With just a few words, George wrapped up today's meeting. Naturally, everyone dispersed to handle their own business.
The gill-bearing mutant Henry had saved previously threw his arm around Henry's neck after the meeting and said, "Nothing going on today. Want to hit a strip club with us?"
"So early in the morning and people are already shaking their butts on stage? Are they that dedicated?" Henry raised an eyebrow.
"Crab season brings the crowd," the well-informed young mutant said with a grin. "There are always girls performing at the club. It gets packed. You can even get a private dance if you want one."
"Forget it," Henry said, waving it off. "I only brought some pocket change today. If I go and can't even afford a drink, I'll probably get tossed out by the bouncers. That would be humiliating."
"Hey, that's no problem at all," the mutant replied. "You saved my life. I've been looking for a way to treat you. Drinks, club, whatever—it's on me. I also wanted to take my little brother out to see some girls."
The generous offer was tempting, and Henry was momentarily swayed. But his deeply ingrained workhorse instincts pulled him back. He was trying to start a business, after all—it was not yet time to indulge.
He was still a broke, empty-handed alien. Unless he planned on robbing banks, he needed startup capital. Spending it on strippers felt like dumping it into a bottomless pit.
Besides, despite being a natural-born workhorse, Henry had a decent business sense. As the saying goes: Where there are many tourists, there are bound to be rip-off shops. Crab season was peak profit time for sailors—how could the surrounding industries not take advantage?
Still, Henry didn't turn him down too abruptly. Instead, he acted conflicted before reluctantly shaking his head with a regretful expression. "It's not that I don't want to go, but I've still got some things to take care of. You know, some identity issues I need to resolve."
The young mutant understood instantly.
It's often said that America is a nation of immigrants. Even today, people pour in—legally or otherwise. No matter their status, everyone tries to sort out their paperwork. So the young mutant just nodded and said with some regret, "Alright, that's important stuff. Want me to introduce you to someone who can help?"
"I've found a few leads," Henry replied. "I'll try them first. If they don't work out, I'll definitely come back to you. I'll be counting on you."
"Sure thing. Just let me know," the mutant replied casually.
Although their relationship didn't fall under any of the "four iron bonds of life," working together on the crab boat had forged a reliable camaraderie. It was like carrying rifles together in another life.
As long as it was something easy to help with, people didn't mind. Of course, in America's culture of strict personal boundaries, no one played the nosy aunt role, inserting themselves into your business uninvited or getting offended when you rejected them.
So after bidding goodbye to Old George, Henry drove to Tom's company.
The town was small. He spent less time on the road than he did finding parking. So Henry arrived in no time.
But from the crowded parking lot, it seemed today was unusually busy.
Thinking this, Henry tapped into his super senses and quickly confirmed that Tom's office indeed had more people than usual. Judging from their postures—sitting properly—it looked like standard business, not trouble.
Also, the composed woman at the reception desk near the entrance, always calm and professional, seemed unbothered as ever.
Henry pushed open the door and greeted, "Hey, is Old Tom in?"
The question was rhetorical—he already knew the answer. The woman simply pointed toward the lounge area and said, "Tom has guests. Please wait over there."
"Got it." As he passed her desk, he noticed a few gold coins scattered casually across it.
The craftsmanship of the coins was top-tier—clearly a modern minting process, not ancient antiques.
However, modern commemorative coins are usually sold sealed in plastic cases to prevent deformation, oil stains, and, most importantly, scratches. So these coins clearly weren't collector's items.
Yet these coins were completely unprotected, and even showed signs of wear from regular use—like change.
This struck Henry as strange.
Judging by their design, the coins lacked any obvious national insignia, suggesting they were probably privately minted.
Could this be a regional quirk from Alaska's gold rush days? Do people around here really still use gold coins?
Henry stared at the coins a bit longer, intrigued.
Noticing this, the receptionist rolled her eyes and promptly swept the coins into a drawer without the slightest concern that they'd get scratched—or devalued.
So… fake gold? Gold-plated? The mystery deepened.
Even without a clear answer, her casual reaction spoke volumes. Henry stopped speculating and picked up a magazine from a nearby rack to pass the time.
At Old John's bar, he mostly watched classic movie channels. While the bar did subscribe to newspapers, they were local and full of irrelevant gossip. So Henry never bothered reading them.
But Tom's office had national magazines—economics, fashion, business. Most were back issues, but still far more useful.
He picked up a Time magazine with a sharply dressed, silver-haired man on the cover sporting a refined mustache. It wasn't attraction that drew Henry's attention—just curiosity.
The bold headline read: "The Most Successful Scientist and Smartest Businessman."
Flipping inside, he found the feature was about none other than Howard Stark, chairman of Stark Industries.
A mechanical prodigy since childhood, Stark had founded this giant conglomerate spanning daily consumer goods, military tech, aerospace, and more. With support from business partner Obadiah Stane, the company had become a cornerstone of American industry.
The article listed his many patented inventions and major historical projects involving Stark Industries.
From government collaborations in both World Wars, to the birth of Captain America, to the Apollo program and moon landing—Stark Industries had its fingerprints on them all.
The tone was full of reverence, painting a picture of genius and glory. The article read like the inspirational essays back in Henry's hometown—stories of swimming upstream, stealing candlelight to study, or pricking thighs to stay awake.
Yet despite the over-the-top flattery, the photo of Howard Stark made something click for Henry.
He really was in the Marvel Universe.
But it didn't seem like a one-to-one copy of the movie universe—mutants were everywhere here.
And given the chaotic nature of American comic book storytelling—with endless retcons, crossovers, and timeline changes—having knowledge of canon didn't mean much. Anything could be rewritten on a whim.
Plus, Henry himself—a Kryptonian who crash-landed in the wrong universe—was already an anomaly.
That only reinforced his resolve: Lay low.
Let the chosen ones take center stage. Let others become the next Dragon Aotian, confronting Celestials, the Living Tribunal, and even alternate versions of themselves.
Henry? He was content on the sidelines.
Back home, you didn't see anyone confronting the gods. Why start now?
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