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Turns out, Old Tom—the man who nearly earned himself a Kryptonian punch—was right about one thing.
Nobody checked a damn thing when you rolled off a ferry from Alaska into the Port of Los Angeles.
No inspections. No bag checks. Not even a bored glance under the hood. Just show your ticket when you get on, and drive off like you're coming home from the grocery store. Pre-9/11 America: land of paranoia abroad, but blind confidence at home. If trouble happened, it was always somewhere else. Never here.
Henry guided the Cadillac onto the streets of LA with the steady hands of someone still trying to convince himself this was real.
The highways stretched wide, the buildings grew taller, and every few miles, the landscape changed just enough to make him question where he was. When he hit the coast, he slowed down, expecting golden sunlight, warm sands, and an army of bronzed beach bums in bikinis.
What he got was wind. Cold, biting ocean wind that whistled through the window and slapped him in the face.
Even with his Kryptonian resistance to cold, it still felt dumb—driving with the window down in December. Like owning a convertible in a rainstorm and refusing to close the top, so you just sit there in a poncho holding an umbrella.
He passed a few lunatics on surfboards, full wetsuits on, carving through winter waves like they'd made a deal with Poseidon.
Gotta admit—they were good. You'd have to be, to ride waves like that in weather like this.
Farther down the beach, a film crew was shooting something. Cameras, lights, the whole circus. In the middle of it, some models—tan, lean, and plastic-perfect—smiled like it was mid-July, lounging around in swimwear that did nothing to hide the fact that they were freezing their asses off.
Behind the camera, everyone else was bundled up like it was the Antarctic.
Showbiz, huh?
Watching that ridiculous little production, something in Henry finally clicked. Yeah. I'm really here.
Now what?
He'd spent plenty of time on the ferry thinking through big-picture stuff. Where to live, what kind of life to build, whether to punch Thanos in the face if it ever came to that. But now it was time for logistics.
Pulling over near a street-side newsstand, he killed the engine, stepped out, and made his way over.
"Five bucks," he said, pulling a wrinkled bill from his coat. "One copy of the Los Angeles Times, and—do you have a city map?"
The middle-aged vendor barely looked up. "Tourist map, or you need something detailed?"
"Detailed," Henry replied. "I'll be living here for a while."
The man nodded and handed over a folded map. "Here you go. Change's right there." He dropped a few coins into Henry's palm, then added, "Where you from?"
"Alaska," Henry said without hesitation.
The vendor gave him a once-over. "That explains the snow gear. I was starting to think LA was about to get hit with a blizzard."
Henry looked down at his heavy-duty coat—windproof, waterproof, the whole package. Not your average LA winter wear. "God, I've seen enough snow for five lifetimes. Does it ever snow here?"
"Rarely," the man said with a shrug. "Only if it gets real cold. If you're into skiing, try Big Bear Lake—east of here. Great slopes."
"No thanks," Henry said dryly. "I see snow, I get flashbacks. Last thing I wanna do is slide down a mountain for fun."
They shared a brief laugh, the kind strangers swap when they both know life's been stupid lately.
Henry nodded toward the decorations strung up on nearby poles. "Holiday season coming?"
"Yep. Christmas, then New Year's. Same crap every year. No surprises."
"If one year did have surprises," Henry said with a smirk, "that'd probably be bad news."
The vendor chuckled. "Ain't that the truth."
Henry waved, heading back toward the car. "Thanks. Take care."
"Merry Christmas," the man called.
"Merry Christmas."
Back in the car, Henry realized he hadn't eaten since the ferry docked. The sun was past noon, and his stomach was putting in a formal complaint.
He cruised around until he found a family diner that didn't reek of fryer grease and bad decisions. Nothing fancy. Just clean, warm, and open. He parked, grabbed his map, his newspaper—and most importantly, his overstuffed backpack.
That pack held his entire net worth: nearly three hundred grand in cash, packed into tight rolls of hundreds. Not the kind of thing you leave sitting in the car on the streets of LA. Not unless you want someone breaking your window and disappearing with your life savings.
For casual spending, he had smaller bills stashed in various coat pockets. If anyone watched him dig around for change at a register, they'd think he was flat broke.
A skill he'd mastered in his old life: never let them know you've got money. Play dumb. Play poor. Play dead, if you had to.
Inside, the diner was half-empty. Perfect. He slid into a sunlit booth, placed his bag on the inside seat, and shed the heavy coat.
A waitress approached, a squat, no-nonsense woman with tired eyes and a coffee pot.
"Hot coffee?" she asked.
"Please," Henry replied. "Bless you."
He flipped over the empty mug on its saucer, letting her pour as he warmed his hands.
"Need anything else?" she asked.
"Yeah, sweetheart," he said, flashing a crooked smile. "I haven't eaten lunch yet. What's cooking?"
She rolled her eyes in a way that said she'd heard it all but wasn't entirely offended. "We've got bacon, sausage, eggs any style. Or I could fry you up a steak."
"Hit me with everything," Henry said, tossing back half his coffee in one go. "And sweetheart, if it's no trouble—just leave the pot."
"Sure," she said, leaving the half-full carafe behind before heading off to the kitchen.
Even though her face said don't try anything, her steps as she left were just a little lighter.
A few minutes later, she returned with a plate piled high with bacon, sausage, and sunny-side-up eggs.
"Steak's coming," she said. "You want toast or biscuits?"
"Toast's fine, thanks."
She glanced at the map Henry had spread across the table. "So, what are you? College kid? Tourist? Or chasing the Hollywood dream?"
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