Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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"Have you picked a name for the baby yet?" Audrey asked softly, her fingers still curled around Henry's hand.

Brian smiled, the memory clearly a bright spot in his mind. "If it's a boy—William. Girl—Jean."

"Lovely names," she said, returning his photo before he tucked it back into his wallet.

He looked at the photo one last time, his eyes softening, before shifting his gaze to Henry. "What about you, kid?"

Henry lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Still waiting for a girlfriend first. Kinda a prerequisite."

He then turned to the three ex-soldiers, raising an eyebrow. "And you hardened war dogs?"

Sam and Mark clinked their whiskey cups together. "Single and loving it!" they declared.

Bernie raised his cup solo, a wry grin curling his lip. "Divorced—thank God. As long as I wire her alimony on time, I never have to see her face again."

He jabbed a finger toward Henry. "Word of warning, kid—don't ever get married. It's like dying while still alive. Gunshot wounds are less painful."

Audrey bristled instantly, her hand smacking Henry's shoulder hard enough to make the impact audible. "Don't listen to him, sweetheart. The greatest joys in life are found in love—being with someone you care about, raising children, watching them grow. That's what makes life complete. Without that, what's the point of God making men and women?"

So there Henry sat, listening to Audrey deliver a poetic monologue on the sanctity of marriage from his right… while on his left, four grizzled veterans devolved into a heated debate over the evils of matrimony. He half-expected someone to reach for a gun and settle it the old-fashioned way—good thing they'd already emptied every last round.

Suddenly, the plane banked hard to the right, jarring everyone out of the conversation. Brian glanced toward the cockpit and muttered, "They're turning toward the Gulf of Aden."

He stood and headed forward, disappearing into the cockpit. A few minutes later, he returned with news—and a grim face.

"We're changing course. Skirting the Gulf of Aden, then into the Red Sea. The Saudis are prepping an emergency landing strip for us at one of their military bases. They've got lighting and gear for a night landing."

"Can we even make it there?" Bernie, the eternal realist, voiced the question no one wanted to ask.

Brian gave a firm nod. "Yes. We have to."

The cabin fell silent.

No cursing, no panic—just a heavy, funeral-like stillness. In its own way, that restraint said more about these people than anything else could.

Audrey gripped Henry's hand even tighter this time. She knew she couldn't hurt him, not with his body of steel—but her fear was palpable. Her expression was still composed, but it was the kind of composure that only came from practice. Inside, she was shaking.

Henry laid his other hand over hers, gently patting it. "Don't worry. I'm here."

Audrey managed a faint smile—thin, but genuine. Still, Henry could read the thought in her eyes:

"Even with your indestructible body, there's nothing you can do if this thing falls from the sky, right?"

And she wasn't wrong.

He could fly. He could carry tons of steel. But revealing that now, prematurely, before it mattered, would complicate everything.

They weren't doomed—not yet. No need to tip his hand until there was.

Then came the second hard bank. The plane leveled off quickly—but this time, something was different.

The remaining engine whined… and then died.

All cabin lights cut out, save the emergency strips lining the floor and overheads. A low, unnatural hum filled the cabin, generated by a ram air turbine—the backup system keeping vital instruments alive when all engines failed.

Brian stood again, his voice calm but loud enough for everyone to hear. "Alright, folks. Both engines are out."

Murmurs broke out—but no screaming.

"As long as we don't stress the airframe, we're not dropping like a rock. Commercial jets can glide. It's been done before. Air Canada Flight 143, 1983—ran out of fuel midair, glided to a safe landing."

He gave them all a once-over, then added, "I'm going back to talk with the pilot."

No one stopped him.

Audrey was still gripping Henry like a lifeline. And across the aisle, the flight attendant had done the only thing she knew how to do in a crisis—she'd drunk the rest of the in-flight alcohol and passed out cold, her head lolling against her shoulder, held upright only by her seatbelt.

Henry, meanwhile, could hear the cockpit conversation.

The pilot was muttering under his breath: not enough rudder control… descent rate too fast… glide ratio too poor… not gonna make it to the base.

The other three ex-soldiers—Sam, Mark, and Bernie—were coiled tight, like springs about to snap. One wrong word, one confirmed "we're not gonna make it," and this plane wouldn't crash due to fuel.

It'd crash because someone flipped.

Henry leaned back, trying to piece it all together. Had there been a moment earlier—any moment—where he could've stepped in sooner? Prevented this?

He'd held back to protect his secret, let those warlords chase them, let the firefight escalate.

Sure, they'd made it on the plane.

But what were the odds that some lucky SOB behind a machine gun would just happen to punch a round through the fuel tank in a last-ditch panic spray?

All that effort. All that running.

Undone by one stray bullet.

Climbing the mountain, only to stumble on the last damn step.

Henry finally understood the feeling.

Trying so hard not to be noticed… and getting screwed anyway.

He patted Audrey's hand gently. Then, taking a breath, he unbuckled his belt and stood up.

"Alright, everyone," he said, loud and clear. "I need your attention."

Every head turned toward him—even Brian, who had just stepped out of the cockpit.

Henry met their gazes.

"I've got a secret. And I'm going to ask all of you to help me keep it. Because what I'm about to do… kinda needs that."

Sam—always the loudest—snapped first. "Man, we're about to die. Who the hell cares about secrets?"

"Exactly," Henry said, calm and cool. "Because you aren't going to die. And I do care."

He paused, then added, "Don't worry—I'm not about to confess anything. This isn't some deathbed confession moment. But if you want to live, you're gonna have to listen to me. Starting now."

Brian stepped forward, reading the situation like a pro. He locked eyes with Henry and said, "If it's something worth keeping secret… we'll keep it. Say what you need to say."

Henry flashed a grin—calm, confident, reassuring.

"You'll figure it out soon enough. But first, I need you all back in your seats. Tighten your harnesses. Seriously—lock yourselves in like your lives depend on it."

He turned to Brian. "And I'm going to need your help. But before that, find me a rope. Something you can tie yourself to the fuselage with. You're going to be my anchor."

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