It shouldn’t have been this difficult, he thought as the weight rain sunk his clothing and he clasped to his thick beaten brown coat for dear life. Street lights flickered in the beaten district as he passed and the storm picked up. And the young African child kept his eyes low from suspicion as he moved through the din of the South Bronx. Eyes were on him as men and women of a paler complexion watched him suspiciously as he moved on the streets. He had learned the difficulties of the 1940’s in school and he had always known diversity was a burden to those whom sought it. Young Miles was not untouched by intolerance due to the color of his skin but walking these streets, in this completely alien universe, well, it was sharp spur of reality to the hardships that his forefathers had suffered.

All he could think sifting through the brooding glares of indignity and disdain was it shouldn’t be this difficult to live. Yet it was and if not for personal reasons the boy would have been far, far and away as possible from this place. Dark eyes shifted with a sense of fear and hurt as he passed a drunkard steeped in his own filth shouting obscenities at him, eschewing the veil of subtlety, the white man threatened harm against him, and that he should go back to where he came from.

But alas he could not turn away now. No, not when he knew that she was here.

Eyes flickered up to a barely lit sign reading: The Caruso Lounge. There was some sort of art involving a rose but the paint was worn, but from the dim glow of its window and the dulcet tones of a Jazz band he knew it was alive.

Swinging around the side of the building in a quickened pace Miles moved into the back entrance of the building slipping off his coat onto a hanger then quickly grasping for a red apron to wrap around him. Concentrating on his job he wore a soaked dress shirt, black and gold thread vest, with dark slacks, and some dress shoes (thank you doting grandparents!), he looked the image or at least the best he could pull off of a young man in this era.

The back way opened up into the storage and lounge entrances and from the lounge entrance a tall, young black gentleman in similar wear as him, and a nicely trimmed goatee. He looked distressed and in that moment Miles found himself comparing the man to his father, which was absurd considering they were essentially the same person. ”Anton! What took you so long? It is only the second day… if Mr. Fierro knows I’ve been covering for you, he is going to-” Miles gave a week smile and patted the man on the shoulder reassuringly dissuading doubt, ”Don’t worry Jeff, he won’t even notice.” The man shrugs quickly retorting, ”You better hope so.” Then both of them shifted into the storage gathering boxes filled with alcohol as the bar out front required restocking.

When they finally opened the double doors they walked into a plush appearing lounge that dim and oaky furniture with burgundy upholstery. Seven tables filtered around a small stage with a piano and jazz band, in the back set the bar where Jefferson Davis and a young Italian boy Gino Portelli, a kid who was a little soft in the face and maybe a year or two older than Miles himself. Pouring drinks the men minded themselves as Miles was ordered, by a portly old gentleman in a fine suit and fedora smoking a cigar, to bring out the good glasses and wine. Miles took quickly to the back passing a young Puerto Rican woman talking to an older blonde haired white woman. Both ladies were specifically dolled up in pinstripe dresses, hair bundled in curls, and lips dressed in an ensnaring shade of red. But the boy couldn’t help looking to the other first young woman with a pained expression.

”Morales tell Davis to get off his lazy hind end and get to prepare those drinks. And Portelli don’t make me call your mother for pocketing liquor again.” The jolly old man barked with a mild huff of amusement shaking his head. Gino sort of skulked behind the bar grumbling as he pulled two small bottles from under his shirt and back under the bar. ”Yes Mister Fierro.” Is all the boy could muster.

Meanwhile the woman whom Miles had been staring at turned around with a smirking gaze questioning in humor, ”Sweetheart what you getting all soft eyed on me for?” The boy quickly caught himself wiping the daydreaming look off his face and he gave a nervous laugh. Hand caught behind his head scratching Miles shuffles his feet forward telling the young woman, ”Sorry, just you look like someone I used to know.” Morales is quick to rejoin, ”Hope she was something pretty.” To which he said without skipping a beat, ”The prettiest Miss.” It was a sore truth. He never had a chance to tell his mother how much he loved her before she passed, and that weight stung sharply in his heart. It took everything in Miles to convince himself that this woman wasn’t here, but in the small ways, the ways that counted she was. Gently pinching his cheek, an act that made his ears blush an embarrassed shade of color, the woman cooed and complimented, ”Aren’t you a sweetheart.”

Miles shifted off into the back and Miss Morales sauntered over towards Davis whom she flashed a playfully loving gaze. Seeing his parents in this light was mildly disturbing, but he couldn’t get distracted now. Coming all this way he tracked a former Roxxon Employed group “EM-Tech” that recently freelanced into the Arms Race here. Getting caught up with many of the gang families they sought to make a profit and gain favor from tricking them up with high-tech weaponry. Lifting his arm and checking his digital watch Miles could feel his blood race with nervousness.

”Get it together…” Miles told himself attempting to bolster his morale. Just like any other bust, come on Miles this is just another day, he thought to himself. But it wasn’t just another day, was it? Feeling for his web-shooters he had them tucked away and his suit was under his clothes. This was it and until Fontaine and his goons from Em-Tech showed up he had to play the part. Balancing a plate and several crystal wine glasses, in the other hand Miles had a ice bucket with several bottles of wine in it. Moving through the swing doors he noticed the entire establishment was pretty lively with several Italian gentlemen in decorated suits sitting with Fierro, the rest of the bar was spread with local customers and new faces. Quickly he sifted through the chairs and customers and laid out the glasses and wine. ”Your wine Mr. Fierro.” The boy chimes graciously with a smile. And the older gentleman begins pouring out glasses waving him off. Miles didn’t know why Davis worried, wasn’t like the old goat cared that they were there. But he took his cue and worked service with the two women who were shimmying across the bar taking orders and tabs.

