by J Bennett
A school loan? I can apply for one at the bank, but they’ll certainly reject me again, just like they did after high school when I tried to get money so I could go to a real college — one where the entire campus wasn’t smothered in a sticky mass of “whipped cream” by The Ice Cream Man two weeks into freshman year. Turns out, if you have no money, no assets, and your mom and brother are both entirely reliant on universal basic income, the bank’s loan bot, (which takes the form of an adorable penguin wearing glasses and a bowtie) will sadly inform you that you are not a “reliable loan partner.” They say your Stream score doesn’t affect the loan approval process, but I’m pretty sure it does.
No loans. What else? What else?
I know what else.
It’s the option I’ve been pushing away each time it bubbles up in my mind. The gig that goes against everything I believe in; that practically goes against my very being.
I turn onto the long, rambling road that leads to the mansion. By the time I walk up the driveway, rain spits down, and a low growl of thunder rumbles faintly in the distance.
I’ve made up my mind.
So, this is what desperation mixed with self-loathing feels like.
The top story of the mansion is divided into two penthouses. Gerald lives in one, although he spends most of his days down in his secret lair. The other penthouse belongs to Matthew. His place is gorg, filled with smart furniture that shifts to accommodate your body, heated floors, and an Anders 3200 3D Printer that can spit out a shirt, a spatula, or even basic tech in just minutes. I’ve never understood why Matthew spends half his time in our small apartment. It’d be much more canny for us all to hang at his place, but we don’t. Something about the penthouse is too big. Too empty. Too lonely.
The door to the penthouse slides open as I approach. Betty waits on the other side with that creepers smile on her face. The unicorn horn is still in place, but her elf ears are new.
“Welcome,” she says as I shove past her.
Matthew lays on his gray couch, protein pack in one hand, Goggs strapped to his face. Technically, Goggs aren’t allowed in Biggie LC unless you have a producer’s license, but a lot of townies keep a pair stashed at home. As long as you don’t wear them outside, the City Council doesn’t really enforce the rule. They just don’t want their vil and cape eps showing a town filled with Gogg Zobs, (people who wear Goggs all day and are lost in their own virtual reality world.)
“32%,” Matthew says. His big head bobs on his thin neck. “Marcus Aurelius. Campbell’s Chicken Soup.”
He must be playing one of his trivia games. I walk up to him and flick a fingernail against the Goggs. He flails, almost falling off the couch. His hands rip the Goggs off, though he is careful to set them gently on the cushion next to him. Those things cost serious Loons.
He’s pissed, but he takes a breath and collects himself. Two China-blue eyes land on my face. “Why hello, Alice,” he says mildly.
“Lysee said you pulled some strings to get her in the tryouts for your dad’s new show.”
“Yep. And I got rewarded for it.” Matthew smiles at me. “Big time.” He wags his eyebrows just in case I needed another hint.
Ugh. I shake away that uncomfortable visual.
Before my own self-disgust chokes me, I blurt out, “Could you pull a few more strings to get someone else into the tryouts?”
“Maybe. Who do you have in mind?” Matthew asks.
“Me.”
Matthew laughs. He keeps laughing. His head falls back. I get a nice view of his molars.
Finally, he gasps, trying to catch his breath. When I don’t say anything, his eyes widen. “Seriously?” he finally manages.
I grit out the words. “I want to be a henchman.”
Chapter 6
Be your character.
Tickles the Elf, The Henchman’s Survival Guide
We’re running late to henchman tryouts.
“The hero comes from within,” Lysee says sagely next to me in the car. “That was Beacon’s quote on her Stream this morning. We just need to change the word ‘hero’ to ‘villain,’ but it’s powerful, don’t you think?”
I think a quote about good time management skills would have been a little more apropos.
Over the last three days, Lysee has flipped between exuberance, serenity, and demonically possessed as she tirelessly prepped for the auditions. These efforts included no combat training or skill building and instead consisted almost entirely of picking out the perfect outfit… which she promptly tossed out the window this morning and started all over again.
