Ethan took a moment to appreciate the satisfying click of his box container being opened, the ten by ten foot self-storage unit he rented for three thousand bucks a year, and whose content, while not exactly damning, would force him to answer many uncomfortable questions.
It served him for the last two years, being filled to the brim with rows upon rows of cardboard boxes, storing everything from random books about physics, economics and computer science basics or even history. Toys he never used, board games, old video games and knick-knacks he collected here and there.
Some electronics and spare parts too, there were even a couple tires in there.
Enough to make one of those Storage Wars nutjobs drool, hoping he'd miss a payment so they could make outrageous bids for his stuff.
It was all just fodder really, something to annoy any would-be intruders, forcing them to sort through the bullshit to find the actually interesting items and hopefully driving them away before they'd actually hit the jackpot.
On the third to last stack of boxes, two boxes away from the left wall, hidden between boxes of shonen manga and Pokémon cards, were two boxes containing proof of his not-so-safe extracurricular activities.
Money, expensive watches and jewelry, and his entire get up: the tactical gear that could pass for army surplus, kevlar protection and ceramic plates, emergency knives, epinephrine shots and first aid items, and a couple of seemingly useless lead balls of various sizes and weights.
Things that would prove yourself to someone who could move things with his mind but didn't want to become magneto's second favourite target.
First one being Wolverine, obviously.
Logan really was everyone's punching bag, from his own brother's birthday beatings, to his ancestor's desire to wreck his world, and the magnetic terrorist deadbeat dad who had a field day playing with him.
Ethan honestly felt bad for the dude.
Back to business, his gear was not bad for an amateur, much better than some fancy pajamas meant to inspire anything from hope to fear but mostly a good laugh at the guy wearing his undies above his pants.
It was pragmatic, resilient and designed to deal with as many problems as possible.
It was also cheap, common and far from ideal.
The helm obstructed his vision like crazy, made breathing into a chore which also made his fighting prowess less than optimal. Not to mention the weight, the lack of space to carry miscellaneous equipment and so many more issues.
In short, it needed an update.
"More like a complete overhaul," Ethan grumbled looking at the cumbersome vest.
He couldn't use half the moves Colleen taught him with this on.
Maybe the pajamas weren't so bad after all?
A quick thought about a stray bullet meeting his gut was enough to get Ethan's mind back on track, an upgrade was needed, not fashion and physical suicide.
Stuffing the armor and equipment into his sports bag, making sure to cover it with workout clothes, regular clothes and undies, lots of undies.
Few people have the guts to remove all the undies
He turned off the lights, picked up the bag, put the boxes back in their rightful places before putting back all of his safety precautions; a small transparent string that breaks when people walk through the storage unit, a light stick of
graphite on the joints that would break when someone opens it, and a dirty magazine above the money box.
Yes, the magazine was necessary.
Finally, a Captain America trading card on top of a random box.
Just in case.
Looking every bit like the sports nut the world saw him as, with his well-built frame fully displayed by the tight athletic sportswear that would definitely get him in big trouble if this was one of those 'Reverse-values' worlds people imagined.
The ones where women were the horndogs.
Ethan couldn't help but chuckle at the thought, by giving the feminists what they wanted, Men still managed to make them lose their shits.
A worthy endeavour indeed.
'Still messed-up though.' He thought, waving to the disgruntled security guard at the door who definitely wasn't paid enough to stop someone from breaking in, showing his issued and leaving the premises.
What greeted him was the beautiful side of Harlem, New York.
Why there? Cheapest storage units he could find where they wouldn't steal his shit themselves, or ask too many questions.
Pay up, and you get exactly what you were promised. A sturdy box with cameras everywhere and some droopy dudes who might or might not be on drugs standing here and there in bright orange jackets.
The ones that gave you authority over everyone else.
It wasn't all that bad either, the neighborhood that is.
Plenty of beautiful architecture, pleasant enough people and some very good businesses he wouldn't mind investing into if possible.
Assuming they'd survive the constant existential bullsh*t that was New York City.
Preparing to cross the street, right next to the Apollo theater, he noticed an old woman dressed in so many bright colors he was momentarily blinded.
The lady looks like the kind of woman who protested a war, then stayed behind to organize the afterparty.
