Chapter 25: Strange Worldview

George said a few words and ended today's meeting. Everyone naturally dispersed, each going about their own business.

The fish-gilled mutant Henry had saved earlier hooked his arm around his rescuer's neck and said, "No more business today—come with us to a strip club?"

"It's barely morning and someone's already shaking their ass on stage? Are these people too dedicated?"

"During crab season, the club always has girls performing. Crowds are thick—you won't have trouble finding a solo dancer if you want one," said the young mutant, familiar with the place.

"Nah, I only brought some loose change today. If I can't even afford a drink inside, I don't want to experience being thrown out by bouncers."

"Hey, what kind of problem is that? You saved my life—I've been looking for a chance to buy you a drink. Let's go to the club—I'll treat you. Today I'm taking my brother to see some women."

Such warm invitation nearly made Henry give in. But his ingrained worker-bee nature reminded him: starting a business is hard; he was still saving his first pot of gold, and it wasn't time to indulge yet.

He was a penniless, destitute alien. Unless he planned to rob a bank, if he wanted to survive, he had to first save up survival funds. Spending it on strippers felt like throwing money into a puddle.

Besides, though he was born to be a worker bee, he still knew a thing or two about business. As the saying goes: where tourists gather, there are shops ready to rip them off. Right now, this is when crew members earn the most—how could such an industry not exploit people?

Still, Henry didn't refuse too bluntly. Instead, he put on a look of inner struggle, then reluctant resignation, and said, "I'm not unwilling to go—I just have some matters to attend to. You know, I've got some identity issues to resolve."

The young mutant understood the implication.

Everyone says America is a nation of immigrants, and even today, people keep flowing in—legally and illegally.

No matter their status, everyone finds a way to solve this problem. So the young mutant could only sigh, "Alright, your matters are important indeed. Want me to introduce you to someone who handles this kind of thing?"

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

"Sure thing. Just say the word," said the young mutant, casual and easygoing.

Though their relationship didn't fall into any of the four great bonds of brotherhood, their shared experience on the crab boat was no less than having fought side by side with guns.

If a favor was easy to do, no one would refuse. Of course, in America's culture of strict personal boundaries, no one would act like your seventh aunt or eighth uncle back home, meddling in your affairs even when you told them to mind their own business.

After greeting old George, Henry drove to Tang Mu's company.

The town was small; driving took less time than finding and parking the car. Henry arrived at his destination in no time.

But from the parking situation out front, it looked like they were busy today?

Thinking this, Henry immediately sensed through his super-senses that Tang Mu's office had several extra people inside.

From how calmly they were seated, it seemed like ordinary business—not trouble.

And in the public reception area near the entrance, the woman who was always composed and unruffled remained exactly the same.

Henry pushed open the door and asked, "Hello, is Tang Mu in?"

It was a rhetorical question. But no one knew that. The woman merely pointed to a sofa in the waiting area and said, "Tang Mu has visitors. Wait here."

"Alright." As he passed her desk, he noticed several gold coins casually placed on it.

The minting quality of these coins was extremely high—clearly modern craftsmanship, not antiques.

But modern commemorative gold coins are usually sealed in plastic cases when sold—to prevent deformation and oil stains, and above all, to avoid scratches.

Meaning such items are collected for commemorative value, not circulated as currency.

Yet these coins on the desk had no protection, and showed clear signs of handling, like ordinary loose change. That was unusual.

Moreover, the designs on the coins bore no obvious national characteristics, suggesting they were likely privately minted.

So did Alaska, once a gold rush region, also have a habit of using gold coins as currency?

Henry stared at the coins a moment longer, utterly baffled.

The woman gave him a side-eye, then pulled open the same drawer and swept the coins inside. She showed zero concern about gold losing weight from scratches and thus depreciating in value.

So were they fake gold? Gold-plated?

Though his question remained unanswered, her actions were nearly an explicit hint. Henry averted his gaze and picked up a magazine from the nearby rack.

At old John's bar, he'd been glued to the classic movie channel. His bar had subscriptions to newspapers, but only local ones—nothing worth reading. So Henry never bothered.

But here at Tang Mu's, there were national magazines—economic, fashion, you name it. Though many were old, they were enough for Henry.

He picked up the most representative one: Time magazine. The cover featured a sharp-suited, white-bearded, mustachioed old gentleman.

Henry was drawn to the white man on the cover, but not due to sexual orientation. The magazine's headline in bold letters read: "The Most Successful Scientist and the Smartest Businessman."

Inside, the cover subject was identified as Howard Stark, chairman of Stark Industries.

This conglomerate spanning consumer goods, defense, and aerospace was founded from nothing by this mechanical prodigy, who displayed genius from childhood. With the help of his business partner Obadiah Stane, it grew into the powerful giant it is today.

Besides Howard Stark's patented inventions, the article listed major historical events in which Stark Industries participated.

From various government projects during World War I and II, the birth of Captain America, to the 1960s Apollo program and even the moon landing, Stark Industries was present in every one.

The article lavished praise, saturated with success-mantra clichés—it almost felt like the chicken soup essays back home, extolling fish swimming upstream, or scholars chiseling holes in walls to steal light, or hanging themselves from rafters to stay awake.

Yet seeing this man's photo deepened Henry's realization: he had truly entered the Marvel universe.

But this world didn't feel like a pure movie universe—because mutants were everywhere.

And comic books constantly retcon and contradict their own lore—it's routine. Under these conditions, prior knowledge offers little advantage.

Add to that the fact that he was a Kryptonian who'd landed in the wrong studio, and Henry became even more determined: if he could survive quietly, he wouldn't chase glory. Let others be the dragon-emperor.

Those who rage against heaven, rage against earth, rage against the Celestial Assembly and the Living Tribunal, even rage into neighboring universes—don't they get tired? Why doesn't anyone ever rage their way home?

New book, please follow, collect, and recommend—thank you~~

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(End of Chapter)