Henchman 427's Exit Interview

• Chapter 1 Sign-In at the Volcano Lair
• Chapter 2 Reviewing the Dental Plan
• Chapter 3 The Hazard Pay Delusion
• Chapter 4 Unpaid Overtime in the Death Ray Bay
• Chapter 5 Incident Report: The Heroic Intrusion
• Chapter 6 Uniforms, Spandex, and Lack of Kevlar
• Chapter 7 Toxic Leadership under Lord Malice
• Chapter 8 The Minion Union That Never Was
• Chapter 9 Coffee Machine Maintenance in the Dungeon
• Chapter 10 Performance Review: Adequate Meatshield
• Chapter 11 The Secret Lair's Mold Problem
• Chapter 12 Casual Fridays and Mandatory Evil Spikes
• Chapter 13 HR's Conflict Resolution (With Lasers)
• Chapter 14 Why Is The Self-Destruct Button So Big?
• Chapter 15 The Disappearing Pension Fund
• Chapter 16 Colleague Feedback: Henchman 426
• Chapter 17 Mismanaged Megalomaniac Budgets
• Chapter 18 The Commute to Doom Island
• Chapter 19 OSHA Violations in the Acid Pit
• Chapter 20 Exit Interview Questionnaire: Section A
• Chapter 21 Exit Interview Questionnaire: Section B
• Chapter 22 Severance Package or Shark Tank?
• Chapter 23 Handing In the Nametag and Raygun
• Chapter 24 The Boss's Last-Minute Retention Pitch
• Chapter 25 Burning the Non-Disclosure Agreement
• Chapter 26 Clocking Out for Good

The morning air outside the caldera was thick with sulfur, ash, and the faint, unmistakable aroma of melted tarmac. At 08:15 AM, the summit of Mount Ignis was already eighty-five degrees in the shade, though shade was hard to come by on an active volcanic rim carved into a jagged basalt fortress. A line of thirty people stretched from the reinforced titanium airlock back along the narrow rope bridge that suspended them above the main magma flow. Most of the people in line were wearing flame-retardant jumpsuits, heavy tactical boots, or yellow hazard aprons, standing in uncomfortable silence as the heat radiated upward through the soles of their shoes.

Henchman 427 adjusted the cardboard box tucked beneath his left arm. The box was small, slightly damp from the perpetual steam vents, and contained the total sum of his six years of loyal service to the Syndicate of Unfathomable Evil: an empty ceramic mug bearing the slogan World’s Okayest Minion, a plastic desk organizer with three bent paperclips, a dried-up ballpoint pen, and a small succulence that had lost its last leaf during the Great Intrusion of three Tuesdays ago.

He shuffled forward two steps as the heavy blast doors hissed open to admit a senior thermal technician. The line moved at a crawl, dictated entirely by the ancient, rust-encrusted security terminal stationed inside Gatehouse Alpha. It was a standard protocol for every employee, contractor, and mercenary to sign in before crossing into the inner sanctum, regardless of whether they were coming in for a twelve-hour shift in the magma pumping station or, like Henchman 427, returning their laminated security pass to human resources forever.

Inside the gatehouse, the air was marginally cooler, though it carried the humming drone of industrial fan units that hadn't been serviced since the second quarter. Behind a panel of bulletproof, smudged Lexan sat Guard Captain Vance, a man whose permanent scowl had been deeply etched into his face by thirty years of watching low-paid minions pass through the same turnstile. Vance did not look up when 427 reached the front of the desk. He merely reached out a gloved hand and tapped the acrylic clipboard sitting on the stainless-steel counter.

"Name, serial number, reason for visit," Vance muttered, his voice sounding like two dry river rocks grinding together.

"Gary... I mean, Henchman 427," Gary said, clearing his throat against the dry, chalky air. "Serial number 884-Delta-427. Reason for visit is an appointment at Human Resources."

Vance paused, his pen hovering over the sign-in sheet. He tilted his head back slightly, looking through the lower half of his bifocals at the brown cardboard box in Gary's arms. "Exit interview?"

"Yes, sir. Nine o'clock sharp with Ms. Vane."

Vance let out a quiet sigh that was half pity and half profound disinterest. He clicked his pen twice against the hard clipboard. "Sign in row forty-two. Print clearly. If you smudge the carbon copy underneath, Security won't let you back across the bridge, and you'll have to wait until the midnight shift change to get your exit pass cleared."

