Univrsal Marchant :MCU /Arrowverse

Chapter 3: A Captain in New York

My success with Team Flash, while exhilarating, also felt a bit… easy. Barry was a golden retriever in human form, a genuinely good dude easily swayed by pastries. Now, for the real challenge. Someone with a built-in BS detector, a deep-seated distrust of anything new or shiny, and a penchant for punching Nazis. Steve Rogers. Captain America.

Jumping into the MCU was a whole different beast. The vibe was heavier, grittier, and the casual citizen looked like they'd seen a few too many alien invasions. I aimed for a post-Avengers 2012 timeline. Steve was still finding his footing, still haunted by the past, still trying to fit into a world that had roared past him. Perfect. He'd be open to… guidance. Subtlety.

I focused, visualizing the grimy, yet iconic, streets of Brooklyn. His apartment building. The gym. I didn't want to just pop up in front of him. That felt disrespectful. And potentially painful.

The familiar sensation of unmaking and remaking washed over me, slightly less disorienting this time. I opened my eyes to the distinct aroma of sweat and worn leather. A boxing gym. And there, rhythmically pounding a punching bag with enough force to rearrange my internal organs, was the man himself. Captain America. Even in gym clothes, the sheer presence was undeniable. The biceps were also undeniable.

"Okay, Adam. No drooling. No screaming 'I love you 3000.' This is Steve Rogers. Earn his trust. Be sincere. Be the responsible adult in the room, which is rich coming from me."

I leaned against a doorframe, trying to look casual, like I just happened to wander into a private boxing session. When he finally stopped, catching his breath, I cleared my throat.

Steve turned, his eyes, the color of a clear winter sky, immediately locking onto me. They held no malice, but a quiet, intense assessment. He was wary, always wary.

"Lost, pal?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, surprisingly gentle for a super-soldier.

"Not lost, Captain," I replied, pushing off the doorframe. "More like… on a very specific detour. Adam Stiels. No, I'm not here to recruit you for a new initiative, or ask for your autograph, or even sell you extended car warranties."

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. "Oh? Most people eventually get to one of those."

"I'm not most people," I said, a slight, knowing smile on my face. "I'm the guy who knows that sometimes, even the strongest shield in the world can't protect you from… the friends you make along the way turning out to be not-so-friendly." I let the Hydra hint hang in the air, vague enough to be dismissed as a random thought, pointed enough to stick in his brilliant mind.

His expression hardened almost imperceptibly. His shoulders tensed. He recognized the reference, even if he didn't know the context yet. "What exactly are you talking about?"

"Just that it's hard, being a man out of time," I said, shifting gears to a more sympathetic tone, hoping my genuine empathy shone through. "Waking up to a world that moved on without you. Everyone expecting you to just… catch up. To know everything. To remember what you used to draw in your little sketch pad, even though you left it decades ago."

His eyes widened. Not in alarm, but in a profound shock. That was a deep cut, something almost nobody knew. A personal detail, tucked away in the forgotten corners of his past.

"How… how do you know that?" His voice was quieter now, filled with a raw vulnerability.

"Like I said, I have unique ways of acquiring information," I repeated, my tone softening. "But it's not for malice, Captain. It's because I believe you deserve to know. To understand. To have context for this insane, baffling world you've been thrown into. You've been fighting ghosts for too long. Maybe it's time to understand the living."

I reached into my Inventory. "Okay, this is it. The big one. The trust-builder. This better be good, System, because if this doesn't work, I'm just a weirdo who knows too much about Captain America's hobbies."

I pulled out a thick, beautifully bound book. Not a dry textbook, but something almost like a graphic novel in its presentation, filled with vibrant images, easy-to-read timelines, and clear explanations. It was a comprehensive, curated history of the modern world, post-1945. It covered everything from the Cold War to the rise of the internet, from cultural revolutions to the global political landscape. All tailored specifically for a mind like Steve's – sharp, moral, but needing context.

"This," I said, handing it to him, "is a gift. From me to you. No strings attached. Consider it your personalized guide to the last seventy years. It's got everything. The good, the bad, the ridiculously complicated. It's not meant to overload you, but to give you a foundation. To help you connect the dots."

Steve took the book, his fingers tracing the embossed title. He flipped through a few pages, his eyes scanning the summaries, the photographs. The sheer scale of it, the thoughtfulness of it, seemed to genuinely affect him. He looked up, his gaze steady.

"Why?" he asked, simple and direct.

"Because you deserve it, Captain," I said honestly. "And because the world, frankly, needs you to be at your best. To understand the new threats, and the new allies. To know that some people still believe in what you stand for, even if the world around you is messy." I took a breath. "But if you are inclined to… reciprocate, I have a small request. A personal trade, if you will."

He slowly nodded, still holding the book like a precious artifact. "What do you want?"

"One of your old drawing pencils," I said, a small, hopeful smile. "From before. The ones you used to carry around. Anything that connects to that quiet, artistic side of you."

Steve blinked, utterly surprised by the request. It was so unexpected, so… non-heroic. So human. He reached into a small bag near his bench and pulled out a worn, slightly chewed-on pencil. It looked old, definitely pre-war. He handed it to me.

"It's not much," he said.

"It's perfect," I replied, taking it.

TRADE INITIATED. ITEM: CURATED MODERN HISTORY BOOK. RECIPIENT: STEVE ROGERS. RESOURCE: PERSONAL ARTIFACT. ACQUIRED: SKILL – TACTICAL ACUMEN. TP AWARDED: SUBSTANTIAL.

A subtle warmth spread through my mind, followed by a sudden, intense clarity. It wasn't just knowing facts; it was an intuitive understanding of strategy, of anticipating movements, of assessing weaknesses and strengths in a blink. My mind suddenly felt like a supercomputer, sifting through data points, projecting outcomes. It was like I'd just downloaded a master's degree in "How to Win Fights and Outsmart Villains."

"Holy moly. I just got Captain America's brain. Minus the super-serum, obviously. But still! I could probably beat chess masters now. Or at least find a parking spot downtown."

Steve was watching me, a faint, intrigued smile on his face. "So… what exactly did you get from that?"

"Let's just say," I grinned, tapping my temple, "I suddenly have a much better understanding of how to optimize my grocery shopping route for maximum efficiency. And maybe, just maybe, how to predict where a Hydra operative might try to hide a secret base in plain sight."

His smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful, serious expression. He looked down at the history book, then back at me. "You're… something else, Adam Stiels."

"Just a humble broker, Captain," I said, giving him a knowing nod. "Here to help. And perhaps, make sure the right side wins. Eventually."

He returned to his punching bag, but this time, he wasn't just working out. He was thinking. And that was exactly what I wanted.