Chapter 52: An Ambush from Mutants
"Do you know where Atlantis is?"
Namor's eyes were filled with anticipation. He hoped that finding Atlantis would unlock the secrets of his origins.
Allen rested his chin on one hand, putting on a serious expression. "You should ask Diana from Themyscira. She might have a way to help."
"Take me to Themyscira."
"I don't know the way."
He said it with such sincerity, as if he were familiar with the place.
Namor's forehead veins bulged in frustration, as if he had just realized he was being played.
The others nearby were utterly confused.
Atlantis, Themyscira… why not throw in the dark side of the Moon while they were at it?
One was a supposedly sunken continent from history.
The other was a mythical island from Greek legend.
A lunatic messing with an amnesiac—both of them were out of their minds.
"Pirate King, just take your time remembering. It's not like Atlantis can run away."
Allen slung an arm over Namor's shoulder and waggled his eyebrows. "Think about it—how did you suddenly end up on land? There's obviously a conspiracy. If you go home now, wouldn't that be walking straight into a trap?"
"...That actually makes sense."
Namor, still suffering from amnesia, was easily swayed. He temporarily gave up on looking for Atlantis. After all, it was in the ocean, and humans had no real way to conquer the vast seas. Even submarines couldn't navigate high-pressure depths with ease.
After securing Bettel City, the allies had a significant victory.
At the very least, they had cut off enemy supply routes across multiple battlefronts, or at least drastically increased their supply delays.
Allen, Nanaue, and Namor sat together, roasting potatoes.
On the European continent, potatoes were a staple. If they wanted noodles, they'd have to borrow pasta from the Italian army.
Of course, Italians were fiercely devoted to their pasta.
Losing a war for their country? Understandable.
Losing a war for their pasta? Unacceptable.
"Guys, this is my good friend, Bucky Barnes."
Taking advantage of some downtime, Steve finally reunited with his best friend.
Meeting on the battlefield was an unexpected but pleasant surprise.
However, Bucky felt a pang of jealousy seeing Steve transform from a scrawny weakling into a muscular powerhouse.
"Nice to meet you, Kiba."
"It's Bucky."
"Got it, Kiba."
"…"
Bucky had a feeling that Allen was the so-called "mentally unstable expert" Steve had mentioned before. And now, he finally understood—reputation didn't do him justice.
After some brief introductions, everyone got acquainted.
"Nyeh-meh, nyeh-meh."
Nanaue handed Bucky a roasted potato, skewered on a stick.
Bucky politely declined, "Thanks, but I've already eaten."
Nanaue shrugged and popped the potato into his own mouth, savoring it.
Meanwhile, Namor sat there with a brooding expression, desperately trying to recall his past. Unfortunately, his mind remained frustratingly blank.
"I want to invite Bucky to join the Howling Commandos," Steve proposed.
After their first battle, the Howling Commandos had suffered heavy losses.
Three were dead, three were wounded.
The only three unscathed members, aside from Carter, were Steve and Dum Dum Dugan—neither of whom were ordinary men.
Steve, having undergone the Super Soldier Serum, was naturally able to survive.
Dum Dum Dugan, on the other hand, was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top agent, with skills pushing the limits of human capability, particularly in tactical and military command.
Allen and Nanaue were also anything but normal.
Since the Commandos specialized in high-risk missions, it didn't make sense to recruit ordinary soldiers—the casualty rate was simply too high. Constantly replacing members would disrupt team cohesion.
But Steve had his reasons for wanting Bucky on board.
At that moment, Allen lay back and raised both hands and feet. "I wholeheartedly support it!"
Nanaue copied him. "Nanaue also supports it!"
Namor, watching them, seriously considered whether this was some kind of human tradition.
"Bucky, see? They have no objections," Steve said with a grin.
Bucky forced a smile in return.
Internally, he was cursing himself—damn it, I agreed too quickly. If I had known the team was full of lunatics, I would've refused on the spot.
Allen never brought up Bucky's fate.
According to the original timeline, Bucky was supposed to fall off a cliff during a mission, only to be captured and transformed into the Winter Soldier by Hydra.
But Allen wasn't one to let things play out as expected.
Screw sticking to the script—why come all this way just to let history repeat itself?
"Kiba, you don't seem to have any particular specialties. I'm going to custom-make some equipment for you."
Excited, Allen rushed off to the castle. With all the materials and tools available, crafting gear was just a matter of effort.
Ignoring the protests of soldiers and officers, he scavenged for materials and immediately began working on an arm brace.
He wanted to see what would happen—if he interfered with Bucky's fate, would the Winter Soldier still exist in the future?
That night, a sentry suddenly clutched his throat.
Blood gushed through his fingers.
In the snow, an invisible presence left a trail of footprints leading toward the castle.
Silent and unseen, several guards fell, one after another—an invisible grim reaper harvesting their lives.
At the same time, multiple figures in the distance made their way toward Bettel City.
The Axis powers weren't about to let their research fall into enemy hands. Naturally, they had sent in a special forces unit to destroy the castle.
In this world, mutants with superpowers existed. The Nazis would never turn a blind eye to that—they had their own research and military applications.
A small team of mutants, working in sync, could complete their mission with absolute stealth.
The plan was simple:
The invisible mutant would eliminate the sentries and sneak into the castle to plant timed explosives.
Then, they would retreat without a trace.
If discovered, the rest of the mutant team would fight their way out.
Normally, the invisible agent would have more than enough time to complete the mission unnoticed.
Allen, wearing protective goggles, tightened the last screw on the arm brace.
He clenched his fingers into a fist, then swung his arm to test its flexibility.
Without turning around, he asked, "Enjoying the show?"
The people in the lab looked at Allen in confusion.
Talking to empty air? Was he losing it again?
"ORA!"
Allen suddenly threw a punch.
A moment later, a blonde woman materialized, clutching her eye in pain.
"ORA!"
Before she could react, another punch landed, making her tear up as she held both eyes.
"Did I forget to mention? My goggles have thermal imaging."
Allen smugly wiped some condensation off his lenses. "You could've at least wrapped yourself in a thermal blanket."
Thermal imaging was invented in 1971. There was no way the invisible woman could have anticipated it.
"You look like someone who just realized how much not knowing science can cost you," Allen mused.
Tears streamed down her face.
Not from shame—just from the sheer pain in her eyes.
Completely outmatched, the invisible woman surrendered without hesitation.
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