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Standing near the ferry's railing, Henry watched the churning waves of the Bering Sea slam against the side of the vessel. The ferry wasn't exactly a cruise ship, but compared to the glorified bathtub he'd been crabbing on the last two months, this was luxury. At least it didn't feel like the ocean was trying to beat the boat into kindling every ten seconds.
Still, it brought back memories—none of them particularly pleasant.
He'd thought about leaving some cash for Old John before heading out. But the old bastard wasn't having it. The second Henry brought it up, John had torn into him with a profanity-laced rant that could strip paint off a battleship.
So instead, Henry left his mark the only way he could—fixing the bar.
He didn't bother asking John what needed repairs. The man thought the place was perfect the way it was, right down to the wobbling stools and mystery stains. Anyone who complained got a faceful of spit and a profanity-laced sermon on how "real bars don't have f***ing feng shui."
So Henry asked the regulars instead—old drunks with more opinions than teeth.
Some of the suggestions were reasonable. Others involved razing the place to the ground and rebuilding from scratch. That got the same reaction from the locals as it would've from John: a middle finger and a muttered "Get the f*** outta here."
So Henry stuck to basic stuff. Quiet repairs. Leaky plumbing, patchy wiring, rotting floorboards. He paid out of pocket, did it himself, and didn't say a word.
Would he ever come back? Hard to say. Because truth be told, this place—this frozen corner of nowhere—wasn't home.
No one came to see him off. Old John gave him a hug, patted his back once, then went right back to wiping glasses like nothing happened. Like he was sending his sons off to war again—same expression, same silence.
The ferry was headed to Los Angeles.
His Cadillac, the one he'd bought from Old Tom, was parked belowdecks. No private cabin, no first-class service. If you wanted to sleep, you either squeezed into the communal passenger lounge or curled up in your car like a raccoon in a dumpster.
The journey was a little over a day and a half. Not quick, but not hellishly slow either.
Getting on the ferry, though—that was the hard part.
First, he had to drive across half of Alaska to reach Juneau, the state capital. That was where the long-distance car ferries ran during this time of year.
Snow, ice, no plows, no gas stations. No roadside diners or motel signs offering hot coffee and warm beds. Just you, your food, your water, and the long white nothing stretching from horizon to horizon. If you got stuck, you froze. End of story.
At some points, he could see the road on the other side of a river or gorge, but to actually get there? That meant looping around for dozens of miles just to find a usable bridge—or some patch of terrain that didn't scream "here lies the frozen dumbass who thought his sedan could handle this."
Eventually, Henry gave up and tried flying.
With no one around and nothing but snow to cover his tracks, he figured it was the perfect time to test his Kryptonian side.
He wasn't expecting much. The show he grew up watching back on Earth—Smallville—took ten seasons before their version of Superman figured out how to fly. The idea was practically engraved in pop culture: Flight is hard. You need training. You need a character arc. You need wind machines.
Apparently, all that was bullshit.
A couple of test jumps, and boom—he was airborne. Lifting himself, lifting the car, navigating snowdrifts and icy hills like a walking cheat code. Flight turned out to be one of the easiest things to learn.
The hard part was not overdoing it. Strength was trickier. Lifting the Cadillac was no problem. Not crumpling it in the process? That took finesse.
But between heat vision for melting snow and flight for skipping over impassable terrain, Henry basically bulldozed his way across Alaska like some cosmic UPS delivery truck.
By the time he reached Juneau, he looked half-dead but satisfied. The port workers assumed he was just another local hauling his car down for the winter.
None of them guessed he'd come all the way from some forgotten fishing town in the middle of nowhere.
Funny thing was, the crabbing port he left behind did have ferries. Even planes. But this time of year, the sea iced over. Ferries were canceled. Planes were weather-dependent. And getting a car shipped by freight? Good luck. That wasn't happening until spring.
He could've made it easy on himself. Ditched the car, booked a flight from a small airport, caught a connecting jet to L.A., and been sipping coffee in California in twelve hours.
But no. He bought Tom's car. Tom, that smug bastard, sold it like he was doing Henry a favor. "It'll be useful," he said. "Reliable ride."
Reliable trap, more like.
The real reason? Tom wanted to offload his old Caddy, probably make a quick buck and stick the rookie with the headache. And Henry, being the trusting idiot, bought it. Hook, line, and snow-choked sinker.
Lesson learned: Your friend's friend is not automatically your friend.
It was a rule Henry had known before—the kind of lesson you forget until the universe slaps you with it all over again.
In hindsight, it wasn't lethal. He'd survived. But if he hadn't had Kryptonian powers, he might've frozen to death, run out of fuel, or just turned back with his tail between his legs.
Back in town, people had taken bets.
How long would it take before Henry came crawling home?
Seven days passed. No word. No return. Most assumed the worst—crashed car, frozen corpse.
Only Old John held out hope. He told the others, "That kid's still pushing forward. He's not the type to give up."
Even so, no one went looking. Too cold, too risky. Their version of a search party was asking around at the next fishing town over. Beyond that? They said their prayers and stayed indoors.
If Henry hadn't had his powers, he might've been one more name on the list of people who underestimated Alaska.
Instead, he used the entire journey as a glorified training arc.
Heat vision. Flight. Strength modulation. All in the frozen wilderness with zero witnesses. It was almost poetic—like Mother Nature personally handed him a Kryptonian jungle gym.
By the time he flew his way over the final stretch and rolled into Juneau like some icy road warrior, the only thing he felt was cold toes and mild vindication.
Nobody expected a guy from a middle-of-nowhere crabbing town to make that trip. Not in that weather. Not driving.
And he still had gas in the tank.
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