Gary picked up the attached pen, which was tethered to the desk by a thick steel cable—presumably to prevent minions from stealing six-cent ballpoints on their way out of the organization. The paper on the clipboard was hot to the touch. The fields required were straightforward enough: Print Legal Name, Print Evil Designation, Time In, Biometric Hazard Level, and Emergency Next of Kin.

"Do I fill out the Next of Kin section if I'm leaving today?" Gary asked, holding the pen over the yellow paper.

"Everyone fills out Next of Kin," Vance said without looking away from his bank of security monitors, which displayed various grainy angles of lava flows, empty hallways, and a cafeteria line featuring unidentifiable grey porridge. "You're still inside the volcanic envelope until you hand over your keycard. If a geothermal pulse opens up under row four of the parking garage while you're filling out your paperwork, HR needs to know where to send the bill for your boots."

Gary nodded, acknowledging the undeniable logic of corporate policy. He filled in his sister's address in Ohio, signed his name with a flourish that he hoped looked professional, and pressed his thumb onto the small, sticky inkpad beside the clipboard to leave a thumbprint on the bottom corner of the sheet.

"Visitor badge," Vance said, sliding a bright yellow plastic rectangle through the slot at the base of the glass window. It was stamped with the word OUTGOING in red ink. "Wear it on your outermost garment at all times. Do not touch any glowing switches, do not cross any yellow hazard lines without an escort, and if you hear the three-tone klaxon, run toward the eastern escape pods. Do not use the western escape pods; they were decommissioned last spring for retrofit and currently lead straight into the chimney stack."

"Got it," Gary said, clipping the yellow pass onto the collar of his faded grey henchman jumpsuit. "Thanks, Captain."

"Don't thank me. Move along, 427. You're blocking the line, and the death-ray maintenance team is behind you."

Gary took his cardboard box and passed through the heavy turnstile, which gave a metallic groan as it unlocked. Beyond the gatehouse lay the primary access corridor of Mount Ignis, a cavernous tunnel blasted out of black basalt rock. The walls were lined with heavy bundle cables wrapped in yellow rubber, pulsing gently with high-voltage electrical current that hummed at a low F-sharp. Every thirty feet, a bare incandescent bulb sputtered inside a wire cage, casting long, dramatic shadows along the floor.

Walking through the main lobby was always an exercise in spatial negotiation. On any given morning, the corridor was a bustling thoroughfare of evil logistical operations. Two logistics officers in sharp, high-collared black uniforms marched past, arguing over the shipping manifest for a delivery of weapons-grade plutonium that had been routed to the wrong warehouse in South America. Behind them came a line of six maintenance drones, rolling along on small treads while sputtering blue sparks from their exhaust ports

The sub-basement elevator in Mount Ignis possessed a special kind of malice that had nothing to do with supervillainy and everything to do with deferred maintenance. As Gary rode down to Level 4, where Human Resources was wedged between the auxiliary geothermal vents and the holding cells for minor intruders, the elevator car shuddered violently, dropping three inches with a metallic screech before resuming its slow descent. Gary squeezed his cardboard box tighter against his chest, watching the indicator light flicker through dusty red digits.

When the rusted doors finally parted, the change in environment was immediate. The grand black-basalt architecture of the upper levels gave way to off-white drop-ceiling tiles, lukewarm fluorescent lighting, and grey industrial carpet that retained the faint, distinct scent of singed fur from an incident involving a rogue genetic experiment back in November. Gary stepped out into the lobby of the HR Department, a place remarkably unaffected by the grand aesthetic vision of Lord Malice. There were no flaming braziers here, no jagged obsidian spikes, and no echoing choruses of doom. There was only a water cooler that made a wet gurgling sound every forty seconds and a laminate coffee table stacked with outdated issues of Modern Dictator and Tactical Jumpsuit Quarterly.

Behind a modular reception desk sat Ms. Vane. She was a crisp, impeccably turned-out woman whose dark hair was pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to pull the skin around her eyes into a perpetual expression of mild suspicion. She was currently typing into a terminal that looked like it had been salvaged from a naval vessel in the late 1980s, her long, manicured nails clicking against the yellowed plastic keys with rhythmic, terrifying efficiency.

"Gary," she said, without looking up from her green-monochrome screen. "You're four minutes early. Sit down. I'm just finishing the asset write-offs for the night shift."

"Morning, Ms. Vane," Gary said, taking a seat on a vinyl chair that let out a loud, deflating wheeze beneath his weight. He placed his cardboard box carefully on his knees. "Take your time. I know how crazy things get after a hero breach."

