Rogers

Before Mercer had a chance to think further, his opponent followed up with another attack.

He gripped a dagger in his other hand, its cold edge glinting in the moonlight, and pressed closer to Mercer as he drove it toward his abdomen.

This way of fighting had the feel of a suicide attack. Getting so close to the target meant that if they managed to react and counterattack, the attacker could suffer serious damage.

The advantage was that a strike from this close was unlikely to miss, and the target would have trouble launching an attack of their own.

Unless they knew the Inch Punch and could unleash a powerful strike over an extremely short distance.

As he thrust the dagger forward, the man already thought his mission was about to be complete. He was waiting to hear his target scream as the blade pierced him, only to hear a sharp crack instead.

The man froze and looked down. In the moonlight, he saw that the sharp blade had struck a piece of black armor.

The tremendous force had curled the sharp tip back, and his hand was tingling from the impact.

"How is this possible?!"

The man hesitated, and in those few brief seconds, Mercer's counterattack landed.

His right leg lashed out twice in quick succession at his opponent's knees. The tremendous force shattered them outright, drawing a muffled cry of pain from the man's mouth.

Mercer released his opponent's fist and reached for the light switch, speaking calmly as he did.

"Hydra really doesn't know when to give up. They even sent an assassin to my home."

When the light came on and he saw the intruder's face, Mercer froze.

The attacker was a man with a black mask covering the lower half of his face, but his blue-green eyes, the same color as Mercer's, were fully visible. Mercer recognized him at once.

"Steve Rogers?"

At the sound of that name, the man visibly stiffened, confusion entering his eyes.

"Who's Steve Rogers?"

As he spoke, he struggled to stand, but the knees Mercer had shattered left his legs unable to support him.

He could have forced himself upright if he had been willing to sacrifice both lower legs.

But that kind of pain was more than an ordinary person could bear.

Mercer was astonished too. The person who had come to attack him was actually Steve Rogers, the man who, according to his memories, should have become Captain America.

It seemed he and Bucky, the Winter Soldier, had switched places.

After seeing his outfit, Mercer immediately understood his current circumstances.

His friend Bucky had probably lived to a ripe old age. On that train where Bucky should have fallen into the mountains, Steve Rogers had fallen instead.

Hydra had then found him and turned him into the Winter Soldier, keeping him frozen until now before sending him out to kill Mercer.

Although the Winter Soldier had an enhanced physique, only slightly inferior to what a Captain America serum like Carter's could produce, he was still limited.

Compared to Mercer, he was an ant facing an elephant. They were not remotely on the same level.

Mercer darted behind Rogers and delivered a knife-hand strike to his neck.

Rogers tried to resist, but he could not withstand Mercer's strike. That single blow knocked him unconscious.

Looking at the man on the floor, Mercer fell silent for a moment and scratched his head. What was he supposed to do with someone this big?

Throw him out?

That was definitely not an option.

"Forget it. I'll leave you here for now."

Mercer had no idea how to handle him, so he simply stepped over him and headed toward the living room.

After only a few steps, Mercer suddenly turned back. Looking at the man lying on the floor, he let out a quiet sigh.

"Fine. I'll help you this once."

As he spoke, he raised his right hand. A thumb-sized lump of blacklight matter protruded from his palm, bounced onto Rogers, and merged into his body.

Once that was done, Mercer really did leave, letting Rogers lie there alone.

After all, he could not let his fried chicken go cold.

Finding a movie he liked on TV, Mercer happily dug into his fried chicken, taking an occasional sip of cola. This simple life was exactly what he wanted.

An unknown amount of time passed before Rogers's eyelids quivered and his eyes slowly opened.

His gaze was full of confusion as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

"That smells so good..."

An enticing aroma tickled his nose. Rogers struggled to his feet, then suddenly looked down at his knees and let out a puzzled murmur.

He remembered someone shattering his knees with a kick. He had not thought about it while struggling to get up, only recalling it once he was standing.

Rogers felt his knees. They were as good as new, with no sign that anyone had ever shattered them.

He did not know that his knees had recovered because the blacklight matter Mercer released had repaired them.

Mercer had not originally wanted to do it, but he also wanted to see whether his blacklight matter could heal other people as well as himself.

If it could, it would give him a surgical form of healing. He could treat any injury suffered by the people around him that would otherwise require surgery.

Now it seemed he really could do that. Rogers had already been healed.

Rogers walked through the entryway and looked toward the living room.

A young man sat on the couch, happily drinking cola and eating fried chicken.

The aroma Rogers had just smelled came from the fried chicken in that young man's hand.

Mercer glanced at Rogers standing beside the entryway. Seeing his bewildered expression, he waved at him. "Want some?"

Rogers was about to refuse when his stomach growled. He had never smelled anything so delicious before, and he could barely resist.

After a brief hesitation, he nodded and walked straight over to sit beside Mercer. He glanced at the gloves on Mercer's hands, then picked up a pair of plastic gloves and copied him, putting them on.

Rogers's eyes lit up at his first bite. Stunned by the flavor of the fried chicken in his hands, he immediately began devouring it without a thought for appearances.

Mercer was not surprised to see the man beside him wolfing down the food.

After all, this kind of fried chicken had not existed in the era when he was captured. To someone from that time, it was an extraordinary delicacy.

Seeing how quickly Rogers was eating, Mercer refused to be outdone and dug in as well. Together, they swept through the fried chicken on the table.

Once he had eaten his fill, Rogers took the initiative to gather up the trash.

Mercer did not stop him. Only after he had finished cleaning up did Mercer say, "Come sit here. Let's talk."

Rogers walked over in silence and sat beside Mercer.

"How much do you still remember?" Mercer asked.

He wanted to know when the Rogers of this world had been captured, and who had turned him into the Winter Soldier.

Ever since Carter became Captain America, this world had differed from the Marvel Universe Mercer remembered.

The very reason he had not told Rogers to get lost was that he wanted to pry some useful information out of him.

At those words, Rogers clutched his head in pain. He felt as though there were many things inside his mind fighting against his own thoughts.

"Is the brainwashing acting up again?"

Mercer frowned at his pained expression. Rogers had seemed lucid just now. Had his question triggered him again?