Henry dropped from the beam with the fluid grace of a man who had never truly touched the floor.
The cloak shifted around him, settling as he landed lightly between the scattered survivors.
In this mission, he had a extra package of his clothes for emergency. He had handed it to the child who had spoken in Ferguson's hallucinatory monologue.
"For emergencies." he said simply.
He covered kid from front while the kid wore the shirt and cloak. However, it was advantageous for being in last row.
The boy's eyes widened, a mixture of pride and disbelief. "You did well." Henry murmured.
"No one else could have pulled that off. You used nothing but words and timing. You learned fast what I taught you to say."
The boy's mask slipped slightly, revealing a grin. Henry knelt, producing a lollipop from a hidden pocket. He handed it over.
"Future actor." he said, voice soft. "If fate doesn't get in the way, you will be brilliant. But it will get in the way. Life always does."
He straightened, eyes sweeping the room. "So always be strong." he continued.
"Remember this; 'Control only what you can touch. Let the rest teach you.' And, 'Courage is not the absence of fear; it is walking forward when everything comes to a full stop.'"
The boy nodded, wide-eyed. Henry placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You understand that? Good. Keep it. Your mind is a garden; the thoughts you water grow stronger than the ones you neglect."
The survivors were rising now, slowly at first, then with more confidence. Their fear was still thick but something in Henry's presence gave them steadiness.
Henry smiled roughly, letting the momentum of their trust ripple. "None of you are powerless." he said. "Even when the walls close in, even when the flame reaches your feet, even when they think you are nothing… you still have choice. That is the ultimate weapon no one can take."
The boy tucked the lollipop carefully in his pocket, shoulders squared. Henry looked at him one last time, nodding.
The trapped people were gathering, forming a quiet ring around him now. Allies in patience, witnesses to the precision of a plan executed.
....
Henry stepped out onto the dock, letting the cold summer afternoon air bloom over him. He stretched slowly, rolling his shoulders, bending his knees. It semmed like he was about to summon Satan or something.
The cloak rustled, now empty of the boy's weight. He murmured to himself, a stream of jokes and quiet giggles, as if mocking the absurdity of the chaos inside the ship.
The sound bounced off the steel containers lining the dock, merging with the distant hum of water against hulls.
A line of figures emerged from the shadows, hulking men in heavy caps.
They all stunned for a moment realizing, he was gone.
The absence of their leader left them restless but not retreating. If anything, they moved with sharper purpose, stepping forward in synchronized aggression.
Their confidence, born from arrogance and experience, collided with fear, unknowingly drawn by the chaos Henry had orchestrated triggered in fierce.
Two knives appeared in his hands, blades gleaming under the dock lights. They were small, fast, extensions of his body, not weapons to wield but extensions of intent.
He adjusted his stance, feet balanced, weight centered and whispered under his breath, "Let's see how many of you want to play tonight."
The thugs realized, finally, that their leader's voice wouldn't bark orders anymore. Their formation stiffened, tension coiled in their limbs.
Masks hid their expressions but every twitch in their fingers spoke of readiness to strike.
Henry advanced a step, the knives twirled lightly between his fingers, reflecting sparks from a nearby crane. Shadows danced on the containers.
A loose cable hissed underfoot, a small reminder that the dock itself could be an ally or a trap.
Then the first thug lunged, metal club arced through the air. Henry sidestepped with a fluid spin, blades slicing a whisper close to the man's ribs, cutting silence rather than flesh.
Another rushed from the flank, fists swinging. Henry ducked knives flashing swiftly.
Automated turrets clicked and whirred, tracking movement. Their red sensors painted streaks across walls.
Henry Ford pressed forward, two knives in hand, feet sliding across the deck with controlled precision. Every step was measured and elegant despite the chaos.
Crew quarters offered no refuge. Thick steel doors, overturned bunks and rigged flooding valves that threatened nerve agent release if the self-destruct triggered. Thugs spilled from rooms in coordinated waves, fists, pipes, and clubs striking.
Henry didn't pause. He moved between them like a shadow weaving through sunlight, slashing, deflecting and knocking weapons aside.
No one fell dead. That wasn't his method. Only incapacitated, injured enough to stop fighting.
A metallic clang recalled as another thug swung a crowbar. Henry ducked, sweeping the man's legs out, sending him sprawling.
His knives flicked in a blur, drawing shallow, disabling cuts across arms and shoulders.
Then the bullets came.
Crimson tracers streaked toward him, whistling through the narrow corridor.
Time… seemed different. The world slowed around him unnaturally. He noticed the slight hesitation in the turret's mechanical pivot, the flicker of reflection on a visor, the air vibrating differently as each projectile approached.
Knives rose in a fluid motion, spinning, slashing. Bullets met steel, ricocheting with muted sparks.
A round grazed a bulkhead; another clanged harmlessly against a railing. Henry flowed through the gunfire, weaving between walls, a ghost in a storm.
The thugs faltered, uncertainty rippling through them. They saw the impossibility of their odds but Henry's movements weren't just skill.
They were choreography, controlled and inhuman.
Despite being outnumbered, he raged onward, room to room, guiding the fight, controlling the chaos. Knives flashed, bodies fell to knees, weapons clattered, and the lab's deadly potential loomed above them.
The corridor hissed and spat sparks as bullets ricocheted off walls. Henry moved very fast, weaving between thugs and automated turrets, knives flashing in deflection. And then it happened.
One tracer round slammed into a sulfuric acid tank. The metal groaned and cracked. A hiss, a shiver of heat and the liquid began spreading across the deck like a creeping stain of fire.
Henry didn't hesitate. He proceeded his next move, laying his one knife flat atop the floor, feeling the heat radiate from the acidic puddle inches away.
Another knife on his left hand, spinning through the space and landed perfectly across the grip of the first, forming a precarious makeshift bridge.
Muscles tensed, balance instinctive. Henry planted one foot on the second knife's grip's edge.
Every movement was well calculated as well. The acid hissed beneath him, corrosive and lethal but he was above it, hovering almost impossibly on the thin line of steel.
The thugs below were climbing up on containers now, shouting, gesturing, unaware that he was untouchable above them.
Henry's mind ran the scene like a normal person would—calculating distances, angles, weight of every swing but his body defied reason, standing poised atop the blades like a living acrobat, knives his only support.
He glanced up at the ceiling. The battleship's roof—reinforced and industrial-grade held firm. The trapped people below were safe. The floor or roof... Whatever is made of pretty high quality. It won't melt it so easily.
He exhaled through his nose, almost casually, as if balancing on knife above molten acid were simply part of his morning routine.
Then a horn sound came.
Cops, reinforcements, the tide of help had arrived. The sound vibrated through steel and concrete, making the chaos below pause. Thugs shouted in panic.
The acid hissed angrily, but Henry's calm didn't waver.
With a single, deliberate motion, he bent knees slightly, springing upward. Gravity became a tool not a law of physics. Time seemed to stretch for a heartbeat.
Air whooshed past his ears. Then he landed on the dock in one perfect leap, knives spinning harmlessly to the side, cloak snapping behind him like a banner.
Breathing steady, posture relaxed, eyes scanning every threat and ally, Henry Ford looked every inch the man who had mastered chaos and made it bend to him.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The moment belonged to him, only him.
"Another successful operation brought to you by poor planning. I'm officially overqualified for survival. Eh, feels weird."
Then he began to leave the Cargo. But from a secret thin passage instead of the main entrance.