How to Become a Henchman, A Novel: The Henchman's Survival Guide

by J Bennett

  I nod. Beacon is the only hero left from the early days of the town. She’s been headlining her own show for more than 15 years now, a streak unmatched by any other Persona. One of the ways she keeps her ratings up is by refreshing her costume, her character, and her sidekick every few years.

  “Shine needs a romance,” Yun says. “It’s been two months since Gust broke up with him.”

  “I thought it was mutual.”

  Yun gives me a look like I have cotton balls for brains. “It’s never mutual. A romantic pursuit would def jump his female viewership. Maybe enough to help him spin-off. How’d he do with the Mechanics today?”

  I glance longingly at the locker room door, but I know Yun won’t let me go until I give up enough details about my sidekick encounter. “Crank made a big show of holding Shine off long enough for Socket to get away with the dollars.” I pitch my voice dramatically. “Go, Socket! Tail it. One of us has to make it!” I drop to a trembling whisper. “Just promise… you’ll remember me.”

  “Ha!” Yun slaps zir palm on the counter. “Pressing the romance. Hearts will be bursting when the ep comes out.”

  Yun leans over the counter, and zir cleavage swells from the confines of zir laced scarlet corset. I ponder whether zir breasts are real. We’re not friendly enough that I feel comfortable asking. Yun probably wouldn’t mind, but some non-binaries are sensitive about gender questions.

  “You know,” Yun says, “rumor has it Crank and Socket can’t stand each other. If it weren’t for the series, they’d be divorce-o.”

  I remember Socket’s big crocodile tears as he’d tailed it from the bank, screaming, “This isn’t the end, hear me? I’ll come for you. I swear it!”

  I can only imagine the heart-rending music the producers will slap over that scene for the ep. All the fans will probably go heart-sick for it.

  It’s a kayfabe world: Everyone knows it’s not real, but they believe it anyway.

  Yun is looking at me, zir brown eyes big and eager for more details.

  “It really was just the same old spin,” I tell zir to close down the convo. I don’t even bother mentioning the freeter. By the time Shine had Crank trussed up in his glowing Torch Whip and was instructing the tourists to form a line to get selfies with him, the freeter had slunk out the side door. He probably didn’t grab any time on the eps of either Beacon & Shine or The Maniacal Mechanics.

  As I turn away, Yun calls after me, “Is Shine’s ass as gorg as it looks on screen?” Zir Band flashes an emoji of two pumpkins.

  Shine may be pure arrogance wrapped in a multimillion dollar suit, but he does fill it out well.

  “Even better,” I tell Yun truthfully before ducking into the small women’s locker room.

  I change into a light tank top and baggy capris. No tech embedded in the fabrics. It’s not because I’m a fitness purist like some of the guys around here, and I’m def not a minimalist, but my Band can measure my pulse just fine. I don’t need my clothes to grab graphs on my sweat ratio and CO2 measurements.

  Speaking of my Band, the small, silver-colored bracelet hums with energy as its holo-screen wraps around my forearm. My Totem appears.

  “You’ve consumed 1,202 cals today,” Bob reports glumly. His round face is sallow, and his mouth puckers above his unshaven jaw. I really shouldn’t have splurged on the morose personality filter for my Totem, but I was getting tired of the perky factory setting. At least the colorful butterfly wings protruding from his back were free in exchange for following some graphic designer’s Stream. I found the portly, unshaven avatar on the very last page of the standard options when I bought this Band, subsidized by the gov, when I started high school. It’s a Gen 9, no-frills Swan model. The ironic thing is that I’ve had it so long that it’s gone from sadly dated to retro-chic. I get all sorts of compliments on it now.

  “Don’t take any pics or vids of my workout,” I warn my Totem. He’s been known to post updates to my Stream on the sly.

  Bob just shrugs. “Your Stream score is abysmal. Only 11% of women aged 22 have a lower Stream score than you in the United States.”

  “I’m surprised it’s that many,” I say truthfully as I pull my brown hair up into a sloppy ponytail. Most of them are probably minimalists. Seems like that little cult is picking up more speed each day.

