How to Become a Henchman, A Novel: The Henchman's Survival Guide Page 11

  Now, my landlord purses his thin lips. “My dear, I am a puppet, just as you are. The producer holds the strings, and we must both dance for our supper.”

  He must see the confusion on my face. Puppets? He’s gone too philosophical on me.

  “My input on each contestant was courteously accepted and then courteously disregarded. Alas, the decision was out of these humble hands.” Gerald flutters his hand like it was a dead leaf caught in the wind. “The producer made the decision of whom to invite to the next round of tryouts.”

  I finally download his meaning. Some nameless, faceless producer chose me, in spite of my answer to the last question.

  But why? I can’t figure it.

  I take a step closer to the ladder and squint up at Gerald through the sunlight. There’s a question I’ve been dying to ask him. It’s probably not appropriate, but since we’re both helpless puppets and all, I’m feeling newly connected to him.

  “Why are you coming out of retirement?” I ask. “Why be…” I look around and drop my voice, “…why be The Professor again?”

  I know it’s not the dollars. Matthew has long hinted that his father made serious money in the nine seasons of his show, and even possesses a small royalty share in the reruns. PAGS never gives royalties away anymore. Gerald could have retired and left Biggie LC long ago, but instead he stayed and fought endlessly for this comeback.

  Up on the ladder, Gerald thinks this over. When he speaks, his voice is low, contemplative. “I suppose, my dear, I just can’t abide irrelevance.”

  I wait for more, but that’s it. I nod like I understand, even though I don’t. “Well, I’d better get to the gym,” I say.

  “Don’t wear yourself out,” Gerald says, his voice picking back up to its normal, happy cadence. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  I stifle the urge to gulp. I wave, and Gerald responds in kind before turning the sprayer back on. Beneath the heavy patter of water hitting the solar panels, one of the town’s most infamous villains hums a dated K-Pop tune.

  I take the back streets to avoid Iconic Square. Few big fights happen among these bland buildings that mostly operate with software, machinery, and robo workers. As a result, the loud tourist trolleys don’t come out this far, and neither do the restaurants and overpriced boutiques chasing their dollars.

  The day is gorgeous, and my legs warm with the easy motion of the walk. I try to let my mind wander, but it keeps swirling back to tomorrow’s tryouts. What will it be? Some crazy chem test, or a scavenger hunt? We’ve all heard about Cleopatra’s tryouts, which consisted of only a single task: The first woman who received an authentic marriage proposal from an assigned male target became her high priestess.

  It could be some form of combat. I shudder, remembering Mermaid’s muscular legs. I wouldn’t want to go up against Gold either. He’s one of the smaller male competitors, but I already know he doesn’t fight fair.

  A figure steps out from an alleyway just in front of me. I see the cheap cam drone hovering behind him, note the black bandana knotted around his face, but I’m so caught up in my own worries that I don’t understand what’s happening.

  …Not until he grabs my arm and shoves me into the side of a slate gray building. I cry out, not from pain, but shock. The stickup man’s grip loosens at the sound of my yelp, and all the Krav Maga I’ve been programming into my brain kicks in. Muscle memory propels my limbs. I push violently back against him, and when I feel him step back, I grab my right wrist with my left hand and pull up hard, tearing my arm from his grip. I follow this movement with a vicious elbow to his gut. He croaks out a pained grunt as I step sideways, opening up space between us.

  I’ve given myself the option to continue my attack or run.

  I do neither.

  The black kerchief hides the lower half of the stickup guy’s face, but I recognize the red lightning bolts in his hair.

  “DeAngelo?” I ask.

  He responds with a short, whimpering gasp.

  That’s fine. I’ve got plenty to say.

  “What the hell? You doing stickups now?”

  DeAngelo presses his hand on the side of the building and slowly straightens back up. “It’s a… job,” he gasps out weakly.

  This is just so disappointing. “You always wanted to be a hero,” I point out. “Now you’re attacking townies for their dollars?”

