Multiverse: Deathstroke

Chapter 175: Ch.174 Movie Theater

Steve had returned to New York, back to Brooklyn. The frustration in his heart made it hard to breathe. He walked into a movie theater to clear his mind. Playing was the new zombie movie produced by Su Ming\'s company.

He still remembered how, as a child, he and Bucky had coined the term zombies. Mr. Wilson had brought it to the big screen.

These flesh-eating zombies resembled the people Steve had once seen in the subway station, only dirtier. The film perfectly recreated the fear they had felt back then. Technically, someone like Steve, with his heart condition, shouldn\'t be watching such a film. But to reminisce about his childhood, he bought a ticket anyway.

The audience consisted mostly of women and older men—few strong young men were around since most had gone to war.

With the country under a wartime economy, going to the movies was one of the more affordable forms of entertainment. As a result, even during the day, the theater was decently filled. However, the law required the insertion of recruitment ads at the start, middle, and end of the film to promote the draft and stir patriotic fervor.

One moment, the heroine was facing off with a zombie dog in a narrow hallway, and the next, the screen switched to footage of American soldiers marching into boot camp.

A collective sigh of disappointment echoed throughout the theater.

Just as the action was reaching its peak, the mood was killed by a recruitment ad. The audience silently grumbled, frustrated by the interruption—"I took off my necklace for this?" they thought.

Steve, however, looked longingly at the soldiers on the screen. He envied them—the chance to join the army, to serve their country. His eyes sparkled with admiration as he imagined himself walking among them.

Then, the screen changed again, showing a six- or seven-year-old boy in a scout cap, sorting through a pile of scrap metal. The narrator\'s voice came back, praising the boy: "Even little Timmy is doing his part, collecting scrap metal to help the war effort. Well done, Timmy!"

Steve suddenly felt countless eyes on him. The women around him subtly glanced at him with the corners of their eyes, their expressions seemingly saying:

"Why are you sitting here watching a movie?"

"Go to the battlefield, man! Tsk, tsk!"

"Why don\'t you learn from little Timmy and pick up some trash? Oh, wait, maybe you

are the trash!"

"Shame on you. Boo!"

But these looks quickly shifted when the women saw him clearly in the dim light. This man was frailer than they were—pale and skeletal, as if he might not survive long. They couldn\'t expect a sick person to march off to die.

Their gazes turned to sympathy and regret. The thought was the same across their minds—"Poor thing."

Steve shrugged lightly. He had grown used to these looks over the years. Well-meaning people always seemed to take care of him. Even the pickiest grocer would give him extra vegetables and tell him to see a doctor because certain illnesses couldn\'t be ignored.

It was because of these kind people that Steve couldn\'t let the war reach their doorstep. He wanted to enlist more than ever—to stop the war before it hurt anyone else.

As those thoughts swirled in his mind, they remained distant dreams. He sighed and refocused on the "Iron Wall" tank on the screen.

This tank was another creation of Su Ming\'s company. However, its design didn\'t resemble anything typical of American industry. With its two massive, menacing cannons, flat body, and thick armor, it looked more like something from the other side of the Pacific.

He recalled Mr. Wilson once mentioning the tank\'s code name, "Apocalypse," during casual conversations. But for some reason, the name had been changed when it was put into service.

Perhaps it was to fit with the company\'s other military products, Steve guessed.

In reality, the tank only resembled the "Apocalypse" in appearance. Underneath, it was essentially a modified M3 "Grant" with larger-caliber guns, a twin turret, thicker armor, and more engines crammed in.

It was like a haphazardly assembled toy. Apart from its defensive capabilities, it was subpar in every other aspect. Its reload speed was painfully slow, like a self-propelled artillery piece. It moved at a snail\'s pace, and the engineers had to pour all their efforts just to make it functional.

Originally, the so-called experts had dismissed Su Ming\'s suggestions when he showed them the designs for the T-34 and IS tanks. Su Ming had then drawn the design for the "Apocalypse," and the experts had confidently assured him they could build it—and that it would be incredible.

During internal testing, Su Ming had almost wanted to kill the useless engineers. He had given them so much funding, and they had produced a monstrosity that was essentially a cross between self-propelled artillery and the T95?

In the end, he relented. After all, the money was spent, and a turret was at least something. So, he decided to make do.

If this piece of junk were called the "Apocalypse Tank," it would tarnish the name. After kicking the "experts" off to research tractors, Su Ming renamed the steel beast "Iron Wall Assault Gun," highlighting its only strength: defense.

The name was apt. This thing was essentially a giant, mobile metal block. But it was a well-armored one. No anti-armor weaponry from either side could pierce its front plating.

Su Ming had sent out several lobbyists, and in the end, the military begrudgingly purchased a batch, intending to use it as infantry support. At the very least, unlike traditional anti-tank artillery, this machine could move on its own.

In contrast, Wilson Enterprises\' rifles, pistols, and grenades passed inspection with flying colors. Su Ming had provided detailed schematics, and since each part matched future classics perfectly, even basic workers could assemble them.

Before America entered the war, its military was small—around eight regular divisions and 14 National Guard divisions, totaling less than 600,000 men. But after entering the war, the force rapidly grew to 2 million and later even 4 million. All these troops needed standardized weapons.

Su Ming\'s company had stockpiled enough weapons over the years. Since 1929, it had been preparing. Originally, the plan was to support China, but now there were plenty of extras.