Ms. Vane hit a final key with a sharp crack, and the dot-matrix printer beside her desk whirred to life, spewing out a stream of perforated carbon paper. She tore the sheet off with practiced precision, stapled it twice, and slid it into a thick Manila folder labeled 427 - TERMINATION/SEPARATION. She pulled off her reading glasses, letting them dangle from a thin silver chain around her neck, and pointed toward the door to her inner office.

"In here, Gary. Let's get this over with before Lord Malice starts his ten o'clock briefing. He's using the main auditorium today, and whenever he uses the main auditorium, the feedback from his voice-modulator trips the circuit breakers down here."

Gary followed her into the narrow, windowless office. The room was dominated by two gargantuan metal filing cabinets that reached all the way to the suspended ceiling, their drawers labeled with color-coded tags that ranged from Active Henchmen to Missing in Action (Presumed Vaporized). Ms. Vane sat behind her desk, pulled a single blue sheet of paper from the folder, and gestured for Gary to sit opposite her.

"Now," Ms. Vane began, capping her fountain pen with an authoritative click. "We'll do the exit survey items in order. But before we get to the exit questionnaire or your physical gear hand-over, we need to resolve your benefits clearance. Specifically, your medical and dental records. The Guild of Evil Infrastructure requires a complete audit of all standard healthcare utilization before releasing your final escrow pay."

Gary winced slightly, adjusting his position in the cheap plastic visitor chair. "Is this about the incident with the jaw?"

"It is entirely about the jaw, Gary," Ms. Vane said, adjusting her glasses as she scanned the document. "I have a claim here from Dr. Aris Thorne, Board-Certified Maxillofacial Surgeon and Lead Torture Technician, dated September 14th of last year. The claim is for three unit reconstructions, two porcelain caps, and an emergency wire alignment. The billing code entered is 88-D: Blunt Force Impact (Hero Related). However, the internal auditing division rejected the claim."

Gary leaned forward, his knuckles whitening on the rim of his box. "Rejected it? Ms. Vane, Captain Justice threw a titanium shield directly into my mouth while I was guarding the laser bay footbridge. I spent three weeks drinking synthetic protein slush through a flexible straw."

"I am well aware of the nature of Captain Justice's attack style, Gary," Ms. Vane said flatly, her voice remaining as neutral as a stone slab. "The problem is not whether you were struck. The problem is the level of coverage you were enrolled in at the time of the strike. You were signed up for the Syndicate Basic Standard Plan, Tier Two. Tier Two explicitly excludes impacts caused by thrown projectiles composed of rare metals, including but not limited to Vibranium, Adamantium, and High-Density Titanium alloys. Those are covered under the Executive Supreme Rider, which carries an extra premium of forty credits a month."

"He threw a shield!" Gary said, his voice rising a octave before he caught himself and lowered it, remembering where he was. "He didn't hit me with a stick. He threw an iconic, high-grade defense weapon. How was I supposed to know which metal his shield was made of before it made contact with my premolars?"

Ms. Vane turned the blue sheet around and tapped a block of tiny, unreadable fine print at the bottom of the page with the cap of her pen. "Paragraph 14, Subsection B. 'The employee shall exercise reasonable diligence to identify the metallurgical composition of all incoming offensive items prior to engagement. In the event that identification is impossible due to velocity, atmospheric conditions, or thermal blinding from nearby death rays, the claim shall default to the secondary basic coverage tier.' And secondary basic coverage, Gary, carries a six-hundred-credit deductible for reconstructive dentistry."

Gary stared at the paper. The blue text was so microscopic it looked like an unbroken line of black thread stretching across the bottom of the page. "Six hundred credits? That’s almost my entire final paycheck. I spent three months on duty wearing a jaw brace that kept getting magnetized every time someone turned on the main generator. Do you have any idea what it feels like to have your face dragged toward an industrial transformer every fifteen minutes?"

"I imagine it is quite uncomfortable," Ms. Vane said, her face devoid of any visible sympathy. "However, my role here is not to evaluate the physical comfort of your facial structure. My role is to reconcile the balance sheets. The Syndicate's health plan is underwritten by the Caiman Islands Reinsurance Group, which is owned by a subsidiary of the Shadow Syndicate. They do not approve exceptions. If they approve an exception for a broken jaw from a thrown shield, next week the lava techs will be claiming root canals caused by breathing thermal ash."

