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Chapter 57: The Audition
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 15:38:03 +0000 UTC
“Henry Brown!”
The assistant, running herself ragged, called out several names in rapid succession. Henry followed the group into the studio building.
A vacant set—currently between productions—had been converted into a makeshift casting space. A row of folding tables stood in place of a proper casting room. Off to the side hung a line of neatly pressed Navy and Army uniforms.
No one was asked to change, though. The audition was more for presence than performance. They were simply guided to sit in a line before the casting table.
Each actor’s profile, previously checked in and verified, was placed before the casting director. Whenever he glanced down and found one worth a second look, he called the name and asked the candidate to stand and turn for inspection.
Those who made a favorable impression were sometimes asked to don a uniform, then turn again. Just to see how they looked as a soldier—or a sailor.
When Henry’s turn came, the casting director raised a brow.
> “You handwrote a stunt credit onto your résumé?”
> “Yes, sir,” Henry replied. “I just completed it recently, so I haven’t had a chance to update the document yet.”
> “How recently?”
> “This morning, sir.”
> “Huh.” The director leaned back slightly. “You mind telling me what kind of stunt work it involved? Within the limits of your NDA, of course.”
Henry had personally signed those contracts. He knew the confidentiality clauses well—and they were minimal, given it was a low-budget B-movie. So he gave a brief rundown of the scene, careful to highlight the physical action without revealing any plot details.
Everyone at the table had been in the industry long enough to read between the lines. Even a vague description was enough for them to mentally reconstruct the setup.
The casting director continued.
> “Which stunt team were you with?”
> “Channing. Channing Williams.”
> “Oh, that old bastard.” The man chuckled. “So why didn’t you sign on with him?”
He glanced down again.
> “You’re only registered through the Guild.”
> “Because I still want to work in front of the camera, sir,” Henry answered honestly. “Stunt work’s fine, but I’m aiming for speaking roles.”
It was the most reasonable answer possible. No one joins this industry to stay invisible. Everyone wants to be seen.
The director nodded and moved on.
> “You get seasick?”
> “No, sir.”
> “Sound pretty confident. You come from a boating family?” he smirked.
> “I worked crab boats in the Bering Sea last October and November—Alaska runs. Four trips out, no seasickness.”
> “Mother of—!” the man next to the director exploded in surprise.
It was Luigi, the Screen Actors Guild representative for the audition.
> “You’ve done crab boats? Damn, that’s no joke. Must’ve been hell out there.”
He leaned over to glance at Henry’s file.
> “It was rough,” Henry admitted, “but the pay made it worthwhile.”
> “But there’s nothing about it on your résumé?”
> “Didn’t feel like it was relevant to acting, so I left it out.”
> “Sometimes your other work says more about you than your acting credits,” Luigi said, nodding thoughtfully. “Might wanna include stuff like that next time.”
> “Understood, sir.”
Normally, union reps were there to ensure the process was fair and transparent. In practice, though, production crews often sweetened the pot to keep them from interfering.
Henry’s mention of the crab boats had clearly piqued Luigi’s curiosity, but he knew better than to push too far. The conversation was casual enough not to draw any ire from the casting director.
To be fair, spending time on a crab boat was an impressive credential, especially in the context of a military-themed film. People were understandably intrigued.
But the director didn’t give anything away. With practiced neutrality, he simply nodded.
> “Thank you, Mr. Brown. You may return to your seat. We’ll notify you if you’re selected.”
Henry didn’t expect much—no costume test, no follow-up questions—but he didn’t let it bother him. He returned to his seat without any fuss.
What he didn’t know was that the director had already marked his name.
In truth, Henry had just moved into the “likely backup” column.
Why?
Because their star had a bad habit of “accidentally” injuring people during scenes—whether from overzealousness or carelessness was unclear, but the result was the same: broken noses, sprains, bruised ribs.
And word had gotten around. Many stunt professionals avoided working with him altogether, unless their fees were doubled or tripled.
So the casting director needed extra coverage—people who could take a hit, step in last-minute, or be quietly reassigned to stunt duty if someone dropped out.
Henry’s brief stunt experience made him exactly that kind of backup.
A short while later, two more hopefuls were asked to change into uniforms. While they were off in wardrobe, those who didn’t make the cut began filing out.
Another audition wrapped up, business as usual.
Henry left the Warner lot without heading back to the library. He had a different stop in mind—a hardware store that stocked electronic components.
Not the rare custom-built computer parts, of course. Those were hard to find. But basic circuitry, capacitors, and logic chips? No problem.
After all, some of the biggest names in tech started in garages.
But Henry wasn’t trying to be the next Steve Jobs or Elon Musk.
In a world where Hydra could upload minds into machines, or where Pym Particles could shrink entire buildings, trying to “disrupt the industry” with basic tech felt like trying to sell flip phones in Wakanda.
He didn’t know if those kinds of technologies really existed in this timeline—but if they did, stepping on the wrong toes could get him killed. Or worse—recruited.
And let’s not forget: If you wanted to succeed in America’s booming IT sector, you needed capital. Big capital. Wall Street capital. That meant dancing with the devils in tailored suits—most of them speaking fluent Yiddish and smiling while they bled you dry.
Henry’s true advantage wasn’t his brain. It was his Kryptonian blood.
He didn’t need to be rich. Just resourceful.
So, no. He wasn’t planning to build a tech empire.
But he was going to build some quality-of-life upgrades.
First: build a proper workstation-level computer for cracking, compiling, and quietly laying down footprints on the still-developing Internet.
Second: a home theater setup with top-grade speakers—studio level, cinema-quality—and upgrade the hell out of his house’s soundproofing.
Because in this noisy, nosy world, music and movies were his one true salvation.
And if he didn’t treat his ears right?
He’d lose his damn mind before Lex Luthor even showed up.
