Chapter 231: Allen Pranks Every Member of the Avengers
"I didn't do it, I swear…"
No one could have imagined that the ever-glorious Iron Man, so dazzling in the public eye, was now lying on the floor of a mental hospital, crying helplessly and miserably.
Allen stepped over Tony without even a glance, heading straight off to look for the other Avengers.
After all, bullying an Alzheimer's-ridden Iron Man wasn't exactly satisfying. He was more curious about how the others were faring.
"Should we wake him up?" Wanda suggested.
Allen replied viciously, "Let me finish messing with all the Avengers first. Then we'll wake them together, with full memory intact."
Agatha couldn't help but shiver.
Indeed, Allen was as wicked as ever.
Just imagining the expressions of the heroes recalling their humiliation—it was thrilling.
Agatha gave her head a little shake. How had she become this twisted? Probably from hanging around Allen too long—his bad influence was rubbing off on her.
The three of them split up to search.
Before long, Agatha called out eagerly, waving from behind a glass window, "Allen, come quick! I found Cap!"
"Ah, my unfilial son. Let me see what you've become now that you've gone insane. Do you look as spirited as your dear father?"
Grinning wide enough to show his gums, Allen strode up to the observation window.
Inside, Steve was holding a trash can, whispering sweet nothings to it.
"My love, don't leave me."
"We must stay together, always."
"My beautiful lady, may I have this dance?"
…
In the room, Steve was immersed in a fantasy of a silent waltz with the trash can in his arms.
BANG!
Suddenly, the door burst open with a loud kick.
Steve's eyes flew open in terror. Seeing Allen storm in, he panicked and shouted, "Don't take her from me! You can't separate us!"
"You pathetic simp," Allen growled. "You've disgraced me. As your father, I'm deeply disappointed. I absolutely forbid you to be with a trash can!"
So much for expectations.
Allen had hoped Steve's madness would be funny—maybe a bit of slapstick like his own. But instead, here he was wrapped up in some tragic love story with a trash bin.
"Father?!"
Steve grabbed Allen's arm, desperately pleading, "Father, she and I are true love! Please let us be together—I can't live without her!"
"I forbid it."
With a flick of his arm, Allen yanked the trash can away and slammed it hard to the floor.
"No—my beloved!"
Steve let out a heart-wrenching wail, dropping to his knees and trembling as he tried to pick up the pieces.
CRACK!
But Allen was a step ahead. He stepped down hard on the trash can—smashing it to bits.
"Aaah…"
Steve's tears streamed down his face as he choked out, "My love… my life… my world…"
"Your love, huh?"
"Your life, huh?"
"Your world, huh?"
"Your whole damn everything, huh?"
Allen barked with cruel mockery, continuing to stomp the shattered trash can into dust—grinding not only the fragments beneath his heel but also, it seemed, Steve's will. The man collapsed to the floor, glassy-eyed, catatonic.
"As long as your father's around, I won't let you fall into the trap of love. Kekekeke…" Allen gave a sinister chuckle.
Wanda started wondering if she could just wipe out the whole Avengers team herself.
Once upon a time, these people had been the core strength of the team… but now? One was more pathetic than the next.
Meanwhile, Agatha was feeling incredibly satisfied. She got picked on by Allen all the time—so watching him torment others gave her a kind of unexplainable joy.
Knock knock knock…
The sound of knocking echoed, and in walked a doctor, eyes slightly bashful.
He wore a white lab coat and a surgical mask, hiding most of his face—but those eyes made it obvious who he was.
Doctor Stephen Strange.
Even though his memories had been tampered with and he now believed himself insane, he still clung to his identity as a doctor.
Thanks to Wanda's modified rules for the psychiatric ward—where only the mentally ill were allowed to move freely—Strange must've taken to role-playing a doctor to fulfill his fantasy.
"Who here is the patient? I'm the attending surgeon," Strange said, looking around until his gaze landed on the hollowed-out Steve.
"Look at your hands."
Allen crossed his arms, already scheming how to prank Strange.
"What's wrong with my hands?"
Strange lifted them in confusion. They were still scarred with surgery marks and trembled uncontrollably from lingering nerve damage—proof that his hands had never fully healed.
Originally, he had traveled to Kamar-Taj seeking a cure, only to accidentally inherit the role of Sorcerer Supreme. But his injuries? Never actually fixed.
"Can you even hold a scalpel?"
Allen kept pressing, voice low and menacing. "If you can't hold a scalpel, how are you supposed to operate on patients? How are you fit to call yourself a doctor?"
"No, I can! I can do it!"
Strange clenched his fists in panic to prove it, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't close them fully—his tendons seemed too tight, and the half-clenched state was the best he could manage.
"What's wrong with my hands…?" he muttered in disbelief.
"With crippled hands, still wanting to perform surgery—you're committing a crime. That's not medicine. That's murder. You're a failure now."
Allen's verbal assault was merciless.
"I'm a doctor, not a failure! I have to operate!" Strange suddenly broke down, clutching his head, dodging Allen's gaze, trying to defend himself.
"I can help you."
Those words from Allen were like a lifeline. Strange clung to them desperately. "You can help me? Please, you have to! Without being a doctor, I don't know what the point of my life is!"
"Alright. Left hand versus right hand—rock-paper-scissors. If your left hand can beat your left hand, and your right hand can beat your right hand, you're cured."
"Okay, I'll try."
Allen proposed the absurd test with obvious malice. Strange earnestly attempted to play rock-paper-scissors with himself.
But how could one hand beat itself? It was literally impossible.
Unless he used magic to manifest extra limbs…
After three rounds, Strange was scratching his head in frustration.
Allen, deeply amused, left him there and went off in search of his next target.
His next victim was Wong, who was reading a book.
Without hesitation, Allen stormed up and shredded the book to pieces, barking as he went, "Reading? At a time like this?! You never studied this hard before! Now you wanna cram? A week's punishment—no food!"
That was enough to make Wong bawl like a baby.
Next up was Hawkeye, who had apparently become a mindless simpleton, obeying any command.
Allen wasn't impressed. He made Hawkeye lie down for a round of injections—ending with his backside covered in syringes.
The room echoed with pitiful screams.
One by one, Hawkeye pulled the needles out, blood staining the tips.
Finally, Allen found Natasha, carefully doing her makeup and humming like a young girl in love.
He pushed the door open, walked straight up to her, and solemnly declared, "I have some unfortunate news for you."
Natasha stopped brushing her hair and anxiously asked, "What is it?"
"You're a mental patient. Real name: Scarlett Johansson. You lost your mind after Deadpool filed for divorce."
Allen added seriously, "Based on my professional diagnosis, your chances of recovery are zero."
Natasha looked stricken. "Why would he divorce me…?"
"Because… you're actually a man."
"I'm a man?!"
Boom. Just like that, Natasha mentally blue-screened on the spot.