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Chapter 49: The Deathtrap Shot
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 16:04:00 +0000 UTC
On paper, Henry’s situation wasn’t that complicated.
In Hollywood, most rules existed more for appearances than for enforcement. Where there’s a regulation, there’s a workaround. And people like Channing—grizzled veterans of the stunt business—knew every loophole.
“I’ll sign a temporary agent contract with Henry,” Channing said quickly, “and then I’ll handle the production-side paperwork. We’ll get him insured and on the books. Everything will be above board.”
The producer gave a disinterested nod. He didn’t care who signed what—as long as the paperwork covered liability and budgets stayed intact.
As for Channing, he wasn’t investing in Henry just yet. This was a test run. If the kid pulled it off, maybe there was potential. If not? No harm done—other than a few bruises.
Henry, meanwhile, knew exactly where he stood: bottom of the food chain. He wasn’t about to argue.
Worst-case scenario? He’d take a hit—literally—and write it off as experience. It’s all résumé fodder in the end.
Once the signatures were done, Channing dragged Henry over to the shoot zone, where he broke down the stunt plan.
“See that brown sedan?” Channing said, pointing to a dented, retro-looking muscle car. “That’s the ‘villain’s’ car. You’re supposed to be trapped in the back seat. That’s also the one we’re blowing up.”
Henry raised an eyebrow.
Channing continued, unfazed. “The red convertible will be driven by the female lead. It’ll line up alongside the sedan as both cars roll at about 40 mph. The brown car’s been rigged with a timed throttle—we control its speed remotely.”
He pointed at two nearby trees with yellow paint on them.
“You jump when the first marker passes. You’ve got to get from the window of the sedan into the back seat of the convertible. That’s your landing.”
“And the second marker?” Henry asked.
“That’s the cue for the explosion. The rig will detonate and flip the brown car, launching it up from the rear while flames shoot out.”
Henry blinked. “That’s… dramatic.”
“We’ve tested it with models,” Channing said, as if that made it better. “It’ll give the director exactly what he wants. Now—your safety rig…”
He gestured to a third vehicle—an open-frame pickup truck with camera mounts.
“There’ll be a tensioned safety wire tethered to you. If anything goes wrong, the crew yanks it, and you get pulled up and out of the blast zone.”
Henry nodded slowly.
In theory, the plan might work. But only if nothing went wrong.
Which, considering Hollywood’s track record, was basically saying good luck, sucker.
The wire wasn’t even tensioned at the start, meaning if Henry missed the jump, mistimed the leap, or got tangled—he could get cooked, crushed, or dragged like a rag doll.
The more he listened, the more Henry understood why the previous stuntman had rage-quit.
But all he said was: “Understood.”
The director stepped forward, stress lines etched deep across his forehead. “You sure you can do this? We’ve got one shot. No reshoots. No second takes.”
Henry smiled. “That’s all I need.”
The producer wasn’t worried. If the shot failed, he’d just cut the scene altogether. Less footage, fewer risks, and more budget left over. No skin off his nose.
Henry had no illusions. The setup was reckless and barely legal. But he had a secret weapon: he wasn’t human.
As a Kryptonian, Henry could survive the blast, the jump, the crash—and probably even the bad coffee on set. But the trick wasn’t surviving. It was doing it believably, without exposing his powers.
There’s plausible human capability—and then there’s bending steel with your bare hands. He had to stay within the realm of “lucky stunt guy,” not “alien god.”
So he didn’t suggest changes. He didn’t ask for tighter safety. No one would greenlight extra gear or more budget anyway. The producer looked like the kind of man who’d rather kill a stuntman than cut into catering.
Henry went through the motions—checked the rig, inspected the cars, nodded thoughtfully—then turned to Channing.
“How about we do a dry run first?”
Channing nodded. “Good call. Let’s see how you move before we light the fireworks.”
They prepped two of the cars—neither rigged with explosives. One was the red convertible. The other, a twin of the brown sedan, had no doors, no seats—just a camera skeleton frame.
The third brown car, the one loaded with explosives, sat parked a safe distance away. They’d only touch that one if Henry passed the test.
Channing brought the test cars within a meter of each other—the closest safe range before the explosion radius became a problem.
“During the real shot, they’ll be moving at speed,” Channing warned. “But for now, they’re stationary. Just show us the mechanics.”
Henry asked the director, “Where does my sequence start?”
“You’re already halfway out the window,” the director explained, gesturing dramatically. “The fight scene’s been shot inside. We cut to you hanging out the window, mid-escape. Then: jump.”
Got it.
Henry climbed into the sedan and positioned himself—halfway through the window, legs still inside, torso dangling out. He shifted his weight, braced on the roof, bent his knees, and launched.
Clean arc.
Controlled momentum.
He landed neatly in the back of the red convertible, barely shifting the upholstery.
“No good!” the director barked immediately.
Henry blinked. “What?”
The director scowled. “Too clean. Too calm. I need panic. Desperation. Like your life’s on the line. I want to see you barely make it. Sweat. Fumble. Scramble!”
Henry raised a brow, then forced a grin.
Oh, you want drama?
Next take, he’d give them a show.
