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

by J Bennett

  I notice that despite the “no weapons” mandate in the call-back message, one girl carries a sword on her back, and a short, bulky guy has wrapped both fists in chains. I see lots of tech, too. Wired clothing, heated jackets. The angry giant with the long black hair and horned mask who commandeered his own table during the first round of tryouts even wears a laz deflector chest piece and those shoes that can turn into a hover board. He leers at anyone brave enough to cross his path.

  Did no one actually read the rules? They must be trying to see what they can get away with.

  I hug myself, trying to ward off the morning chill. I’m quickly reaching in the end of the small meditation field in front of the temple. Up ahead, a lone figure stands off to the side. I make my way toward him as if this is where I had been going the entire time.

  “Mind if I use you as a wind break?” I ask the big, red-headed guy in the white mask that I’ve nicknamed Sequoia. This close up, I see numerous pale freckles that lay across his skin like snowflakes. I don’t know why, but I’m glad he made the cut. Maybe because he looks as uncomfortable and out of place as I feel. Or maybe because, like me, he’s dressed in plain active wear without ornaments, according to the rules.

  Guess we’re both suckers.

  Sequoia looks at me now, slightly startled. “Um, ‘k,” he says in a surprisingly soft voice.

  I edge in closer. Even with all those muscles, he just isn’t scary or intimidating.

  Watch yourself, I think. He could just be a good actor. I glance at my Band, meaning to find his Stream in my proximity field and figure out his real name. Instead I end up looking at my naked wrist. Right. No Bands. No identities. No way to tell anything about him.

  We stand in silence for a long, awkward moment. Sequoia looks lost. He glances up nervously at the cam drones, noting their location before snapping his eyes down.

  “You have to find them out of the corner of your eye,” I tell him, “but it’s better to just ignore them. Assume you’re always on cam.”

  “Oh.” He nods, his wavy red hair bouncing.

  It’s obvi that he’s not from a semi-reality town. He hasn’t set his face. He’s not in character.

  “I think we’re going to a second location,” Sequoia whispers down to me.

  I look around again. Besides Tiger Claw, I don’t see any other PAs. No producers or setup either. “You’re right,” I say, my opinion of the guy ticking up.

  A sleek black car pulls in next to the temple. It’s not one of the ubiquitous rentals that chug around town with some cape’s face plastered on it. This is a true-owned car. They’re normal in the big cities, but they’re rare here in Biggie LC.

  The back door swings open, and a slender leg announces itself from the depth, followed by Mermaid’s long torso, ample boobs, and that flawless face surrounded by blonde and blue ringlets of hair. Her outfit, if the word even applies, is made up of hot-pink fabric laced like ribbon fetchingly around her naughty parts. She’s smart enough to match it with hot-pink knee and elbow sleeves, pink sneaks, and a bright white mask that looks like a flurry of snowflakes.

  The lack of clothing reveals that the swirling, glinting scale tattoos writhe all the way down both sides of her body. Sequoia lets out a heavy breath, and I take a step away to give him room.

  “I heard she was on The Reaper,” he whispers.

  I’m not familiar with that show, but something tells me it wasn’t a comp based on who could make the most friends.

  Mermaid has timed her entrance just right. No sooner is her car humming away to its charge port than a decidedly less sleek bus pulls up. The doors shudder open.

  “Everybody in,” Tiger Claw bellows.

  Mermaid marches on first. I watch through the windows as she swings into a front seat. The giant guy in the horned mask shoves his way through the crowd and stomps on next. He’s def going for the berserker angle. Either that, or he’s just a class A troll nugget.

  Sequoia and I, standing on the fringe of the crowd, are the last on the bus. Metaphor alert.

  I expect Lysee to have kept a seat open for me, but she’s squeezed in next to a skinny girl with fuchsia pigtails and a purple skirt so short her uterus must be shivering right now.

  “We have to network,” my roommate tells me in response to my look of utter betrayal.

  The bus doors close, and a pleasant voice sings, “All passengers are requested to be seated.”

