All He Had Was a Face

If he decided to pursue a career in the film and television industry, he had to consider whether to work in front of the camera or behind it.

Behind-the-scenes work had professional barriers too.

Sound recording, cinematography, color grading, depth of field, lighting, composition, directing, and editing—these skills depended on talent as well, but without solid theoretical foundations, one would never get far. Let alone make it onto the Hollywood stage.

As for the approach he had seen in online entertainment-industry transmigration novels before coming here—submitting a screenplay to catch a film company's eye and enter the business that way—it wasn't that nobody had succeeded, but the chances were slim.

First of all, most Hollywood screenplays already existed. Some had even sat around for ten or twenty years before getting the chance to be filmed.

Then the scripts were rewritten again and again until they were utterly unrecognizable, making it impossible to tell what the original work had looked like.

Take the acclaimed 1994 film Forrest Gump, for example. The original was actually a political satire novel.

Forget anything else—just consider how an idiot with below-average intelligence could get involved in so many major historical events and ultimately become a millionaire. If that wasn't mockery, what was?

It was basically unleashing an ultimate move right in the faces of every normal American. It only lacked one iconic line: "I'm not targeting anyone. I'm saying everyone in the United States is trash!"

Yet the finished film became an inspirational work and was even regarded as a representative American Dream story of the 1990s.

If the extent of those script changes were described as a person, it wouldn't be makeup or plastic surgery—it would be replacing the entire head. The new head just happened to still have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.

So submitting scripts and waiting for film companies to come begging to buy them, or to let him direct, was not a viable path.

The only possible route along those lines was B-grade horror films or crude toilet-humor comedies. Those were the kinds of films that didn't already have scripts waiting in every major studio's "to be filmed" library.

But whether it was horror or comedy, the script wasn't the most important thing. What mattered was the director's style of execution.

In other words, if he wanted to enter the industry through that route, he first needed a finished work. Then, with a good idea, he might attract a film company's investment and become a director.

Fine, Henry had watched classic movies for more than two months, but he didn't think simply watching them could turn him into a director like James Cameron, who had switched careers from truck driving.

Did watching fish swim upstream really make someone a great man?

So his greatest chance was still to work in front of the camera—to become an actor. At least the first barrier to that profession was simply having a face.

And precisely because the barrier was so low, there were countless people in the profession. The opportunities available to each person were lower than the odds of standing in an open field during a storm and waiting to be struck by lightning.

That was also why all sorts of unspoken rules and casting couches ran rampant. Everyone wanted to raise their own chances of success, even by a little.

As long as he didn't dream of becoming a superstar, he could use his crab-fishing income as support, treat hanging around film sets and playing bit parts as a hobby, and make some knowledge-based or nostalgic gaming content in his spare time. That kind of life should be pretty comfortable, right?

As the saying went, "He who desires nothing is strong." He wasn't asking to become an Oscars-winning Best Actor, nor was he forcing himself to amass as much wealth as those Jews. He was just a salted fish who wanted an easy life. That shouldn't be too hard, right?

The biggest problem with "Happy America, shooting every day" was nothing more than Black people and high hippies wandering around with guns.

He had a Kryptonian physique, an innate bulletproof body. That meant he was firmly invincible.

As for the Mutants, that cosmic family-planning commission that might or might not be trying to collect the Infinity Stones, and whether there was a Celestials embryo inside the Earth's core—none of that was a big deal.

As long as he stayed away from the center of the universe—New York—his odds of survival would rise another level.

Even if Thanos really did gather seven Dragon Balls... six Infinity Stones.

Whether he did it out of compassionate sorrow for all living things, hoping that with half the universe's population gone, the survivors could have more resources; or whether he simply wanted to send countless people to their deaths to please Death, one of the five primordial gods.

Whatever that guy's state of mind, after one snap, Henry's chance of turning to dust would be fifty percent.

If he lived, then no problem. If he died... what big problem could there be? He'd already be dead, so what the hell was there to fear?

Everyone feared the Snap, but when he seriously thought about it, it really wasn't that scary.

Compared with dying suddenly in an accident, what was truly painful was probably being tormented by illness, neither alive nor dead, barely hanging on.

Yet compared with what he had experienced during the later stages at the Russian research institute, even that didn't seem like much.

Back then, those lab coats had pushed him to endure the absolute limit. There wasn't a single part of his body outside the scope of their experiments. Saying his body had been mangled beyond recognition wouldn't have been an exaggeration.

If they had been given a little more time, their methods would probably have escalated to taking apart one leg today and sawing off an arm tomorrow. Once they got bored, they would slice him up and turn him into specimens...

So Henry genuinely didn't think the Snap was some major event, at least not for him.

He had no attachments in this world. If Thanos wiped out half the universe's population, what would he have to grieve over?

Whoever wanted to be a superhero could go be one themselves. He only wanted to survive, live happily, and follow his own heart.

Rather than spend every day looking miserable, worrying about where had exploded, where people had died again, where someone had been robbed, or whose toilet was clogged.

None of that was my responsibility!

The fact that he hadn't gone dark and started thinking about how to Destroy the world was already pretty damn good. At the very least, the Red Empire would undergo a major shakeup and collapse next year, and Henry had never thought of getting involved.

Could he really gain anything from that grand spectacle?

Robbery?

Fuck! He was a Kryptonian. If he really wanted to rob someone, he could do it anytime, to anyone. He didn't need to pick an auspicious day.

If he truly wanted to, he could put on a mask tomorrow and take a stroll through the Federal Reserve's gold vault. Afterward, he could melt the gold with Heat Vision. Who the hell could tell where it had come from?

Reselling goods for profit?

That would only earn him hard money. Could he make one fortune from it so huge that he wouldn't have to worry about food and clothing for three lifetimes?

Making money by exploiting exchange rates to buy up Red Empire assets?

Anyone who wanted to play that game needed enough capital. With his little scraps, he might as well just rob people directly.

As for seeking revenge against those lab coats from back then, that idea was even more ridiculous.

Leaving aside the vast sea of people, how could he find his targets based on their faces alone?

Over the next several years, most ordinary Russians would know nothing but suffering. So after all the trouble of tracking them down, would he just be helping them find release?

Even if they truly found an opportunity amid the chaos and made something of themselves, would it really be too late to take revenge then?

The two greatest pains in life were nothing more than dying before spending all one's money, and running out of money before dying.

By then, those lab coats who had wronged him would have finally clawed their way up through the chaos. If he showed up at their door and said, "This is where it ends," wouldn't that be far more entertaining than seeking them out now?

Death wasn't necessarily punishment; living could also be hell.