The Sidekick's Severance Package

• Chapter 1 Minion Number Four
• Chapter 2 The Cost of Collateral Damage
• Chapter 3 Fire in the Subterranean Lair
• Chapter 4 Pink Slips and Molten Lava
• Chapter 5 The Union of Lackeys and Henchmen
• Chapter 6 Retaining a Super-Lawyer
• Chapter 7 Hazardous Duty Pay
• Chapter 8 Deposition Under the Death-Ray
• Chapter 9 Serving the Subpoena
• Chapter 10 The Hero's Immunity Clause
• Chapter 11 OSHA in the Doomsday Den
• Chapter 12 Discovery in the Secret Vault
• Chapter 13 The Non-Compete Nemesis
• Chapter 14 Class Action Mutiny
• Chapter 15 Subpoenaing the Cape
• Chapter 16 Arbitration by Apocalypse
• Chapter 17 The Severance Formula
• Chapter 18 Breach of Malicious Contract
• Chapter 19 Expert Witness: Former Sidekick
• Chapter 20 Cross-Examining Dr. Destruction
• Chapter 21 Closing Arguments at City Hall
• Chapter 22 A Jury of Peers and Villains
• Chapter 23 The Verdict
• Chapter 24 Liquidating the Doom Engine
• Chapter 25 Pension Plans and Flying Suits
• Chapter 26 Back Pay and New Beginnings

The stencil on Arthur Pendelton’s Kevlar-reinforced jumpsuit did not say Arthur. It did not even say Artie. It said, in broad, blocky stencils made of heat-resistant yellow spray paint across his left breast pocket, M-04.

To the Human Resources portal maintained on an air-gapped server three floors below ground level, he was Employee #8841-B. To the guy who operated the hydro-laser welding rig in Bay B, he was Artie. But to Dr. Destruction—a man who had not used his own given surname since earning a disgraced doctorate in applied high-energy physics from MIT—Arthur was simply Minion Number Four.

It was a title Arthur had earned through sheer, unglamorous longevity. In the high-turnover sector of subterranean conquest and orbital extortion, seven years at a single facility was practically unheard of. Minions One through Three were long gone. Minion One had been permanently incapacitated during a botched raid on the Federal Reserve when a vigilante named Vanguard thrown an armored courier van through the front lobby doors. Minion Two had accepted a middle-management position with a rival syndicate operating out of an extinct volcanic caldera off the coast of Chile, only to be vaporized three weeks later by a miscalibrated geothermal drill. Minion Three had simply walked out during a midnight shift, leaving his tactical visor on the coffee machine, never to be heard from again.

That left Arthur as the senior operational henchman on the floor.

Every morning at precisely quarter to six, Arthur swiped his magnetic keycard at the heavy steel blast doors buried beneath an abandoned dry-cleaning facility in downtown Apex City. The scanner would chirp its low, mechanical approval, the pneumatic seals would hiss with a cloud of compressed air that smelled faintly of ozone and floor wax, and Arthur would step into the halogen-lit belly of the Doomsday Den.

He did not wear a cape. Capes were an OSHA hazard of the highest order, a truth Arthur had tried to explain to several junior tactical officers who had lasted fewer than six months each. Capes got caught in conveyor belts, tangled in the rotors of personal hover-craft, and provided conveniently leverage-heavy handles for visiting superheroes looking to hurl an antagonist into a rack of expensive server towers. Arthur wore a standard-issue slate-gray jumpsuit, steel-toed tactical boots with non-slip rubber soles, and a heavy utility belt that held a digital multimeter, two rolls of industrial electrical tape, a standard-issue sidearm he had never once fired at a human target, and an insulated travel mug filled with medium-roast dark coffee.

"Morning, Artie," said Gary, who was currently assigned to Minion Number Nine. Gary was sitting at the security desk just inside the airlock, staring at a bank of black-and-white monitors that displayed various angles of the perimeter alleyway, the subterranean drainage pipes, and the main foyer.

"Morning, Gary," Arthur said, setting his mug down on the edge of the desk to punch his five-digit code into the mechanical time clock. The card stamped with a sharp, heavy clack-chunk. "How's the intake valve on the secondary coolant loop holding up?"

"Leaking," Gary sighed, rubbing his eyes beneath his dark tinted visor. The visor was mandatory equipment according to page fourteen of the Doomsday Industries Employee Handbook, though mostly it served to give everyone headaches under the flickering fluorescent tubes. "I told maintenance yesterday that the gaskets are dry-rotted. They told me the requisition order is stuck in clearance with Dr. Destruction's chief of staff."

"Which one? Executive Assistant Malice or the guy who handles logistics?"

"Logistics," Gary said. "The guy who wears the skull mask with the velvet trim."

