A fleeting thought passed through Steve's mind.
Since he had already decided to accept the mission, there was no point in delay. He casually picked up the trousers and white shirt from the floor and slipped them on.
But just as he fastened two buttons on his shirt, a pair of soft, delicate hands reached from behind him, one on each side, and undid them.
Two supple bodies pressed against his back, and a sultry, bone-melting voice whispered in his ear:
"Captain Rogers, where are you rushing off to so early? Stay and have some morning training with us sisters first~"
"Come on~ just a little~"
Steve glanced back at the twin sisters, their eyes hungry for his perfect physique. But he firmly pushed them away, his expression full of righteous determination.
"No. I'm pressed for time today—there's no chance for morning training. Yesterday you tricked me into training until nightfall, and I only just woke up. If I do it again, when will I ever get any work done?"
"I have to go save the world now. I must leave!"
Truth be told, Steve's face was dangerously deceptive.
Anyone else who had uttered such shameless playboy lines would've been slapped twice across the face already.
But when Steve said it, his body seemed to shine with a holy light. The sisters didn't doubt him at all—instead, they gazed at him with starry-eyed admiration.
"Captain Rogers, you're the greatest hero in the world! We sisters will always wait for your return!"
Steve's body trembled, and he looked back slightly.
"No, I'm not a hero. You two… you're the ones who truly understand me. You're the real heroes."
"But I carry the mission of being Captain America. That means I'm destined never to find true love. If you stay with me, I'll only hold you back. It's better that we part here."
"Waiting for me… isn't worth it."
He didn't give them the chance to plead or cling. Steve quickened his steps and hurried out of their villa.
"Farewell, my eighteenth and nineteenth girlfriends~"
Casting one last glance at the villa, he turned and left without looking back.
He had been in this world for a year now. Aside from the daily grind of missions and strengthening, of course he had also indulged himself from time to time.
With Steve Rogers' flawless looks and body, women around him were inevitable. But he had never been one to hang from a single tree.
Always chasing pleasure but never love, none of his women lasted more than a month. Each time, he would deliver a line like the one he'd just given, pull up his pants, and walk out the door.
A scoundrel and a heartless bastard, through and through.
But Steve didn't see it that way. He was simply giving women everywhere a home. He called it compassion—what crime was that?
On the battlefield of love he was reckless, but when it came to missions, Steve was deadly serious.
He knew well that all the pleasures he enjoyed came only because of his ever-growing strength.
With power, he had the right to negotiate—even to dictate.
Without power, he'd be nothing more than a puppet. A puppet to Nick Fury at S.H.I.E.L.D., or to Alexander at Hydra.
Just like the original Captain America, Steve Rogers—led around by the nose, used as a weapon by Fury.
Or like his unfortunate friend Bucky Barnes—controlled by Alexander and turned into a killing machine.
But with overwhelming power, he had the ability to change all of it.
Just a little more, and perhaps he could free not only himself, but also Bucky.
Because once his physique reached 10 points, the system promised he would awaken a new ability. He could hardly wait.
And this mission to rescue Tony? The reward in reinforcement points would surely raise his stats more than a single notch.
SCREEECH
Just as the thought formed, a sleek black sports car skidded to a halt in front of him, the tires stopping less than a centimeter from his toes.
The driver's window slid down, revealing a face no less stunning than the twin cover girls he'd just left behind. With a playful wink, she purred:
"Handsome, where you headed? Need a ride?"
This wasn't the first time Steve had been approached on the street.
Most of his first dozen girlfriends had thrown themselves at him first—he hardly ever had to make the move.
Nine out of ten who approached him—women and even men alike, were after his body.
But this time was different. The fiery redhead before him wasn't here for a casual fling.
Because her name was Natasha Romanoff.
The infamous Black Widow.
Steve, however, wasn't the least bit worried that Fury's pet spider would bite him. He casually opened the passenger door and slid in without hesitation.
"Agent Romanoff. Looks like Fury really cares about Stark if he's sending his ace card."
Natasha started the engine, shrugged lightly, and replied flatly:
"Ace? That's not me. You're the real ace in Fury's hand. He said there's no mission you can't complete. That's why this mission doesn't even involve me."
"I'm only here to tell you that the full mission brief has been handed to the strike team. You'll lead them to Afghanistan and carry out the mission. You're in full command this time. Fury only wants results."
With the business said, Natasha immediately switched to a curious, gossipy expression.
"By the way, did you offend Fury somehow? I could hear the displeasure in his tone. It almost sounded like he doesn't want to see you at all."
Steve cast her a sidelong glance, then answered lazily:
"Not really. It's just that some people's social standing has gotten a little too inflated lately, and they've forgotten who's really holding the cards. I simply reminded them of the truth."
Natasha's brow arched. She dared not continue that topic. Even as one of America's "second most correct" social groups, she wouldn't risk commenting on the "first most correct."
With Natasha silent, Steve was content to close his eyes and rest, recovering from the hollow exhaustion of his… prolonged "battles."
The ancients spoke true: there is no barren field, only exhausted oxen. Even someone far beyond human limits like Steve had to bow before endless rounds of war.
Natasha drove like a five-star menace of Los Santos, blazing her way to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters, the Triskelion.
And just as she'd said, Fury clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
As soon as he stepped out of the car, he saw Brock Rumlow leading the strike team, their Quinjet already parked at the Triskelion's plaza, waiting for him.
So Fury wouldn't even let him step through the front doors, huh~
Natasha dropped him off, gave a casual wave, and took her leave.
Poor Natasha. She thought she had escaped the nightmare of the Red Room, only to fall into another pair of black hands.