  DeAngelo holds up a finger and continues to rediscover how his lungs work. I’m more than happy to wait for this explanation. I remember how brave he’d been at the restaurant during Shadow’s attack last week. He’d helped get our customers out the door and pushed them back before the explosion. He probably saved lives that day.

  “I know… know what you’re thinking, Alice. But I… I’ve got a plan,” DeAngelo says. “You see, I start out as a stickup guy, right?”

  He seems to want me to chime in here, but I only arch an eyebrow. A car rolls down the street right past us, the passenger’s head tilted down toward her Band. She doesn’t see us at all.

  “Right,” DeAngelo says after a too-long pause, “but then — and this is the part I think you’ll like – then I realize the error of my ways. I renounce my previous lifestyle and become a hero. It’s brills.”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “But, you know, first I have to be a stickup guy.” DeAngelo looks a little sheepish now and rubs his hands on his stylishly tattered jeans. “And I’ve got to make some dollars in the meantime.”

  I think this through. Redemption stories have worked before. Humming Bird did a big transformation from vil to cape to pretty decent ratings according to Lysee. But I’ve never heard of a stickup man making it big. It’s an original angle, at least.

  “It’s going to be a long haul to grab some eyeballs and get a producer interested,” I tell him.

  DeAngelo nods sagely and proceeds to dab his forehead with the end of the black kerchief over his face. He’s careful around his jaw, which is still noticeably puffy from his encounter with Shadow.

  “It’s a process,” he tells me. “I’ve got to get some good stickups, entice a few sponsored capes to take me down. That will start raising my visibility and brand awareness through their shows. A friend of a friend swears she knows where Lobo likes to prowl. I’m going to start stalking him, and when he gets a good fight, I’m going to jump in, on his side. That’s when my big transformation is going to happen.” He points to a giant white star on the front of his shirt dotted with small LED lights.

  “See, as a stickup guy, I’m called Falling Star,” DeAngelo explains. “But when I transform into a cape, I’m going to be Shooting Star.” He waves his hand dramatically in the air as if tracing a path in the sky. Then he pauses and frowns. “Actually, I probably need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement now. You know, to protect my secret identity.”

  “Consider my lips sealed,” I tell him. I wonder if it’s even worth mentioning to my former coworker that stickup guys definitely don’t get their own vil names.

  “Good. I’ll still get you that NDA, though.” He grins at me. “I’m hoping maybe I can be Lobo’s sidekick for a while, and then spin off, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” I deadpan.

  “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” DeAngelo continues. “Lobo works alone. True, but I’ve got that figured out, too.”

  I glance down at my Band. I really do need to hit the gym, and I’ve got a test in economics in two days that I need to cram for when I get home.

  “But, that’s the thing,” DeAngelo is saying. “After I turn into Shooting Star, I’m going to follow him around. You know, like just show up and help him whether he likes it or not. He’ll keep telling me to go away. You know how Lobo is, but that won’t deter me. I’m going to try to get wounded helping him at some point. Nothing serious, of course. A broken bone, maybe. Slight concussion. The audience will heart that, and his producers will have to take me on, and…”

  “Let the girl go!” a synthetic voice b
arks behind me. I whirl around just as a hand grabs my arm and pulls me backwards.

  “Whoa, whoa!” I cry, and jerk my arm away. I turn sideways, ready to fight this new threat.

  “Stay behind me, miss,” the voice says.

  It belongs to a freeter.

  A freeter wearing a familiar, ill-fitting black suit with white diamonds marching down the sleeves and pant legs. There’s the flowing black cape I remember.

  Buddha’s neck rolls! I just can’t catch a break today. This is the same guy who went sadpocalypse in his attempt to stop the bank robbers last week. At least he seems to have made some minor upgrades to his suit since that last embarrassing encounter. He wears a white diamond shielding piece over his chest, and it looks like he also got himself a higher quality mask, this one with a built-in voice synthesizer. In spite of the improvements, the overall effect isn’t much better. He still looks like a cheap, imitation hero.

  “Look, there’s been a misunderstanding,” I try to explain. Where did this guy even come from, anyway? Must have been lingering on a nearby rooftop. The city building codes require all roofs to be accessible for purposes of cape brooding and crime surveillance even this far out from the main square.

