First Generation vs. Best Generation
"This hurts like hell," Nicolas growled as a pair of military doctors carefully examined his bandaged hands. His knuckles were swollen, and a couple of small fractures burned like live coals. In the movies, it always looked so easy… but right now, he was feeling an infernal pain radiating up to his shoulders.
"Alright, I'll have them give you a painkiller," the doctor said in a firm voice as he skillfully probed each finger. "You'll need to wear splints for a couple of weeks. It's not as bad as you think, but you'd better get some rest. And don't try something so foolish again. If you tear your ligaments, it won't be so easy to fix."
"Yeah, sure. As if I enjoy getting kidnapped every damn day," Nicolas shot back, narrowing his eyes in irritation.
Owen stood behind him, arms crossed, watching with unshakable patience.
After a while, they left the examination room together. Nicolas had both hands wrapped and locked in plastic splints that made him look somewhat ridiculous.
"Now you really look like an action figure, just like you wanted," Owen remarked with a mocking tone as they headed down the steps.
"Shut up, idiot. Whose fault do you think this is?" Nicolas snapped, his face flushed with embarrassment and frustration.
"Yours. I told you to move into the Vitae base," Owen replied, his voice so calm it was even more annoying.
"Tsk. Just help me pack. And by the way, you're doing all the work. As you can see, I need… rest," Nicolas added, raising his bandaged hands with exaggerated drama.
They climbed into Owen's car, which started smoothly and rolled into the glowing traffic of Times Square.
"Why'd you take this route? It's going to take longer," Nicolas complained, glaring at the giant billboards and the endless stream of taxis. His house was in the Upper East Side, a far more exclusive and quiet part of Manhattan.
"I remembered something… and knowing my luck, I'm sure that—" Owen trailed off mid-sentence. Without another word, he hit the brakes hard.
"What? What is it?" Nicolas demanded, turning just in time to see Owen staring intently at a lone figure in the middle of the street.
There, under the glare of a towering screen, stood a tall, blond man, his expression dazed as he took in the lights and buildings around him. He wore an outdated uniform, shoulders tense, breath ragged like he was on the verge of panic.
Nicolas's eyes went wide. He recognized him instantly. His father never tired of telling stories about this man, and both Owen and Nicolas had always teased him for that almost childlike admiration.
"…Ah," Owen sighed, opening his door.
"Hey! Open mine too!" Nicolas yelled as he fumbled with the latch, but with his hands bandaged, he couldn't manage it. Owen was already striding away, ignoring his complaints.
"Seriously… is it too much to ask that you people have a single calm day?" Owen muttered as he walked toward Steve Rogers, who stood frozen in the street, his gaze transfixed by the neon signs and the horns blaring like some alien cacophony.
Owen was still wearing his black tactical suit, knives strapped to his belt, his face smudged with dust from the last fight against the Brotherhood. Despite it all, he looked dangerously relaxed.
He approached without hurry and set a firm hand on Steve's shoulder.
Steve spun instantly, pure instinct driving his fist straight at Owen's jaw with superhuman force.
But Owen merely tilted his head a fraction. The punch whistled past, grazing his ear.
"Fuuu…" Owen exhaled, resigned. A second later, he drove a clean, sharp punch into Steve's stomach. The impact was so precise and solid that Steve staggered back two steps, a look of surprise and pain slipping past his defenses.
"That wasn't very friendly," Owen remarked in a neutral tone as Rogers hunched over, one hand pressed to his abdomen.
Without giving him a chance to recover, Steve shifted into a boxer's stance and lunged forward, aiming a powerful right hook.
Owen raised his hand and caught the fist in midair with ease. The pressure was considerable, but his expression barely changed. With his other hand, he seized Steve's elbow and twisted the arm behind his back in one smooth motion, pinning the supersoldier in place and forcing him to lean forward.
In response, Steve snapped his leg up, trying to kick Owen in the side.
Not wanting to break his knee, Owen eased the hold and let him go. Steve rolled across the asphalt with surprising agility, planting a hand to push himself upright in a blink.
"First generation… always such a damn headache," Owen muttered as he settled into a loose guard, visibly annoyed.
Then he decided to end it. He stepped forward, vanishing from Steve's sight for an instant. When he reappeared, his leg swung in a perfect arc. The kick struck Rogers square in the ribs, launching him through the air like a ragdoll.
Steve landed with a heavy thud, rolling several times before coming to a stop on one knee. A tremor ran along his ribs—more than a few felt like they were cracked.
