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George wrapped things up with a few quick words, and the group dispersed without much fuss—each man peeling off to handle their own business.
As Henry was about to leave, the gilled mutant he'd saved last trip slung an arm over his shoulders. "Hey, since we've got the day free, wanna hit the strip club with us?"
Henry blinked. "This early? There's someone already shaking their ass on stage?"
The young mutant grinned. "During crab season? Those clubs never stop. Day or night, there's always someone working the pole. And if you want a private show, there's no shortage of dancers happy to oblige."
Henry laughed, tempted for a moment. But buried beneath the Kryptonian muscles was the soul of a wage slave. And that part of him whispered the same thing it always had—build your war chest first, enjoy later.
He wasn't just broke—he was a broke alien. If he wanted to survive in this weird hybrid of Marvel canon, he'd need savings. Blowing cash on lap dances felt like throwing hundred-dollar bills into a drain and hoping for a happy ending.
Besides, he wasn't naïve. Tourist-heavy towns always had one thing in common: tourist traps. And right now, crab fishermen had money, which meant every club, bar, and sketchy backroom would be doing their best to separate the dumb from their dollars.
Still, Henry didn't shut him down outright. He put on a show—hesitating, sighing, pretending to be torn before giving a regretful smile.
"Not that I don't want to," he said, "but I've got some personal stuff to deal with. You know… that whole legal identity situation."
The mutant got the hint. He nodded in understanding.
America was a land of immigrants, sure—but not all of them were documented. Everyone knew someone who needed fake papers or found creative ways to slip through the system.
"Fair enough," the guy said. "You need help, let me know. I got a cousin who knows a guy."
"I've got a few leads already," Henry replied. "But if they don't pan out, I'll come find you."
They weren't best friends. Not exactly "ride-or-die." But a shared crab boat was basically combat duty. You worked, you risked your life, you pulled each other out of the ocean if things went sideways. That built a bond—even if no one wanted to admit it.
With a wave to George and the crew, Henry headed back to his car.
Tom's office wasn't far—nothing in this town was. Honestly, he spent more time parking than driving.
As he pulled up, he noticed the lot had more cars than usual.
A quick tap into his super senses confirmed it—Tom had company. Multiple people inside, none of them panicking or shouting. Business, not trouble.
Behind the front desk sat the same woman as always—calm, composed, unbothered. She looked like she could crush an IRS audit without blinking.
Henry stepped in and offered a polite, "Morning. Is Tom around?"
She didn't even look up. Just pointed to a sofa in the waiting area.
"He's with someone. Take a seat."
As Henry walked past her desk, something shiny caught his eye—a handful of gold coins scattered across the surface like loose change.
They weren't ancient or worn. No, these were pristine. Modern minting quality, high relief, fine detail.
But they weren't in protective casings, which was odd. Legit collector coins usually came sealed in plastic to avoid smudging, bending, or scratches. These had none of that. They looked... used.
Even stranger, the designs didn't seem to match any recognizable nation. No American eagle, no Queen's head, no obvious country of origin.
Private minting? Souvenirs? Local currency?
Alaska had a history with gold rushes, sure, but carrying unprotected gold coins like pocket change was something else.
He stared a little too long.
The woman finally looked up—and shot him a withering glare. Without saying a word, she opened a drawer and swept the coins in with one clean motion. Like they were pennies, not precious metal.
Which meant either they were fake, or she just didn't care.
Henry took a seat and grabbed a magazine off the side table. It was a real change of pace—John's bar had a TV permanently tuned to the classics channel, and the only paper he subscribed to was the local weekly, which barely counted.
Tom's office was better stocked. Old, but quality—fashion mags, economic reports, a couple of national news weeklies.
He picked up a TIME Magazine from the top of the stack.
The cover featured an older white man in a tailored three-piece suit, sharp as a scalpel, with a crisp white mustache and the kind of confidence that practically radiated from the page.
Henry had stopped for the picture—but it wasn't attraction. It was the bold headline that got him:
"The World's Smartest Man: Engineer, Visionary, War Hero, Billionaire."
Howard Stark. CEO of Stark Industries.
The article praised the man to the skies. Born a genius. Founded one of the most powerful industrial empires in America. Pioneered aerospace, military weapons, and cutting-edge tech. Collaborated with Obadiah Stane to grow Stark Industries into the behemoth it was today.
It went further—highlighting how his patents shaped modern warfare, how he'd contributed to the Manhattan Project, and how Stark Industries was involved in nearly every major American operation from World War II to the Apollo missions.
The article had the tone of a self-help guru mixed with patriotic myth-making. If it had mentioned him carving fire out of stone or inventing democracy, Henry wouldn't have been surprised.
Reading it gave him a weird, grounding feeling.
Yup. This really is the Marvel universe.
He'd suspected, of course. But this? This felt like confirmation. Solid, irrefutable, printed-in-glossy-color confirmation.
The world didn't seem like the MCU he remembered. There were too many mutants walking around. Too many powers out in the open. It felt like some hybrid of the comics and the films—maybe with a few extra ingredients tossed in just to make things complicated.
And that made everything... unstable.
Because Marvel continuity? Wasn't exactly known for its consistency.
Characters got retconned weekly. Timelines rewrote themselves on a whim. And just because he knew something now didn't mean it would still be true tomorrow.
And then there was him—the wildcard. A Kryptonian in the wrong sandbox.
The kind of anomaly that usually made someone up there in the cosmic hierarchy pay attention.
Henry flipped the page, pretending to read, but his thoughts were already moving in a different direction.
No flashy entrances. No epic speeches. No messing with gods.
Let other people chase the power fantasies.
He just wanted to survive—and maybe, just maybe, enjoy a decent steak and some quiet.
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