Begin from the original form of torture and become immortal

Chapter 1743 The Captain's Acceptance

They have a clear division of labor and are ruthless and efficient: two are responsible for all-round optical and infrared monitoring, so that no matter where he is, there is always a pair of cold electronic eyes locking onto him; one continuously scans his vital signs, monitoring every heartbeat and every tiny change in breathing rate.
The last one is like a cheetah on standby, its energy weapon system always in a preheated state with the lowest power. Once it makes any move that exceeds the preset safety boundary, the deadly muzzle will instantly rise.

They floated silently, their movements accompanied only by the faint hissing of the hydraulic systems at their joints, like the flicking of a viper's tongue against the perpetual hum of the deep-sea walls.

Rumlow tried various methods.

He deliberately made a large movement as he picked up the knife and cut his steak in the restaurant. The head sensors of the four suits instantly focused on his knife-wielding hand. One of the suits, equipped with a weapon, subtly raised its right arm a few millimeters, and the energy weapon port lit up faintly, silently spreading a chilling warning.

He immediately let go, the knife clattering onto the plate. He could only force himself to remain calm as he used his fork, his knuckles turning white from the force.

In the narrow passage, he tried to briefly escape the suit's sight by turning a corner.

However, just as he had turned halfway around, one of the suits, with incredible agility and anticipation, glided like a ghost to his side and blocked the blind spot he was trying to create. The other three suits instantly adjusted their positions and formed a perfect encirclement formation once again.

They were like an invisible, ever-moving metallic spiderweb, trapping him firmly in the center. Each attempt only resulted in a tighter lock, and every tiny "deviation" was instantly detected and silently warned.

Rumlow felt a profound sense of powerlessness, as if he had fallen into a pool of viscous asphalt, and struggling would only hasten his sinking.

What's even more frustrating is that damn protective suit.

It adheres to the skin like a second layer, allowing you to clearly feel every muscle movement.

The monitoring network embedded in the nanofibers is like countless cold little hands, constantly stroking his pulse, sweat glands, and body temperature.

The most painful thing was using that bathroom that Stark had "carefully designed".

Inside the sealed alloy cubicle, he had to complete a series of complex operations: unzipping the awkwardly located and extremely difficult-to-operate sealing zipper at the back of the protective suit, while enduring the silent "guardianship" of at least two suits outside the cubicle—their scanning light would seep in through the gap under the door, like a cold scrutiny.

After completing its "task," the excrement is immediately sucked into the processing system below by a powerful airflow, accompanied by clear pressurization and sealing sounds.

Each time, Rumlow could hear that faint, brand-like "beep" sound—the isotope labeling was complete.

The voice was like a cold needle, repeatedly piercing his pride as a Hydra elite agent, reminding him that even the waste in his own body was under Stark's absolute control.

As he struggled to zip up the embarrassingly sealed zipper again, the sweat on his forehead was quickly absorbed by the protective suit, but the humiliating stickiness seemed to seep into his very bones.

Stark himself seemed to be enjoying a wonderful silent film.

He often appeared on the control platform in the core area, glancing from afar at Rumlow, who was like a trapped beast surrounded by four suits, and a smile of undisguised pride and contempt curled at the corner of his mouth.

Sometimes he would deliberately raise his voice and talk to his AI butler: “Jarvis, look at this perfect surveillance coverage! Not even a single bacteria that shouldn’t be there can escape our watchful eyes, right? Especially those… particularly active ‘organisms’.”

He deliberately emphasized "particularly active," his gaze like a tangible needle, precisely piercing Rumlow's direction.

Rumlow could only clench his fists tightly, his nails digging deep into the flesh of his palms, using the pain to suppress the rage that was about to explode in his chest. He had to maintain a slightly tired but trying-to-adapt expression similar to that of other agents, and every muscle movement felt like torture.

Steve Rogers became the most steadfast enforcer of the Stark Rules.

He strictly adhered to his three daily shower schedule, working meticulously in the laboratory while wearing that ridiculously tight protective suit, seemingly oblivious to the ever-present surveillance cameras in his protective gear.

He would even cast a calm yet scrutinizing glance at Rumlowin when he showed a momentary discomfort at the excessive closeness of the suit.

That gaze seemed to say: What does this inconvenience matter for the greater good? This silent question made Rumlow feel more isolated and chilled than Stark's sarcasm.

Natasha and Clint maintained a professional silence and efficiency; they operated like precise parts within the framework of rules, never complaining, but never engaging in any communication with Rumlow beyond what was necessary for the mission.

Rumlow felt utterly isolated in this steel tomb in the deep sea.

Back to the present.

"This is the most sophisticated and expensive scientific fortress ever built by humankind. Theoretically, any tiny biological contamination could interfere with the baseline readings of those detection instruments. A shed skin flake, a escaping… odor molecule,"

Steve paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, "On an extremely sensitive scale, it could be misinterpreted as an anomalous signal. Caution is a necessary price to pay."

There was no sense of grievance in his tone, only a kind of martyr-like acceptance.

Rumlow almost burst out laughing.

Theory? Cost?
He looked at Steve's face, which was practically the perfect "righteous man of God," and a surge of evil fire rose in his chest.

He forced a stiff smile and suppressed his emotions: "Does the price... include that?"

He gestured towards an inconspicuous silver metal door at the end of the passage, above which a faint blue indicator light illuminated, labeled "Biomass Processing Unit".

A faint, almost imperceptible hint of helplessness flashed across Steve's face, quickly replaced by a calm acceptance: "'Molecular-level encapsulation sterilization and recovery system.' Tony explained that it's to ensure absolute safety and prevent any possible spread of biological pheromones. I've heard that the maintenance and consumable costs of that system are equivalent to the entire assets of a middle-class family."

He was stating an objective fact rather than complaining.

"Every time we... use the restroom, we burn through someone's life savings?"

Rumlow's voice rose a little, carrying an unbelievable sense of absurdity.

"In the face of potential crises for humanity, personal comfort and even dignity are secondary."

Steve's answer was impeccable. He even nodded slightly to Rumlow, indicating that he understood his discomfort, but his eyes clearly said: This is a responsibility, bear it.

(End of this chapter)