  The freeter glances at me and then back at DeAngelo.

  “So, you see…” I begin.

  “Diamond Shield is here to protect you,” the freeter interrupts. He turns to DeAngelo. “How dare you attack the innocent citizens of Big Little City. I will stop you now.”

  DeAngelo seems nonplussed; whether by the freeter’s absolute cheese of a line or by the entire situation in general, I’m not sure. His eyebrows crunch together, and he’s clearly disappointed that he only pulled a freeter instead of a real sponsored cape, or at least a sidekick.

  “Where’s your cam?” he asks the freeter.

  “I fight for justice, not for fame,” the freeter replies.

  Geez. We’ve got a real lobotomy on our hands.

  “Prepare to fight,” the freeter says, and pulls a baton from a loop in his belt. DeAngelo hesitates. He must be calculating whether the confrontation is worth it. Just ahead of us, a city cam drone slowly zooms by. It spots the confrontation and, after a short pause, buzzes toward us.

  Must be a slow action day.

  I can practically hear DeAngelo’s brain humming as he recalculates the situation. The city cams feed their video to a massive bank of monitors at City Council headquarters next to the mayor’s mansion. When the low-paid humans monitoring the video feeds see a fight or something of interest going down, they ping a few producers who might send out their cape if they need more action for their next ep.

  Of course in the ep, the superhero always “accidentally” stumbles upon a mugging, or they’ll tape a scene later showing the cape on some rooftop, majestically watching over the city before a cry for help beckons them. The real way it works is usually just through tips from City Council employees.

  Most likely, this particular fight is too small beans for a sponsored hero to bother with, unless someone is really despo to add a few mins to their next ep or wants to give their sidekick some lens time.

  It’s a micron of a chance, but...

  “Falling Star is gonna get his dollars,” DeAngelo growls, “and if I have to pummel my way through a nameless nobody like you, that’ll just be more fun.” He curls his hands into fists.

  “My name is Diamond Shield,” the freeter calmly corrects him. He swings his baton.

  “So, I’m just going to…” I begin, stepping out of the way. DeAngelo takes a swing, and the freeter stumbles back.

  As soon as those two lobotomies are going at each other, I skirt around the fight and continue on my way to the gym. I hear them grunting behind me. One lets out a cry.

  I sigh. The faces change, but the Fame Game never ceases.

  There is no reality anymore. Maybe Halnora is right. The irony isn’t lost on me that in order to finally leave this crazy town, I’ve got to step onto the board and start playing the Fame Game, just like everyone else.

  Chapter 9

  Steal too much lens time, and the other henchmen will turn on you. Be sly about it.

  Tickles the Elf, The Henchman’s Survival Guide

  The sun is bright on the morning of the second round of tryouts. It turns beads of condensation into shooting stars as they streak across the car window.

  “Breathe,” Lysee says. Her eyes are closed, legs folded beneath her. I edge away from a jutting knee and unsuccessfully try not to consider how much is on the line today. I didn’t sleep well last night, but right now I’m revved up on adrenaline and nerves. The rental drives us to a small Buddhist temple on the edge of town. The building, which used to be a church, is simple, with a sharp, peaked roof, and a small statue of a round Buddha meditating next to the door.

  The car door slides open, bringing in a gust of chilly air. I check my Band again. Radiation, ozone, and particulate levels are acceptable. This kind of thing usually isn’t a problem here in Biggie LC. Not like in the big cities with their “No-Go” days or in India where the people can’t go outside without masks.

  Lysee bounces out of the car and immediately shivers.

  “Brr!” she exclaims, and dances from foot to foot. Despite all my warnings and the clear instructions to dress appropriately for outdoor activity, my roommate has opted for a tight one-piece outfit studded with metal spikes and matching knee-high black boots with pointed heels. If possible, she wears more makeup than she did at the first audition, including mattte black lipstick. Dangling skull earrings swing gently from her earlobes as she turns her head.

