Chapter 142 The Shocked Doctor

This was also a byproduct of American electoral culture. Supporting someone to become a state legislator, governor, or even a member of Congress would yield rich political returns for the enterprise or billionaire once successful.

In Howard's view, what Mei Mumu was doing was merely reinvesting the wealth he had hauled back from Europe.

After a moment of consideration, Howard nodded. "Actually, there really is such a project that needs your capital, and I am personally involved in it. But before I tell you the details, I will take you to meet a congressman, and you must sign a non-disclosure agreement. If you violate it, you will be sent to a military tribunal."

"Oh? Isn't that a bit dramatic?"

"You can still back out now," Howard shrugged.

"Well, as long as it pleases the military, I can accept even losing a bit of money," Mei Mumu said with a nonchalant air.

No one knew that this time-traveler from 2016 was secretly baring his sharp claws...

The shameless fellow chuckled craftily to himself: Back in the year 1942, anything connected to Howard that required this super mechanical inventor to personally intervene could only be that single project...

That morning, in a recruitment office in New York, the scrawny Steve Rogers was once again randomly falsifying his birthplace, attempting to slip past the recruiters.

However, this time it wouldn't end with simply being slapped with a 4F failure rating.

Just as the doctor was examining Steve's shirtless body, he was suddenly called outside.

Noticing the large sign on the wall that read "Falsifying identity documents is a criminal offense," Steve suddenly felt a sense of impending doom.

Walk by the river often enough, and you're bound to get your shoes wet.

The seasoned driver who always said "just the tip, I'm not going all the way in" would eventually get someone pregnant one day.

In truth, Steve already had a premonition. People always fell victim to wishful thinking. He kept telling himself, "If I change the place I claim as my birthplace, those dopes at the recruitment office won't figure it out," and so he repeatedly changed his hometown to sign up for the draft.

Perhaps this could also be considered one of the few dark stains in Steve Rogers' past before becoming Captain America.

It wasn't that the recruitment office couldn't check him; they simply didn't have the time to bother with a scrawny loser.

When a hulking military policeman pulled back the curtain, standing like a lighthouse at the only exit, Steve could only mentally play a funeral march for himself.

He was totally screwed!

Detention?

Imprisonment?

Or a prison sentence?

Steve swallowed hard; he didn't dare imagine the rest.

This was wartime. Under urgent demands, many rules and regulations could be dismissed as worthless, or conversely, blown completely out of proportion—stealing a can from the logistics department could land someone a prison sentence of five or ten years under the charge of stealing military property.

The young Steve was panicking fiercely.

At that moment, a casually dressed, bald old man pulled back the curtain and entered. He smiled and nodded at the MP. "Thank you, sir."

The MP snapped to attention, saluted the old man with utmost respect, and walked out.

Steve was a bit bewildered—what was the background of this old man?

The old man glanced at Steve, curled his lip, and began flipping through someone's rap sheet. "Oh! What a fascinating resume. You actually tried to enlist using five different hometowns across five cities, yet every single time you failed the physical exam."

Steve's youthful face flushed red on the spot, and he didn't know what to say. "I... I... I..."

The old man suddenly asked, "Do you hate the Nazis?"

"..." Steve paused for a moment.

The old man repeated the question in an exceptionally solemn tone, "Do you hate the Nazis?"

In the end, Steve shook his head. "I don't have any personal opinions about the Nazis. But I believe defending one's country is an obligation and duty every young American should fulfill. I have no right to demand others risk life and limb on the front lines while I cower in safety like a coward in the rear."

"You don't view it as glory?"

"Glory is far too distant for someone as ordinary as me. I just want to fulfill my duty."

"Duty? What a fascinating word. That is also what interests me most about you. You aren't doing it for rank or fortune, you aren't being conscripted, nor are you being swayed or brainwashed by boring propaganda. Despite your poor physical condition, you relied entirely on your own willpower to enlist in five cities." The old man smiled. "Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Abraham Erskine, and I think I can give you a chance!"

Upon hearing this, Steve's eyes lit up. "I only need a chance!"

Dr. Erskine turned serious. "I need a volunteer for a military experiment. But before you, over a hundred subjects have died on the experimental table. Frankly speaking, your chances of success are extremely slim. Even so, are you still willing to accept?"

Steve curled his lip. "As long as it's serving the country, dying from a Nazi bullet or dying on an experimental table makes no difference to me."

Dr. Erskine was shocked—genuinely shocked.

Unlike the tens of thousands of soldiers he had seen, Steve possessed a flash of soul he had never witnessed before. It wasn't the superficial lip-service patriotism, but a saint-like radiance that truly cast aside life and death, holding the nation supreme and duty above all!

The doctor broke into a brilliant smile. "Either you are the second-strongest sophist of this century since Hitler, or you are a true saint. Very well, young man, tell me your real name and where you are from."

"Steve Rogers!" The future Captain America narrowed his eyes and said proudly, "I'm from Brooklyn!"

Yes! That filthy, chaotic Brooklyn looked down upon by the elites of Wall Street!

The doctor was very satisfied. He picked up a draft physical examination form, and in the lower right hand corner where the name Steve Rogers was written, he heavily stamped a large [1A], which represented the highest physical fitness grade for US Army recruits. Then, the doctor signed his own name to take responsibility for the report.

Steve Rogers had finally managed to sneak into the army camp as he wished, under a very special status.

Soon, wearing a brown military uniform, he appeared in the camp.

A sharp and spirited female officer walked with a firm yet graceful stride toward the cluster of raw recruits, including Steve.

For Steve, it felt more like a predestined encounter.

She had dark brown wavy hair, and on her slightly square face, her features weren't excessively delicate, but exceptionally sharp. Paired with flame-red lipstick, her red lips looked even more alluring, exuding the distinct vibe of a Hollywood dance troupe dancer from the 1940s.

Yet her vigorous stride, paired with high heels, gave her an imposing and fierce air that yielded nothing to men.

"Whoa! If you're Hitler, then I'd let you put me out of my misery," a crude soldier joked.

Then, he saw a fist growing rapidly larger within his field of vision.