Henry eyed the empty plate beside him. Next to it sat a glass of water.
This time, he was careful. He lifted the glass slowly, steady hands cradling it like it was made of glass—because, well, it was—and downed the whole thing in one go.
The water wasn't exactly clean. Tasted weird, like iron and something floral. But it was cold, and wet, and his body craved it more than reason.
The old man finally spoke again.
"Name's John Brown," he said. "You got a name, stranger?"
The question hit harder than expected.
Who am I?
Back in the cell under those cold, over-lit sink mirrors he'd seen his face change. He wasn't the black-haired, black-eyed guy he remembered from his past life.
His hair was still black. But his eyes? Crystal blue.
His skin? Pale. Not the rosy kind this was that death-white, melanin-challenged European kind.
He wasn't the same person anymore.
And if he wasn't… did his old name even matter?
The Russians had called him NLO Odin—a cold, bureaucratic codename that sounded like a bad sci-fi parody of Norse mythology. No way he was sticking with that.
He figured: new face, new world… new name.
In halting English, he muttered, "My… name is… Henry."
Keep it simple, he thought.
He didn't want attention. He didn't want to stand out. He picked something forgettable. A name you'd lose in a phonebook. Henry.
Why Henry? No idea. Felt right. Maybe because it sounded plain. Maybe because it didn't sound like a lab rat.
"Henry what?" John asked, brow raised.
Last name? He hadn't thought that far. Hell, he didn't even want to think that far.
"…Just Henry," he said, shaking his head.
John didn't push. "Suit yourself."
He switched to Russian. Asked something with a slow cadence. Henry just stared blankly.
That earned a grunt from the old man, who shifted back to English—this time, even slower.
"You got anywhere to go?"
This time, Henry understood.
He shook his head.
"Didn't think so," John muttered, grabbing the shotgun leaned beside his chair. He didn't hold it by the grip, just lifted it lazily from the middle like it was a walking stick.
"Well, you can stay. Couch in the bar's yours. The bed's mine. You'll work for your meals. Booze costs extra."
He walked toward the door, pausing just long enough to toss the words over his shoulder:
"If you decide to leave, the food and clothes are my gift. But don't expect more. Got it?"
Then he was gone.
Henry sat there, still holding the cup.
Go? Where the hell would he go?
Even if he somehow made it back to his old country—if that country even existed in this version of Earth—he didn't have his face, his ID, or his name. That life was over.
He hadn't even figured out if that past life still happened. For all he knew, the guy he used to be was a ghost in a world that didn't exist anymore.
He remembered Area 51 rumors. War in the Middle East. Mass looting in American cities. But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this world.
A world with alien pods, Soviet mad science, and—
Well, apparently, a guy who kept Captain America's shield on his bar wall.
And he'd been here for decades.
That number appeared in his mind again, unbidden:
7,427 days.
He hadn't counted them. Not consciously. But his brain—rewired, supercharged—had logged everything. Every test. Every wound. Every word spoken in Russian, even if he couldn't understand it.
He remembered their faces. Their voices. Every moment of pain like it had just happened yesterday.
And suddenly, that enhanced memory didn't feel like a blessing.
He shook his head. Tried to push it all away.
So what now?
If he was right… he'd spent nearly twenty years trapped in that place.
Twenty years of his life. Gone. His entire youth, eaten alive by isolation and needles and cold metal tables.
Thirty percent of an average human lifespan, wasted.
Jesus.
He didn't even have the will to rage about it.
Just another unlucky roll of the dice. Another shitty save file.
No point trying to "go back." That life was gone.
But maybe… maybe this one could be different.
The only thing he regretted?
The D drive. The collection. The… ahem—private archives.
No one had cleared his browser history.
If someone found that folder…
Well. Rest in peace, past life.
New face. New name. New start.
Fine.
Let's try this again.
---
Henry stepped through the door into the next room—and found himself in a bar.
Not just a room with a liquor shelf. An actual bar.
There were six battered wooden tables scattered in the center, with booth seating lining the edges. The kind with torn upholstery and sticky tabletops. Two pool tables sat under dusty lights. Three dartboards clung to a wall riddled with holes that extended way past the targets.
And then there was the wall.
One wall, different from the rest—lined with faded photos of soldiers. Black-and-white snapshots of younger men in uniform. And in the center of it all…
A replica of Captain America's shield.
Henry blinked.
Behind the bar, John was already arranging bottles, cleaning glasses like nothing was out of the ordinary.
Henry walked up to the counter and pointed at the shield.
"…You got a grandson or something?"
John froze.
He turned slowly. "What?"
"The shield," Henry said. "That… decoration. You have a kid into superheroes or something?"
His English was clearer now. Smoother. It didn't even register how fast it was improving.
John stared at the shield. Something flickered in his expression. Nostalgia, maybe. Or loss.
"I bought it," he said quietly.
Henry squinted. "You bought that?"
John nodded. "Back in the war. I almost made the cut for the Howling Commandos. Never did. But I fought alongside them enough."
He reached for a glass, gave it a quick wipe, and poured himself a drink.
"Serving with a man like Steve Rogers…" he said, voice low, reverent. "You don't forget that. Hanging the shield on the wall is the least I can do."
Henry stared at the shield. His brain started connecting dots he didn't want to connect.
Aliens. Superpowers. Cryo labs. Mutants.
And now—Captain America. The real one.
Holy sh—
Where the hell had he landed?
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