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Pancho's Bar was very similar to the bar Henry had stayed in back in Alaska—Old John's place.
It had that classic small-town bar atmosphere, a nighttime social hub for nearby residents. There was nothing shady going on—no drugs, no prostitutes, no gangs hanging around causing trouble.
A pool table and a jukebox—standard bar equipment.
What stood out was a Street Fighter II arcade machine. Although it was a 1991 release, given how Americans tended to be a beat slow in embracing Japanese entertainment, this was exactly the period when Street Fighter II was taking the U.S. by storm.
The fact that a small-town bar even had an arcade machine also suggested a younger clientele. If it were Old John's bar in Alaska, even a pinball machine probably wouldn't attract more than a couple of old-timers.
Inside the bar, aside from one wall decorated with a flashy neon sign, the remaining empty walls were covered with photographs contributed by patrons.
Landscape shots, photos of the bar owner traveling with customers—and pictures of military weapons.
That last category, in particular, suggested the owner might be a redneck, or at least lean that way. At the very least, he wasn't a hippie anti-war type—otherwise he wouldn't have hung up photos of weapons.
This stance wasn't hard to understand. In the early 1990s, the victory in the Gulf War left Americans feeling stronger than ever. Fascination with—or outright worship of—military hardware was commonplace.
The hippie anti-war movement, after all, had been born out of more than a decade of the Vietnam War quagmire, which had claimed countless young American lives and crushed national morale. Faced with the threat of forced conscription and being sent to die overseas, young people who survived naturally resisted with all their might.
As the saying goes:
Fight a winning war, and everyone becomes a wolf;
fight a losing war, and everyone scatters like rats.
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"What can I do for you?"
The bar owner stepped out from the back room.
Nick Fury glanced around and asked,
"Did a woman come through your bar today? About five foot seven, blonde hair down to her shoulders. Said some strange things—Kree, Starforce, that sort of thing."
"No such person, sir," the bar owner replied honestly.
"Looks like we're a step behind," Fury guessed. He turned to the other two and said,
"Bobby, I'll need you and Henry to wait outside in the car. Leave this to me."
"I can stay too—" Barbara began, but Henry cut in first.
"Sure. I'll go back to the car and take care of Katie. If anything happens—as long as you're not killed instantly—I should be able to make it in time."
"Oh, that's very reassuring," Nick Fury muttered sarcastically.
Henry didn't bother replying. He turned around and walked out as soon as he finished speaking.
Barbara Morse, left behind, looked back and forth, unsure what to do. Only after Fury waved her off did she decide to follow Henry outside.
Instead of getting into Fury's car like before, Barbara climbed into Henry's. The audacious man was sitting in the driver's seat, petting a tiger head that stretched from the back seat into the front. Katie squinted contentedly, extending her neck to enjoy it.
Barbara slid into the passenger seat, mildly annoyed.
"Why didn't you stay inside? If something happens, can we really make it in time to help?"
"From a psychological standpoint," Henry replied calmly,
"having more people around creates pressure on the party with fewer numbers. That's not good for negotiations. Fury believes he can talk to her rather than fight, so he didn't want to apply unnecessary pressure."
"Is that really so?"
"Otherwise, why do you think I came out?" Henry smiled.
"Do you think I'm afraid of a fight?"
"When the S.H.I.E.L.D. strike team showed up, you ran," Barbara shot back.
"What else was I supposed to do?" Henry said flatly.
"It was clearly a trap. Should I have fought back, or obediently let myself be arrested? Oh right—they had a kill order. So I should've stayed put and let them empty their magazines before giving up and going home?"
Barbara puffed up her cheeks, sulking.
"That's not what I meant."
"I'm not blaming you, Bobby," Henry said gently.
"But when you choose to cooperate, you have to give your partner time and space to do what they need to do. Not try to shoulder everything yourself, or jump in because you're afraid others will mess it up."
"But—" Barbara tried to argue again.
Henry simply pressed a finger lightly to her lips, then held it up in front of his own.
"Shh. Someone's coming. Quiet."
Barbara listened closely—and soon heard the deep, heavy exhaust note of a motorcycle engine approaching from afar.
Their old car was parked one vehicle behind Fury's, so they didn't have to worry about being spotted—unless the woman carefully surveyed the surroundings after getting off the bike.
When the motorcycle finally rolled up and stopped in front of the bar, both Henry and Barbara saw the rider clearly. She matched Nick Fury's description perfectly.
Her outfit, however, felt a little… try-hard. A leather jacket and jeans were normal casual wear, and the T-shirt underneath was plain enough. But the shirt tied around her waist made her look like a teenager deliberately playing up a rebellious look.
Her face didn't resemble Brie Larson's, either. Though she had a slightly prominent jawline, it wasn't to the point of being square.
She wasn't the soft, fragile type that inspired pity. Instead, she carried a natural air of confidence and sharpness—like a capable, self-assured woman.
That said, there was an unsettling shadow beneath that heroic bearing. Her past was shrouded in fog, and now, on this backward planet, part of it was being uncovered. Even she didn't know what she might dig up if she continued investigating.
Still, judging by the fact that she didn't bother with a careful sweep of the area—just gave a casual glance around before heading into the bar—her style was rather straightforward.
A warrior type. Direct. Simple-minded. Easy to fool.
That was Henry's impression after just a few glances—no need to even recall his memories from before transmigrating about what kind of person Captain Marvel was.
If only it were the comic version of the original Ms. Marvel…
But from the looks of it, this one was much closer to the movie version.
Barbara, meanwhile, stayed curled up in the passenger seat. Only after seeing the target enter the bar did she straighten up again.
"Should we go eavesdrop on them?" she asked.
"Or watch through a window?"
Henry stared at her in disbelief.
"If someone just stands by a window staring inside nonstop, anyone who doesn't think something's wrong probably isn't very bright. Do you really want to remind them to be suspicious?"
"Fine, fine, I won't go," Barbara huffed, puffing out her cheeks and slumping back in her seat like a sulky child.
In reality, Henry had already activated his super hearing, quietly monitoring everything happening inside the bar.
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