  And who is the big dumb oaf still standing in the aisle? That would be me. I gaze around. Creepy cowl person has an empty spot. So does a muscular hunk trying to check his teeth in the window reflection.

  I swiftly swing in beside Sequoia, crushing him into the corner of the seat.

  “Hi again,” I say blandly.

  “Ta,” Sequoia says. He tries to scrunch up his big body to give me more space. It’s pretty useless, but I give him points for the effort. He’d be perfect for one of those gladiator shows where they pit people against robotic lions and bears.

  The bus rumbles to life, and soon we’re leaving Biggie LC behind, rolling over increasingly bumpy roads. The three cam drones have tucked themselves into different corners of the bus. For the first 15 mins, the competitors continue to preen, but eventually they grow bored. Several glance down morosely at their bare wrists.

  Gold sits on the outside of his seat, legs in the aisle, chatting it up with a small group around him, including Lysee and her new best friend.

  “Wow,” Sequoia whispers.

  “What?”

  “This is what real life looks like.”

  Sequoia is prob the only person on the whole bus looking out the window. There’s not much to eyeball. Outside of the semi-reality towns and the big cities, Illinois is mostly empty. You’ll occasionally pass a block of huge, glinting factories, but they’re mostly run with software and robos. Otherwise, the only things that break up the flat fields are dying towns and small clusters of cargos splashed with bright murals.

  “In Chicago, everyone wears Goggs,” Sequoia says. He points out the window to a barren brown field. “The Goggs would augment that field with flowers, maybe throw in some unicorns, or whatever animals it knows you liked.”

  Chicago, I think in wonderment. It’s one of the few thriving cities in the Midwest; a place of culture, population growth, and jobs. Real jobs. Why would anyone leave a place like that to come here?

  “No Goggs allowed in Biggie LC,” I tell Sequoia. “Viewers want the civvies to look normal, even though all normal people wear Goggs now.”

  “Do people actually farm out here?” Sequoia asks.

  “Some do,” I answer, “but not many.” It seems lobotomy to me, waiting for the rain. Praying against droughts, super storms, and pestilence. Most of the growing went indoors and vertical after California nearly much burned to the ground three decades ago and that fungal infestation destroyed half the crops in the Midwest, turning the breadbasket into the crumb basket. Thank you, climate change.

  Our bus whips past a bleached little town. Squat trailers line up along the main road, interspersed with a few stores.

  “Universal basic income will cover monthly rent on a trailer or cargo container out here,” I tell Sequoia. “Not in the cities, though. Lotta people move out here to survive.” Or they get stuck.

  “But there’s nothing here,” Sequoia says. He cranes his neck to watch the town fade away in the distance.

  “Dregs will bunk two or three to a cargo. They’ll have some cheap, knockoff Anders 3D printer to make the basics and pool whatever Loons they can hustle to buy a few material cartridges each month. They eat gov nutra-packs. They all have Goggs and Bands. That’s all they need.”

  “Dregs?” Sequoia asks.

  “That’s what we call them, the ones who live out here,” I say softly. “They call themselves that, too. There’s a certain pride in it. Surviving.”

  Sequoia looks at me, stunned. City folk have no idea how bad it is in the rest of the country. The news Streams don’t exa
ctly come out to places like this, and Dregs know it’s not a great idea to kick up dust.

  “What do they do?” Sequoia asks.

  I sigh. “They watch hero shows.”

  Sequoia thinks on this for a moment. The sun highlights the scattered freckles on his arms. “It’s a sad life.”

  I don’t tell him that I grew up in a cargo in one of these blink-and-miss towns, or that my brother and mother still live the Dreg life. A city dweller wouldn’t understand.

  Within ten minutes, we’ve left the Dregs behind. Shade dapples the bus as we pass under trees. I study the other contestants. Up front, Mermaid flirts with the angry giant and a few other studs.

  “Oh, she’s going to get the opening shot,” I realize out loud as we bump over the road.

  “What?” Sequoia asks.

  “That’s why Mermaid took the front seat. The cams are going to watch us spill out of the bus. That’ll probably be the opening shot of this ep. She’s going to be the first one off, the first contestant the viewers see.”

