“You have a very important job now, Lenny,” Mr. Hughes reminded the young man. Mr. Hughes was an older gentleman, about twenty years older than Lenny. He was one of his Uncle’s business partners, an investor who took over the company after Lionel was arrested.
Mr. Hughes wasn’t a particularly intelligent man, but what he lacked in brains he made up for in sheer dumb luck. It was for this reason that not many people wanted to be on his bad side. Lenny included.
Lenny Lyes was, much like Mr. Hughes, an idiot. They both saw it in each other’s eyes, a confusion. That maddening haze that comes with knowing you’re out of your depth and yet lacking the ability to do anything with it. Where Lenny differed is that he lacked Mr. Hughes’ luck, though he made up for it in self awareness. He knew he was an idiot. He knew he was out of his depth.
It was to be a simple mission. Him and the eight other Xenonaut would be sent into the Mirrorplex, a realm he hadn’t heard of until a week prior, and it was there that they would spend a month. They’d be equipped with blasters to ward off any dangerous creatures, they were each given enough food to just barely last a month if they skipped a couple of meals, and after exactly a month, the ones who lived would be transported back onto Earth.
“The Lyes family name is now… synonymous with terrorism. It wasn’t enough that your grandfather did dealings with Nazis, now… when your uncle gets out of prison, we intend to make a full recovery of his name, and this, Lenny, is your chance. To prove you’re worthy of your family’s last name.”
Lenny gritted his teeth.
Truthfully, he hated being a Lyes. He hated how his mother, Lionel’s brother, had practically won his mother at an auction. How he, despite her campaigning, sent him off to a boarding school. When his grades slipped, and he got in one too many fights, he was cut off. Thrown to the curb.
But maybe that’s where Lenny’s intelligence lied. He doubted that Lionel, or his father, or his grandfather, or even Mr. Hughes for that matter, could last more than an hour on the streets. Lenny lasted an entire winter. Cold. Alone. Freezing to death, and yet refusing to let it take him.
If he had just stayed on the streets, maybe things would’ve turned out a little differently.
One crisp early morning, Lenny found himself being awoken by a police officer. The owner of the corner store he had found himself taking shelter in front of had called them in, said something about a methed up ginger loitering up front, twirling a knife around and yelling obscenities. Sure, Lenny did keep a knife on him, he’d be a fool not to, and yes, Lenny had cussed out a particularly obnoxious eleven year old the evening prior, but it was because the boy had called him a bum.
He was not a bum. He knew that his uncle’s penthouse was a twenty minute walk away, that he could buy a three dollar button-up from a thrift shop, staple his baggy pants to his legs, march on into the building, demand a job, and within an hour of persuasion he could be making 120,000 a year. The thought of doing that, however, made him want to vomit.
It wasn’t out of righteousness, as much as he tried to convince himself it was. It was simply because of the fact that Lenny felt that if he wanted to use his last name, he had to earn it. And he had not earned it yet.
But he was about to.
When the officer arrested him, he didn’t put up a fight, he knew there wouldn’t be a point, and he’d likely get himself killed. Something he, again, refused to allow. Lenny’s night at the big house was cut short. He was out. On bail.
“Who paid?” Lenny asked, already seething at the idea of being some nepo-baby who had cheated his way out of the system that killed people like him.
The officer who escorted him out didn’t offer him much, “Said he was a family friend.” With a shove, he found himself eye to eye with his ride.
It was an 89’ Honda Accord, so thankfully it wasn’t anything fancy. The man inside was a round man with little eyes. Like a pug. Though obscured by the car’s door, he wore a cheap button up, one that was too tight around the chest and too loose around the arms.
“You’re that Lenny kid, right?” He said with a slight smile, revealing a gold tooth.
Lenny nodded.
“Get in,” the man said, his demeanor shifting. He was no longer smiling. Lionel looked away to the cop who had escorted him, who stood by the door. Watching. And he turned back to the man, whose smile had returned to his face.
Lenny got in the car.
His name was Donnie (“that’s short for Donathon”) ‘Fat Rat’ Diavolollo, and he saw potential in Lenny. He knew where Lenny came from, but he didn’t let them define him. He was a made man. Ol’ Fat Rat respected that, apparently. He told Lenny that he was with a group called The Devilblood Gunfreaks, and that they were a rather respectable organization.
Though Lenny began to say no, he realized three things. Number one: The car was locked from the inside. Number two: In having his bail paid, he was indebting himself to whatever crime gang this was. And number three: He needed the money. Somehow. Someway.
He agreed.
Donny brought him to a warehouse and fitted him with a strange costume, like that of an astronaut’s.
“Some bigwigs upstate need explorers, we’re sendin’ you out.”
Lenny was puzzled. He thought he’d be robbing banks, disposing of bodies, torturing innocents. Yet he found himself wearing a fucking astronaut’s costume. Still, though, Lenny persisted. Lenny was taught about the Mirrorplex. Though they failed as training him to his physical peak, he proved himself to his trainers to be someone rather quick. And spry.
It was only after hours of intense training, of grueling labour, of pain and bloodshed, that Lenny collapsed onto the ground, exhausted. Lenny was blindfolded and restrained, thrown into a van, and whisked into a Lyescorp van.
When Lenny’s senses returned to him, he was furious. Despite being weak, and tired, and betrayed, all he wanted to do was hurt something. Yet his arms were tied to the chair.
A man took the blindfold off of him. He wore a dark gray suit with a navy blue tie. His salt and pepper hair was meticulously and thoughtfully slicked back. He was an older gentleman, though not unattractive. His features were sharp. Intentional.
“Hello Lenny,” he spoke without any emotion. “Do you know who I am?”
It didn’t matter. Lenny wanted to lunge at his captor.
“My name is Mr. Hughes. I’m a… I’m an associate of your family’s, as well as, the, uh…” He leaned over to whisper something in Lenny’s ear, revealing a strange tattoo on his neck that his collar had obscured, “The Devilblood Gunfreaks.” He giggled to himself at their name.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Lenny didn’t want to offer him the satisfaction of revealing his helplessness. So his expression remained unchanged.
Mr. Hughes’ smiled a sickly smile. “I know this past month has been hard for you, but it has all been in preparation for our event tonight. We’re going to be sending you on a little trip!”
“To the Mirrorplex?” Lenny mustered.
“Good. You’ve been paying attention.”
“Should it go well, and, by god, it had better, you will become the face of this project. You will be the impoverished Lyes who rose to the top… Who will rebuild our– Your family’s name.”
Lenny coughed. Lenny wheezed. “I’d rather die.”
And he meant it.
Lenny was ‘convinced’ by 3,000 volts of electricity.
LENNY WOULD BE SENT TO THE MIRRORPLEX. HERE, HE WOULD BE LURED TO THE ISLAND OF THYSELF BY SIRENS. THE SIRENS WOULD TEAR INTO HIS FLESH, EATING AWAY AT HIS HEART, AND HIS SOUL.
THIS WAS THE ONLY DEATH THAT LENNY HAD ACCEPTED. r