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Gary took another swig of beer, cleared his throat, and kept going.
"What I just said that's mostly for film. TV and radio? Even simpler. Bigger volume, smaller circle."
Henry leaned in, intrigued.
"Most of the time," Gary explained, "all the actors leads, extras, even background nobodies are handled in-house by the production company or the agencies backing the main cast. So, if you're hoping to land a TV gig through union listings? Forget it."
Henry raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you even get in?"
"You can still go to the big talent agencies and get on their roster. They've always got some poor intern handling the grunt work keeping tabs on open slots for background actors, filling bodies in crowd scenes. You never know when your mug might end up behind someone more famous."
"There's actually an agent for that?"
Gary chuckled. "Nah, it's not one person's job. Usually falls to the rookies. Interns. Whoever's lowest on the totem pole. Still, those extras are usually attached to a real agent on paper, because a lot of productions have specific needs "
He ticked the list off on his fingers. "Age range, gender, height, weight, hair color, ethnicity. You need a platoon of background soldiers? You're not casting scrawny kids who look like they'll pass out holding a gun."
"Ah," Henry said, connecting the dots. "So even extras get filtered like that?"
"Damn right. When casting puts out a request, the agency filters their stable and pitches the closest matches. If you're lucky and fit the type, you might land a gig in a big-budget flick. Of course, those are usually non-speaking parts. Set dressing. Living wallpaper."
"And I'm fine with that," Henry said, swishing the beer around in his mouth before taking another sip.
But Gary suddenly lowered his voice and leaned in, eyes narrowed. "Can I ask you something? Off the record."
Henry blinked. "Shoot."
"You one of those people with special abilities?"
There was a pause.
"You mean a mutant?" Henry asked, brows rising. Then, catching on, he quickly added, "I'm not."
Which, technically, wasn't a lie. He wasn't a mutant. He was a Kryptonian. Totally different species.
Gary gave him a long look. "Just wondering."
"Why? Would it matter? Hollywood discriminate?"
Gary scoffed. "No, no. Opposite, actually. If you've got powers they can use, they'll love you for it. Sure, some mutants look... weird. Maybe only fit for horror or fantasy flicks. But if your abilities are practical? Man, the studios will fall over themselves to hire you."
He leaned back, eyes scanning the ceiling like he was rifling through memories.
"There's this one guy I knowl mutant, probably. Can mold wood like it's clay. He's a sculptor. Works props and set design for major blockbusters. The guy's a freakin' wizard. Directors love him because he can reshape or fix props on the fly. No tools. No waiting. Just bam done."
Henry blinked. "And people are okay with that? They're not... scared their jobs will get replaced?"
Gary snorted. "Please. Like that's easy. Powers like his are one in a million. You think there's a whole army of wood-warpers waiting to take over set design? Nah.
"Besides, this is Hollywood. It's all about value. If you're not saving money for producers or delivering exactly what the director wants, you're useless mutant or not.
"But if you are saving time and money? If you can nail a shot in one take instead of twenty?" He raised a hand in mock solemnity. "Hell, you could be a goddamn Martian. They'll still write you a six-figure check."
Henry tilted his beer, thinking. So being a Kryptonian could actually be... useful on set?
It was a weird thought. He hadn't really planned on turning his powers into a side hustle, but it did open some doors he hadn't considered before.
And now that he thought about it, something else felt off.
People in this world didn't seem as paranoid about mutants as he expected. Sure, there were rumors and stories. The X-Men were active. Magneto and his Brotherhood had made headlines. But there wasn't that boiling hate you'd expect. No anti-mutant legislation. No Sentinels patrolling the skies.
Was it just a calmer moment before everything went to hell? Or was this world this version of the Marvel Universe a little more tolerant?
Hard to say.
Gary didn't seem to notice Henry drifting into thought. Or maybe he did and just kept rolling with it. "Now if you don't have powers, then it comes down to nerve and skills."
Henry snapped back. "You mean like stunt work?"
"Exactly. Stuntmen are the backbone of action movies. Car chases, explosions, getting punched through a window those aren't CGI, kid. Someone actually does that stuff."
Henry nodded slowly. That... might work. He could take a hit. He could fall from insane heights. Hell, he could probably walk out of a building collapse and only complain about the dust in his hair.
The only tricky part was not overdoing it. If he sold a hit too realistically or didn't sell it at all people might start asking questions. Especially if he no-sells a punch from some juiced-up actor and walks away without a scratch.
But if he picked his stunts carefully, he could make a career out of this. One foot in Hollywood, one foot in the shadows.
"Are there stunt agents?" he asked.
"No dedicated agencies," Gary said. "Most of it's word-of-mouth. You do one job, leave an impression, and people start passing your name around. You can also mention your stunt skills when registering with the union or an agency. But it's a small circle you'll need someone to vouch for you."
Henry nodded, mind spinning.
Union gig. Background actor. Maybe stunt work. Use his powers just enough to make a living, but not enough to raise red flags. No fame. No headlines. Just exist.
For now, that was enough.
By the time they finished the last of the beer, Henry had more clarity about his options but also more questions. The path ahead wasn't exactly clear. It twisted and forked in ways he hadn't expected.
But it was a path.
And for a Kryptonian trying to keep a low profile in a superpowered world?
That was more than enough.
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