  “Ah,” Sequoia says. “Smart.”

  “Dangerous,” I correct.

  “She’s fishing for allies,” he guesses.

  “And pulling strings. You saw that fight yesterday. She wants to get noticed.”

  Gold has been glancing at Mermaid, but he hasn’t made an approach. In fact, he seems content to stay well away from her, holding court in the middle of the bus with some of the less impressive contestants.

  The tribes are already forming, I realize, and I’m being left behind.

  The bus pulls off the road and comes to a halt in a small dirt outlet surrounded by clusters of trees. Mermaid abruptly stands in the aisle, forcing a bald guy in the adjacent seat to shrink back down. The doors flip open, and she proudly marches out, pausing on the last step to turn in profile while the rest of us wait to get off.

  “I think I know where we are,” Sequoia whispers behind me.

  “In a forest.”

  “A couple of years ago, when Sergeant Blood was building her honor guard, she set up an obstacle course all the cadets had to run. This looks like the same place.”

  Color me impressed. This looks like an utterly generic forest to me. If Sequoia is right, that means he has quite the memory and quite the cape-vil obsession, too. Maybe that has something to do with why he’s here, so obvi out of his element.

  Based on my convo with Gerald yesterday, I already know The Professor and his team of producers are operating on a shoestring budget. It makes sense that he’d reuse an existing obstacle course, and also explains why he’s only choosing three henchmen. None of it bodes well. A small budget means quick cuts if the season doesn’t grab a lot of eyeballs right away. Sometimes they even throw little projects together just to intersect with the storyline of a bigger cape or vil. Last year, Croc-Blade was launched just to attack Vine’s sister. (Surprise, surprise, she miraculously awoke from her coma, on the last ep of the season.) Croc-Blade’s attack set Vine up for a city-wide battle with him, where she had her big, iconic triumph. That victory led her to break out of the Glory League and launch her own show. Croc-Blade, on the other hand, was done after that, his show dead as steering wheels. That big battle also took out my fav coffee stand, so Croc-Blade and I both lost big that night.

  After we all make it off the bus, Tiger Claw herds us into a line and proceeds to pat each contestant down for contraband. The samurai sword is removed. So are those fist chains. Knives and nylon ropes are discovered. The angry giant growls as he loses his chest plate and hov shoes. A girl protests as Tiger Claw removes her glittering hair pins that look suspiciously sharp.

  I expect Mermaid to get caught with something, but she breezes her way through inspection without a hiccup.

  “The air,” Sequoia whispers behind me.

  “What about it?” I’m instantly on guard.

  “It smells different.”

  I pull in a small breath, taking in the scent of dead leaves beneath our feet and the new buds above. I hear a few faint trills. This is a place where birds still live and build their nests. I close my eyes and let it all seep in.

  This is real, I think. This is reality.

  “Come on,” Tiger Claw says, and I realize it’s my turn to receive my pat down.

  After we’re all processed, there’s not much to do except flaunt. The three cam drones buzz around in lazy circles. Everyone is aware of those lenses. Guys flex. Girls throw their hair behind their shoulders. Mermaid tromps into the trees and returns clutching a thick stick.

  One girl wearing a metallic bodice dotted with bows screeches and viciously swats at a bug that has landed on her arm. I pon how long it’s been since any of them have been in a place like this, a place of trees, birds, and bugs.

  I try to keep my face calm as I look around, searching for clues about what’s to come. A faint dirt path leads out of the valley. Two tables stand next to the bus, their contents covered by a cloth. Tiger Claw takes up position in front of the tables, arms crossed, looking fierce.

  What’s under those tarps? Survival gear? Weaps? Combat is almost a certainty — it’s a part of nearly every sidekick and henchman tryout — but hopefully not so soon in the process.

  I glance down at my wrist, expecting to see Bob’s disgruntled, unshaven face, and am surprised at how vulnerable, how naked I feel without my Band.

  “He’s in the trees,” Sequoia whispers, startling me. For a big guy, he can walk quietly. I follow his gaze and catch slight movement, high up in the branches in a faraway tree.

