Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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In this era, personal action earpieces weren’t yet standard issue. Only the team leader carried a radio. Amid the bang bang bang of the breaching ram slamming into the door, the urgent voice coming through the radio was hard to make out.

When the door finally gave way, the team surged inside.

"FBI! Nobody move!" Nearly everyone shouted as they entered, as if volume alone were more lethal than bullets.

At the very back, the team leader finally caught what the radio was saying. "What?! The target has already escaped through a window?"

At the same time, the agents who’d gone inside reported the same thing.

"Report! No sight of the target. Based on the abnormal damage to the bedroom window, it’s highly likely he escaped through it."

The leader cursed loudly. "You don’t say! The people downstairs already reported seeing them drive off. Everyone back to the vehicles—we’re pursuing! Move, now!"

"Do we leave anyone behind to search?"

"No. Everyone back in the cars. Move!"

Under the leader’s shouted orders, the fully armed agents sprinted back outside at top speed.

Naturally, all this commotion alarmed the landlord, Old Gary. He cautiously made his way up to the third floor, only to see a whole group of people in black helmets and balaclavas, dressed in black tactical gear. It was impossible not to be terrified by that sight.

Fortunately, the large, conspicuous FBI lettering on their upper arms and chests told him this was an official operation—not a gang of armed thugs.

Seeing that they were preparing to withdraw, Old Gary worked up the courage to step forward. "Officer... what’s going on here?"

Before he could say anything else, someone slammed him against the wall. Though no gun was pointed at him, the agent restraining him practically shoved a finger up his nose.

"Quiet! FBI operation. Civilians don’t ask questions. Step aside—we’re still in pursuit of a suspect."

After issuing the warning, the agent rejoined the team and left with the others.

Only then did Old Gary, pressed against the wall with his eyes shut tight, dare to crack one eye open. He glanced down the hallway and saw other tenants peeking out as well—everyone equally clueless about what had just happened.

He checked each room one by one and finally reached the last unit—the one rented by Henry Brown, the guy who kept a tiger.

This was the only door that had been smashed in with a breaching ram. Swallowing hard, Old Gary leaned in to take a look. The "tabby cat" Katie didn’t seem to be there.

Inside the room, there wasn’t much that could conceal the bulk of such a large carnivore. That was at least good news—no need to worry about a tiger roaming the streets.

As the landlord, Old Gary felt responsible for checking the situation, so he stepped into Henry’s apartment.

After storming in, the so-called FBI hadn’t caused much damage before withdrawing. Aside from muddy footprints everywhere, there didn’t seem to be any losses—

—or so he thought.

When Old Gary entered the bedroom, he saw the shattered window and a large bed with nothing but the frame left—no mattress.

"Oh, shit." He leaned out the window. The mattress he’d provided was lying right in the middle of the street.

Several drivers who’d been forced to stop got out of their cars, cursing loudly. One of them was already trying to drag the mattress out of the road.

"What kind of trouble did that kid Henry get himself into?" Old Gary muttered worriedly.

---

The man being worried over had indeed bought himself a brief head start by exploiting a timing gap, temporarily shaking off the group masquerading as FBI agents—who were in truth S.H.I.E.L.D.

But Henry wasn’t even slightly relieved.

An official pursuit by a government organization was never that easy to escape.

Even setting movies aside, he remembered real-life helicopter footage on TV—police chasing suspects for dozens of miles without giving up, until the target was finally intercepted or crashed and arrested.

These S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were wearing FBI skins, which made their limits even harder to judge. The more power an organization had, the broader its range of options—and the less it cared about collateral damage. Especially when it was hiding behind a convenient cover identity.

By comparison, police operations followed established rules. They couldn’t just do whatever they wanted. That made them far more predictable.

So Henry’s first thought was simple: switch cars.

Even if the theft was reported and the stolen vehicle became flagged, the owner wouldn’t necessarily call it in immediately. That delay was a window Henry could exploit.

If he kept driving his old Cadillac, the color and plates would already be on record—it’d stand out like a beacon.

Having never committed crimes or taken part in car chases before, Henry was, to be honest, a little lost.

The only references he had were crime movies and TV dramas—and he knew full well those were often exaggerated or glamorized, not reliable guides.

With no real experience to draw on, and unwilling to reveal too much in front of Barbara Morse, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent beside him, Henry could only rack his brain for a way out.

He turned into a narrow alley. With Henry’s driving skills, the bulky Cadillac squeezed in, nearly scraping the walls and corners, until he parked it in a garbage-strewn dead angle.

Henry got out and motioned for Barbara and Katie to do the same.

"Where are we?" Barbara asked.

"No idea. I’m here to change cars."

"You’ve got a spare vehicle here?"

Given his past at the Continental Hotel, Barbara briefly wondered if he had safehouses and backup cars prepared.

Henry quickly shattered that thought. "How could I have something like that? We’re stealing one off the street."

Leading one woman and one tiger, Henry walked out the other end of the alley onto the street. It was a rundown neighborhood—few people around, dirty streets.

He tried door handles one by one, without lingering. When he reached a beat-up old sedan, the door opened.

Henry jumped into the driver’s seat and hotwired it manually. The engine started without complaint.

Another thirty or forty years down the line, when the streets would be full of remotely controlled electric vehicles, this wouldn’t have been possible.

As soon as the engine turned over, Henry called out, "Bobby, get in," while opening the back door for Katie.

By then, someone had already noticed them from afar. But with a clearly abnormal, oversized feline right there, no one dared approach to see what was going on. Lions and tigers were unmistakable—you couldn’t really confuse them.

Henry had no intention of explaining anything anyway. And this wasn’t yet an era where everyone could whip out a phone and start filming.

Man, woman, and tiger drove off without looking back.

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