Marvel: The Journey

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The bustling bar was filled with the clinks of glasses and murmurs of patrons, but suddenly, a loud "Oi!" broke through the noise. As the crowd turned their heads, they saw a gruff-looking man staring down at a young man who was slumped over a table.

"Oi, young lad!" the man yelled, trying to rouse the seemingly unconscious youth.

The young man stirred slightly, groggily opening his eyes. His bleary gaze met the furious face of the bar owner, who was now spewing curses at him.

"Son of a bitch! Every single day, one of these fuckers has to slump over my bar!" the owner shouted, his frustration palpable.

The young man, still disoriented, struggled to sit up. "What...what's going on?" he asked groggily.

The bar owner slammed his fist onto the table. "Wake the fuck up!" he barked.

The commotion had drawn the attention of the other patrons, who now watched the tense exchange with curiosity.

The young man's voice was firm and commanding as he shouted, "Will you shut the fuck up?" The older man's face contorted with anger, but he begrudgingly complied, closing his mouth tightly and glaring at the younger man with intense animosity.

"You had so many, I thought you was dead!" the man exclaimed.

The man shook his head, his frustration mounting. "Every single day, someone drinks too much and passes out or dies," he said, his tone tinged with bitterness.

"If you wanna die so much, go and kill yourselves!" he continued, his voice rising. "People are already killing themselves, signing up for the army for some bullshit war!"

The young man's eyes were cold and unyielding as he stared at the older man. "I don't see how any of that is my problem," he said coolly, refusing to be drawn into an argument.

The older man bristled at the young man's dismissive tone, but he knew better than to push his luck. Instead, he held out his open hand, his expression hardening. "Pay up!" he barked, his voice laced with impatience.

The young man dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills and coins, tossing them onto the table with a careless flick of his wrist. The older man counted the money quickly, his eyes narrowing as he realized that it was less than what he had asked for.

The young man rose from his seat and began to walk away from the table, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the bar. But the older man wasn't about to let him go so easily. "Stop, you fuckin robber! Where's ma two cents?!" he bellowed, his voice laced with anger.

The young man halted in his tracks, turning to face the older man with a look of annoyance on his face. He pinched his nose and said, "That's 'cause your breath stinks! Your wife must not like kissing you."

The older man's face turned red with fury, and he slammed his fist onto the table. "Get the fuck otta here!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the bar. "You ain't never steppin' foot in this bar again!"

The young man merely shrugged, his casual demeanor in sharp contrast to the older man's rage. He turned and began to walk towards the door, pausing for a moment to deliver one final barb. "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" he called back over his shoulder. "I ain't never entering this bar again unless you dead or somethin' !" With that, he pushed open the door and disappeared, leaving the older man fuming.

As the young man stumbled out of the dimly lit bar, the sudden brightness of the outside world caused him to wince and cover his eyes. Once his vision adjusted, he looked around in wonder. The streets were alive with activity, filled with small, modest homes and apartments. Chickens, dogs, cats, and pigs roamed the roads freely, while men in suits hurried to their destinations and women in simple dresses walked with their children, shielding them from the more 'over-enthusiastic' men. The children played games with makeshift toys, laughing and giggling in the warm sunshine. Shady men lurked in the dark alleys, hidden from the watchful eyes of the authorities.

For a few moments, the young man simply stood there, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling city. Some people looked at him oddly, wondering why he was staring so intently, but he paid them no mind. A strong sense of nostalgia washed over him, and he breathed in deeply, savoring the smells and sounds of the past. He smiled to himself and slipped his hands into his pockets, walking confidently towards his home. He couldn't resist exclaiming now and then as he passed familiar landmarks.

Later, the young man stood in front of an old, worn-down door, looking around at his surroundings with a mix of disappointment and apprehension. This place was supposed to be his home, but he couldn't help feeling a sense of unease. The area was rundown, with similar houses lining the streets, many in even worse conditions than his own. In the distance, he could hear the sound of gunshots and quarreling, adding to the ominous feeling that permeated the air. This was not a safe neighborhood, that much was clear.

The young man let out a heavy sigh as he shook his head and pushed open the creaky door to his house. As he stepped inside, he couldn't help but notice the musty smell that hung in the air, a constant reminder of the neglect that the place had suffered. He shrugged off his coat and threw it carelessly onto the old, worn-out couch that sat in the corner of the small living room.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, he felt weariness wash over him.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to drift back into his past. As he opened his eyes again, his eyes had a sense of clarity that had been lacking before. He lay on the bed, lost in thought as he reflected on his life.

"I am Ian Westbrook, a British immigrant who arrived here three years ago, seeking new opportunities," he thought. He thought about his parents, a father who was an alcoholic, and a mother who worked as a prostitute, selling her body to earn money. "I couldn't handle their irresponsibility anymore," he thought, "So I ran away. It's good to be away from them and their problems. They didn't even care when I left, so why should I care about them?" Ian felt a sense of loneliness, but at the same time, a newfound freedom to do whatever he wanted without anyone holding him back. He smiled as he stared at the ceiling, feeling grateful for the chance to start a new life on his terms.

Ian stretched his arms and sat up on his bed. He glanced around his room, trying to shake off the sleepiness that clung to him. "Now, let's check which year I am in," he muttered to himself as he reached out and grabbed the newspaper from the bedside table.

Ian read the Brooklyn Daily Eagle newspaper from the bedside table. He carefully scanned the front page, then eagerly flipped through the pages, absorbing every piece of news and information. As he read, a smile slowly crept onto his face.

"It's 1938," he muttered to himself, feeling a surge of excitement. "The Second World War is just around the corner."

As he thought about the impending conflict, his mind turned to the mutants and Inhumans that he had heard about from TOAA. He wondered if any of them would play a role in the coming war. The idea filled him with a sense of anticipation, and he began to think about how he could use his knowledge and abilities to study their DNA.

He couldn't help but think of the Super Soldier Serum, and the transformation of Schmidt into the Red Skull. He knew that he had to get his hands on that serum, and that meant getting into the army and climbing the ranks.

Ian felt his left hand begin to shake and his heart race as he thought about the serum. He knew he needed to calm down before he lost control. He quickly grabbed his left hand and placed it under the pillow while he took deep breaths to steady his nerves.

After a few minutes, he managed to calm down. But he couldn't help but curse loudly, "How could I have brought my obsession from my past life over to my new life? This is ridiculous!" He looked at his shaking hand wryly and stayed in bed for some time, lost in thought.

Finally, he sighed and got up. He looked at his left hand, which still twitched slightly, and patted it reassuringly. "Don't worry," he said, "we will obtain the serum no matter the difficulty."

He glanced down at his body and knew that he needed to make some changes if he was going to accomplish his goal. "The first step towards the goal is changing this," he murmured to himself.