The SSR had a knack for digging. Their underground base was now a semi-permanent fortress, bustling with activity.
Su Ming spotted Nick Fury, mopping with a broom darker than his scowl, passing by.
Ventilation was poor, the air thick with tobacco—like crawling into a chimney. Clerks and staff hurried under dim, yellow lights, everything feeling aged.
They found Howard, the mad scientist, tinkering unreliably. He was armoring a motorcycle with bulletproof plates, making it heavier than a tank.
Howard lit up seeing Su Ming, praising Wilson Enterprises' self-heating cream pots as genius.
They headed to the officers' mess, Su Ming pulling out "pre-prepared" liquor from his coat.
As they savored canned food and wine, a soldier reported to Colonel Phillips: the 107th, in southern Ardennes, was annihilated by Germans.
Smash!
A glass hit the floor.
Steve bolted up. That was Bucky's unit.
He begged Phillips for a casualty list via special channels. Phillips, knowing Steve's bond with Bucky, complied.
No Sergeant Barnes on the list—he was likely captured.
Steve wanted to rescue him, but Phillips refused. The POW camp was deep in German lines—too dangerous, a one-way trip.
They parted on bad terms. Steve grabbed his shield and stormed out.
Su Ming rubbed his chin. It was starting. Shame about the wine—barely touched.
Phillips and Steve left, leaving Peggy, Su Ming, and Howard at the table.
Howard looked awkward, sensing SSR infighting.
"Whoops," he muttered.
Peggy apologized. "Sorry, Steve's been down. He's lost many comrades. Phillips doesn't want him risking more."
Su Ming stayed calm, finishing his drink and refilling. "It's fine. Check on him. Use my plane if you need it."
Peggy, puzzled, left.
Same old story: Peggy couldn't sway Steve. Instead, he convinced her to defy orders and join him behind enemy lines.
Only then did she grasp Su Ming's plane comment.
"He knew that early? I don't understand Steve enough," she thought.
Steve had two choices: Howard's plane or Slade's.
Howard's lab explosions and skirt-chasing made him unreliable.
That night, Su Ming flew Steve and Peggy over the forest.
In the plane, engine roaring, Steve and Peggy chatted sporadically.
Wilson seemed relaxed, no parachute or seatbelt, one hand on the yoke, the other flicking cigar ash into an empty can.
Like a weekend joyride.
They didn't know what to say. It was supposed to be tense, heroic—why did it feel so casual?
The transport, a bigger target than Howard's plane, drew German flak mid-flight.
Steve watched dark smoke bursts in the night, but no shrapnel hit.
Timed fuses aimed to explode at set heights, shredding targets. Primitive tech couldn't touch Su Ming.
He weaved the plane—up, down, left, right—like a drunkard dancing. Germans below were baffled.
"What is this, an air circus?"
They missed, exposing their flak positions to U.S. artillery.
Su Ming grinned like a proud father, seeing Steve and Peggy clinging together. No seatbelts—his plane's design.
Perfect. Peggy or Bucky—who'd win Steve's heart? He was curious.
"German night fighters! Hold tight!" Su Ming shouted, yanking the yoke for a triple barrel roll, not letting Steve confirm if fighters were real.
Peggy and Steve's embarrassed yelps came from the dark.
Good intentions, bad outcome.
When Steve jumped from the hatch, Peggy's vomit stained his chest.
She wanted to die of shame, but Steve was gracious. "We've seen each other's worst now. Knowing more is good."
Carter, touched, fidgeted and smiled as Steve descended.
"Back to the States? Lorraine misses you," Su Ming teased.
"No, sir, back to SSR's front-line command," Peggy said, tugging her lip. A soldier, she'd face punishment for defying orders, but willingly.
"No big deal. Patton's in charge here, right? He's a friend. Don't worry about Phillips," Su Ming said, playing the reckless tycoon.
Peggy knew Deathstroke was a mercenary, so Su Ming leaned opposite—nobody'd suspect a rich playboy.
"Thanks, Mr. Wilson, but I'm returning to the front," Peggy said firmly.
"Your call. I'll put in a good word," Su Ming shrugged, dodging flak effortlessly.
He saw himself as a mercenary—every action needed payoff. No payoff? That's a masked vigilante.
Employment was society's bedrock. Everyone was a mercenary.
Wall Street accountants, battling ledgers for capitalists—mercenaries.
Doctors, fighting on operating tables—mercenaries.
Workers, farmers—anything tied to money was employment.
Labor for reward. Some did what others couldn't or wouldn't.
Marvel was full of vigilantes, working for free like they didn't need to eat.
Su Ming loved them.
He'd paid Wade and Cable, but had Howling or Monarch asked for cash? No.
Deadpool's crew lacked their nobility.
Speaking of, did he settle with Batman? Hmm…
Days later, as Phillips nearly court-martialed Peggy, Steve returned with Bucky and a gaggle of POWs.
They brought Hydra weapons and even drove back energy tanks.
Led by Captain America, they crossed the Ardennes, escaping German encirclement—an impossible feat.
Peggy stared, awestruck, as Steve marched ahead with his star-spangled shield.
Su Ming was pleased. He'd come to hear Howard's take on Tesseract weapons.
Steve formed a new Howling Commandos, including Dum Dum Dugan from Hydra's prison. Bucky joined too—the team Su Ming knew.
How long would Fury mop floors? Maybe his time was near.
Su Ming stuck with Howard, observing his Hydra weapon research.
Much went over his head, but he memorized it for the Adjutant.
His tech was locked, but stealing was fair game—legit, as an SSR sponsor.
For months, Steve's Commandos clashed with Red Skull and Zola. They'd tortured Bucky—Steve wouldn't let it slide.
One day, as Su Ming watched Howard experiment, whispers reached him: Zola's movements were tracked, and Steve was already en route.
Su Ming raised a brow, turning to Howard. "I'm off to rest. Give the nurses a break—last night was loud."
Howard, welding a Hydra tank's armor with round goggles, grinned. "Ask the girls if they'll let me. They won't leave me alone."
Su Ming snorted. "If you weren't rich, they'd ignore you, tech geek."
Now friends, Howard didn't argue. "You're rich too. You could party daily."
"You don't get it, Howard. Women? Boring. I'm over it," Su Ming scoffed, pulling a suitcase from "under" the table—really his bag of holding—onto Howard's bench. "This is fun. I'll teach you when I'm back."
He slipped out to save Bucky.
Winter Soldier? Plenty of those. Bucky? One of a kind.
Howard opened the case, puzzled by the small cubes' appeal.