To be fair, she looks fierce. Her neon green hair almost knocked out my retinas this morning. The stiff waves seem to dance across her head, interrupted by topaz bows. Topaz stick-on jewels glitter under her lips and form winking swirls just above the swell of cleavage spilling from her black corset. Green ribbons cinch the corset tight and match the silky sash that flatters her small waist.
My pale gray tank top and black athletic pants are simple enough, but sitting next to Lysee, I know I look downright plain. Though, that’s kind of the point. My only nod to fashion is a single white bow keeping my brown hair out of my eyes. As Lysee chatters on, I glance out the window.
The car takes us to the edge of Biggie LC. We townies call this the Old Neighborhood because most of the structures were part of the original city before it turned semi-reality. Big, flat buildings rise up before us: shuttered warehouses and manufacturing plants. They serve as a ghostly remnant of a time when the people in this city actually built things.
Beside me, Lysee shivers in delight. “Villain Spawning Ground,” she whispers. That’s the other, not-so-nice nickname for this part of town. There’s a reason PAGS didn’t demolish and rebuild this area. The visual of the decrepit buildings is suitably creepy. A lot of newbie vils get their start out here, building their lairs, hatching their plots. A few big fights have even gone down on these rooftops.
The car stops in front of an old warehouse. Brown paint flakes from its façade, and its windows were shattered long ago. What a relic. The cynical part of me pons whether PAGS gave this place a little “distress makeover” to give it a nice air of desperation and neglect.
“This is where Beacon and Shine finally took down Evil Santa,” Lysee breathes. “Shine tore the head off the Evil Rudolph robo, and Beacon battled Evil Santa on the roof before he dove off, rather than be captured.” She claps her hands in delight, then frowns. “I think it was this warehouse.”
The car’s AI system pleasantly announces the cost, which Lysee covers without batting her false eyelashes. I move to get out, but Lysee takes my hand. She turns in the seat and looks at me, her eyes newly tinted and glowing a stunning green.
“We are both going to be henchmen,” she says with utter sincerity. “We are both worthy of this. Our time to flow in the Stream of success is now. I love you. And I wish you would have put more thought into your outfit.”
“Thanks.” I give her a wan smile. Little holographic hearts dance up from her Band. In truth, I appreciate Lysee’s big heart. Technically, we’re competitors, but I only see a friend sitting next to me. In an uncharacteristic move, I pull my roommate into a tight hug. We both need this gig for entirely different reasons. Though I’ve often been less than charitable with my roommate, I know this is her dream, her grab at the fame she’s always wanted.
Lysee is all too happy to lean into my hug. She gives me a quick kiss on the mouth and winks at me when I pull back.
“Love is the only good,” she chirps happily as she grabs her last accessory and slips it on her face. Matthew spent hours carefully tweaking the specs on her lab goggles before sending them to his Anders 3D. The goggles are gorg, with smoky green lenses splashed with emerald and black swirls that hide her eyes.
I pull my own mask over my eyes. It’s a cheap little thing, printed from a free 3D schematic I found online. It’s a slightly darker shade of gray than my tank top and covers my eyes, the bridge of
my nose, and my forehead. The forehead part crisscrosses in angled slats forming a little triangle just above my hairline. Lysee insisted on slapping a few winking jewels on the mask, and it was all I could do to stop her from encrusting the entire thing.
Now, I step out of the cab and take a deep breath. Even though we’re a few minutes late, I hesitate.
It starts here. I am walking onto the board of the Fame Game.
Lysee slips her hand into mine, squeezes. “I know we’re both going to make it,” she says, “but just in case one of us doesn’t…”
“I swear I won’t unmask you,” I promise again. She’s been fretting about this possibility for days.
“And I would never unmask you.”
I squeeze her hand. “I know.”
And into the void we go.
A muscled man in a black t-shirt stands at the entrance of the warehouse, large arms folded over his chest. A luminescent tiger claw tattoo swirls down his right arm. He scans the confirmation notices on our Bands and then gruffly holds out his hand.
“Bands,” he says.
