Strange Worldview

George wrapped up the meeting with a few words, and everyone naturally dispersed to handle their own affairs.

The mutant with gills that Henry had saved last time hooked an arm around his rescuer's neck after it ended. "Nothing left to do today. Wanna hit the Strip Club with us?"

"First thing in the morning, and someone's already shaking it on stage? Aren't these people a little too dedicated?"

"During Crab Season, the club's got girls performing all the time. Plenty of crowd too—if you want a private dance, that's no problem either," the young mutant said, clearly familiar with the place.

"Nah, I only brought some pocket change today. If I walk into a club and can't even afford a drink, I'd rather not get tossed out by the bouncers."

"Hey, that's no issue. You saved my life—I've been meaning to buy you a drink anyway. Club's fine, my treat. Today I'm taking my brother to see some women too."

With such an earnest offer, Henry almost caved. But his ingrained workhorse nature kicked in—they say starting a business is tough, and he was still saving up for that first pot of gold. Not the time to indulge.

He was a penniless, destitute alien. Unless he planned to go all out and rob a bank, if he wanted to lie low, he needed the funds to do it. Spending on strippers felt like throwing money down a drain.

Besides, though he was built for the grind, he knew a thing or two about business. Wherever tourists flock, there are shops ready to fleece you. During this peak earning season for crewmen, how could that industry not be a ripoff?

Still, Henry didn't refuse too bluntly. He put on a show of hesitation, then a reluctant, regretful expression. "It's not that I don't want to go, but I've got things to take care of. You know, I've got some identity issues to sort out."

That hint was clear enough to the young mutant.

They say America's a nation of immigrants, and even today, people keep flowing in—legal and illegal alike.

No matter which kind, everyone finds a way to deal with it. So the young mutant could only say with regret, "Alright, your stuff really is important. Want me to hook you up with someone who handles that kind of thing?"

Henry said, "I've found a few leads, gonna check them out first. If they don't pan out, I'll come to you. Then I'll need your help."

"Sure, just say the word if you need it," the young mutant replied casually.

Truth be told, their bond didn't fit any of the classic "four ironclad brotherhoods," but working together on a Crab Boat was no less than having fought side by side.

Anything easy to do, no one would refuse. Of course, in America's social climate of clear-cut personal boundaries, no one would meddle like some nosy auntie back home, insisting on butting in whether you wanted it or not.

So after a quick goodbye to Old George, Henry drove off toward Tom's Company.

The town was small—driving time was less than the time spent finding and parking the car. Henry reached his destination in no time.

But judging by the parking situation out front, they were pretty busy today?

As that thought crossed his mind, Henry's super-senses told him Old Tom's office had a few extra people.

From the way they were sitting calmly, it was probably just business, nothing troublesome.

And the woman at the front desk in the public office area, always steady and unflappable, wore the same expression as ever.

Henry pushed the door open and greeted her, "Hello, is Old Tom in?"

He already knew the answer, but no one else did. The woman pointed to the sofa lounge area. "Tom's with guests. Wait here."

"Alright." As he passed her desk, he spotted a few gold coins casually lying on top.

The craftsmanship on those coins was top-notch—clearly modern, not antiques.

But modern commemorative gold coins should come sealed in plastic cases. Besides preventing deformation and oil stains, the main point was to avoid scratches.

That meant these were mostly collectibles for their commemorative value, not meant for circulation as currency.

Yet these coins had no protection, and they showed obvious signs of use, like pocket change. That was unusual.

And from the designs on the coins, there were no clear national markings. It seemed likely they were privately minted.

So, did Alaska, with its gold rush history, still have a habit of using gold coins as currency?

Puzzled, Henry's eyes lingered on the coins a moment longer.

The woman shot him a glare, then pulled open the same drawer and swept the coins inside, not the least bit worried about weight loss from scratches reducing their value.

So were they fake gold? Gold-plated?

The question remained unanswered, but her gesture was practically a hint. Henry looked away and grabbed a magazine from the nearby rack.

At Old John's bar, he'd been too busy watching classic movies on TV. The bar did subscribe to newspapers, but they were just local ones with nothing interesting, so Henry hadn't gotten into the habit of reading them.

At Tom's place, though, there were national magazines—economics, fashion, that sort of thing. Many were old issues, but that was enough for Henry.

He picked up a copy of Time Magazine, the most iconic one. The cover featured a sharp-dressed, white-haired old man with a mustache, still handsome.

Henry was drawn to the old white man on the cover, but not for any sexual reason—the magazine had a bold headline: "The Most Successful Scientist and the Smartest Businessman."

Flipping to the inside article, the cover figure was Howard Stark, chairman of Stark Industries.

This conglomerate, involved in civilian life, military, and aerospace, was built from scratch by a mechanical prodigy who'd shown brilliance since childhood. With help from business partner Obadiah Stane, it had grown into a colossal powerhouse.

Beyond Howard Stark's patents, the article also highlighted major historical events Stark Industries had participated in.

From various government projects in World War I and World War II, the birth of Captain America, to the Apollo Program in the 60s and even the moon landing—Stark Industries had a hand in all of it.

The article was full of praise, dripping with success-story tropes. All it lacked was some tale of fish swimming upstream or studying by chiseled light—pure chicken-soup-for-the-soul boilerplate.

But looking at that photo gave Henry a deeper sense that he'd really ended up in the Marvel Universe.

Still, this didn't seem like a purely cinematic universe. Mutants were everywhere.

And in American comics, retconning and rewriting lore was practically routine. In that case, the advantage of foreknowledge wasn't all that great.

Add to that his own misplaced Kryptonian identity, and Henry was more determined than ever to stick to his principle of lying low and not showing off. Let someone else be the arrogant hero.

Fighting heaven and earth, taking on the Celestials and the Living Tribunal, even picking fights in other universes—weren't those people tired? Why didn't anyone ever fight their way home?

Request for follow-up reads, collections, recommendations—thank you~