Terms of Employment

If there's one benefit to being a hired gun in a supervillain's private army, it's the places you get to see.

Before my expedition to a certain unnamed island in the Mediterranean Sea, I'd worked in an underwater base in the South Pacific, a remote comm relay hidden away in a Nepalese valley, a football-field-sized nuclear tank in Argentina, and even a low-orbit space station for a few weeks.

Sure, there was the 85% death rate and the fact that I had to deal with Dr. Malcolm Slayde, but there's worse jobs out there, right?  In my case, it was either this line of work or I'd get stuck with passing out shitty gift souvenirs at the baseball stadium.  I'm dead serious: that was the choice I was offered.

So, a little word about Slayde.  When I called him a fruitcake, I wasn't kidding you.  I don't know what the fuck happened to him before his supervillain spiel, but this guy had enough poorly-suppressed gayness in him to make ten thousand 80's pop music videos.  Ordinarily I wouldn't give a damn, but you could see it in every single fucking world domination plan he hatched.  There was always some big phallic monument he wanted to steal, always some brand new leather costume he wanted to stomp around in...and worst of all was the relationship he had with Agent XB9.

I can't say how sick I got of him deliberately letting XB9 into the command center just so he could throw innuendo-gushing quips at him.  Christ...all those plans ditched and all those superweapons destroyed just so he could get a chance to meet his crush.  I'm pretty sure XB9 didn't reciprocate the sentiment, (it didn't help that Slayde had a face like a brick) so you can probably imagine how this fucked with Slayde's already warped sex life.  On second thought, don't imagine it.  No, really.

Damn, I need to stop myself before this turns into a biography.  Anyway, as I said earlier, Slayde had sent a squad of mooks and yours truly to a small island in the Mediterranean.  I never learned exactly where it was, and given the present circumstances, I probably never will.

The important thing was that it was a vital part of Slayde's latest bid for Agent XB9's attention.  Word was the island was the final resting place for some sort of advanced ancient civilization.  Slayde ranted for hours on end in the briefing about his hopes for finding the "Sphere of Meganacus," whatever the hell that meant.  All I knew was that whatever this civilization was, they had a pretty fucking weird obsession with horses.  Horse pots, horse cups, horse blankets, horse tapestries, horse murals, horse plates, horse toys...it was borderline disturbing, especially given the fact that there wasn't enough open land on that island to raise horses.

Definitely weird, I concluded.  But considering all the death ray misfires I'd somehow survived, I was pretty confident that an island that used to be the home of a bunch of horse fanatics was nothing to get worried about.

Christ, how wrong I was.

I wish I could say that I vividly remember the way the island looked when our chopper came in low for the final approach.  But in all honesty, the place looked about as exciting as a Nebraskan tractor festival.   No smoking volcanoes, no yawning chasms, no majestic mountain ranges...just a flat, shapeless blob of land covered by a thick green carpet of trees.

If you're expecting me to say that our helicopter suddenly got hit by a missile and crashed in the middle of the thicket, you'll be disappointed.  Contrary to what you see in movies, helicopters stuffed with thugs can actually sometimes land safely.

"All right, ladies," barked Chicago as chopper's side doors slid open.  "Saddle up.  Slayde wants us at Waypoint Alpha yesterday."

In case you're scratching your head, Chicago was the nickname of Tillman Jean-Clark, the closest thing our "security" outfit had to a commanding officer.  Since Tillman Jean-Clark doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, he let us call him by his hometown.

"I don't want any mistakes this time, okay?  Do your jobs right and I'll see what I can do about getting the rec room budget approved."

There was a ragged cheer as we hopped out of the helicopter.  The rec room was a cause celebre for the veterans of our outfit; it made for a good morale boost.  And considering how dull this mission was looking, a morale boost was just what we needed.

As per usual, we gathered into a wedge formation and struck out towards the GPS waypoint.  There were twenty two of us, Chicago and I included.  Typically our numbers were a lot greater, but after the Mexican fuel dump fiasco the month before, we were low on manpower.

The woodland we were hiking through turned out to be surprisingly pleasant.  The breeze ensured that no one had trouble keeping up a fast pace, even loaded down with all the tacticool crap Slayde wanted us to carry around.

As we marched, I passed the time in the way I normally did: chatting with Chicago.

It was no secret I was his right-hand man, and I was happy to make a show of it if I could impress the newbies.

