Chapter 29: The Next Step

The ferry had a small tuck shop where hungry passengers without packed meals could buy some bread or biscuits. Among all the items, hot coffee and alcoholic drinks were the most popular.

At night, most travelers would roll up their coats and occupy a row of chairs in the public lounge to get some rest. But those who had driven their cars onboard would, of course, retreat to their vehicles and huddle inside. At least in their cars, they wouldn't have to endure the smell of strangers' socks in the shared lounge.

Henry sipped a cup of hot coffee purchased from the tuck shop. It wasn't that he was particularly addicted to coffee in this life, nor was he simply looking for something warm. Instead, it was because, compared to alcohol, coffee had more complex and layered flavors—perfect for exercising his enhanced senses of taste and smell.

Red wine came second after coffee in terms of taste complexity, but the red wine available on the ferry was of such low quality that it felt like drinking sugary grape juice. Though the coffee here wasn't particularly great either, it was still better than that cheap excuse for wine.

As for tea... whether it was due to the lack of quality tea leaves in Alaska or some other reason, the taste was far too bland to match that of coffee. To preserve the ideal image of tea in his mind, Henry resisted drinking these poor-quality tea substitutes, which were worse than cheap red wine.

So, as he stimulated his taste buds with the rich and multi-layered profile of the coffee, Henry pondered his next step.

Hiding in Alaska for the rest of his life wasn't entirely impossible. But having transmigrated into the body of a Kryptonian in the land of the free and the brave, wouldn't it be a waste to stay put and not explore this vast land?

True, the beginning of this journey hadn't been voluntary. But after spending nearly twenty years in Russian territory, he had a strong desire to explore more. With the help of his super brain, learning anything was easy. Unfortunately, academic qualifications were another matter altogether, and in this world, qualifications opened doors.

Emulating Superman's career path—working as a journalist while saving the world—was off the table for him. His lack of credentials meant there was no way he'd land a job in any newsroom.

Interestingly, in all his time here, the only superhuman-related information he had found concerned Captain America and mutants. There was no sign of the Justice League or its associated cities: no Central City, no Gotham, and definitely no Metropolis.

That was a relief.

The absence of an actual Superman was one thing, but the absence of the disaster-magnets known as the Flash and Batman brought him genuine comfort. Their existence seemed to make any universe ten times more dangerous.

Climbing the corporate ladder like some elite white-collar executive was out of the question. No background, no qualifications, no connections—it simply wasn't going to happen. Even trying to enter the blue-collar workforce posed issues.

Assuming the economic trends of this world mirrored those of the world before his transmigration—leaning into globalization and outsourcing—then the U.S. would eventually see massive offshoring of its labor-intensive industries. Only finance, tech, and design would remain domestically strong. That meant even a job in a factory tightening screws could become precarious.

For immigrants like Henry—especially alien ones—employment options were already scarce. Even if he managed to acquire U.S. citizenship, he'd still be considered an outsider. And the kinds of jobs typically open to immigrants were low-paying service industry roles filled with stress and unreasonable customers.

Henry was honest with himself. He wouldn't last three days as a waiter or cashier before punching a difficult customer in the face. He wasn't someone who could tolerate the phrase "the customer is God." If someone said that to him, he might just send them off to meet said deity.

Jobs involving regular contact with people—shop assistant, teacher, doctor—were completely out of the question for someone like him. That had been true even before his transmigration.

Surprisingly, the most practical and secure option for someone like Henry was… to be a lab rat. As long as the scientists didn't dissect him, he'd be fed well and wouldn't starve.

Still, joining official law enforcement wasn't viable either. The loyalty checks alone would be enough to ruin him. He'd be considered a threat and likely tricked into becoming a government-owned lab experiment anyway.

So, what options were left?

Robbing a bank?

No wonder crime was rampant in the United States. Too many people chasing the American Dream, only to find that few legitimate paths actually existed. In the end, many turned to illegal industries—gambling, drugs, and more.

And don't be fooled by gambling being legal in places like Las Vegas or Native American reservations. Anyone who consistently won big would be under heavy suspicion. If the casino couldn't prove cheating, they'd politely ask the winner to leave and quietly blacklist them. Casinos weren't charities; if you treated them like ATMs, they'd "educate" you swiftly.

That said, making a few hundred here and there from a casino might be doable. Just don't expect to make a living off of it.

Henry thought about his current financial situation. He had run four crab boats: the first trip netted him $80,000, the next two around $100,000 each, and the final one about $50,000.

After withdrawing everything, accounting for a 6% bank fee, along with car purchases, identity documentation, and other living expenses, he was left with nearly $300,000 in cash.

But it wasn't all his to keep. He still had taxes to pay.

After the U.S. government took its share, Henry estimated he'd be left with just over half that amount. He'd need an accountant to get the exact figure, or he could study U.S. tax law himself.

Still, even with what remained, as long as he lived frugally, he could get by for quite a while. In a world where a steak cost $5, a beer $10, and the average blue-collar worker earned $50,000 annually, he had a good cushion.

So long as he didn't get involved in drugs, didn't gamble excessively, and didn't fall for the Wall Street illusion of striking it rich as a retail investor, he'd be fine. And as long as he didn't aspire to own a mansion, drive a sports car, or date supermodels, Los Angeles was affordable.

He could return to Alaska during crab season, run a few more trips, and replenish his savings.

It sounded like a stable life.

But something about it felt… empty.

Without goals or interests, people grew soft. Henry had been a slacker before his transmigration, sure, but at least he had routine. He worked during the day, played video games at night, watched anime and TV shows, and occasionally went to the movies.

Now, what familiar entertainment did 1990s America offer?

Apple's personal computer revolution was just beginning, and the Internet existed mainly on college campuses. The most you could do online was surf BBS forums. Consoles like the GameBoy and Super Famicom were at their peak, but if you were used to modern AAA games and full-length anime films, 16-bit graphics could only offer so much nostalgia.

Whether he wanted to enter the entertainment industry as a career or just enjoy it as a hobby, he kept hitting the same wall: lack of qualifications and experience.

So why was Hollywood his first stop in America?

Was it because deep down, he felt that film and TV might be his only way forward?

Not that he hoped to become a star or anything. But at the very least, he wanted to try something new—something he hadn't dared attempt in his old life.

Even just standing on a movie set and shouting, "I'm going to fight ten!" seemed exciting.

Just imagining it made him smile.

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