While other defense contractors were busy promising the military how many guns they could manufacture each month, Wilson Enterprises overwhelmed them with over a million weapons in stock.

Initially, the British were reluctant to switch to American weapons because their ammunition calibers were different from those used by most countries. Using foreign weapons meant abandoning their own arms industry.

But after the Dunkirk evacuation, they had no choice. For logistical reasons, the 330,000 soldiers who evacuated had left behind almost all their light and heavy weapons.

Domestic production would take about two weeks to catch up, but with a shortage of steel and coal, the industry couldn\'t keep pace. Resources were prioritized for the navy, meaning for over two weeks, Britain was nearly defenseless.

The British organized a Home Guard. Elderly gentlemen brought out their ancestral weapons—swords, sabers, and bows—to defend their homes. This ragtag militia was nicknamed the "Dad\'s Army."

So, the question arose: either the soldiers fight with centuries-old weapons from the Wars of the Roses, or they quickly rearm with American-made guns, with Wilson Enterprises offering installment payments and even bartering options.

Though the unfamiliarity with these weapons posed challenges, the British had little choice. If they didn\'t want to end up like the French, establishing a government-in-exile, they had to accept American "help."

In wartime, you use whatever\'s available. Issues with rearming, training, or any chain reaction—those were problems for the politicians. Soldiers needed weapons to fight. As long as the weapons were effective, that\'s all that mattered.

This wasn\'t like modern-day peacetime enlistment. In Britain, conscription could mean someone was handed any random weapon on the street and told, "The Queen needs you." Then they\'d be sent off to fight. Killing one fascist wasn\'t a loss, and killing two was a profit. Britain was desperate.

Soon, the Soviets would be in a similar situation. The purges had devastated the competence of their soldiers and officers, which is why they had been pushed all the way to Moscow by the Nazis.

As for the French Resistance, that was an even more dire situation. Now, Charles de Gaulle was begging for weapons on credit, and only Su Ming had been "kind" enough to lend him some.

Britain was short on weapons, energy, and food—they lacked everything.

Even Churchill, the prime minister, could only afford a single sandwich each day, surviving mostly on cigars and absinthe. He famously claimed to work 23.5 hours a day because he was kept awake by hunger every night.

Steve, of course, didn\'t know these behind-the-scenes details. He continued to admire the massive tanks on the screen. In his inexperienced view of military matters, the bigger the machine, the more powerful it must be. And the Iron Wall self-propelled anti-tank gun was indeed enormous. On the screen, at least 20 or 30 soldiers were perched on top of it, dozing as the vehicle rumbled forward.

A random farmer on a donkey cart sped past them on the side of the road, fleeting across the screen.

Steve frowned. That donkey cart was moving way too fast—talk about ignoring traffic safety.

But the soldiers on the tank didn\'t even blink. Clearly, they were used to it. Steve smiled, interpreting it as a sign of American military discipline. The tank was yielding to the donkey cart, after all. No harm was done.

The soldiers were also holding cans of a new carbonated drink, orange-flavored, which was said to be packed with nutrients. It was called Big Power.

Mr. Wilson preferred calling it Da Li in Chinese and often said something odd about how "great strength produces miracles." It was another new product from his company, issued as military supplies alongside ration biscuits.

Steve had once tried following the instructions on a military ration package. He ate a biscuit and washed it down with a bottle of Big Power. Moments later, his stomach was so bloated that he threw up, much to Bucky\'s amusement.

Despite Wilson Enterprises growing into an industrial behemoth, Steve had never considered using Mr. Wilson\'s connections to get himself onto the battlefield.

If strangers like the doctors prevented him from enlisting, there was no way someone as familiar with his health as Mr. Wilson would allow it. Based on his personality, if Steve told him he wanted to enlist, Mr. Wilson would probably go out of his way to pull strings and place him in some cushy office job in Washington—far from any battlefield, rich in perks, and devoid of any meaningful combat.

Steve didn\'t want that. If he couldn\'t fight for his country on the front lines, then enlisting would be pointless.

Just as Steve was lost in these thoughts, a disturbance broke out in the theater.

A man in the rows ahead of him began yelling.

"Boring! Just play the movie already!"

The surrounding audience members shot him disapproving looks, though most kept their dissatisfaction to themselves. After all, it was extremely rude to shout in a movie theater.

But Steve couldn\'t tolerate it. To him, serving the country was an honor. They were watching this movie in peace only because soldiers on the front lines were sacrificing their lives.

So, he spoke up.

"Hey, can you show some respect?"

The man didn\'t respond. The screen had shifted from tanks to infantry. Wounded soldiers were being carried on stretchers to makeshift hospitals.

"Our boys on the front lines are giving the Axis hell. But remember, freedom is never free..."

But the narrator\'s voice was drowned out by the man in front shouting again. He wasn\'t here for some propaganda; he wanted to see zombies.

"C\'mon! Start the movie already! I want to see Alice fight zombies! Let\'s go!"

Steve couldn\'t take it any longer. He leaned forward and raised his voice.

"Hey! I said, can you shut up?!"

The man did shut up—so much so that he stood up.

A massive figure blocked the small, frail Steve. The shadow made Steve press against the back of his seat.

The man stepped over a few rows of seats, grabbed Steve like a ragdoll, and dragged him toward the back door of the theater.