When he looked up, Owen was already standing in front of him, watching him calmly.
Steve let out a low growl and launched two quick kicks, one aimed at Owen's knee, the other at his hip.
Owen didn't even bother to move. He raised his leg, letting the first kick hit his thigh harmlessly, then blocked the second with his forearm. Without giving Steve an inch of space, he raised his hand and fired off three quick jabs—one to the stomach, another to the chest, and a third that clipped his jaw with a sharp crack.
Steve felt a tingling at the base of his skull. For an instant, the world spun. Before he could recover, Owen grabbed his arm and hurled him onto his back with the same ease one might fold a bedsheet.
In an almost nonchalant gesture, Owen sat down on Steve's back and let out a quiet sigh.
"…Ah. Well. What am I supposed to do with you now?" he murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder if the General would scream like a fanboy if I brought you in."
Steve managed to open his mouth, still dizzy, staring up at the giant billboards of Times Square with a stunned expression.
"By the way… welcome to the modern world. Really terrible timing to wake up," Owen added, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Steve finally managed to speak, voice rough and uneven:
"You're… a super soldier."
"I'm probably not legally in that category anymore… but yeah, something like that," Owen admitted with a shrug.
"How…? The last serum… it was lost…"
"You'd be surprised how many super soldiers are running around these days," Owen replied in a mocking tone that clashed with his calm demeanor.
Meanwhile, Nicolas was still trapped in the car, banging his bandaged hands against the window and yelling curses.
"Sgt. Owen. It's a pleasure to meet you again… after our last encounter," came a firm voice that cut through the moment.
Owen slowly turned his head. There stood Nick Fury, right in the middle of the street, flanked by several S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, the black patch over one eye somehow only making his stare more intense.
"You mean when I killed the HYDRA spies who infiltrated your S.H.I.E.L.D.? That was an interesting day for me," Owen replied with a mocking smile that didn't reach his eyes.
The words made Fury's brow furrow immediately. His jaw tightened as he locked eyes with Owen without blinking.
"Seeing that your S.H.I.E.L.D. is still standing… I guess you're still trying to catch traitors one by one. What a shame," Owen added as he stood up like it was nothing, radiating an indifference that set several agents visibly on edge.
For a second, his gaze drifted to the woman behind Fury. Natasha Romanoff stood there, watching him with the same calm expression she used before pulling a trigger. Their eyes met, and for a moment it felt like they shared some silent memory.
But Owen turned away coldly and refocused on Steve, who was slowly getting to his feet, realizing that this stranger hadn't meant to truly harm him… even though he'd left him thoroughly rattled.
"Listen. If you ever feel like rejoining the military, you can look us up. We're actually in the business of protecting people," Owen said quietly, gesturing toward him with a faint nod.
"I'm afraid Mr. Rogers is our responsibility," Fury interrupted the moment Owen finished, his voice unflinching and absolute.
Owen tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the words.
"You know… Cap comes from an interesting time. Talking about someone like they're your property… tsk, tsk," he retorted with a hint of disdain. Then he turned to leave, raising a lazy hand in farewell. "See you around, Fury. And… to my old flame," he added with a subtle smile, his eyes lingering on Natasha, who didn't look away.
Without another word, he walked back to the car, where Nicolas was still struggling with the handle in vain.
"Finally! Would you mind opening this, you bastard?" Nicolas muttered as Owen unlocked the door with a distracted flick of his wrist.
As soon as he got in, Owen glanced in the rearview mirror. He could see Steve surrounded by agents—some checking him over, others gripping their weapons a little too tightly. But his focus settled on Fury. Even from a distance, he could read it in the man's expression: Fury wasn't just there to rescue a living legend. He was planning to use Rogers as bait to flush out the last of HYDRA's spies inside S.H.I.E.L.D.
Owen clicked his tongue in annoyance. He pulled out his phone, dialed calmly, and waited for someone to answer.
"Old man… You were right. They've got him," he said quietly.
The reply was short. A direct order.
"Yeah… understood," he murmured before hanging up. He let out a long sigh. "What a pain in the ass…"
He turned to Nicolas, who was watching him expectantly.
"You… and your father," Owen added with resignation as he started the engine.
The car pulled away from Times Square, neon reflections sliding across the windshield. Behind them, Steve Rogers remained still among the circle of agents, staring in bewilderment at the strange new world he'd awakened to find.