  “Prepping for some grand entrance,” I say. “What do you think? Jetpack? Heli-device?”

  Sequoia smiles. He also seems uncomfortable out here, but I think it has more to do with the people than the nature.

  “Zip line?” I nudge him with my shoulder.

  “Robo-bird,” he offers.

  “Yes! Robo-bird. That would do it.” I chuckle at the thought of Gerald trying to balance on the back of a robo-bird.

  A high whine starts up in the distance, and a figure rises up above the trees.

  “Jetpack — you were right,” Sequoia confirms as we watch The Professor arc up into the sky and then come down in the center of our little grove. The contestants make way for him, mostly because the jetpack kicks up serious dust and sends small rocks zinging through the air. Our great vil bobbles on the landing, listing to the side with the heavy tech on his back. He rights himself, stands proud, and then remembers whatever injury he’s supposed to have. He quickly jabs his cane into the ground and hunches over it.

  “Welcome my little elements,” he greets us. “You passed the interview, but that was only my first experiment.” My landlord, Gerald, is gone, morphed once again into The Professor. He wears the same charred lab coat, but today his bowtie glows orange and pulsates with blue stripes. His silver hair is messy, and the cracked lab goggles now cover his eyes.

  “Today, I want to see what makes you burn, what makes you freeze, what makes you explode!” He rips the sheet off the first table, revealing a row of clunky instruments. Here are the simplistic Bands again. These almost look first gen, like something kids program in elementary school. The sheet comes off the second table, and we all gaze at neat rows of canteens and meal bars.

  “One each,” The Professor says. He gives us his famous gap-toothed grin. “Let us see who among you burns bright, and who fizzles out.” He waves his arm, and the Pod placed next to the path sends up a bright holo-screen against a tree trunk. A ten minute clock appears on the screen and immediately begins counting down.

  “A great henchman must be strong. They must be loyal. But most importantly, they must follow,” The Professor says. A cam drone buzzes just in front of me. I struggle to ignore it and keep up my expression of intense focus. “And so, my elements, today you must follow the path I have laid out for you. Challenges await, but the best of you will adapt and prevail.”

  He wags a finger, “No fighting. Not today.” He pauses here to layer on the
drama and adds solemnly. “This experiment will be a battle with yourself.” He toggles a switch, and the jetpack hums to life and lifts him high into the air. I’m sure when they cut the final footage, it will seem like he flies out of sight, but he actually touches down about 400 meters away, where we can see a large tent through the trees. It must be their little command post. I wonder if the producers are in there watching the video feeds, studying each of us.

  At the tables, Tiger Claw fits us each with a clunky Band, and shoves a meal bar and canteen into our hands. The canteen is attached to a flimsy, adjustable belt that I cinch around my waist. As soon as the Band is on my wrist, it lights up. No Totem greets me, just letters asking for my citizen ID number. I say the number quietly, and it calibrates. A three-letter code appears on the screen – YRL. What does it mean? I know I’ll find out soon enough, but my mind still spins with possibilities.

  Once I have my supplies, I am free to wander in the grove as the clock ticks down. My nerves are raw. I can’t help glancing down the path again and again, straining to get some glimpse of what’s waiting for us. I pull in deep breaths and try to slow my pulse. It’s useless.

  Around me, the other contestants are nervous, too. I hear Lysee laugh, high and giddy. Some try to work with their Band, but it seems pointless. It has no programming capabilities. Whatever it’s supposed to do is already loaded. A few contestants perform exaggerated stretches. Mermaid begins practicing with her stick, swinging and spinning it like a sword and feinting at a tree. The cam drones drift over to her.

  She grips her stick in both hands and lands a brutal blow. THWACK! The tree quivers.

  “The Professor did say no fighting, right?” Sequoia grumbles.

  “She’s grabbing ep time.” I point to the cams. “And giving the rest of us a warning.”

  “Do you… um….” Sequoia stops. He looks down at his feet.

  “What?” I glance at the clock again. Just two minutes left. “We don’t have much time. Out with it.”

  “Do you want to stick together? On the course?” he says.