It was clear by the length of his continence and the half-empty wine bottle that Mr. Fierro was frustrated. His guests were three rather suspicious looking sorts. If they were trying to openly distinguish the fact that they were all gangsters? Yeah, they had it going down, straight to the pinstriped zoot suits, with their matching feathered fedoras. It looked like something straight out of a Dick Tracy Serial. But Miles knew better as he swept across the lounge providing drinks, peanuts, and pretzels. Those three men were the representatives of the Three Big families in the district who wanted in on whatever Fierro had going down with Fontaine and his people. An arms deal from universe several leagues ahead of them in technology? That was one way to tip the balance for control of the city in their favor.

So his plan was to intercept and bust the trade and drag Fontaine and his goons into a S.H.I.E.L.D. constructed prison cell for those who violated boundary laws. It most times seemed like a fruitless venture but sometimes the overcast broke to show that silver lining. For Miles he listened in on the conversations of customers as he’d move back behind the bar to clean glasses. It was hard to keep his eyes off his mother and father, well they were not really his parents, but in this universe? They were the alternate reality duplicates the two individuals that he’d come to call mother and father.

They seemed younger to him, far younger than he thought, and possibly only eight or so years older than him. What a trip, he’d think to himself. There were so many questions he wanted to ask but something told him it was best not to blur those lines. Yet it was good to know somewhere, in some time, and someplace his mother still lived with her beaming smile and loving grace.

From what he gathered as he towel dried the pint glasses was the employees while not in the dark, knew little about tonight’s business. It made them nervous. Apparently Mr. Fierro had a tendency to throw everyone into the deep end with him. Davis had a clear opinion on this which perpetually worried him as he looked to his wife Rios. He clearly didn’t want her working here tonight but between Susanne and her they were the two big pullers of this small lounge, and it caused both Miles and Davis to groan painfully when the patrons would resort to cat calling and groping the women as they passed.

”I swear they touch her again…” Miles silently fumed with venomous regard as he handed the glasses to Davis to stack. Neither of them looked particularly thrilled about their circumstances, but the boy was reminded by his partner, ”What you going to do Anton?” It was a clear question of stern examination. The kind of thing his father would do to him whenever he’d throw a fit or threaten some sort of misbehavior. With a shock Miles was pulled from his brooding as Davis sighed sharing a distinct fact to him, ”Have you forgotten what they’ll do to us? I’m sorry I value our lives over dignity. Bear through it brother before you get us both hanged.” With a pat on the shoulder it was all the reassurance he needed. It was so easy to forget that in this place the color of his skin marked him with a target.

However the languishing of the past few hours finally peaked towards half-past midnight, and through the front doors several men dressed in designer suits, and assorted apparel that wasn’t familiar to this universe would walk in. Slicked back orange-blonde hair and dark shark like eyes and a sharp smirk that could carve a deal, yeah, Miles knew who this was.

”Fontaine! Thought you were going to abandon our associates and myself till the day time hours!” Mr. Fierro politely complained as Fontaine sifted his way with seven of his own men towards the group. The other guests were waved off to take a corresponding table as their leader pulled up a chair to sit with the three representatives and Fierro. ”You must understand…” Fontaine courteously retorted as the fingers of his right hand flickered through a small tablet. He didn’t make eye contact until he closed the windows on the device, a thing that left his guests curious and on their toes. Those dark almost black eyes settled on the men as the bony features of his angular face contorted into a feign of remorse as Fontaine apologized, ”I am a very busy man. It takes time to ship what you men want to this place.” Nevertheless Mr. Fierro found a boldness in his tone reprimanding, ”We had a deal Fontaine!” This seemed to annoy the business man who flattened a hand on the table with a thick thump of force. ”We still do if you would let me show you.” Fontaine retorted with daggering finesse, and then he promptly waved for a black steel buckled briefcase. Everyone was a bit on edge at this action and the pale gingered haired man found himself in a seat of power.

Miles almost fell over the bars island as his eyes went wide watching the transaction, but Davis shook his shoulder and signaled to him while breathlessly warning, ”Eyes down, you saw nothing.” Yeah that was the common courtesy. Most of the servers and diners kept their attention elsewhere as illegal business went down before them. And Miles followed suit for the most part keeping his attention on them from the corner of his eyes as he felt a faint tingle of trouble. This was not going to be good but he couldn’t make a scene just yet.

Fontaine groped and hooked his thumbs on the stainless steel clasps popping them open with an audible spring and click. Taking his spindly bone for fingers he lifted the lid of the case open where a small glow of green lights showered upon him, and then he turned the case around to display the contents to the Representatives. Miles couldn’t make out from his vantage what it was but they all appeared a bit baffled. ”Welcome to the future Gentlemen.” Fontaine declared to his customers feeling confident he just secured the transaction. ”These pressure released canisters are filled with a breathable chemical agent that produces psychosomatic hallucinations. What this simply means one of these small canisters will under optimum conditions render a room to several rooms filled with undesirable individuals utterly loony. They’ll start interacting with things that don’t exist, as the chemical stimulates the Fear, Panic, and Paranoia which in its peak have shown to cause heart attacks and asphyxiation in the afflicted whom haven’t been dosed with the antidote within thirty minutes of exposure.” The man had such a smarmy tone as he described exactly what the devices could do. And it was then Miles found himself in a corner as the scene seemed to unfold with a spectacular degree of tension.