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Somewhere along the French coastline, not a vacation spot, just a rocky shore at dawn. Naturally, there were no passersby or tourists around.
Soaking wet, Henry crawled up out of the sea. The greasy paint on his face and the hastily brushed-on water-based dye in his hair had long been washed away by the seawater, leaving no trace of the disguise.
He twisted his body to fling off the water, then stripped off the exaggerated stage costume. Shoes included, he folded everything neatly—leaving only a bright red pair of boxers.
Henry grimaced as he stared at the "battle suit" in his hands, helpless beyond words.
He recalled that last fight aboard the alien battleship—he wasn't even fighting aliens, but rather fleeing from the Phoenix, who had gone utterly berserk and was hunting him down!
One running, one chasing. Smashing into walls, breaking through barriers.
Sure, there were alien defense squads inside the warship, but those weaklings were no match for a Kryptonian and a raging Phoenix. If they failed to intercept, they were lucky. If they actually did, their fate was usually grim.
In the end, the D'bari warship dragged its battered hull away. Earth was too dangerous, so that ragged remnant of a race decided to search elsewhere for a way to continue their lineage.
As for Henry—his thoughts back then had been twofold: first, to escape the Phoenix; second, to avoid Earth's satellite surveillance, whose capabilities he couldn't even gauge anymore. So he dove straight into the ocean.
Even decades later, he knew, satellite technology and analysis would keep improving, but deep-sea detection of living organisms would still remain a blind spot.
Go deeper than twenty meters, and optical monitoring became useless. Only radar mapping could scan fixed terrain features on the seabed.
That was why the supposed "sea people" and undersea kingdoms of legend had never been confirmed or tracked down.
Thus Henry chose to move beneath the sea, making his way from the Americas back to continental Europe.
As for why the Phoenix hadn't pursued him—he had no idea. Whatever her plan was, it was her business. Destroy the world? Destroy Earth? Fine, go ahead.
That was a problem for the X-Men. His contribution ended at driving off the aliens. Fight the Phoenix? Don't kid yourself. Back then, he hadn't known any better…
Now, sitting half-naked on the rocks in his boxers, Henry looked at the costume in his hands with unspeakable feelings. Finally, he couldn't hold back and swore:
"F*ck, this battle suit is way too addictive. I can't ever wear this thing again."
Having made up his mind, Henry burned the cheap stage costume—along with the tap-dance shoes—with his heat vision, reducing it all to ashes. Then he blew the ashes out to sea with a powerful gust of super-breath.
No more taking calls from the X-Men. If this time they dragged him into fighting the Phoenix, who knew what kind of nonsense they'd throw at him next? He'd be crying without tears.
But now, down to just a pair of red boxers, Henry realized something: if he flew like this, would the wind shear blow his shorts clean off?
And then—sure enough—a bird flew overhead…
Which just proved that those superheroes in tights and capes flying around in the sky… from a certain perspective, they were actually in line with physics. (Power Girl's outfit being a notable exception…)
Flash's costume was even more unscientific. Every reboot of his story would spend time explaining how at super-speed, normal clothes would be shredded by air pressure or burned up by friction, hence the need for a special suit.
But when Flash carried ordinary people at super-speed, he never seemed to worry about that. No matter how far or fast, the person always arrived intact—maybe just dizzy or nauseous.
Logically, if special suits were actually necessary, shouldn't the passengers end up starting fully dressed, but arriving completely naked?
Don't think about it. The answer was always the "Speed Force." Just like other heroes' unexplained "bio-fields." Pseudoscience as a catch-all.
So, could he keep his shorts intact while sprinting back to that borrowed room in Switzerland from Miss Hepburn? Or should he just fly back to his rental in Los Angeles?
If the boxers met a heroic end mid-flight, he'd be forced to streak in broad daylight. Sure, if he went fast enough, no one would see… but still, that would be far too thrilling an "art performance."
Henry smacked his forehead. He was clearly still stuck in character, unable to shake it off.
Lesson learned: battle suits must be chosen with caution. So must roles.
Pick the wrong cheap role just for a paycheck, and your career's ruined. Similarly, wear the wrong battle suit, and your heroic dreams are shattered.
Ah—wait. He never planned to be a superhero anyway. So shattered or not, who cared?
The real question was: why had he chosen that ridiculous outfit in the first place? Way too addictive.
He must have been crazy to do it.
No—correction. The version of himself wearing the battle suit had gone crazy. Or maybe it was the choice itself that proved he was crazy.
Either way, Henry firmly believed he was just an ordinary man—albeit one with a Kryptonian-like physique.
Whether he was Kryptonian or not remained unconfirmed. But did it really matter?
He had already tested with pure lead to check if he might be a Daxamite.
Unlike kryptonite, lead doesn't glow—meaning no radiation. Kryptonite poisoned Kryptonians. Daxamites, however, reacted allergically to lead.
Henry wasn't allergic to lead. So, not a Daxamite.
As for the Homelander template, impossible. Homelander wasn't an alien, and he didn't have a bio-field. That was a different situation entirely, so ruled out.
Could there be other alien species in the Marvel Universe empowered by Earth's yellow sun? Henry couldn't say yes or no.
Origins were important when you cared. When you didn't, not so much.
Thankfully, that unspeakable bio-field of his preserved his last shred of decency—the red boxers. Just like how Hulk's ultra-stretchy pants always miraculously held on, protecting his modesty. A Marvel miracle.
Even Thanos with all six Infinity Stones probably couldn't snap away Hulk's pants. Otherwise the comics would've gone straight from all-ages to X-rated.
So… should Henry go collect the Infinity Stones just to test whether they outranked Hulk's pants?
He slapped himself again, shaking off such insane thoughts. Then, using super-speed and phasing, he returned to his room and changed into normal clothes.
Elderly retirees always woke early. So when Henry came downstairs, Miss Audrey Hepburn was already in the kitchen in an apron, frying eggs.
Hearing his footsteps, she turned, smiled warmly, and greeted him:
"Good morning, child. I didn't hear you come back. Would you like some breakfast?"
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