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The ferry wasn't exactly a cruise ship, but it did have a small shop on board. If you were hungry and hadn't packed food, you could buy the usual survival rations—packaged sandwiches, stale cookies, instant noodles. The most popular items? Hot coffee and alcohol. Of course.
At night, most people claid a row of seats in the public lounge, wrapping themselves in their coats and pretending they could sleep through snoring, body odor, and the gentle symphony of creaking steel.
But the smart ones—the ones who brought their vehicles—just curled up in their cars. No socks-in-your-face, no strangers talking in their sleep. Privacy, warmth, dignity. Sort of.
Henry sat in the front seat of his old Cadillac, sipping cheap ferry coffee. It wasn't about staying warm—he didn't need warmth. It wasn't about a caffeine habit either. No, he was training. Specifically, training his enhanced senses.
Coffee, with all its bitterness and complexity, was perfect for that. It had depth. Layers. Subtle chemical signatures. A great way to tune up a Kryptonian palate.
Red wine ca close, but the ferry's wine selection tasted like soone blended expired grape juice with regret. Even cheap coffee beat that.
Tea? Out of the question. Whatever passed for tea in Alaska tasted like soone boiled lawn clippings in dishwater. Henry refused to ruin his fond childhood mories of tea with that kind of trauma.
So there he sat, letting the bitter notes of overroasted beans hit his tongue, while his mind worked through a much bigger problem:
Now what?
He could hide out in Alaska forever, sure. Live cheap. Work the crabbing season. Enjoy the quiet. But he hadn't spent two decades as a lab rat in a Russian hole just to die in a fishing town no one could spell.
He was in Arica now. The land of the free. The ho of the supersized. If he didn't at least see the country, it'd feel like a wasted second life.
The problem was: he had no plan.
Superpowered or not, Henry had no diploma, no résumé, and no network. The classic Clark Kent route—reporter by day, superhero by night—was off the table. Journalism required credentials. And Henry didn't even have a high school transcript.
From what little intel he'd scraped together in Alaska, the only confird Marvel-ish figures in this world were Captain Arica and mutants. No sign of Gotham, tropolis, or Central City. Which ant: no Batman, no Superman, and—thank God—no psychotic billionaires or brooding orphans throwing Batarangs.
In other words: No Justice League. Just Marvel.
That raised the world's survival odds dramatically.
But back to real problems. Even if he wanted to go "normie," the options weren't great. Arica's working-class landscape was shifting. Globalization was sucking up manufacturing jobs. If you weren't in tech, finance, or a massive corporate machine, you were getting left behind.
Which ant even sothing as humble as factory work was a gamble.
And Henry? He was technically an undocunted extraterrestrial immigrant. Even with forged paperwork and an official identity, he wasn't fooling the IRS or Holand Security forever.
The truth was, most jobs he could get… weren't worth it.
Retail? Not a chance. Low pay, high stress, and Henry had a short fuse for "the custor is always right" types.
He wasn't a people person. Never had been. Not before the abduction. Not after. He'd never even had a girlfriend—much less experience dealing with the public day in and day out. Anyone told him "Smile more" was getting launched into orbit.
That also ruled out anything in healthcare, teaching, hospitality, or public service. Which left… what, exactly?
Lab rat.
Yeah. That was probably the most viable option—signing up for clinical trials. Get poked, prodded, and studied by scientists. At least they'd feed him.
But then again… the risk of getting dissected "by accident" was a little too real. Especially for soone not technically human.
Joining the police or military? Please. The second they ran a loyalty test, he'd be flagged, detained, and locked in a cell so fast it'd make The Raft look like sumr camp.
So. Bank robbery?
God, no wonder the U.S. had a gang problem. For a country built on dreams, it sure didn't leave many paths open unless you already had money, status, or an Ivy League daddy.
Even gambling wasn't a real option. Casinos let you win just enough to keep you hopeful. Try walking out a long-term winner and you'd find yourself blacklisted—or worse.
Okay, fine. That left money.
He'd pulled in so decent cash from crabbing. First trip: $80,000. Then two more at $100k each. The final short trip netted $50,000.
All in cash.
After a brutal 6% withdrawal fee, plus costs for the car, paperwork, and supplies, he was sitting on about $300,000. Before taxes.
And taxes were a thing.
The great Arican governnt always got its cut. Once he filed, he'd be lucky to have half of it left.
But even $150k wasn't bad. In a country where a steak dinner cost ten bucks and a beer was barely a buck-fifty, he could stretch that for a while—if he lived smart.
No drugs. No investnts. No buying flashy toys or chasing trophy girls. Just low-key living. Maybe take a few more crabbing gigs next season to top off the bank account.
Live like a ghost.
Boring? Maybe. But stable.
Still, stability wasn't enough. Not for him.
People without purpose rot. Henry knew that firsthand. He'd already spent twenty years wasting away in a lab cell. Even when he was doing nothing back on his old Earth, he at least had ani, video gas, movies, a job—sothing.
But this world?
It was the 1990s. Apple was just starting to matter. The internet was still in a college dorm. Gaming ant 16-bit cartridges and Ga Boys. Cute for nostalgia, sure. But compared to AAA gas and cinematic universes? It was like trading steak for cardboard.
And again: no qualifications. So getting into the tech industry? Off the table.
That left one oddball possibility.
Hollywood.
Yeah, he'd set his first real destination as Los Angeles. Subconsciously, maybe he was chasing the lights. The caras. The fantasy. Hell, after everything he'd been through, maybe he just wanted to stand on a soundstage, throw a fake punch, and scream:
"I'm gonna take all ten of you sons of bitches!"
Corny? Sure.
But kind of badass, too.
And if it didn't work out?
Well, he could always go back to the Bering Sea.
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