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A charity gala couldn't last forever. Money raised had to be spent. So, once the New Year's holiday ended, UNICEF's relief programs went back into motion.
With Henry handling logistics and paperwork, Audrey Hepburn threw herself into the work with a stamina that left even the younger staff stunned. She never stopped moving—visiting project sites across Africa, South Asia, Central America, and South America, often joining the field operations herself.
UNICEF's programs were broad enough that the trips could be broken into multiple phases; otherwise, no single person could possibly manage the pace. For Hepburn, the expectation wasn't to just show up, smile for cameras, and write a report—she was involved, fully.
Africa, however, came with its own complications. Every time they entered a country on the continent, a UN peacekeeping detachment followed in their wake. Even their presence—unarmed aid workers accompanied by blue helmets—had ripple effects on local politics. Other regions didn't warrant such an escort.
How much influence those troops should exert became a thorny question for diplomats back in New York. The UN didn't have limitless soldiers to throw into Africa, nor did Western powers truly want lasting stability there. A continent left fractured was, perversely, more convenient.
The unspoken calculation was cruel: chaos, but not collapse. Keep Africa turbulent enough to never rival the Islamic world, but never stable enough to stand as an equal power bloc.
And so, Audrey Hepburn's relief missions carried more than medical supplies and food. They carried political baggage, too.
More than once, UN officials let something slip in front of Henry and Hepburn, only to laugh it off and change the subject.
That night, as Hepburn read through a draft field report, Henry finally asked the question that had been nagging at him.
"Boss," he said, "is it normal for the UN to be this… messy?"
Hepburn glanced up, surprised. "I didn't expect you to be the one crying foul. I thought you weren't the type to care about politics behind charity."
Henry shrugged. "I don't. I just want to know what you think."
Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "Do you take me for Mother Teresa? I knew her, actually—we were friends. But I could never be her.
"You can't expect a woman who's seen Hollywood up close to look at the world with saintly purity. The truth is, as long as the children in front of us get help, that's enough for me."
Henry frowned. "So as long as the result is good, the compromises along the way don't matter?"
She sighed. "You can't demand that everyone working in humanitarian aid be a saint who funds themselves and eats grass on the roadside. That's not reality."
Henry pointed out, "But you don't take a dime from this. Half the time, you dip into your own money to add supplies."
Hepburn waved him off gently. "And my travel expenses? My accommodations? The staff who travel with me? All covered by UNICEF. Even you're part of that budget. Don't kid yourself—you're on a fully funded tour too."
Henry fell silent, conflicted.
She softened. "Of course, I'd love every cent to go straight to the children. That would be ideal. But our presence here isn't just about aid shipments. A few days ago, a local warlord's men were harassing villages. Once the peacekeepers arrived, the harassment stopped—at least for now. That temporary peace is also part of what we bring.
"Maybe it sounds discouraging, but even a fragile reprieve can be priceless. I know I can't save the world. I know many of the officials traveling with us have… other agendas. But if this gives even one child a shot at a better life, isn't that worth it?
"Even if it's just a sliver of false hope—sometimes that's all it takes to change a future."
Henry nodded slowly, understanding. He finally realized why he'd kept following Hepburn all this time.
It wasn't infatuation—she was sixty, after all. At first, maybe he'd been drawn by the aura of a Hollywood legend. But now, what kept him here was something else entirely: admiration.
She could do what he couldn't. And though he had no desire to become like her, he respected her for it.
After a pause, she added, "That said, if not a single cent ever reached the children, that would be unforgivable. Or if aid became a bargaining chip—'do this for us, then you'll get help.' That's not charity, that's a transaction.
"Where to draw that line… everyone has their own answer. For me, even if the money isn't spent on food or medicine, it should still serve one purpose: saving children."
It was a gray line, a balancing act with no perfect solution.
And maybe that's why superheroes loomed so large in people's imaginations—they were the ones willing to burn themselves down just to light the way for others.
Henry wasn't like that. He admitted that helping others was noble, but he'd only ever do it when it was easy, when it didn't cost him too much. He wasn't about to sacrifice himself for strangers.
He prided himself on recognizing manipulation when he saw it. He knew the tricks, the guilt-trips, the "be selfless for the greater good" lines. His superpower, as far as he was concerned, was the ability to walk away without shame.
Lie flat enough, and the wind passes right over you. That was physics. Less resistance, less pain. Life could be that simple.
He didn't want to chase some endless carrot on a stick. That was a donkey's life. Sure, he joked about being a Kryptonian donkey, but still—a donkey all the same.
And yet, here he was, running himself ragged beside Hepburn.
He told himself it was just because it made him happy. Helping her made him happy.
If Hepburn had ever turned to him and said, "Henry, let's blow up the Earth today," he might have smiled, cracked his knuckles, and gone for it—Marvel Universe, Celestials incubating in the planet's core, or not.
The only reason the Earth was still intact was because, deep down, Henry knew he wasn't Superman. He still had no proof he was Kryptonian at all, let alone on par with Kal-El.
Sometimes, he wondered what had become of the escape pod that brought him here. If the Soviets had gotten their hands on it, chances were it had been stripped down to screws by now.
Typical.
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