“What?” Lysee squeaks.
I’m already unlatching mine, prepared for the request. It was all in the fine print of the invitation. No Bands to be worn during the tryouts. No recording allowed by any contestant and no Stream connections to be made between contestants.
Lysee hesitantly offers her Nightingale-model Band to tiger claw guy and looks forlorn as he scans it with his own Band and puts it, along with mine, in a small cabinet next to him.
“Go on in,” he says and waves his arm as if graciously inviting us into a fine party. The glitchy front door shudders open, and Lysee and I walk into a wide, cavernous room filled with long tables, chairs, and milling bodies.
A cam drone hovers just in front of the door, recording every entrance. As is standard, these auditions will be recorded. Some savvy team of producers will turn our bumbling efforts into a fierce competition that will make up the first episodes of The Professor’s new series. It’s a tried and true formula to get viewers invested in our characters and to help the vil work out the kinks in his, her, or zir own performance.
From now on, everything I do, every word I speak, every expression on my face will belong to the producers. I remember the words of Tickles the Elf, now retired after serving six years as Evil Santa’s top henchman. “You are a character,” he writes in his locally renowned blog, The Henchman’s Survival Guide. “Be your character.”
Be my character, I repeat in my mind.
“Ohhhh,” Lysee sighs, looking around.
Twisted metal shelves sit against the walls and broken, jagged pipes hang overhead. Everything needed for a great backdrop to a vil-cape throwdown. My gaze swings around, taking in our fellow contestants.
It’s glam gone into overdrive.
Every curvy or muscular body is more gorg, more ostentatious than the one before. This is proof, as if there were any need, that when everyone tries to be the center of attention, things get ridiculous fast. A woman brushes past me, a snake — possibly real, possibly a robo — serving as the only shield between her breasts and the world. I carefully skirt around a figure — man, woman, non-binary? — hidden beneath a cowl who swings nunchucks. The weaps almost knock a woman off her 12-inch heels. A guy lounging on one of the stools in front of us wears a full face mask with red eye coverings and a snarling expression, complete with painted fangs.
I look longingly for a quiet corner, but the nearest one is already taken by a hulking giant with orange hair. He’s big and sturdy as a Sequoia, but he seems nervous. Soft blue eyes dart around nervously from behind a white mask that curves down both cheeks. With his clean-shaven face and relatively plain clothes, he’s obviously going for the adorable, newbie character, but it’s not a good fit. Not with all that muscle clearly packing his frame. He should have gone for the berserker angle: the muscleman ruled by anger and violence.
Lysee tugs me through the crowd. She moves us toward one table, but then swerves as she sets her eyes on the table’s only occupant. Sharp horns jut from the muscular man’s black, half face mask, and stringy black hair hangs out the bottom. His clothes are also black, and he glowers at anyone brave enough to catch his eyes. Nice character play. This guy gets the berserker vibe.
Lysee steers us a little farther and then plops us down in two empty seats. Her head immediately begins to swivel, taking in all the sights.
“How many henchmen do you think he’ll bring on?” she asks.
We’ve both been pondering the question endlessly the last few days. The Professor had about 15 henchmen in his original series, but the sponsors have tightened their budgets since those early years. No one wants to spend a lot until a brand proves itself.
“He’s a big name,” I assure Lysee. “At least ten.”
I keep my expression smooth. Shoulders back. Chin level. Confident but calm.
“Going for wholesome?” someone asks behind me.
I swivel on the stool and meet a pair of mischievous eyes the color of honey. His skin is the same brown hue. He wears an elaborate golden mask that sweeps down the left side of his face in intricate patterns. He is young, thin, but beneath the golden vest he wears, I see wiry muscles on his frame.
He looks me up and down, appraising me with a disconcerting keenness, and then he smiles with metallic gold lips. “Wholesome is an odd choice for a henchman persona, but it might work,” he says conversationally. “Not many others are trying for it, but that’s a tough way to get noticed.”
“Not wholesome,” I bite back. “I’m relatable.”
