What Happened When Havok Tried To Do A Normal Weekly Shop (It Wasn’t Pretty)

Marvel’s chillest Summers brother versus Tesco on a Saturday. Plasma blasts, melted ice cream and one very understanding security guard.

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Listen, I’ve seen my fair share of ridiculous what-ifs. But nothing quite prepares you for the sight of Havok, yes, that Havok, the one who once absorbed a star’s worth of radiation and told Galactus to jog on, standing in the chilled section with a basket, muttering, “Just milk, bread, and please don’t explode the eggs.”

Apparently, the man decided it was time to “live like a normal bloke.” No more X-Men briefings, no more saving the planet from giant purple space gods. Just him, a council tax bill, and the soul-crushing realisation that the world still needs bog roll even if you can shoot plasma rings from your hands.

It started innocently enough. Havok (or Alex, as he kept reminding the security guard) had made a list. A proper list, written on the back of an old mission briefing, because of course he did. He even wore civvies, jeans, a hoodie, and the slightly haunted expression of a man who knows his powers are triggered by stress, fluorescent lighting, and anything with a barcode.

First hurdle: the car park. Some absolute weapon in a white van nicked the last disabled bay even though Havok’s got a legitimate “mutant metabolism” exemption card (don’t ask). He took a deep breath, absorbed a bit of ambient sunlight, and very politely turned the nearest bollard into modern art. The bollard, to be fair, had it coming.

Inside, things went south faster than a British summer. The fluorescent tubes overhead hummed like a swarm of particularly vindictive bees. For most of us, that’s just annoying. For Havok, it’s a five-course meal of free energy. He’s reaching for the semi-skimmed when the first plasma ring flickers around his wrist like an over-enthusiastic hula hoop.

“Easy, Summers,” he tells himself, the same calm voice he uses right before punching a Sentinel in the face. The woman next to him in the dairy aisle just tuts and says, “You want to try the oat milk, love, it doesn’t curdle when it gets plasma-blasted.”

Then came the frozen aisle. You know the one, the Arctic tundra of own-brand fish fingers and regret. Havok leans in for a bag of peas, and the chiller units decide to play generous host. Suddenly, he’s glowing like a human lava lamp. One small, accidental discharge later, and half the ice-cream section is now a very expensive smoothie. A passing toddler clapped. His mum took a photo for gossiping later. The store manager just sighed the sigh of a man who’s seen worse, probably the time Magneto tried to do Click & Collect.

By the self-checkout, Havok looked like he’d aged ten years. The machine beeped. “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” It was a banana. Just one banana. Havok stared at it the way he once stared at Apocalypse. “I have levelled cities,” he whispered. The machine was unmoved. Another tiny plasma burst, and the screen went dark, politely smoking. The human cashier waved him over with the weary efficiency of someone who’s had this exact conversation before. “Cash or card, pet? And don’t worry, we’ve already added it to the ‘superhero incident’ tab.”

Getting the shopping home was its own special circle of hell. The bus was rammed, someone was blasting drill music through phone speakers with no headphones, and Havok’s hands were doing that tell-tale shimmer again. He spent the entire journey concentrating so hard on not turning the 47 into a mobile fireworks display that he missed his stop. The driver, bless him, just yelled, “Oi, plasma boy! You getting off or what?”

Back at the flat, the real test began. Unpacking the shopping. The fridge light triggered another flare-up. The milk? Now warm. The bread? Artisanal charcoal. The eggs? Let’s just say the ceiling has never looked more like a Jackson Pollock. Havok stood in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by the faint smell of singed Tesco Own Brand, and said the most British thing any American superhero has ever uttered. “Well, bollocks.”

He didn’t even get angry. That’s the funniest part. He just sat on the floor, plasma fizzling out like a damp sparkler, and ate a slightly warm yoghurt with a plastic spoon while staring into the middle distance. “I’ve fought my brother’s evil doppelgangers from alternate dimensions,” he told the cat (who had wisely hidden behind the bin). “Why is this harder?”

The cat, to its credit, offered no opinion.

And that, dear reader, is the true horror of dropping Havok into real life. It’s not the world-ending threats. It’s the small print. The self-checkout. The fact that even if you can absorb the energy of a dying sun, you still have to queue for twenty minutes to buy a pint of milk.

He’ll be back next Saturday. Apparently, the yoghurts are on offer again. Wish him luck. Or at least stand well back.

If this tale of mutant mundanity gave you a proper chuckle (or made you wince in recognition), do me a favour and give it a few claps. It keeps the algorithm from burying me next to the serious think-pieces. Fancy more superheroes having existential crises in the frozen aisle? Smash follow. And drop in the comments which character from any media or person from the real world would you like to see struggle with a parking ticket next? I’m personally campaigning for Deadpool at the DVLA.

Until then, stay calm, stay British, and for the love of all that’s holy, check the use-by date before you blast it.