"...so then Vasquez gave me this bug-eyed look, and he was like, 'Wait, what do you mean "explosive barrels?"'  And then--just a second later--the whole shed fucking explodes.  Jesus, it was like a bad comedy movie!"  Chicago said breathlessly as I started to crack up.  "And do you know what the best part of it was?  After he got back from the burn ward, he just walks right up to me, stuffs a hundred-dollar bill in my hand, and goes, 'I kept my word.  Oh, and by the way: fuck you.'"

My sides practically detached at that point, so you can probably understand why it took me a moment to realize that Slayde had just emerged from the bushes.

"Enjoying yourselves?" he sneered.

I can't say how hard it was to keep myself from bursting out laughing all over again.  Slayde was a tough man to take seriously as it was.  He was cursed with a perpetually messy mop of brown hair, a nose like an overripe mango, and big blue eyes that consistently failed to convey any real malice.  Top it off with stature of the wimpiest kid you ever met in high school, and you had a man who looked more at home at a small-time stand-up comedy club than the director's office of P.H.A.N.T.O.M.

But that wasn't what made me bite my tongue.  It was his fucking hilarious leather trenchcoat.  It had enough pointless straps and buckles to make him look like a villain from a 70's nazisploitation porno--you know, the ones with names like Prison Camp Sluts 3: Anne Cums To Auschwitz.

"My apologies, sir," Chicago said briskly.  I could tell by his facial twitches that he was having trouble, too.  "I let myself get distracted."

"Forgiven," grumbled Slayde.  "But if I catch you breaking protocol again, it's off to the piranha moat with you."

"Understood," Chicago said, his mouth painfully stretched into an artificial frown.

"I am disappointed in all of you," Slayde said, addressing the whole squad.  "If I could sneak up on you this easily, what of Agent XB9?  I have reason to believe he is aware of our activities.  It'd be rude if we couldn't give him a proper reception."

Our squad collectively grumbled an apology.  Miraculously, it seemed to be enough for Slayde.

"Right.  We should be fairly close to the waypoint.  When we get there, you will allow me to carry out my work with no distractions.  Is that understood?"

We all nodded, except for that idiot Childs.  "Uh, sir?  What exactly -is- at Waypoint Alpha, anyway?"

Slayde smiled in a way he probably thought was cold but mostly just came across as childish.  "All in good time...all in good time."

I rolled my eyes as Slayde started to lead us onward.  Christ, I was sick of him using that phrase.  Why did he want us to let XB9 into the death ray prototype center?  All in good time.  Why did he need to travel around in a spider tank?  All in good time.  Why the hell had the vending machines not been restocked yet?  All in good time.

I was still in a sour mood by the time we got to the waypoint, and what I saw didn't exactly lift my spirits.

We emerged from the woods to find ourselves staring straight at a bleached white outcropping of rock.

"You sure this is the right place, sir?" Chicago asked, scratching his lantern jaw.

"Of course it is, you fool!" Slayde snapped, striding up to the formation.  Chicago traded a look with me: we had a game where after every mission, we'd down vodka shots for each time Slayde had said "fool."  Vasquez had tried to introduce a variant where we'd drink Everclear for every time he said "imbecile," but that had almost gotten us killed.

A particularly unpleasant breed of tension clung to the air as Slayde began to tenderly run his fingers along the rocks--at the time I wondered if he was imagining them as Agent XB9.

"Mishmillaponvi," Slayde chanted softly.  "Ayhvantchu kome inncydde reianbyouwva duayiesh..."

I was just starting to scratch my head when a bright blue light began to pour from the spot Slayde had touched.  A strange sound like wind chimes filled the clearing as the light grew brighter and spread across the stone.  Blue lines spiderwebbed outward, forming into a tesselated pattern of shapes that reminded me of small horses.

I must admit, even after all the things I had seen in my line of work, it was enough to make my jaw drop.

Suddenly, with a deep tooth-rattling rumble, a thin black fissure appeared in the middle of the outcropping.

As it grew into a rectangular opening, I realized what the outcropping was: a facade.  A simple cover for the secret entrance that led into the ruins proper.

"No need to thank me," Slayde boasted before stepping into the doorway.

A smile started to find its way back onto my face.  It seemed there was at least a slight chance this would turn out to be worth the nauseating helicopter ride.