  I touch my mask to make sure it’s in place before stepping out of the car. Goosebumps ride up my arms. After rejecting Lysee’s ridiculous wardrobe suggestions, I chose to wear my least boring gym tank top and a stylish pair of sky-blue workout pants that Lysee insisted I steal from her closet. The same white bow holds back my hair. I’m thankful, once again, that I chose a practical character angle. Lysee may look like a stunning badass, but if we have to run or climb over anything, those boot heels are going to snap every ligament in her ankles.

  I see some of the other competitors up ahead, huddled in front of the temple. As I move forward, Lysee takes my hand.

  “We are powerful,” she says, parroting whatever self-improvement Stream she was reading on the way over. “The Universe will recognize that power, but only if we let it.” I can’t see her eyes through the gray-tinted goggles she wears, but I imagine them crinkling at the edges as she smiles. “Open yourself to the Universe. Unleash your power.”

  I nod at her. “Unleashing it now.”

  Lysee sighs sorrowfully and looks up at the sky. “I tried,” she says. Then she looks at me again. “I love you anyway, Alice. I’ve been working a lot on my soul communication with the Universe. I’ll try to send good vibes your way.”

  “I couldn’t have a better friend,” I tell her.

  Lysee nods in agreement, and then her brow furrows. “I’m mad,” she chants to herself. “So angry and full of hatred! My father must be avenged.” She squeezes my hand, then twirls and begins marching toward the group.

  We don’t get very far before the production assistant, Tiger Claw, intercepts us. As before, he scans our call-back message and then holds out his hand to collect our Bands. Lysee kisses her Totem, Ferdinand, goodbye, lips puckering to his holographic face. I hand mine over without ceremony, and Tiger Claw places them both into a motorized case.

  Now we are free to roam. Lysee makes haste to the clusters of people. I follow more slowly behind her. We’re still a few minutes early, and I take the time to study my fellow contestants who have made the cut. I count just under 30 of us. Snake woman is gone, but fang-mask guy is here. He offers a suggestive hand gesture when I catch his red eyes. A tall, lanky guy with a prominent chin spike and black scientific goggles somehow made the cut. So did that mysterious figure in the cowl. Ze stands next to the Buddha statue like the two are friends.

&n
bsp; Most of the women huddle miserably, having chosen to show flesh rather than stay warm. I scan for Mermaid, but she isn’t here. Somehow I don’t feel relieved.

  “Wholesome, you made it.” Gold turns away from a knot of contestants he was probably manipulating and greets me with a wide smile. In the sunlight, his eyes are golden, and so is just about everything else on his body. His shoes glitter in gold, and golden bars slash through his black shirt and shorts. He wears a different mask, this one a splash of interconnecting golden fractals that cover the entire right side of his face and part of the left side.

  “Go to hell,” I respond just as pleasantly.

  “RTS.” His grin doesn’t budge. Ride The Storm. Easy to say when he wasn’t in that humiliating hurricane.

  Gold isn’t done with his platitudes. “I was doing you a favor,” he explains. “Producers love off-the-cuff answers. It obviously worked.”

  “I am soooooo sorry,” Lysee says next to me. Since I confronted her about that surprise last interview question, she’s sent roughly 1,000 apology memes to my Stream. Apparently Gold had pulled her aside during the wait and told her about the fourth question. She’d assumed he’d done the same for me.

  I still pon why he didn’t tell me. Does Gold see me as a threat, or is it the opposite? Am I unworthy of an alliance?

  “Bygones?” Gold asks and extends his hand.

  I smile, turn on my heel, and walk away. Two can play at the manipulation game, even if one obviously has a lot of practice and the other now finds herself wandering with nowhere to go.

  Three simple cam drones hover in the air, their lenses rotating as they record our discomfort. I hold up my head and pretend I have purpose. Always assume you’re on camera, I remind myself.

  As Tickles would say: AIC. Always in Character.

  I pick my way through the crowd. Tiger Claw, the beefy production assistant, stands a little ways off, arms crossed over his chest, keeping tabs on us as a few more cars drop off the last contestants.