While the morning was approaching, people worked in the abandoned factory, hauling crates and drums into an incinerator. They worked among the factory's machines, which had once been used to create plastic goods but were now abandoned to just rest here.

  The purpose of the machines wasn't something Lester was thinking about. He just felt tired. The couple of hours that had been mentioned in the job offer had turned into six, and there was still a lot of work to do. But still, he would have to finish this. He needed the money.

  With the help of his friend Flynn, Lester tossed another crate through the mouth of the huge furnace into the fire, where it started burning away at a blasting rate. The question of what they were doing did cross his mind. He kinda knew that it wasn't completely legal. He'd known even before he, Flynn, and a couple of other guys got into a van and were driven to this factory somewhere in the old industrial district of Recalm City. Also, the job had become doubly suspicious when the organizer, the guy who Flynn said was legit, had given him and Flynn aliases to go by. Not fake names. They were some other person's names, and that meant these others had just vanished at the last moment, and there might have been a good reason for them to bail out. To put it simply, he was now covering for some guy named Tod Wallace, who he had never met.

  As he was walking back alone, dragging along a pull cart and heading to get some more stuff to haul, Lester walked past the guards, who were standing there in full combat gear holding assault rifles. As he went, Lester heard one of the guards say, "My bet's on that pale kid." The guards were seemingly having some kind of a bet going on. It was about them, the workers or expendable idiots as the guards called them. He didn't know what it was exactly about, but if he would guess, it might have something to do with which of the workers would die first. And the pale kid that was mentioned most likely was him. So, considering all this, someone there might be betting on him to die.

  Lester continued, pulling his cart and wondering what, in this bet, his odds of dying were. He reached the outside of the factory, which was a large asphalt covered area, and headed toward the trucks, where other workers were ready to give him more crates to haul.

  Suddenly, a flash of light illuminated the outside. Lester looked around, trying to find out what it was. There was a guy, ten meters away, holding some kind of a laser pistol, and in front of the guy was a body. One of the workers, unmoving and a trail of smoke rising from his body.

  Then Lester recognized the guy holding the laser pistol. A supervillain. It was Doctor Nastybrain. The villain just stood there watching as some of the guards dragged the body away. The supervillain was dressed in a lab coat. And what was the thing that made him instantly recognizable was his head. It was far too big for any normal human. There was no hair on it, and the skin and skull were partly translucent, giving people a dim glimpse of the big brain inside. This was no average villain. Nasty was one of the top supervillains in the city. He'd killed tons of people. Why he was here was a question. And the answer would be something he, Lester Rigby, now going by the alias Tod Wallace, definitely didn't want to know. And he definitely didn't want to get shot by a laser pistol.

  Trying not to be noticed, Lester hurried to one of the trucks next to the factory. There, Lester got handed a big crate, which he started pulling on his cart toward the incinerator. Halfway there, Lester heard a voice from behind him, "Help me."

  He looked back, seeing only the crate. It might have been that he was just tired and had heard something that wasn't real. Yep, that was definitely what happened, he thought.

  Lester continued on, dragging the crate. It was heavy, and he had already taken a hundred or so similar items to the incinerator from all the trucks that had arrived here.

  "Help me," Lester heard again. Again that non-existent voice.

  As he reached the incinerator, Flynn came to help him. Together they lifted the crate, and as they were about to throw it into the fire the voice came again, "Please."

  "Did you hear something," Flynn said.

  "No, just my imagination," Lester answered.

  Looking tired, Flynn nodded. "Yeah, me too. Just my imagination."

  Together they tossed the crate into the fire. As the thing went in, Lester heard screams from within the fire. Painful, terrified, maybe human.

  Lester looked at Flynn, seeing his friend looking at him with terror in his eyes. Had they done, just now, something. Something that might not have been totally within the guidelines of good human behavior.

  Both of them shook their heads and returned to work.

  Just hearing stuff. Nothing to worry about, Lester convinced himself. He was just a guy doing his job. How was he supposed to know if they were doing something morally wrong? He wasn't an evil person. In fact, he was a superhero.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hopefully, his superhero identity would stay a secret from the people running this operation. And also, it might be good that the Guild of Justice and Valor never found out what he was doing here. If they found out, he might lose his superhero license. It sometimes happened that some superheroes got caught working for the supervillains. In his case, it was only a misunderstanding and he didn't know what he was doing was evil. But still, the guild might not see it that way. And hopefully, they wouldn't find out. That was unlikely—unless the heroes decided to raid this place just now. This was just the kind of place a hero versus villain battle would happen. He'd seen many videos of fights in abandoned buildings at night.

