Adam stood in front of the electronics store for what felt like minutes, just staring at the TV screens like they might change. Like maybe—if he looked long enough—the words "Tony Stark Missing" would turn into a bad movie trailer and he'd wake up hungover on Danny's couch.
"Fuck…" he muttered, stepping back, his head light, stomach tight. "No way. No fucking way."
This wasn't a dream. This was real.
Adam stepped away from the electronics store, he staggered down the sidewalk. His feet moved on their own, but his mind was a storm. Stark's kidnapping meant one thing: the Marvel Cinematic Universe had just begun. That was the spark. The moment everything changed.
He turned a corner and pressed himself against a wall, trying to breathe. "Okay. Okay, think."
This was the Marvel universe.
The one where half the city gets levelled every other summer and aliens drop from the sky like confetti. If he was really here, really in this world, then New York was basically a war zone on a timer.
"…I need to get the fuck outta this country," he muttered under his breath.
He reached into his wallet again, counting the bills. This time, carefully.
Two old-style hundred-dollar bills 'okay, usable.'
Two new hundred-dollar bills. He squinted at them. "Nope. These weren't even in circulation in 2008. Shit."
And the rest? Pocket change. A few twenties, tens, fives, and a small family of quarters clinking at the bottom.
Five hundred in all, but only about three usable
He exhaled through his nose and looked up. No phone. No ID. No plan. Just his clothes and a head still spinning from the kind of realization no one should have to deal with while partially hungover in Central Park.
"Great," he muttered, pocketing the two bad bills separately. "Out of five hundred bucks, I've only got three I can actually use."
"This is fucked."
'Okay… one step at a time. Shelter. Food. Intel.'
He needed a safe place. Somewhere low-profile.
Manhattan had no shortage of places to go, if you had money, ID, and didn't look like you just crawled out of a time warp. He had none of those.
And then, the thought hit him. Hell's Kitchen.
Rough neighborhood, high crime, and low rent. Cops avoided it. People minded their business. Back in the day, that place had a rep for being gritty as hell and from what he remembered, Daredevil hadn't started flipping off rooftops for a while yet. If it still is the universe he remembered.
He could blend in there. Maybe find a cash gig. Manual labor. Something to keep him afloat.
He kept walking. He passed a block and a flickering neon sign caught his eye.
NetZone: Internet Cafe-Open 24 Hours
Adam paused, squinting at the sign.
This was it. Cheap internet. He didn't have a phone, but the web could still tell him where and what the hell he was up against.
He stepped in. The place smelled like instant noodles and sweat. The guy behind the counter, some college-aged dude with a bored expression and a can of Dr Pepper in hand, barely glanced up.
"Five bucks an hour," he said flatly.
Adam pulled out a crumpled five and slid it over. The guy took it and handed him a laminated card with a number scrawled on it and waved toward an open seat.
"No porn, no torrents. You break it, you buy it."
"Noted"
He picked a station near the wall, out of sight. He slid into the chair and booted up the system.
The machine was slow as hell, Windows XP. Jesus. Ancient.
First, He checked the date. Again. Which showed [May 3rd, 2008 Saturday]. Again.
He then checked the News, Stark was just kidnapped. That gave him, what, three months until Iron Man debuted?
He then checked the subway fares. Then he paused. 'I need to get out of this country. But I don't have a passport and my ID won't work here' He thought.
Money. Right now, he needed cash fast. 'I need my own system, this could get flagged."
He thought. He then typed:
Cash-in-Hand jobs Manhattan
A bunch of sketchy Craigslist listings popped up. Some were dated, others looked like setups. Dishwasher. Barback. Line cook. Courier. A couple of "help wanted" signs in Hell's Kitchen and no mention of ID.
'Good enough.' He copied the directions to memory.
He then opened a tab:
The homepage was… nostalgic. Blue and white. Clean. Pre-everything. [Sign up — it's free!]
He clicked "login." Typed his email and password out of pure habit.
Account not found.
Of course not. Facebook didn't go global until mid-2008, and he hadn't even joined until 2011.
'And Bitcoin came out in 2009, I wonder if it will be the same in this world.' He thought.
He then typed:
Budget motels NYC Hell's Kitchen
He found a couple of sketchy places charging $20 to $35 a night. Then his fingers hovered over the keyboard again. He thought about the way the TV screens in that electronics shop made his stomach turn. About what would come next.
Aliens. Hulk. Robots. Gods.
And here he was—a regular guy with maybe 300 bucks, no connections, and no idea how to survive when someone like Thanos could snap his fingers in a decade and erase half the city.'I need to stay off the radar.' No screwing with governments. No hacking into Stark Industries or S.H.I.E.L.D.
That didn't mean he was helpless, though. His thoughts drifted to the precinct. His first real gig. Entry-level cybersecurity. Half his time was spent patching holes and teaching cops how not to click on phishing emails. He hadn't been some elite hacker or anything, but he knew enough. He knew how systems breathed. Where vulnerabilities lived. What to avoid.
He copied a few addresses and logged out.
