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A new year had arrived, and Henry was doing his best to waste it properly.
He sprawled across his couch, basking in the weak winter sunlight streaming through the window, absolutely unmotivated to do anything productive.
On the other side of the room, little Katie — male little Katie, for the record — had long since stopped being "little."
Half a year of proper feeding had doubled his size. What had once fit along Henry's forearm now stretched to nearly his own height when the tiger stood at full length.
Katie was currently draped across his oversized cat tower, two back legs dangling lazily over the edge, soaking up the same sun with feline bliss.
Because Kryptonian physiology was utterly indifferent to heat or cold, Henry never bothered much with heating in winter. Cooling, however, was a different story — all those delicate computers and servers in his apartment didn't appreciate overheating in the summer.
As for keeping a tiger? Well, fur coats came built-in. Katie didn't seem to mind.
Whenever sunlight streamed in, he'd stop bullying poor BB — the hapless robot core — and just nap quietly in the warmth.
The tiger translator project had also made serious progress. Katie could now understand a small vocabulary of commands: sit, paw, spin, stop, come.
The essentials of civilization.
Feeding time required no translation at all. The moment the smell of meat hit the air, Katie was already sitting by his bowl, waiting.
After a few disciplined smacks from Henry in the early days, the tiger had learned to leave the dinner table alone.
Business at the black clinic had resumed, but Henry's enthusiasm hadn't.
Once, he'd been eager to hone his skills — to face difficult, rare diseases like those seen in top hospitals. But most of his clientele through the Continental network came in with stab wounds, bullet holes, or blunt trauma.
It was basic surgery — tedious work for a Kryptonian.
These days, he was just keeping the doors open out of habit, drifting between jobs, waiting for something interesting to appear.
He'd even checked the Continental's exit policy. Technically, any freelancer could leave whenever they wished; there was no binding contract.
John Wick's "impossible task" wasn't to leave the Continental — it was to leave the Russian mob.
Gangs were the same everywhere: easy to enter, hell to escape. Once you knew their secrets, they couldn't afford to let you walk away.
But the Continental wasn't a gang; it was a platform. A network. As long as you hadn't poked too deep into its inner workings, you were free to come and go.
Still, the Tinkerer's name had already landed on the FBI's radar.
After one agent conveniently vanished, the Bureau hadn't managed to link it to him — not yet, anyway. The city had been quiet since. But that didn't mean he was safe. He was now a red-flagged name in their files, and it only took one overzealous agent with too much free time to make trouble again.
So the Tinkerer stayed low-key. And after seeing what happened to Andrew Saxon, most crime bosses preferred to go through official hospital channels rather than some unlicensed doctor who might sell them out for a bounty.
Of course, that meant fewer wanted men came knocking.
Henry didn't mind. It wasn't like he'd ever been in it for philanthropy.
He was mid-snooze, planning to waste the whole afternoon, when Katie suddenly gave a low growl.
The brainwave-linked translator mounted on BB immediately emitted its flat robotic tone:
> "Someone."
One of Henry's newer inventions — a gadget that converted the tiger's roars into rough English. Sure, he could interpret Katie's sounds by brainwave resonance, but it was nice having a speaker that let the cat "talk."
Seconds later, the doorbell rang.
Henry groaned, dragged himself upright, and shuffled to the door. No peephole — not that he needed one. A quick flash of X-ray vision showed his visitor outside, fidgeting nervously like a man who expected to be mauled any second.
Old Gary, his eccentric landlord.
Henry opened the door and greeted him, "Hey, Gary."
The man jumped, waving a limp hand. "Oh! Hello, Henry." He peeked inside, spotted the "cat" lounging on the tower, and forced a shaky smile. "And… hello, Katie."
"Rrroar."
> "Hello."
The translator's cheerful monotone filled the air.
Gary paled. He grabbed Henry by the arm, dragged him out into the hallway, and slammed the door shut behind them.
"That— that was a tiger roar! You told me that was a tabby cat!"
Henry didn't blink. "You heard wrong, Gary. My cat's just… got a raspy throat."
"It's huge!"
"Fat," Henry corrected.
"…Whatever it is, just make sure your kitty doesn't eat anyone. If it bites a neighbor, I will call the cops."
"Sure, sure," Henry said quickly. "Now, why don't you tell me what brought you here, before you die of anxiety?"
Gary cleared his throat. "Right. So. My ex-wife's distant relative is visiting Los Angeles, and she wants someone to show her around — especially Hollywood.
"She says she might even try her luck there, like you did when you first came to L.A. You've got a car, and, well, time. So… interested? The pay's not much, but I'll cover gas and meals — as long as you don't go to one of those overpriced tourist traps."
Henry stared at him. "Your ex-wife's distant relative? That's… what, four degrees removed? Are you secretly asking me to drop her off in South Central and let her get mugged for character development?"
Gary rolled his eyes. "Don't be dramatic. I'm still on good terms with her family — just not with her. And anyway, she's still family to my kid. They're visiting L.A., I can't exactly ignore them."
"Fine." Henry sighed. "You've helped me enough times, I can play chauffeur for a day. Who is it?"
"Barbara Morse."
Henry blinked. Wait… that name sounds familiar.
"She's a girl?" he asked.
Gary nodded.
Henry's expression twisted. "So let me get this straight — you're entrusting a young woman, your ex's relative, to me? The weird loner neighbor who lives alone and has suspicious noises coming from his apartment? Are you trying to get me arrested?"
In truth, "Barbara" and "Morse" were common names — practically American staples — so Henry didn't immediately connect it to that Barbara Morse. Still, handing over a girl to a random male tenant? That was either blind faith or criminal stupidity.
But Gary just chuckled. "Relax. I've met her. She was a high school gymnastics champion — strong, flexible, definitely tougher than she looks. She's studying at Georgia Tech right now, smart as hell.
"I told her if she really wants to make it in Hollywood, she should try the action-star route. Pretty face, great body, solid skills — she could pull it off."
Henry froze. Gymnastics champion. Georgia Tech. Tough, smart… oh no.
Yeah. The pieces fit a little too well.
Barbara "Bobbi" Morse. Future S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.
He rubbed his forehead and muttered, "Right. That flavor checks out. Is it too late to say no?"
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