  “You’ll never get a job with your Stream score,” my Totem says. His butterfly wings tremble in agitation.

  “I already have a job,” I remind him.

  I close my locker and take a quick glance in the mirror. It’s pure glass; no software interface. You don’t see that too often anymore. It’s nice to look into a real mirror and not have my proportions auto-adjusted or filter options scrolling at the bottom. I gaze at my unaltered reflection. Brown eyes stare right back at me. I get my chocolate brown hair and bronze skin from my Grandma Rosario. Not a single bow is to be found on my clothes. No colored streaks in my hair. No costume jewels adhered to my temples, collar bone, or under my lip. I can almost hear Lysee tsk. According to my roommate, I stubbornly persist in the very worst vice.

  Being plain.

  I shrug. If I tried to keep up with the fad-go-round, I’d never have minutes for anything else.

  Just before I leave the locker room, I twist my wrist to wake Bob. “Any news on Castillo versus Pepsi-Amazon-Goldman Sachs?” I ask.

  Bob glowers at me. “The Supreme Court is still deliberating. Soon as anything changes, I’ll tell you.”

  I already set him to give me any updates on the case as soon as it hits the news Streams, but I still worry that I’ll miss the decision. The court’s been deliberating for a week. How much longer will it take?

  I stroll out into the main training area, where that mixed martial arts class is wrapping up, and glance at the students. The guy with fire-engine red hair and red-tinted eyes is here. So is the guy who always takes his shirt off to display the flame tattoos writhing down his torso in luminescent ink. A beautiful black woman wears her platinum hair in a long braid dotted with pink bows. Stick-on jewels parade down her arms in swirl designs. I haven’t seen her here before, but she fits in perfectly with her classmates.

  Palinsky’s is full of strivers. They all want to grab the eyes of a sponsor, get in front of a camera, and become a Persona with a capital P. Many unabashedly cast sidelong glances at their fellow students.

  Rumor is, a few of the town’s capes and vils train here on the sly.

  This whole damn town is a kayfabe dream, but at least the constant vil attacks keep the rent low. The City Council even subsidizes the tuition of the local university to keep plenty of young, good-looking civvies on tap. With my lightweight bank account, I’ve got no choice but to stay. Once I earn my graduate degree, debt-free, I’ll tail it far away from Biggie LC and all the semi-reality towns.

  I weave around the students as the class breaks up. If I had the dollars, I’d rent the private room at the other end of the building, which includes a robo named Hitler specially designed to spar. Seeing as how I’m barely covering my credits, I walk to the stinky open practice area next to the men’s locker room.

  I pummel a misshapen punching bag that looks like it’s going to burst just from despair. A single cam drone buzzes lazily overhead. Most likely, it’s owned by the city. Each sponsored cape and vil brings their own cam drones on missions, but the city keeps a fleet of them active at all times just recording everyday life. The vid feeds are offered to the producers of all sponsored Personas for stock footage or extra angles if action goes down.

  After I release a good amount of aggression on the punching bag, I scan the room and eyeball poor Anthony crumpled in a corner. The kids take a particular joy in beating the circuits out of him. I flip him on, and the robo’s eyes light up in his smooth, plastic face. It takes a moment until his scan recognizes me, and then his lips wrench into a slow smile.

  “Hello, Alice,” he says politely as he begins unbending his arms from their unnatural position. Anthony looks like exactly w
hat he was originally made to be: a crash test dummy. His body is only marginally human, and his eyes glow from a nearly featureless face.

  Anthony is about one step up from a punching bag, but he’s free to use, so I’ve got no right to gripe about it. He doesn’t have any fighting or defense protocols, but he can follow basic commands.

  “Ok, Anthony, put me in a headlock,” I tell the scuffed, dented robo.

  “Certainly, Alice. It would be my pleasure.”

  I appreciate that Palinksy was too lazy to change the robot’s factory settings. These days, everyone’s giving their personal robos punk attitudes or social anxiety disorders just to seem sleek. It’s nice to just interact with a polite robo.

  Anthony shifts his awkward, padded arms, squeezing me into a headlock. I work on my Krav Maga skills, breaking his hold and ramming my knee into his crotch. The best thing about Anthony is that you can hit him full on instead of miming it like you have to with a human partner. His whole body is squishy and easily absorbs my elbows, palm jabs, and thrusting knees.

