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Switzerland. Hepburn's villa.
For the second ti in as many days, Henry found himself clutching the phone with the sudden, violent urge to track down the entire X-n roster and punt them into orbit.
Last ti, he'd co back covered head to toe in dust, looking like he'd rolled through a demolition site. Ms. Audrey Hepburn herself had given him that look—the one that said she suspected he'd spent the night rolling around in a ditch with so mystery lover.
And now, here they were again: phone call, serious voice on the other end, and his elegant hostess peeking out from the kitchen with half her face showing, her eyes curved into delighted crescents. She looked like she'd stumbled onto a scandal too juicy to resist.
Henry plastered on a brittle smile, a vein throbbing on his temple. Through clenched teeth, he growled into the receiver:
"What's the excuse this ti? I thought I paid my debt in full last round."
"Wait—fight what—?" he almost shouted, biting his tongue in the process.
Oh. Right. That offhand comnt he'd tossed out: 'If it's aliens, fine. Call .'
And wouldn't you know it—aliens. Actual aliens.
Now it looked like he didn't really have a choice. He wanted to scream into the phone: Can we just pretend I never said that? Like… treat it as passing gas—sll it, wave it away, then forget it?
anwhile, Hepburn was inching closer, her whole face erging now, practically glowing with anticipation, like a mother about to catch her son sneaking out for a date.
Henry felt his stomach twist. If he didn't leave soon, she'd grill him all night and he'd never hear the end of it.
"Fine, fine. Where's the rendezvous?" he muttered, resigning himself to fate.
Once he had the coordinates, he hung up—and sure enough, his hostess pounced at the perfect mont.
"Out again, darling?" Hepburn asked sweetly, stepping out of the kitchen.
The way she said it, Henry felt like a teenager whose mom had just caught him sneaking out to et a girlfriend. What was next—asking if he packed protection?
Thankfully, she didn't go that far. Instead she said, "When you talk to won, be gentle. Mind your tone. Otherwise, you'll end up despised."
Henry nearly choked. Not a date, not a girlfriend. A bunch of mutants who make demons look cuddly. I'm going to a fight, not… that kind of fight!
Still, he stood there like a schoolboy while she fussed over him, straightening his collar. Then—suddenly—her eyes glead gold as she sized him up head to toe.
"You're not going out dressed like that, are you? These pajamas are an atrocity."
Her tone was the judgnt of a fashion icon, and coming from Audrey Hepburn, it was devastating.
To be fair, Henry's howear was bargain-bin supermarket stock he'd picked up in L.A.—clean, intact, functional, but nothing resembling stylish. His one decent Armani suit, he reserved for special outings with her. Everything else was "cheap but serviceable."
Audrey shook her head, muttering like a general surveying a battlefield. "Luca left clothes here. His build's close to yours. I bought most of them myself, and so have never been worn. Why not borrow a set? He'll never know."
Luca Dotti—her younger son. Born in 1970. A man Henry's own apparent age, which only made her offer sting more.
But Henry really wasn't heading out on a date. He backed away, hands up as if fending off a wardrobe ambush. "Boss, I'll handle it myself. The place I'm going is… a little unusual."
Her brow arched, her movie-star smile turning sly and devastating. "Unusual, hm?"
For one terrifying second, he thought she might actually strip him down and redress him herself. Instead, she sighed and let him go. "Very well. Will you be back for dinner?"
"Probably not. Sa as last ti—I don't know how late this will run. Don't wait up for ."
She stepped back, eyes sparkling, smile warm enough to lt glaciers. "Bon voyage, darling." Read complete version only at ɴovelfire
And Henry fled. Kryptonian reflexes or not, he practically tumbled through the door in his rush to escape.
Once outside, he didn't shoot into the sky imdiately. Instead, he took a mont to think.
Two days ago, he'd lived through what felt suspiciously like the "small-town battle" from Dark Phoenix. Now the X-n were calling him again. Not for drinks. Not for poker night. Another fight.
And since he'd been dumb enough to joke about aliens, now there really were aliens. Which begged the question: had his little quip triggered so kind of butterfly effect?
He recalled how, in the movies, both sides just kind of… charged into battle without introductions. As if no one knew who anyone else was, or why they were even fighting. Did the X-n ever stop to think, 'Wait—who are these guys again?'
Either way, if he showed up, it ant another brawl. Likely in front of the U.S. governnt. Which ant his secret identity was toast unless he disguised himself. A suit, a mask—sothing to blur the face.
Of course, he could just stay out of it. Sit back, let history play out, keep his head down. That would be the sensible choice. The safe choice.
But then again… when else would he get front-row seats to a live-action Marvel movie? A battle with aliens, no less. Passing on that ticket felt like a cri.
Henry sighed. He wasn't here to play world-savior. Even if World War III broke out and nukes lit up the sky, he could probably just hover above the chaos, arms folded, and watch the planet burn.
But Raven was a problem. She'd already tricked him once by wearing Hepburn's face. She could do it again. And being targeted by a shapeshifter who could look like anyone? That was worse than being hunted by an entire intelligence agency.
People online liked to call Mystique the "perfect girlfriend." Yeah, right. Henry shuddered.
Imagine getting intimate and—bam—in the middle of the act, she drops the disguise and there's the blue skin and red hair. That wasn't just mood-killing—that was trauma-inducing. Lifelong, therapy-level trauma.
And that was before factoring in that she'd been alive since World War II. At least fifty, maybe older. In the sa generation as the lovely "auntie" waiting back in the villa.
Henry shivered. The ancients had warned of three great poisons for n: cold tea, weak wine… and older won. Turns out, they weren't wrong. They'd forgotten to add: they don't just wreck your body—they wreck your soul, too.
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