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"Liszt?" a sailor asked, stepping closer and eyeing Henry's hands as they tapped out a rhythm on the ship's railing.
Henry turned, a little surprised. "Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. Noisy, dramatic, a classic," he said with a small grin. "Been reading a lot about piano technique lately. Just... don't have an actual piano, so I'm improvising."
"Well, your fingerwork and motion are legit. That's why I recognized it," the sailor said, taking a drag from a cigarette he'd just accepted from Henry.
Unlike in some parts of the world, Americans didn't usually hand out smokes like business cards but offering one to kick off a conversation? That still worked like a charm.
"You play?" Henry asked, flicking his lighter shut.
The sailor nodded. "Had an old upright at home. Loved it. Been learning for years. Enlisted to save up for music school, actually."
Henry chuckled, not unkindly. "You sure that's gonna work? I mean, joining the military to become a concert pianist?"
The sailor winced. "Damn. Not even a sugarcoat, huh?"
"I'm just being real," Henry said, holding up a hand. "To break into music professionally, you either need a family with money or parents already in the industry. Talent helps but without support? It's an uphill battle. If you're putting military wages toward tuition, you better know what you're in for."
"Wow. You sound just like my mom. You two in on this together?"
Henry smiled. "Ever heard of Brian May? The guitarist from Queen?"
The sailor nodded again, this time more enthusiastically.
"He studied astrophysics. Taught for a while, too. Music was just something he loved but he had the brains and fallback plan to match the talent. That's why he could pursue it without starving. If you're just chasing passion with no plan B... well, look around you." Henry gestured casually toward the rest area, where a ragtag group of extras and crew were lounging around.
The real stars those with names in the credits and lines in the script were off relaxing in their own, far cushier part of the ship.
"These folks? Most of them get paid only when they're on camera. No scenes, no money. They hustle side jobs just to make rent. Think we're rolling in it? Think again."
Of course, Henry wasn't one of them, not really. With the money he'd stashed from that Alaskan crab fishing gig, he was doing just fine.
Still, the sailor didn't seem discouraged. "Yeah, I've thought about that. But music isn't just about being a concert pianist. The piano's the king of instruments you understand theory, you can do all kinds of things. Arrange, compose, teach…"
Henry nodded. "Fair point."
In the current global music scene, the U.S. and U.K. led the way. Everyone else tried to squeeze into their charts. With massive audiences came massive opportunities, and the demand for new music was bottomless.
Henry turned to the sailor with real curiosity. "Since I'm mostly self-taught and flipping through books, maybe you can help. You've been playing since you were a kid, right? Got any recommendations? Like composers worth studying, or the order you'd tackle pieces in?"
The sailor lit up—figuratively this time.
Whether in the East or West, no one can resist the chance to teach what they love. Especially when someone asks sincerely.
He launched into a passionate explanation of his learning journey. His family hadn't been wealthy, but he'd managed to take lessons here and there. Combined with personal dedication and easy access to sheet music in the digital age, he'd come a long way.
He listed composers, techniques, etudes worth mastering and Henry listened, occasionally chiming in when a familiar piece came up. They even started miming fingering techniques on the railing together, like air-guitarists gone classical.
But Henry wasn't just play-pretending the piano.
His fingers were dancing across the USS Missouri's railing for a very different reason.
It had started by accident. He'd been tapping idly on the metal while smoking and noticed how the sound bounced back to him in subtle waves. With his Kryptonian super-hearing and his super-processor of a brain, those echoes became raw data—data that he started assembling, piece by piece, into a 3D model of the ship in his mind.
The fun of it got to him.
Before he knew it, Henry was deliberately refining his "pings," building a more complete mental map of the Missouri's internal structure.
Why? Honestly, he wasn't sure. He didn't need the information. He wasn't planning on selling it, leaking it, or using it to take over the ship. He was just… bored. Curious. Kryptonian.
It was his version of doing a jigsaw puzzle.
Besides, real battleship schematics weren't something you could find at the local library.
Even though the Iowa-class ships were relics from World War II, military engineers had never been particularly generous with public disclosures. Every country that could build warships knew better than to reveal everything.
Take the Yamato, for example Japan's legendary super-battleship. It was supposedly the biggest ever built, but the actual specs? Still classified, even decades later. The official numbers have always been disputed.
The Missouri, beneath Henry's boots, clearly had secrets of her own.
The public specs said: 45,000 tons standard displacement. 56,270 tons fully loaded. 887 feet long, with a beam of 108 feet. Armor thickness? Nearly 20 inches on the gun turrets, 12 inches along the hull, 7.5 on the deck.
But using a combination of sonar-style tapping and X-ray vision?
Henry knew those numbers were wrong.
Not just off by a little due to modernization flat-out wrong from the beginning.
The only thing accurate was probably the ship's width, since it had to fit through the Panama Canal. Everything else? Smoke and mirrors, hidden behind steel and silence.
And no one would ever know unless they were here. Unless they could do what he was doing.
Was he planning to do anything with this knowledge?
He didn't need the attention. Didn't want the heat. This wasn't about espionage or subversion. It was just a guy with godlike perception killing time between takes.
In other words: classic case of too much free time.
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