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"What exactly are you planning to do?" Brian asked, already rifling through his emergency pack. His words might've been skeptical, but his hands moved fast, pulling out a coil of paracord.
Henry didn't answer right away.
He jogged up to the cockpit door, knocking once before addressing the Italian pilot inside. "Cabin depressurization will only last a moment—just hold the controls steady. You got this."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he pulled the cockpit door shut behind him.
Only after that did Henry turn back to Brian and the others. "I'm going to open the rear door and exit the plane. Once I'm out, Brian—I'll need you to lock it from the inside."
Brian blinked. "You're… what?"
"You'll need to stand by the door," Henry went on, nodding toward the paracord. "So tie yourself down. Tight. I don't want you getting sucked out with me."
Unlike a commercial airliner, the cabin door on this small aircraft could only be sealed from the inside—there was no external latch to keep the pressure tight mid-flight. Once opened, only someone inside could lock it again.
Mark looked around, confused. "Wait, what—you're bailing out?!"
Henry glanced at him, exasperated. "Dude, do I look like I'm wearing a parachute?"
He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm going under the plane. I'm going to carry it."
The entire cabin fell into stunned silence.
Then Mark laughed—short, disbelieving. "That's… that's not even possible."
Henry sighed, already kneeling by the unconscious flight attendant to double-check her restraints. "Look, I don't have time to convince you. I'm telling you what I'm going to do. The only question is—are you going to help me or not?"
"Mark," Brian cut in, his tone brooking no argument, "Sit. Down. Strap in."
While Mark fumed, Brian moved quickly, threading the paracord through a reinforced strut on the floor, not just looping it around a seat. He knotted it around his waist, testing the tension. Solid.
He looked up at Henry. "You realize once that door's open, we're not getting it shut again easily."
"I'll help seal it from the outside," Henry replied, voice steady. "You just need to lock it."
Brian met his eyes. "Can we trust you?"
Henry offered a cocky grin. "Please. Even if I were willing to let the rest of you die, I'm not letting Ms. Hepburn go down with this plane."
At the mention of her name, all eyes turned to the actress seated mid-cabin. Audrey hadn't taken her eyes off Henry since he stood up.
He gave her a nod. "Boss—secure yourself. Feet braced, head down, hands on the seat in front of you. Cabin depressurization will only last a few seconds, but you don't want to get knocked around."
She gave a quiet, solemn nod and tightened her seatbelt with practiced poise.
Then Henry and Brian moved to the door.
Henry checked the knots himself, making sure Brian's tether was solid. The former special forces soldier had done it right—anchored low, wrapped twice, no give.
Henry took a breath. "If you want to say anything to me, say it now. I can hear you out there."
Brian gave a tight nod, bracing himself.
Henry grabbed the massive handle on the door and twisted it. The moment the seal broke, a violent hiss of air ripped through the cabin.
Emergency oxygen masks dropped like marionettes on strings.
The door flung outward, flapping dangerously in the pressure differential—until Henry caught it, one hand locking around the frame like it weighed nothing at all.
The wind howled through the fuselage. Brian gritted his teeth, body straining against the gusts as he crouched at the door, watching in stunned silence as Henry—this unassuming assistant—stepped out of the aircraft.
Like the sky was solid ground.
Then, calmly, he grabbed the door from the outside and pulled it shut again.
Brian jolted. He lunged for the handle and slammed it shut, sealing the lock. The air pressure stabilized almost instantly, the silence that followed somehow even louder.
Then came the real problem.
Even that brief decompression had thrown the plane's already-fragile flight path into chaos. Without power, the aircraft couldn't correct its pitch or speed. The nose dipped, the wings tilted—the glide had become a tumble.
Inside the cockpit, the Italian pilot wrestled with the yoke, fighting a battle he had no power to win. No engines. No thrust. Just weight and wind and gravity, all conspiring to send them into the sea.
The passengers felt it too—gravity shifting, cabin tilting, seats vibrating.
The turbulence vanished. The plane leveled out.
The vibrations ceased.
And suddenly, they were gliding smoothly, like nothing had ever gone wrong.
Brian was still sprawled in the aisle, panting from the strain. He blinked, eyes wide. "No. Freaking. Way."
The small plane dipped, then rose slightly. Once. Twice. Like a playful shrug.
"Did he just… answer me?" Brian muttered.
Outside, beneath the belly of the plane, Henry floated with his back pressed to the fuselage, arms extended, carrying the entire aircraft like a giant steel coffin.
His mind wandered, absurdly, to superhero movies.
In Superman Returns, the Man of Steel had saved a plummeting space shuttle and landed it in the middle of a baseball field.
In Supergirl, Kara had caught a plane in mid-spiral and brought it down onto a river.
Both of them had used saving planes as their debut moment.
Now here he was—carrying a prop-engine puddle-jumper over the Arabian Sea.
Not exactly Yankee Stadium. No applause. No grand entrance.
But still, it counted.
He snorted quietly to himself, the wind rushing past his ears.
What is it with Kryptonians and planes?
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