The Comprehensive Evolution of American Comics

Steve opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, his eyes filled with terror, and he was panting heavily, indicating he had just experienced a nightmare.

Clutching his head, Steve briefly recollected the events leading up to his collapse. With a swift movement, he leaped to his feet and, while cautiously surveying his surroundings, pressed the button on his gauntlet to summon his shield.

“Whoosh!”

With a sharp sound of rushing air, the shield returned to his hand. Only then did he get a clear look at his surroundings. He found himself in a room resembling a dormitory, no more than ten square meters in size.

He was crouching on a single bed. The white sheets were covered with a thin layer of dust, likely from disuse, but they were still usable. However, the distinct shoe prints on the sheets looked rather out of place.

Steve compared the prints to the boots he was wearing. Confirming that he was indeed the culprit, he silently stepped off the bed and began to examine the room.

“Looks like a teenager's room,” Steve commented, though he wasn't entirely sure, as he recognized some of the plastic figurines from his friends' homes.

After a quick search, Steve found nothing of use. He quietly approached the door. There was no handle, only two buttons embedded in the wall, one red and one green. Clearly, one of them was the door opener.

Following Earthling logic, Steve hesitated before pressing the green button. To his surprise, the door opened. He cautiously peeked out and saw a large, muscular figure in the distance.

He was intimately familiar with the figure. It was none other than Puba, the plumber agent from the Celestial Craftsmen Guild who had previously assisted them. He couldn't mistake the black and white uniform and distinctive skin.

However, for safety's sake, Steve didn't call out. He moved quietly and steadily toward Puba. When Steve was about five meters away, Puba spoke.

“Awake? How was your sleep?”

Steve froze, instinctively clenching his fist, unsure how to respond.

Puba was sitting on a swivel chair, which seemed far too small for his size, making one wonder if it would collapse at any moment.

A slight creak came as Puba turned the chair, facing Steve. This also revealed what his massive frame had been obscuring.

Behind Puba was an oval table, like a dining table, but instead of delicious food, it held a person. Steve recognized him as his teammate, Clint.

Clint was lying face-up on the table, his upper body bare, revealing a lean physique covered in scars—burns, cuts, bullet wounds, a veritable encyclopedia of injuries.

His signature sunglasses were gone, revealing the wounds Clint had always tried to hide. Beneath his forehead were two empty, dark sockets where his eyeballs and eyelids should have been.

Seeing his teammate like this, Steve grew anxious. He was about to speak, but Puba cut him off.

“I can hardly imagine how this man managed to do this to himself. He has fifty-three injuries, large and small. And those eyes—if the damage were any worse, he might not have survived.”

“And he has four injuries this severe. Captain, I'd like to know what happened here after we left.”

Steve didn't answer Puba's question. Instead, he asked, “Can you heal him?”

“Not the eyes,” Puba replied, arms crossed. “His eyeballs are gone. I can't regenerate them, but I can try to transplant suitable replacements if we find any.”

Due to his abilities, Puba possessed extensive knowledge of chemistry and physiology, making him one of the few Omnitrix users who could serve as a medic.

With his incredible ability to synthesize compounds, Puba could heal most injuries and illnesses. But Clint's case had been neglected for too long. Puba would have been confident in healing him if he had been injured recently, but now it was impossible.

“As long as there's hope,” Steve said, relieved. “Honestly, Earth can't heal him now.”

“I can see that,” Puba placed his hand on a chair and pushed it toward Steve. “Otherwise, it wouldn't have been delayed this long.”

Steve stopped the chair with his foot, sat down, and was about to speak when Puba interrupted again.

“If you're going to ask about the clone soldiers, they've been dealt with,” Puba grabbed a drink from the side and tossed it to Steve.

“When I got back, my house was full of densely packed things. I was going to release toxic gas at first, but luckily I noticed you guys, so I only released a sedative gas.”

So that pleasant smell from before was this, Steve realized with a nod.

“Later, I studied the things and found they were clone creatures. So I mixed a gas specifically for them. It collapses their genes, and they die as soon as they touch it.”

“That's great!” Steve excitedly stood up, his body trembling at Puba's casual words, even though he usually remained calm in the face of danger.

“Can you tell us the formula? We really need it! Please!”

“Looks like you're in big trouble, Captain,” Puba frowned and scratched his head. He had examined the bodies of the others as well as Hawkeye, and they all had old injuries.

Judging by the healing and scarring, the oldest injury was Clint's eyes, about a year or two old.

Based on the timeline, it happened after he left, but he didn't dare guarantee it because the timelines of parallel universes weren't exactly the same.

“It's a long story,” Steve said with a wry smile, then collapsed back into the chair as if exhausted, and began to slowly recount the events after they left.