, and never giving up."
He stood in front of Steve, less than two meters away. There was no murderous intent in his eyes, only one thing—disappointment.
"Later, when I grew up, I joined the Marine Corps. I learned to shoot, I learned to kill, I learned to serve this country." He paused.
"Then I discovered that you don't exist at all, or rather, there is no real Captain Justice in this world."
"I exist." Steve's eyelids twitched. "I'm right here."
"You're here?" Jim laughed. "What are you doing here? Standing on the streets of Manhattan, taking a knife for those bankers? Working for those politicians who send soldiers to the battlefield but don't even feed them?"
Steve's expression changed; it wasn't anger, but confusion.
"Don't think I don't know, the military provides very good benefits." He recalled his meals when he was in the army, "There was canned meat, chocolate, cola, and ice cream. I served in the army, I know."
Jim paused for a moment, then laughed.
It wasn't a mocking laugh, but the kind of laugh adults would show when they hear a child say, "Santa Claus is real"—a laugh tinged with heartache, helplessness, and a sadness that says, "You have no idea how dirty this world is."
"How long has it been since you were last in the army? Seventy years?" Jim shook his head, looking at Captain Steve as if he were a joke.
"America is not the America of seventy years ago, and the army is not the army of seventy years ago either. Do you know that you have to pay for your own military service now? You have to pay for your own service and your own meals. The food money you hand over is embezzled layer by layer, and by the time it reaches your mouth, all that's left is bread and potatoes."
Sometimes the bread is expired, the potatoes are sprouted. Have you ever eaten moldy bread? Have you ever drunk water mixed with rust? Have you ever slept in a leaky tent?
Steve frowned, opened his mouth but didn't say anything. He didn't believe the military's food was like this, but the other person's expression didn't seem to be faking it.
"Do you know there's a very dramatic name circulating online right now: 'Mexican Egg Cartel'?"
"Isn't he a Mexico drug lord?" Steve raised an eyebrow.
"That was in the past. When the profit from selling eggs exceeded that of heroin, drug lords all went to sell eggs. And that was because if soldiers didn't pay for their own eggs, they couldn't even afford a boiled egg."
Jim's voice was filled with a gnashing hatred, "At least drug lords' henchmen get hot meals, at least they get paid, and at least they don't collapse from heatstroke during training because they don't have enough drinking water. We don't."
He pointed to the star on Steve's chest.
"Your star is stained with the blood of soldiers, not the enemy's blood, but your own. Those politicians elevate you to Heroes so that you can serve as their fig leaf."
You stand there, holding up your shield, and say, "I am Captain America," and they feel reassured. They feel that someone is protecting them, someone is taking the blame for them, and someone is dying for them.
And you, you know nothing. You're still eating canned meat from seventy years ago, drinking cola from seventy years ago, thinking the world is still the same as when you woke up."
Steve's shield drooped, not lowered, but his hand was shaking.
This was the first time since he was injected with the Super Soldier Serum that his unwavering Faith had been shaken by the words of others.
"What you... you're saying, is it true?" His voice was very low, so low it sounded like he was talking to himself.
"Why ask me? Go and see for yourself." Jim's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Go to Iraq, go to Afghanistan, go to where those soldiers are stationed."
Go and see their canteen, their dormitories, their equipment. Go and ask them when was the last time they ate a hot meal, when was the last time they received their full allowance, and when was the last time they saw their families.
"Or you could ask your Avengers allies; they all know, they just don't want to tell you."
Steve stood there, shield hanging at his sides, like a lost child.
His mind was racing, not trying to figure out how to refute the argument, but rather wondering: if what this person said was true, then what had he been protecting for the past seventy years?
Jim didn't wait for his reply.
He turned around, not wanting to continue the standoff with the difficult-to-kill Captain America, but instead walked towards the police cars that were still watching from a distance.
He still has things to do, people to kill, and less than twenty-four hours of strength to spare.
"Tsk tsk, I didn't expect Jim to be so effective against Captain America."
Russell was fully aware of everything that happened outside the hotel.
He didn't care about Jim's life or death, treating the editing of the X-Factor on him as just an experiment. He never expected it would deal such a heavy blow to Captain America's beliefs.
When Steve Rogers learns the state of the military and that the justice he upholds is nothing but wishful thinking, will he still persist?
But if he turns against the government he serves, will he still be Heroes?