  Krav Maga is all about building muscle memory — making everything automatic — so I have Anthony put me in the headlock again and again. Each time I break out, the movement feels smoother.

  Three years ago, I’d given in to Lysee’s begging and signed up at Palinsky’s with her. She’d been convinced that learning some combat moves would up her chances of grabbing eyes and getting sponsored. My roommate hardly comes to the gym anymore, but I surprised myself by how much I enjoyed learning Krav Maga, jujitsu, and MMA.

  Going to classes here and even sweating through these solo workouts helps me feel like I have at least a little control in this crazy town. The City Council pays a few randos to slink about, mostly around Iconic Square, snatching wallets and purses and roughing up townies just to sow general chaos and give small-time heroes someone to fight as they try to swell their ratings. I like that I can defend myself and my dollars if a cape doesn’t swoop in. Sure, I could get kicked out of town for fighting a vil, but you won’t find me trapped inside a huge ornament, like with that stunt Evil Santa pulled last Christmas. Lysee told me the ep got moon-high ratings, but I know at least two people from school who didn’t appreciate being grabbed off the street by Lunatic Elves. Tunia broke her wrist when they threw her in the van.

  Then there’s Shadow.

  I mistime my swing, and my fist lands on Anthony’s chest instead of his throat. A miss like that could turn a fight against me, especially if I was up against someone strong and remorseless.

  Someone like Shadow.

  No one knows much about Shadow. He just popped into town a few months ago and started leaving major damage in his wake. It’s not even clear if he’s sponsored or just some freeter psychopath trying to push the envelope. Whatever he is, I’m sure as hell kneeing his nuts as hard as I can if he gets anywhere near me.

  I practice with Anthony for half an hour, but a lanky teen who’s obviously as broke as I am lingers in the corner waiting his turn, so I let my robo buddy go.

  “Sorry for all the crotch shots,” I tell Anthony.

  “That is perfectly alright,” he answers pleasantly. “The power of your hits has increased by 2.62% since last month.”

  “Aweso. Send the data to me,” I tell him.

  “It will be my pleasure. Have a wonderful day in Big Little City.”

  My Band hums against my wrist, acknowledging the upload. Bob will plot it on my workout graph along with my heart rate and cal burn. I’ll probably give it a peek tonight. Progress is slow, but steady. I’m getting faster. Stronger. More agile. Sometimes I pon if I could take on a real vil or cape if the situation ever required it. Half of them are pretenders anyway, letting the advanced tech in their costumes and weaps do everything.

  I’m just about to find a quiet corner to do some cooldown stretches when I hear a confident chuckle behind me. I turn and raise an eyebrow at the guy who just strolled out of the men’s locker room. He’s all glam, from his playfully tousled black hair to those bright green eyes. The huge chunk of diamond-studded platinum on his wrist is a Wyvern model Band. That’s an immediate jackass alert right there.

  “You know, that robo doesn’t fight back,” he says.

  “And I’m guessing that you do?” I say.

  His wry smile tells me I’ve matched whatever internal dialogue he’s got running in his head. “Only if I’m forced to defend myself.”

  Gag.

  The guy looks familiar. Hard to forget those captivating eyes and all that muscle. I’ve seen him around the gym a couple of times, usually walking into or out of the private training room. He goes to my college too. I realize that we have chemistry together.

  I dig for his name. “You’re Adan,” I say.

  “Guilty.”

  I bet he spends half his universal basic income checks on protein poppers to get those biceps he’s all too happy to show off. Must spend the other half of his UBI on pigment enhancers. Those emerald green eyes are anything but natural. I catch myself trying to calculate the value of all the tech embedded in his sleeveless shirt. I’m pretty sure that thing could turn into a helicopter if he gave the right command.

  “I like the robo,” I tell him. “I don’t have to apologize when I kick him in the nuts.”

  Adan pauses. Clearly this wasn’t my intended line. Then he smiles. I expect him to make some cringey allusion to his own equipment, but instead he says, “If you want some more interactive practice, I just rented Hitler for the next two hours. You can have a go at him while I warm up.”

