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Henry wasn't handcuffed, and no one bothered to tell him what was going on. He was just half-forcibly ushered into an FBI vehicle and driven off toward some unknown destination.
The agents didn't draw their guns. Their tone was polite enough, but their movements carried the unmistakable firmness of people who wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Under that soft–hard balance, and with no idea what they were after, Henry could only comply.
If he hadn't actually met real FBI agents before — during that fundraising gala in New York with Audrey Hepburn, when he'd seen their real badges up close — he might have thought these guys were impostors.
Unfortunately, the badges were genuine. So, not some enemy trying to trick him under a fake identity.
Then again — what enemies? The supposedly low-profile Kryptonian found himself doubting his own sense of paranoia.
Still… both the CIA and S.H.I.E.L.D. liked to act under FBI cover when operating domestically. Could this be one of their shadow ops?
If it were the CIA, maybe the source was Bryan Mills. If it were S.H.I.E.L.D., then probably something leaked from the X-Men. But if that were the case, those people had known about his powers for over a year already.
And if it took them this long to make a move, their reaction speed wasn't dinosaur-level — it was corpse-level. Only the dead could be that slow to respond.
Unless… this was about something recent.
Could it be because he'd asked Jean Grey to act as a psychic medium, letting Audrey Hepburn's two children speak with their late mother in consciousness — and incidentally helped awaken Audrey herself? Did that stunt draw someone's attention?
Or maybe… it was about taxes?
Income tax season was in April, still a while away. And if there really was a problem with taxes, the ones knocking on his door would've been the IRS, not the FBI.
So Henry had no clue what this little "invitation" was about.
The agents in the car didn't say a word. After asking three times and getting silence, Henry gave up. He didn't have Professor X's telepathic powers, so instead he turned his thoughts to more practical things — like the design of his BB-series household robot.
There was no point overthinking before he knew their goal. Acting rashly with incomplete information only led to misunderstandings — and mistakes that made everything worse.
So he decided to be patient. Whatever these men were up to, they'd have to reveal their hand eventually. No one could hide their motives forever.
To his surprise, the car didn't head downtown toward the FBI's Los Angeles field office. Instead, it drove north, out of the city, all the way to Montecito, in Santa Barbara County — one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the entire country, full of sprawling estates and mansions.
When Henry had been house-hunting in Los Angeles, he'd done some light research. If Beverly Hills was where movie stars lived, then Montecito was where the real West Coast elite resided.
People here weren't just "rich or noble" — that phrase didn't do them justice. Without generations of accumulated wealth or serious political clout, you couldn't even get in the door.
So what were two FBI agents doing bringing him here?
Passing through, maybe?
That little hope died the moment the car turned into the gates of one such mansion.
The agents dropped him off at the entrance, then drove away without a word — leaving one confused Kryptonian standing alone in the empty courtyard, staring up at the sky in silence.
Not long after, the mansion's doors opened. Out stepped a burly man in a black suit — military posture, cold eyes, the kind of person who looked like he could kill you just by glaring too hard.
"Henry Brown?" the man said, voice low and commanding. "Come inside."
It wasn't a request. It was an order — sharp, arrogant, used to being obeyed.
Henry hesitated, then sighed inwardly and stepped through the door. He needed to know what was going on before deciding whether to burn the place down or just walk away.
Turning around and leaving now wasn't really an option — not when the people who'd brought him here wore FBI badges.
For ordinary people, the first visit from the FBI might be a polite request. The second time, though? It would be a lot less friendly. The threat was clear enough.
Inside was a tall, grand hall with a sweeping palatial staircase. Everything about the décor screamed European aristocracy — the kind of luxury designed to make visitors feel small, inferior, and out of place.
The suited guard didn't lead him anywhere else, just left him standing in the hall.
Henry finally asked, "Hey, mind telling me who owns this place?"
The guard looked like he didn't want to answer, but after a pause — perhaps realizing that ignorance could lead to misunderstandings, and misunderstandings could get bloody — he said:
> "This residence belongs to California State Senator Michael Liddell Horton."
"Senator?" Henry echoed.
In a federal system like the U.S., a state senator wasn't just a local bureaucrat. Within their jurisdiction, they could act like feudal lords. As long as federal matters weren't involved, their word carried enormous weight.
So what was someone like that summoning him for?
Henry, who had paid little attention to American politics — especially since he'd only just returned to L.A. a couple days ago — was completely in the dark.
Then, down the wide staircase came a large, broad-shouldered Black man with a gleaming bald head, a pair of square glasses perched on his nose, and a scholarly air about him.
He looked like the kind of person you'd instinctively trust — gentle, intelligent, approachable.
And yet, Henry's gut screamed trouble.
It wasn't about authority or race — it was the scent of danger. Not from the bodyguards' weapons, but from the faint trace of gunpowder on the man himself… like someone who'd recently been shot at.
> "Henry Brown," the heavyset senator boomed from halfway down the stairs, his deep voice echoing through the hall like a drum.
Henry looked up. "Yes, Senator."
> "Come work for me," the man said bluntly. "As my aide. Eighty thousand a year."
Henry blinked once, smiled politely, and replied with practiced ease:
> "I'll have to decline, Senator. Now, if you'll excuse me — ah, the exit's right over there? Great. No need to see me out."
The response was so smooth, so fast, that everyone in the hall froze.
When Henry turned to leave, the same black-suited guard who'd brought him in stepped forward to block his way.
Henry turned back, still smiling. "Senator, I take it this is just a job offer, right? I assume I still have the right to say no?"
The big man on the stairs stared at him, stunned for a moment — then his expression hardened.
> "No. You don't. And that attitude of yours is only going to bring you trouble."
Henry chuckled. "Oh? And refusing a job now counts as a crime? Which law am I breaking, Senator? Federal labor law? State law?"
The senator's smile vanished. His voice dropped cold.
> "You refuse me, you offend me. And that means you've brought trouble on yourself."
Then, turning to his men, he gave the order without hesitation:
> "Take him to the lounge. Keep him there. If things get messy… use him as a shield."
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