Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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Before long, the deafening roar of the helicopter had grown loud enough for ordinary people to hear clearly, naturally drawing the attention of both Barbara and the wounded Skrull.

Still maintaining his human disguise, the Skrull did not reveal his true form. He gave up trying to persuade Barbara. Toward the human side’s incoming reinforcements, he felt both fear—and a faint trace of hope.

The olive-green military Black Hawk helicopter landed directly on the ground. The .50-caliber machine gun mounted beside the side hatch made it abundantly clear that this was not some kind of rescue chopper.

And the people who jumped out...

One glance was enough to tell something was off.

None of them wore standard military uniforms. Instead, they were dressed in all kinds of coats and trench coats. Some looked like gym rats who loved showing off their muscles, wearing tight tank tops that exposed broad swathes of... furry muscle.

This group wasn’t unfamiliar to Henry.

That wasn’t to say he personally knew them—only that he’d seen them before, at Howard Stark’s funeral.

After all, the white, one-eyed man leading them left a deep impression. But in this universe, Nick Fury was still Black. So who was this one-eyed guy?

Comparing them to the group Henry remembered from the funeral, there were fewer people this time, and the elderly woman who had led them back then was absent.

Yet the one who reacted most strongly wasn’t Henry—it was Kitty.

Normally good-natured to a fault, Kitty unexpectedly displayed hostility as these people approached.

A tiger doesn’t bare its fangs and bark uselessly like a dog, crouching low before pouncing.

A tiger’s hostility is shown by lifting its head, locking eyes with its target, and letting out deep, rumbling growls. Like a king looking down upon his subjects, it exudes the majesty of an apex predator. If it lowers itself and dips its head—that’s the prelude to an attack.

And Kitty’s gaze was fixed on a man who seemed immune to the chill of autumn, still dressed lightly, chest hair and muscles on full display.

The man being threatened by Kitty didn’t retreat in the slightest. He met the tiger’s stare head-on, lips curling as he let out a low, rumbling growl of his own—a clear show of mutual provocation.

If this had been a group of ordinary people, they’d probably be shouting in panic, telling Henry to control his pet.

But this group didn’t spare Kitty a second glance. Even the two at the front—who looked noticeably more aged than when Henry had seen them four years ago—remained completely unfazed.

Henry remembered that four years ago they had already shown signs of age, but they’d been vigorous and spirited. Now, aside from their still-sharp eyes, their physical condition had clearly declined.

The white, one-eyed old man didn’t step forward. Instead, the Irish old man behind him—wearing a bowler hat and sporting an elegant upturned mustache—came up and extended his hand.

"Timothy Dugan. The Howling Commandos."

Wow. So it really was them.

This Timothy Dugan was Dum Dum Dugan himself—the WWII veteran who’d survived into the modern era thanks to the SSS formula slowing his aging.

The Howling Commandos weren’t some secret organization. Back in World War II, they’d made a legendary name for themselves alongside Captain America. What most people didn’t know was that they’d never truly disbanded after the war.

Henry stepped forward and returned the handshake.

"Henry Brown. A nobody."

"Hah. A nobody doesn’t get little Tony calling us up," Dum Dum Dugan replied. With Howard Stark having served as their logistics support back in the day, the Howling Commandos were plenty familiar with the Stark family. That was why Dugan spoke with such easy, uncle-like familiarity.

Even as he chatted casually, Dugan’s eyes swept sharply across the scene, quickly assessing the situation.

The Skrull—still disguised as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and being held at gunpoint by Barbara—suddenly cried out loudly:

"Sir! Sir! I’m a Level Three S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!

"These two are terrorists wanted by the Los Angeles West Coast Division! Director Keller has issued a shoot-on-sight order! Don’t worry about me—kill them immediately!"

Dum Dum Dugan didn’t buy that nonsense for a second. Instead, he stepped forward, grabbed the man by the chin, and examined him closely.

"This is an alien? Doesn’t look like it," he muttered, then dipped his fingers into the blood seeping from the man’s wounded arm and rubbed it between his fingertips.

That gesture alone utterly crushed the captured Skrull’s remaining hope.

"The one dead in the passenger seat—that’s what they really look like," Henry said.

Everyone’s attention shifted to the SUV’s front passenger seat. Because of the angle and the window, it was hard to see clearly.

Dum Dum Dugan opened the door, pulled the alien corpse out a bit, and took a look.

"Good lord, that’s ugly."

Then he started poking and prodding the dead Skrull’s face, fiddling with it as he went.

"Is this real?"

This madman even had the nerve to dip a finger near the hole Henry’s pistol had blasted into the Skrull’s head—some mixture of blood and alien fluids—and taste it.

Henry could only think: Figures. A WWII veteran—someone who crawled out of piles of corpses.

Sure enough, tasting something thoroughly unpleasant, Dugan spat a few times to the side.

"Good?" Henry asked without thinking.

Dugan shot him a look like he’d just seen a ghost. Henry chuckled awkwardly and wisely dropped the subject.

As if to cleanse his palate, Dugan clipped the end of a cigar and lit it on the spot. Then he pointed at the black-suited man under Barbara’s gun.

"How are you going to prove this guy’s the same species as the one in the car? He doesn’t look like it to me."

"Got a knife?" Henry asked. "I’ve got an idea I want to try."

Reaching behind his back, Dum Dum Dugan pulled out a large Rambo knife. Grinning smugly, he said, "This thing may be a movie invention, but it works damn well. Remember to give it back."

He shoved it into Henry’s hand.

Weighing the blade—its edge showing a strange sheen—Henry knew immediately this wasn’t a prop. It was a real, sharpened weapon.

Walking up to the Skrull impostor who was still desperately trying to smear them, Henry ignored his screams. He grabbed the man’s hand, slammed it onto the car hood—

—and brought the knife down.

A finger was severed cleanly. The resulting scream was so miserable it almost shook Barbara’s resolve.

She didn’t move only because, from the earlier conversation, she now knew for certain that this was a Skrull. As for Dum Dum Dugan’s comrades—those hard-as-nails men weren’t moved in the slightest by alien screams.

Henry held up the severed finger for everyone to see.

No explanation was needed. Before long, the finger began to change—its disguise peeling away as it reverted to its original form.

"Just as I suspected," Henry said calmly. "Once a body part is separated, it loses control—just like death—and reverts to its true form."

Even without watching the transformation, no one would mistake that green, clawed finger for something human.

"And if you were wrong?" Dum Dum Dugan asked.

"Then we’d try another way to prove it," Henry replied with an unconcerned smile.

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