  One moment, the henchmen would be hauling crates. And then, suddenly, the heroes would come out throwing catchphrases and smacking everyone around. He would have to run if that happened. But he would probably get caught, because the superheroes had powers, and he didn't even know what his power was. He would lose his license. He would become a criminal. His life would be over. He would never be able to save the city. There would never be a statue made in his image. People would never cheer as he knocked down one bad guy after another in an abandoned factory, where some evil people were trying to do some evil things.

  Get a grip man. Don't fall apart now, Lester told himself, as he dragged the empty cart. If he just did what was expected of him, everything would be just fine. He would survive. And after, he would never take a job from an unknown employer, in an undisclosed location, in the middle of the night.

  As time passed, Lester kept his eyes forward as he pulled his cart, just feeding more stuff to the fire, trying his best not to see or hear anything.

  Now on his latest trip, as he reached a truck to get another load to haul from the workers there, Lester looked up and he saw his fellow workers there staring. There was real fear on their expressions, and they weren't looking at him but at something behind him.

  Lester felt a hand land on his shoulder, and he heard the words, "There's something interesting about you."

  Lester turned slowly, and he saw the one who was talking to him. Lester's eyes moved upward. There was a brain there, inside the skull, just floating around, and small lighting crackled in it.

  "Do you know what your power is?" Dr Nastybrain said as he looked down at Lester, all the while holding Lester by the shoulder with an iron grip.

  Lester tried to answer, but couldn't find the words. Instead, he just shook his head.

  "As I expected."

  A thought crept into Lester's mind. The supervillain might know what his power was. The power that had been a mystery for four years. If the villain knew, Lester would absolutely have to ask him. Even if...

  "Sir, what is my power?" Lester said.

  "Your power, kid, is what is known as a blank slate."

  The words hit him. Nasty had said the words blank slate. What did those words mean? He had to know.

  "What is a blank slate?"

  A smile crept across Nasty's face. "It is like an empty canvas an artist can work on, creating great beauty." And as he said the words, a syringe appeared in his hand, and while holding Lester in place with his other, Nasty slammed the syringe into Lester's neck.

  Lester looked up at the supervillain, feeling the sting of the needle and realizing what had just happened. This was the end. This mad scientist would dissect him in his lab.

  "Please don't kill me," Lester said as the world started fading.

  Nasty let out a small laugh. "My dear friend, we will do great art together. Art that will change the world."

  ***

  As he opened his eyes, Lester saw lights. Too bright.

  "Ah, you're awake. Good, I have a couple of things to tell you."

  A pause in the voice.

  "I was just about to do some small brain surgery. It's quite brilliant if I may say so myself. Quite brilliant indeed. You have been an excellent test subject, and I'm extremely confident that you will keep on surviving further."

  Another pause.

  "But now it's time for you to go back to sleep."

  ***

  There was that voice again. And now it sounded excited.

  "This will be my greatest invention. Henchman of tomorrow, loyal, strong, and customizable."

  The sound of someone pacing around.

  "If only I could replicate the process. Then I would have an army, and I would rule the world. Also, I could maybe make a sweet penny selling these things."

  ***

  In the darkness, Lester saw text.

  HENCHMAN INTERFACE INITIALIZING

  "Yes, finally the interface."

  There was some clicking of buttons.

  "Let's see what this thing can do."

  Some more clicking.

  "A henchman should be strong. Maybe a little dexterity and general coordination."

  "There we go."

  "Also, some added survivability."

  "Like that."

  "Intelligence, willpower—not primary qualities of a henchman. But there are times when you need to have some."

  "Maybe a drop of mental capability."

  "Then powers. A henchman with superpowers of their own. Nah. Might put some wrong ideas into the fool's head."

  Some muttering and more clicking of buttons.

  "There we have it."

  The text changed.

  HENCHMAN INTERFACE INITIALIZATION COMPLETE