"That’s Vane," Arthur noted, adjusting the collar of his suit. "Vane doesn't approve anything over five hundred dollars without three signed vendor quotes. Just bypass the alarm with a jumper wire and put a drip bucket under it. I’ve got some spare O-rings in locker four if it starts spraying."

"You’re a lifesaver, Artie."

"Just trying to hit my quarterly safety bonus," Arthur said, taking his mug back. "Is the Boss in yet?"

Gary leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the fact that the corridor was completely empty save for an automated floor scrubber humming twenty yards away. "He came in at four A.M. Flew in on the personal hover-platform. Looked furious. Word on the comms is that Vanguard intercepted the shipment of weaponized isotopes at the docks last night."

Arthur let out a quiet, tired whistle. "The whole crate?"

"Every lead-lined brick of it," Gary confirmed. "Shift leader says Vanguard tipped a crane over onto the escort truck. Complete structural write-off. Two guys from the graveyard shift are in the infirmary with fractured ribs."

"Worker's comp forms filed?" Arthur asked automatically.

"You know how it is," Gary muttered, looking back at his monitors. "If you file the form, the Boss calls you a spineless tool of the capitalist bureaucracy and threatens to feed you to the genetically altered siphon-worms in the sub-basement. If you don't file, you pay for your own chest X-rays out of pocket."

Arthur nodded grimly. It was the perpetual dilemma of evil enterprise. Dr. Destruction wanted the professional efficiency of a Fortune 500 corporation combined with the feudal terror of a medieval warlord. He expected his staff to maintain pristine inventory logs, adhere to strict scheduling protocols, and undergo annual cybersecurity training, yet he reserved the right to threaten employees with instant execution whenever his breakfast bagel was improperly toasted or an orbital death-ray hit a snag in software compilation.

Arthur walked down the primary access corridor, his boots echoing sharply against the sealed epoxy flooring. The facility was massive, spanning three sub-levels beneath four city blocks. It contained a high-density server farm, a micro-machining shop, an armory, a wet-lab for bio-chemical synth-testing, a breakroom with an espresso machine that had been broken since the previous November, and a central command chamber featuring a thirty-foot glass viewing screen and a sunken pit where lower-tier staff sat at glowing terminals.

As Arthur reached the central command hub, he saw that the day shift was already trickling in. A dozen men and women in identical slate-gray suits were moving about the console pit, running diagnostic checks on the primary telemetry array. They were good kids, mostly—technical college graduates, former military logistics specialists, and laid-off aerospace technicians who had discovered that the legitimate sector paid thirty percent less and didn't offer sub-dermal medical coverage for plasma burns.

Arthur walked over to Console Four, his designated workstation, and set his travel mug down in the rubberized holder he had custom-built and clamped to the steel frame three years ago.

"Minion Four," a voice boomed from the raised dais at the rear of the room.

Arthur turned on his heel immediately, assuming the neutral, attentive stance required by paragraph two of the code of conduct. "Good morning, Lord Destruction."

Dr. Destruction stood atop the marble-clad platform, illuminated from below by the harsh blue glow of the strategic map table. He was six-foot-four, clad in polished, vacuum-sealed titanium armor painted the deep, light-absorbing crimson of a fresh bruise. His face was entirely obscured by a chrome mask featuring narrow, slit-like eye sockets that glowed with an unsettling crimson LED array. A high-collared cape made of heavy, woven carbon-fiber hung from his broad shoulders, sweeping the floor behind him.

He was holding a clipboard. It was an odd, deeply grounding sight—a lord of global devastation holding a standard aluminum clipboard with a plastic pen attached by a coiled plastic string.

"Minion Four," Dr. Destruction repeated, his voice modulated through a heavy electronic synthesizer that added a metallic, reverberating echo to every syllable. "Status report on the primary power couplings for the Seismic Inducer."

"The primary couplings are seated at ninety-two percent efficiency, sir," Arthur reported cleanly, reciting the numbers from memory. "We ran a cold-sweep test at six-thirty yesterday evening. Thermal dissipation was within acceptable margins, though the cooling lines in Sector C are showing minor pressure drops due to aged gasket seals."

"Gaskets," the villain hissed, the metallic synthesizer whining faintly on the sibilants. "Always gaskets. I am preparing to hold the continental shelf hostage for twenty billion dollars in untraceable cryptocurrency, Minion Four, and you speak to me of rubber ring seals?"

"It’s synthetic fluoroelastomer, sir," Arthur corrected politely, keeping his tone entirely devoid of sarcasm. Experience had taught him that technical accuracy was the best shield against megalomaniacal wrath. "If the pressure drops below seventy-five PSI during full power draw, the fluid cavitation will destroy the primary impeller pump in less than twelve seconds. That would cause an automatic emergency shutdown, which would abort the seismic pulse before the second shockwave reaches the target fault line."

