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After wrapping up the bank visit, Henry headed to a nearby photo studio. In the 2020s, these places were nearly extinct—relics of the analog era. But back in the early '90s? They were still everywhere, especially in Los Angeles, where Hollywood's shadow loomed over everything.
Every storefront had glossy sample shots on display: airbrushed beauties, shirtless hunks, sultry headshots bathed in dramatic lighting. Some studios even showcased prints of real celebrities—either current stars or their younger, more glamorous selves.
Tourists wanted mementos. Dreamers wanted a shot at the big time. And in a town , a good photo wasn't just a keepsake—it was currency.
Henry didn't care much for glamour shots. He wasn't here to strike a pose or make a scrapbook.
He just needed a proper ID photo.
The last set he'd taken—courtesy of Old Tom in Alaska—looked like something ripped from a police lineup. Bad lighting, grainy film, and an angle that made him look like he crawled out of a sewer after losing a fight with a cinder block. The kind of photo where if you smiled, it'd still end up as your mugshot.
He didn't even bother asking for the negatives.
But now that he was in L.A., with plans to register with the Screen Actors Guild or apply for legitimate work, he needed something cleaner—something that wouldn't immediately scream serial killer. At minimum, a halfway decent headshot.
This wasn't the future, where you could take a selfie, slap on a filter, and email it to a casting agent before lunch. Digital cameras were still the size of toasters, and image quality was garbage.
If you wanted photos, you went to a photo studio.
He picked one not far from the motel—convenient for pickup—and stepped inside, only to be greeted by a rotund, greasy-haired white guy who waddled up with the enthusiasm of a car salesman spotting fresh meat.
"Welcome, welcome! What can I do for you today?" the man grinned, belly jiggling under a stained dress shirt.
"Wedding package's just $6,600. Family portraits, $4,200. Actor headshots, $3,800. Personal artistic series—just $2,200! Outdoor shoots cost extra, but you'll get three full rolls of film to choose from! And hey—bring a friend, and I'll knock 20% off both of you!"
Henry stared blankly.
What the hell is this, the Ferrari dealership of photo studios?
It was like walking in to buy a scooter and finding out they only sold Lamborghinis.
"…I'm just here for an ID photo," Henry said, still trying to process the sticker shock.
"Aw, come on, kid. Don't you want to capture your youth while you still have it?" The guy's sales pitch never missed a beat.
"Nope. Just an ID photo."
"Listen, when you're old and wrinkled and eating soup with a straw, you'll regret not letting me preserve your prime."
Buddy, I've lived through two puberty cycles, Henry thought. Pretty sure I'm good.
But he didn't want to start an argument, and this certainly wasn't the only photo studio in L.A. So he turned to leave.
"Wait, wait! Fine, fine! ID photo it is! Can't believe I'm wasting my talents on this—but alright!"
Henry paused. Maybe if the guy dropped the extortion-level prices, he could deal with a little theatrics.
"I need twelve 2-inch and twelve 1-inch prints," Henry said. "What's the price?"
Henry didn't even argue—just turned back toward the door.
"Whoa, whoa, hang on! Not good enough? Name your price, then!"
"Thirty. I'll pay half up front."
"Jesus, are you part Jewish?" the man snapped. "Go ahead, try finding another studio with a deal like that."
Henry rolled his eyes. Wish I were. I'm actually an alien, thanks.
"Fifty. Final offer."
"C'mon, man—forty! That's cost, I'm practically losing money."
Henry turned again, not playing the haggling game.
"Alright, alright! Thirty it is!" the man barked. "Goddammit, I hope you are Jewish—at least then I could say this was cultural. Hell, maybe Hitler should've tried harder and we'd have avoided this whole back-and-forth!"
Henry raised an eyebrow. Wow. Casual Holocaust joke. Stay classy, L.A.
Still, the dude folded. Which meant Henry probably still overpaid.
He fished around his pockets, pulled out a crumpled fifteen, and slapped it on the counter as a deposit.
That's when something on the desk caught his eye: an old-school, CRT monitor with a massive rear end—the kind that looked like it could double as a microwave. Below it sat a clunky tower, proudly stamped with a logo Henry recognized instantly.
"Hey," he said, pointing. "Is that a Stark system? What kind of CPU's it running?"
The man's eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.
"Oho, someone knows their machines! This baby's running Intel's newest i486 processor—four megabytes of RAM, 120MB hard drive, VGA display! Not CGA, not EGA—VGA! That's 256 colors! Full floppy support, 5.25 and 3.5 inch drives, plus a CD-ROM. Stark quality. You can't beat it. DELL, IBM—they can't compete. Stark's personal computers are top-tier."
"…Yeah. That's incredible. I'm overwhelmed."
He said it so flatly, even the guy didn't notice the sarcasm.
Truth was, for Henry—who'd lived through advanced alien tech, survived Soviet bunkers, and watched Tony Stark's future genius unfold in real-time—this glorified microwave was little more than a toy.
But hey. Let the man have his moment.
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