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Ever since the FBI started keeping tabs on him, Henry had already moved anything that couldn't see the light of day out of Old Gary's apartment building. What remained inside no longer contained anything with excessive black-tech elements, and all important data had long since been backed up offsite.
So it didn't really matter if everything there got seized. He could deal with the aftermath later. With that in mind, Henry left the vantage point where he could observe his apartment and returned to Sheep Cave Valley Laboratory.
Kitty, having just eaten her fill, behaved nothing like her wild counterparts that would usually find a relatively flat boulder to lie down on.
Wild predators typically eat one meal that can sustain them for one or two weeks—pushing it to a full month at the extreme. Because they never know when their next meal will come, they gorge themselves whenever food is available.
After eating to the point of being stuffed, they naturally reduce their activity levels and appear lethargic.
But Kitty was different.
Being well fed and accustomed to regular meals, she didn't binge like wild predators. She ate on Henry's three-meals-a-day schedule. Once she felt satiated, she stopped—and then promptly became full of energy, ready to wreak havoc.
That was why, upon arriving at Sheep Cave Valley, Henry saw Kitty leaping between massive boulders and ravines, every bit like her mountain-king kin.
Perhaps because Henry had brought her here too many times, the area around the laboratory was saturated with the tiger's scent. As a result, many wild animals actively avoided this region.
Whether or not they had ever seen a tiger was irrelevant. The pheromonal signal of an apex predator was etched into their DNA—it couldn't be faked.
With no BB robot or innocent small animals to chase and toy with, Kitty could only burn off her energy by exploring the wilderness. At least this place wasn't a monotonous cat climbing frame; it offered some novelty.
Henry didn't disturb the tiger in her frolicking. The nearest living humans were more than twenty kilometers away—well beyond a tiger's normal activity range. There was no risk of her hurting anyone, nor of her getting shot by someone with a gun.
Henry unlocked the laboratory and entered. Passing through the container house, he slipped behind a shelving unit and opened a concealed door, entering a second, hidden layer of space.
This area was a cave carved along the natural rock formations, used to store things he didn't want exposed—including nearly six hundred thousand dollars in dirty cash.
Even those unfortunate souls who had once broken into the lab would never have imagined a second level existed. And even if they somehow discovered it, they'd still have to decide whether to enter a pitch-black space with no lighting, accessible only by climbing.
Inside here, Henry relied entirely on Kryptonian flight and night vision. If someone else with the same abilities showed up—or if someone was bold enough to risk it all—then he could only accept his bad luck.
He'd come here for one reason: to retrieve equipment for doing bad things.
For example—his night suit.
A question that had long bothered Henry resurfaced yet again: if you're going to do something shady, why wouldn't you first put on a disguise and work from the shadows? Why insist on going in barefaced and confronting people head-on?
Exhibitionism? Is streaking the true mark of masculinity? Settling grudges on the spot? Then getting ironclad evidence against you and happily stepping on a sewing machine for ten years or more? Is mutual destruction the new trend of the age?
The old wisdom said, "A gentleman's revenge may wait three years." So why was modern fashion all about "a thug's revenge, morning till night"—street-punk style?
Then again, if everyone were that clever and truly understood Romance of the Three Kingdoms, it would just make life harder for the cops. So maybe it's better to discard that old wisdom and keep things simple—like a gangster.
Henry stuck to his own rhythm. Super strength was a last resort; a super brain came first. When doing bad things, put on a disguise. Don't keep handing evidence to others while feeling smug about it.
"No witnesses" might count as a successful assassination in medieval times. In the modern era of forensic science, it's not about whether something can be solved—it's about whether someone wants to solve it, and whether sufficient evidence can be found.
An intelligence agency like S.H.I.E.L.D. might act on mere "suspicion," but in the end, convincing others and reaching a verdict still depended on evidence.
Since commissioning clothes from others risked exposing his identity, Henry had used gold coins to purchase Kevlar fabric directly from the Continental Hotel—the same material used for bulletproof suits—and sewn the outfit himself.
To conceal his physique, the suit wasn't skintight or perfectly tailored. Instead, without hindering movement, he padded and altered his height, body width, shoulder angle, and other proportions.
The shoes were several sizes too large and also concealed small tools inside. Gloves were the trickiest part—dexterity had to be preserved, so the fabric couldn't be too thick or distort the shape of his hands too much.
Arm length and hand shape were the hardest elements to disguise.
Then there was the full head covering.
It exposed nothing—not the eyes, ears, mouth, or chin. From the outside, it looked like a smooth, featureless egg, with only a slight protrusion for the nose and no other distinguishing traits.
This design wasn't without drawbacks. At the very least, Kryptonian heat vision and freeze breath couldn't be used unless he wanted to blow his own mask apart.
Speech was handled via a bone-conduction microphone and speaker embedded in the neck, complete with voice modulation. He could speak without opening his mouth, ensuring no one could identify him by voice—because it wasn't truly his voice being used.
This night suit covered every inch of skin. Entirely black, made of Kevlar, it had taken Henry considerable effort. It was effectively the first suit of combat gear he had ever designed for himself.
…The Joker costume didn't count. That had just been off-the-rack clothing bought at random.
This suit's primary function was concealment—ensuring that anyone trying to identify him by body shape or skeletal structure would come to the wrong conclusion.
Last time, even with his face painted beyond recognition, someone had still reconstructed his appearance beneath the makeup. Fortunately, he'd had a second layer of protection, or he would have been tracked down.
Henry didn't believe he could pull off the Superman trick—glasses on, glasses off, and suddenly no one recognizes you. He hadn't yet figured out how to make glasses with hypnotic effects.
Beyond that, he would rely on Kryptonian physical abilities.
The reason he'd specifically sought out Kevlar fabric was simple: he'd learned from past disasters. He himself was bulletproof—but his clothes weren't. After being hit by concentrated gunfire, he might survive, but social death was a real possibility. Hence, the effort to make proper ballistic protection.
As for weapons…
Henry still strapped on a telescopic baton. It was far weaker than his fists, but it served as camouflage and reduced the chances of exposing his super strength.
Once dressed, a powerful sense of déjà vu washed over him. Add a cape and a pair of pointed ears, and he could pretend to be Batman.
No—better call himself Super Black.
The other name was unlucky. Might as well accumulate some virtue for his Kryptonian parents—assuming they even still existed. If they were both gone, what if their karma reserves were insufficient?
With everything prepared, Super Black used the starry sky to conceal his flight and returned to Louisiana—specifically, Maria Rambeau's house.
Thanks to these supposedly high-tech civilizations, their reconnaissance methods still relied on eyesight. And aside from raw combat power, Captain Marvel lacked corresponding detection abilities.
Of course, that was based on portrayals in comics, animation, and movies.
Given how often Henry had been burned over the years, he knew better than to treat others as idiots or stone-age primitives. Arrogance was how you got yourself killed.
In reality, these people behaved far more rationally and methodically.
So Super Black landed ten kilometers away. Carefully observing Skrull movements to avoid triggering their alertness, he began to move closer—stealthily.
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