“I begged her to wear something different,” Lysee confides over my shoulder.
I look down at my simple outfit. Plain Jane all the way, but that’s the point. I thought long and hard about how to face this audition. There’s only one character I can manage with any modicum of authenticity. I’m going with reliable, level-headed, and likeable. It’s not the most exciting character, but every group dynamic needs a relatable, normal character who can work as a foil against the others, helping to highlight their sexiness, zaniness, rage, and bitchitude.
Plus, this character has worked for me before.
Relatable is the exact word the director used when he cast Alby and me in Ends of the Earth.
I give Mr. Gold my own assessing look. “And what angle are you going for?”
“Adorable comic relief,” he says, acting offended that I didn’t guess.
“You know, they like to kill off the comic relief when ratings get low.”
“The niceys always get axed first,” he shoots back with a wide grin.
True enough.
“I’m going for vixen,” Lysee says as a muscle job wearing a studded red mask plops down next to her.
“Not a canny idea,” Gold says. “You’ll be up against her.” He nods toward a beautiful woman holding court at the center table. She sits on the table’s edge, one long leg draped over the other. Her hair is swept up artfully, cascades of golden and blue locks tumbling around her ears, fastened with a net of glinting pearls. Those same pearls outline the lacey scarlet mask over her brown eyes.
Two lines of glowing blue scale tattoos march down her body, disappearing and reappearing through the slits in her clothes. They flow down her legs, hidden by the tall, ruby boots tightly cinching her calves. She reminds me of some beautiful, vicious mermaid.
The woman laughs softly as someone from her mostly male audience says something.
“Rumor has it, she competed in Zombie Town and made it pretty far,” Gold confesses to us.
“Ooooh,” Lysee purrs, and even I can’t help but look at the woman with newfound respect. After the fifth round in Z Town, they stop dropping food into the town. By round eight, the zombies outnumber the humans at least ten to one. You don’t get far in Zombie Town without strong weapons building skills and a serious commitment to a worm-based diet.
“Someone else said she’s been on the Robo Bachelor, too, and a dozen othe
r semi-realities,” Gold continues.
A professional reality-whore, then. No wonder she’s got everyone’s attention. They’re already hustling for an alliance, but you don’t survive long in Zombie Town without a penchant for backstabbing. She’s about as safe as fire.
“Hard way to make a living,” Gold is saying. “She’s probably hoping she’ll break out this time. Maybe work her way up to sidekick.”
The way he says those words, the gleam in his eyes, makes me think Gold might have some plans of his own.
“K, K.” Lysee nods. “Then… maybe I can be mean.” She bears her teeth. “The bitch. Or maybe a tragic character.” Her lower lip quivers. “My father was killed during a hero fight. I hate them all!”
“That might work,” I manage. Gold is clearly not impressed. I’m guessing at least 30 people here have come up with a similarly uncreative backstory.
“I demand revenge!” Lysee bangs her fist on the table. As if in response, a huge door on the opposite side of the room slams open. Three cam drones buzz out and take up positions throughout the room.
All the gossip and gabbing cuts out, and everyone standing scuttles for an empty seat.
In the quiet, a new sound emerges, a slow tap, tap, tap. A figure shuffles slowly out of the darkness. He clutches a cane, and it rings a sharp note every time it hits the cement floor. I bet the producers won’t even add any music to this entrance. The dramatic tap of the cane is enough. They’ll probably splice in quick close-ups on some of our faces.
I set my expression. Confident. Calm. Relatable.
When The Professor limps into the dim light, I barely recognize Gerald, my friendly, chatty landlord. His silver hair stands in a wild halo around his head. His eyes are hidden behind smoke-tinged, cracked goggles that perch on his long, red-tipped nose.
His classic look has gotten some notable downgrades. The spotless white lab coat is now gray and tattered. Glowing wires line the hems, one emitting sparks as though it’d been hurriedly patched by hand. The most obvious change is the way his tall body hunches protectively over his cane, one foot dragging with each step. I pon what angle he’s playing here. It’s got to be a revenge story.