She seemed to be in her late 60s, but carried herself like someone who never got the memo about growing old. Her long silver-white hair was worn in a loose braid over one shoulder, decorated with little wooden beads and tiny flowers.
She wore a tie-dye dress, the main reason for Ethan's temporary blindness, and chunky jewelry that jangles when she moves.
All in all, the psionic pseudo-vigilante could only describe her with two words.
'Hippie Grandma.' He almost said it out loud, one brow raised as he waited for his sight to recover.
It did soon enough, right on time for him to notice she must've also lost hers, since the radical granny was stepping forward proudly into the street full of speeding cars, without a care in the world.
Without thinking, the young man forgot his own skin color and the likelihood of being shot dead for being considerate, and grabbed the old lady stopping her before she'd end up a splat on the pavement.
"Careful there, ma'am." He said calmly, looking at the wide eyed woman and realizing that his skin contains melanin, hoping with all his heart that she wouldn't somehow be a racist hippie.
Yes, they exist.
No, he won't elaborate.
He almost sighed in relief when she smiled at him instead of calling the cops.
The woman blinked up at him, surprised but... not panicked. If anything, she looked amused.
"Well now," she said, adjusting the comically large sunglasses slipping down her nose. "If I'd known my knight in shining armor was going to be so handsome, I might've tried that stunt sooner."
She sure was taking it well.
"You just walked into traffic." Ethan said, feeling the need to state the obvious, almost tilting his head like Gwen would…
In his defense, a granny might be hitting on him.
"I walked into destiny, sweetpea," she corrected, patting his arm like he was her personal hero. "And look at you! Tall, strong, good reflexes. Mmm." She gave him a slow, obvious once-over. "You single?"
Correction, a granny was definitely hitting on him.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
"I'm in high school," Ethan deadpanned, once more stating the obvious, being honest was a defense mechanism.
She didn't flinch. "So you're legal in, what—two, three years? That's what I call long-term investing."
Ethan laughed in disbelief. "Ma'am—"
"Call me Nonna," She extended a hand covered in rings and a few smudges of glitter. "Short for Bernadette, but Nonna sounds more mysterious, don't you think?"
"I think it sounds like a trap." He answered honestly, this was starting to become a bad habit.
"The best things in life are, darling." She grinned.
'Say that to Astolfo' He thought, but wisely kept the brainrot to himself, sole bearer of such cursed knowledge.
He shook her hand, half-expecting her to palm him a tarot card or something. Instead, she leaned in conspiratorially.
"You know," she said, "you remind me of someone. Strong jaw, haunted eyes, that little squint like you're used to being smarter than everyone in the room and it exhausts you."
"That's... oddly specific. "He narrowed his eyes.
"I'm a people reader," she said proudly, then squinted. "Or maybe just a nosy old bat. Either way, I think you should meet my granddaughter."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," she sang, already pulling a little notebook from her bag. "Blonde, brilliant, just as intense as you—maybe more. She's been in a mood lately. All work, no play, you know how girls get when they're denying their feelings."
"I really don't." Ethan blinked.
"Trust me, handsome. You'd love her. And more importantly—" she leaned in again, like it was a scandalous secret, "—she'd love you."
"What's her name?" He couldn't help but grin, even he rolled his eyes.
"Gwendolyn," Nonna said, eyes twinkling.
Ethan's face froze.
No.
No way.
The universe was not this funny.
"Stacy?"
"You know her?" Nonna's grin went feral.
Ethan looked up at the sky like he was trying to spot a hidden camera.
Nonna was already fishing her phone out of her jingly beaded purse. "Why don't we grab a coffee, you and me and my darling Gwennie? I know a place nearby that still serves real sugar and plays Marvin Gaye over the speakers."
"Sure. Why not." He sighed.
If this was a trap, it was at least a well-caffeinated one.
But one thing was certain, Gwen was going to receive an onslaught of teasing the likes of which she has never seen.
He might endure some too, but that was a price he was willing to pay.
But first…
"Ma'am, could you unhand my behind?" He asked drily, feeling more disturbed by the minute.
"Do I have to?"
Maybe this was a reverse world? He sure felt like it.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.