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Curiosity kills the cat. Henry had known that long before he ever got thrown into this weird new universe. Back home, people sticking their noses where they didn't belong ended up on the news—ruined, arrested, or worse. Getting too curious was just asking for trouble.
He wasn't about to forget that now.
Especially not when his first two decades in this world had been spent locked inside some underground research facility. He'd barely been in Alaska for what—two months? There was no way he'd managed to piss anyone off that fast.
Sure, the town's sheriff kept a watchful eye on him. But the guy was measured about it. Suspicious, yes. Hostile? Not really.
As for those shady guests Tom had entertained… Henry figured the odds of them being after him were less than one in ten thousand.
And in that case, it wasn't paranoia to keep your head down. It was common sense.
Poking around would've been textbook horror movie logic—the kind where the only Black guy decides to split off from the group and ends up the first one gutted by a serial killer. Curiosity wasn't noble. It was stupid. Especially in a world where mutants blinked sideways and secret organizations probably monitored your coffee order.
So Henry did the smart thing.
After wrapping up his chat with Tom, he got in his Cadillac, cranked the heat, and drove back north to the little town and the familiar bar run by Old John.
The next two days passed quietly. No mysterious visitors showed up, no strange disappearances. Life went on as usual. Locals came to drink when the sun went down, and Henry went back to his favorite pastime: binging classic movies on cable.
Before the king crab season wrapped up, Henry joined George's crew for three more trips out to sea. The last one was a quick turnaround—just a few days on the water. Not enough time to fill the hold, but it was a hard deadline. The crabbing season officially ended on November 30th, and missing the cut-off meant massive fines—or worse, losing the boat's license altogether.
This last haul was paid out differently. No fixed wages—just a cut of the profits after expenses.
Fortunately, the market price for king crab was still high. Everyone walked away with a decent chunk of change, even if it was less than a full trip. The upside? Way fewer hours. Nobody complained.
And while the king crab season ended in November, that didn't mean the boats stopped working entirely. Next up was deep-sea armored crab in a different zone, but most captains chose to wait until January. The Bering Sea could start freezing over in December, and ice was hell for the smaller ships.
Captain George wasn't one to chase the armored crab runs anyway. He stuck with king crab—and he made enough each season to support his family for the entire year, with plenty left over for good bourbon and worse decisions.
Which brought them to tonight.
The final haul was in, the season was over, and George had dragged the crew out to a local gentleman's club to celebrate. A proper sendoff for a profitable, injury-free season. Not every boat had been so lucky.
A few drinks in, George got extra sentimental. He wrapped an arm around Henry's neck, half hugging, half leaning for support, and slurred, "You were smart not to stick around this business long. Crabbing's going downhill, man. Getting harder every damn year."
He waved his glass in frustration. "The old bastards are cutting down our season, and now they're talking about individual quotas. 'Oh no, overfishing! Oh no, the ecosystem!' Please. If it weren't for the Bering Sea freezing over, the damn crabs would've taken over the planet by now."
Henry sipped his drink, watching the stage lights flicker in the background. Most of the crew had migrated toward the dancers. Henry had opted to stay behind with the drinks—mistake number one.
He was now George's emotional support animal.
"Maybe it's because too many people are jumping into the game," Henry offered, playing along. "You ever think about what it'd look like if every boat in the state showed up at the Bering Sea at once? Just crab traps from one end of the horizon to the other?"
George blinked. Then shuddered. "Fuck. Don't say that. I've had nightmares like that."
Still, he wasn't done ranting.
"People think it's easy. Buy a boat, grab some buddies, rake in the cash. They don't see the danger. They don't understand how fast things go sideways out there."
Henry nodded. "Yeah. That's the thing about humanity—we're really bad at learning from history. Doesn't matter how many people die, there's always someone who thinks they'll be the exception."
George let out a bitter laugh. "Exactly. And when we do tell them the truth, they call us heartless when someone dies. Like we could've done something. Like we should've jumped into the fucking water and dragged them out ourselves."
Henry shrugged. "Best we can do is call for an airlift. Only way to get help in those conditions is a heavy-duty chopper. And those aren't exactly parked around every corner."
George leaned in, lowered his voice like he was sharing state secrets. "Between you and me? The rescue teams out here… total window dressing. No one lasts long enough in that water to get picked up. You hit the sea, you're gone. This season alone—three boats lost. Ten men didn't come back. And that's just here."
Henry raised his glass. "All the more reason I stuck with you, Cap. You run a tight ship."
George beamed at that. Clearly, the compliment hit home.
He grinned, then slurred something that might have been English. Henry's superbrain tried to parse it, gave up halfway, and just smiled and nodded.
Eventually, George's wife showed up to collect him.
The way she marched through that club? She made a WWE entrance look tame.
George tried to play drunk-and-cute. She slapped that right out of him.
One firm smack, one death glare, and she half-dragged, half-lifted him out the door. The rest of the crew made themselves very small, very fast. Nobody stepped in. Nobody was dumb enough to think this was their business.
Even the bouncers gave her space.
The dancers? Gone. Like shadows. They knew better than to be collateral damage.
Once the captain was gone, the party thinned out. No more free rounds. A few guys stuck around, hoping to charm a dancer into some after-hours entertainment. The rest scattered like beer-fueled pigeons.
Drinking wasn't all that fun when you literally couldn't get drunk. And the girls?
Let's just say—super vision had its downsides.
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