"Ash doesn't cause root canals," Gary muttered, slumping back into his seat.

"The union argued otherwise last quarter," Ms. Vane replied without missing a beat. "Which brings me to your secondary dental claim from November. The one for the lower molar."

Gary reached up instinctively, touching his left cheek. "That wasn't a hero. That was an operational defect in the cafeteria."

Ms. Vane pulled another slip of paper from the stack. "Ah, yes. Incident 409-C. 'Fractured left molar sustained while consuming Tuesday's mystery meatloaf.' The notes here from Dr. Thorne say the tooth split longitudinally after striking a foreign object embedded within the protein matrix."

"It was a rusty screw," Gary said firmly. "A three-inch, zinc-plated sheet metal screw. It was baked directly into the middle of the slice. I took one bite, heard a sound like a pistol shot inside my own skull, and spent the rest of the lunch hour picking metal filings out of my gums."

Ms. Vane flipped the slip over, her pen tracing a line on the reverse side. "And did you submit a Form 12-B Hazard Report to Facilities Management within twenty-four hours of the ingestion?"

"I was in the infirmary!" Gary exclaimed. "They had me on synthetic morphine because my nerve ending was exposed! I couldn't write my own name, let alone fill out a three-page Form 12-B in triplicate!"

"Then I'm afraid the cafeteria hazard indemnification clause cannot be invoked," Ms. Vane said, writing a quick note on her notepad. "Without a timely 12-B submission, the injury is classified as a 'Pre-Existing Oral Vulnerability.' The plan only covers twenty percent of pre-existing oral vulnerabilities, provided the employee has completed a bi-annual prophylaxis cleaning at an approved network clinic."

"The nearest network clinic is in Panama," Gary pointed out, his voice tinged with deep exhaustion. "The Syndicate doesn't offer transport passes for routine cleanings. If I took two days off to fly to Panama for a tooth cleaning, Sergeant Vex would have flagged me as a deserter and had me thrown into the piranha tanks."

"Sergeant Vex is very strict about attendance, this is true," Ms. Vane conceded, nodding slightly. "However, policy is policy. The Panama clinic is the only provider within our preferred network that accepts the Syndicate's specific voucher system. The local clinics on the island refuse to take our insurance because the treasury pays its claims in unrefined gold bullion, which creates complex tax withholding obligations for civilian practitioners."

She tapped the documents against the desk to align them, then slid them into a clean plastic sleeve. Gary looked down at his hands, where the calluses from six years of handling overheating plasma rifles were still visible. He had entered the Syndicate with thirty-two healthy teeth, a good back, and a optimistic outlook on the career prospects of high-tech logistics enforcement. He was leaving with two metal crowns, a permanent click in his TMJ socket, and a billing dispute over a piece of hardware that had fallen out of an exhaust hood into a industrial baking tray.

"Is there any part of the dental plan that actually paid out while I was here?" Gary asked quietly. "Just out of curiosity. Before I sign the final balance release."

Ms. Vane leaned back, resting her chin on her clasped fingers as she pondered the question. "Well, let me check the historical database." She clicked her mouse several times, her green screen flashing with lines of ancient monochrome code. "Ah. Yes. Here it is. In April of two years ago, you were reimbursed sixteen dollars and forty cents for an over-the-counter bottle of antiseptic mouthwash following the breath-weapon test in Sector Seven."

"The breath-weapon test," Gary repeated dryly. "The one where the mutant komodo dragon sneezed directly into my face during the perimeter patrol?"

"The very same," Ms. Vane said, allowing a rare, microscopic smile to touch the corners of her thin lips. "The claim was processed under our Environmental Hazard Rinse Provision. It was approved without a single deduction. So you see, Gary, the system does work when the proper protocols are observed."

"Sixteen dollars," Gary whispered to himself.

"And forty cents," Ms. Vane corrected gently. "Now, if you will sign this waiver accepting the remaining personal liability of four hundred and twelve credits for the jaw reconstruction, we can move on to Chapter Three of your exit processing: the hazard pay calculations."

Gary took the proffered pen, looking down at the signature line. The paper was dry, crisp, and completely unconcerned with the four teeth he had sacrificed in the service of world domination. He signed his name, handed the pen back to Ms. Vane, and took a deep breath of the air-conditioned, slightly sulfurous air of the HR office. "Let's talk about hazard pay, Ms. Vane. Because I have a feeling I'm going to need every credit of it."