As he passed the counter, the guy behind it looked up and said, "Hey, you looking for work or something?"
Adam froze mid-step. "Why?"
The guy shrugged. "You were on Craigslist jobs for like half an hour. Not a lot of people do that unless they're broke."
Adam gave a tight smile. "Yeah… just trying to stay afloat."
The guy nodded. "There's a deli on 9th Avenue between 44th and 45th. Tell Gus I sent you."
"Thanks," Adam said quietly. He didn't know whether to be grateful or creeped out. Probably both.
He stepped back out into the street. His head still throbbed faintly. In a few months, the world would know about Iron Man. Then S.H.I.E.L.D. Then Thor, the Battle of New York, Ultron, Sokovia, the Snap...
This wasn't just some cool alternate timeline. This place was a goddamn death trap. He rubbed his face and muttered under his breath, "I need a fucking exit plan."
But first—money.
Then maybe a fake passport. A long-ass boat ride.
And hopefully, a place far away from exploding skyholes and billionaire tech gods.
____________________________________
Adam stepped out of the NetZone, squinting up at the faded sky. His head still buzzed. Information overload.
He pulled out one of the tens and cringed. Every dollar spent now meant one less buffer against disaster.
He found a MetroCard kiosk nearby. A single ride was just $2.00. "Cheaper than I remembered," he muttered, jamming in the ten and grabbing the change.
Subway was the logical move, buses were slower, and he didn't want to be stuck aboveground if something went sideways. Not in this world.
He took the downtown train. Packed, loud, stinking of sweat, but it moved. That was all he needed.
Fifteen minutes later, he stepped off at 42nd Street and started walking west, into Hell's Kitchen because, according to Craigslist, there is a diner in need of help.
____________________________________
After walking for a few minutes, he reaches 45th Street, where he sees a
half-lit sign that read "Stan's Diner."
It didn't look fancy. Then again, he wasn't feeling picky.
Inside, the diner was simple. A few booths along the windows, a linoleum counter with swiveling stools, and a kitchen in the back where sizzling noises mixed with the low hum of a classic rock station. A waitress was pouring coffee for a tired-looking guy at the bar. Adam walked up to the counter.
The man behind the register looked up. Older, grey hair slicked back, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't look hostile either.
Adam gave a short nod. "Hey… sorry to bother you. Are you hiring? I'm looking for something short-term. Part-time even."
The man eyed him for a second before answering. "Dishwasher walked out yesterday. You ever work in a kitchen?"
"Not professionally. But I can hold my own."
"Name?"
"Adam Grant."
He gave a short grunt. "I'm Stan. This place is mine. You got ID, Grant?"
Adam scratched the back of his neck. "Not at the moment. Lost my wallet. That's kinda why I'm looking for quick work. Just need something to keep me going while I sort things out."
Stan didn't look impressed. But he also didn't shut the conversation down.
"You on anything?"
"No," Adam said. "Just… broke."
There was a pause. Stan looked him over. Not in a suspicious way, more like sizing him up. Then he nodded toward the swinging door behind the counter.
"Kitchen's that way. You start now, you finish when we close prep. I'll pay twenty in cash and let you eat what's leftover."
Adam let out a breath. "Thank you."
"Aprons are in the back. And don't break anything."
____________________________________
Adam lost track of time in the clatter of pans, the hiss of boiling water, and the heavy steam clouding the cramped kitchen air. Dishes. Rinse. Dry. Stack. Repeat. His arms ached by hour two, but he kept moving. Work meant thinking less, until he wasn't just scrubbing plates but also spiraling through thoughts of alien invasions, killer robots, and ticking timelines.
The noise outside couldn't compare to the noise in his head.
Between the sweltering heat and the weight pressing behind his eyes, he barely noticed the flicker of something at the corner of his vision—like a tiny red exclamation point pulsing just outside his focus.
Gone before it registered.
He blinked, shook off the dizziness, and dunked another tray into soapy water.
No lies. No powers. Just soap, steel, and survival. For now.
____________________________________
By late afternoon, Stan returned, wiping his hands with a rag.
"Not bad for a first shift," he said, tossing a folded twenty into Adam's palm. "You're slow, but you don't bitch. That's rare these days."
Adam chuckled, wiping sweat from his neck. "Thanks."
Stan paused. "You got a place to stay?"
"Sort of," Adam lied.
Stan saw through it instantly. "Thought so."
He leaned against the wall, expression softening just a little. "There's a guy a few blocks down—runs a motel off 10th Avenue. Name's Murphy. Ex-cop, drinks too much, but he owes me a favor. You go there, tell him Stan sent you. Pay whatever you've got, and he'll give you a room. Might not be pretty, but it's a roof and four walls."
Adam blinked. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret it," Stan said, voice gruff but eyes kind. "Come back tomorrow at sharp 8. I could use someone steady in the mornings."
"Yeah," Adam nodded, genuinely grateful. "Yeah, I'll be here."
Stan gave a grunt of approval and walked off.
Adam stepped back into the street, the evening sun bleeding through the tall buildings.
A job. A contact. A potential place to sleep.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
......….......