  I actually consider the offer. I’ve been dying to go toe-to-toe with the pricey fighting robo. But then Adan ruins it by adding, “…and then maybe I can give you a real challenge.”

  It’s the little dance his eyebrows do that sours my interest. I remember that I’ve seen him flirting with every female in chem, including the holographic toads.

  “Thanks, but I’m sure you’d have to go easy on me,” I say, adding a little fawn to my voice. “I wouldn’t want to waste your rental time.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind,” Adan replies with great humility.

  I roll my eyes, and when he picks up on my sarcasm, uncertainty flickers across his face for just a split sec.

  “Well, I offered,” he says, with a sting of anger in his voice. This guy obviously hasn’t heard “no” in a while.

  “Happy punching,” I say and give him a salute.

  Adan frowns. “What happened to your arms?”

  I glance down at the shallow cuts in my skin. They’re a little crusty but aren’t bleeding anymore.

  “A dumbass sidekick decided to make a grand entrance,” I tell him. “Dove through a window. Didn’t even notice he gave me a glass shard shower.”

  That breezy look drops off Adan’s face. Suddenly, Mr. Glam doesn’t seem so sure of himself.

  “Well, he was probably trying to save your life,” Adan says. His voice is a little too tight. A little too defensive.

  A notion hits me.

  A big, crazy notion. Suddenly, I’m studying everything about Adan.

  “No, he was grandstanding,” I say and watch his face very carefully. “You know, these heroes have such big egos.”

  His lips tighten. How tall was Shine? Hard to tell from the floor. Adan only has a few inches on me, but didn’t Lysee say everyone knows Shine puts lifters in his boots? The helmet covered Shine’s hair, and it synthesized his voice, so no way to compare those features.

  I take another exploratory jab. “Civvies are just props to capes. Helpless people to save to make themselves look better.”

  “That’s not true,” Adan says immediately. “They want to help.”

  “They want ratings.”

  “They have to get ratings. That’s the only way they can keep their sponsors.” His cheeks are flushing, his voice rising. “You know, there’s a lot that the eps don’t show. The heroes — sometimes they visit hospitals.”

  “How would you know?” I raise an
eyebrow.

  Adan’s face changes. It’s like a wall comes down, cutting off his emotions. Suddenly, he’s back to that vapid smile. “Gossip Streams,” he says with a shrug. “I’m a fan of heroes. Who isn’t?”

  “You haven’t asked me the most important question,” I say.

  Behind us, the teen slams Anthony into the ground. “Oh, very nice, Trill,” Anthony says from his splayed position.

  “I’m losing minutes,” Adan says and nods to his rented room across the gym.

  “You never asked me which hero ‘saved’ me.” I tent my fingers.

  Adan looks bored now. “I’m sure the local news Streams will show clips. Reena will be all over it.”

  Ugh, that sycophantic reporter has spent her entire career clinging to the tech-filled boots of the town’s heroes. If she isn’t their number one fan, I don’t know who is.

  “Alrighty, happy punching,” I say sweetly to Adan, and give him a little wave. As he passes me, I sneak another looksee.

  Yep, that ass. Pumpkins. It’s him alright.

  “Hey…” he turns back around, and I snap my eyes up. Uncertainty clouds his face again. It makes him look like a different person. “I’ve got ointment for your arms. It’s good stuff, synthetic stem cells. It’ll heal you really fast.”

  “Uh, no, I’m fine.”

  “It’s no trouble. It’s just in my locker,” Adan says.

  Suddenly I feel uncomfortable in my private smugness. I don’t like that he’s playing thoughtful.

  “That stuff costs major Loons,” I hear myself say. “Save it for when you need it.”

  “Yeah, fine.” He’s walking away again. “If I meet any heroes, I’ll tell ‘em to leave you alone.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, but he’s already gone.

  Chapter 3

  I’m going to break her down to atoms!

  The Professor, S2, E8

  The GPS system doesn’t have the coordinates of my house quite right, and the moped stops, as usual, down the wrong side street. Just one more reason to never wear heels.