Dr. Destruction stared down at him from the dais. The crimson eyes on the chrome mask flared briefly, then dimmed. The villain looked down at his clipboard, made a small checkmark with the cheap ballpoint pen, and cleared his throat.

"Proceed with the seal replacement immediately," Dr. Destruction commanded, sweeping his cape back with a dramatic arm gesture that nearly knocked over a high-end oscilloscope sitting on an adjacent counter. "And ensure the replacement parts are charged to the logistics budget, not the central research fund. Dr. Von Helmont has been over-budget on his sound-wave amplification experiments for three consecutive quarters."

"Understood, sir. I’ll issue a purchase requisition to Vane."

"Do so. And Four?"

"Yes, Lord Destruction?"

"Tell Minion Seven that if he leaves his half-eaten tuna sandwich in the breakroom refrigerator past Friday again, I will have him thrown into the magma chute."

"I will relay the policy warning, sir."

Arthur turned back to his console, bringing up the maintenance diagnostics on his glass touchscreen display. This was the work. It wasn't glorious, and it certainly wasn't ethical in the grand philosophical sense, but it was structured. Arthur had worked for three years at a commercial HVAC contractor before taking this job, and in terms of daily clear-cut expectations, Dr. Destruction was actually somewhat more predictable than his old regional general manager, a man named Henderson who used to change project parameters on a whim every Tuesday afternoon.

At least Dr. Destruction had a clear, documented goal: global subjugation through superior technology and strategic structural coercion. His directives were written down in daily operational orders. He paid double-time for holiday shifts. He provided high-density hazard pay whenever the local superhero contingents initiated an unannounced raid, provided the proper claim forms were submitted within seventy-two hours of the incident.

Arthur opened a terminal window and began filling out Requisition Form 409-C for six high-temp seals. He filled in the stock codes, attached the diagnostic pressure logs from the primary inducer, and entered his employee authorization key.

To his right, Minion Number Eight—a twenty-four-year-old software engineer named Kevin who had been hired six months ago to write firmware for the lair's automated turret defenses—leaned over his console and whispered, "Did you hear about the dock shipment?"

"Gary told me," Arthur said softly, his fingers flying across his mechanical keyboard. "Vanguard destroyed the escort rig."

"Man," Kevin muttered, shaking his head beneath his visor. "My roommate works over at the secondary armory in Midtown. He said Vanguard didn't even check to see if anyone was inside the transport before he flipped it with his super-strength. Just grabbed the front bumper and tossed it forty feet into a shipping container."

"Standard hero engagement tactics," Arthur said without looking up. "They operate under municipal indemnity clauses. City hall covers their property damage liability through a special bond issue, so they don't have to worry about structural integrity or occupant safety unless it's a civilian zone."

"It's nuts," Kevin said bitterly. "If I dropped a fifty-ton shipping container on someone's work truck, I'd be looking at twenty years for reckless endangerment. Vanguard does it, and he gets his picture on the front page of the Daily Sentinel with a caption about 'cleansing the streets of menace.'"

"Don't get emotional about it, Eight," Arthur advised gently. "It's not personal. It's structural. They're capital-backed operatives maintaining the geopolitical baseline. We're private contractors supporting an alternative geopolitical realignment. Read the risk disclosure you signed during orientation. Page twelve, section four: Incidental Contact with Super-Powered Entities."

"I know, I know," Kevin grumbled, turning back to his code. "It just sucks. My neck still hurts from when Apex Girl threw that flying drone through the window during the spring push."

"Did you log it with HR?"

"And risk getting my performance rating docked for poor situational awareness? No thanks."

"You should have logged it," Arthur said firmly. "A soft-tissue injury left undocumented is an out-of-pocket physical therapy bill five years down the road. Never give away your medical rights for a performance score, Kevin. The Boss isn't going to pay for your spinal adjustments when you're fifty."

Before Kevin could respond, a low, pulsing klaxon began to sound throughout the command chamber. The ambient lighting shifted instantly from crisp, cool daylight balance to a deep, rhythmic amber amber tone.

An automated voice, perfectly modulated and smooth, spoke over the PA system: Attention all personnel. Perimeter Sensor Network Alpha has detected an unauthorized high-velocity aerial approach. Trajectory indicates direct entry via air intake shaft four. ETA ninety seconds.

The console pit exploded into frantic, practiced activity. Junior minions began slamming down terminal covers, saving diagnostic files, and strapping on their heavy ballistic helmets.

On the high dais, Dr. Destruction stood up, his crimson cape billowing behind him as an internal fan built into his suit activated to create a dramatic, wind-swept silhouette. He raised a gauntleted fist toward the ceiling display screen.

"At last!" the villain bellowed, his synthesizer cranked up to maximum output, shaking the dust from the overhead light fixtures. "He comes to face his doom! Minions! Prepare the primary defense matrix! Let Vanguard learn the price of his hubris!"

Arthur did not shout. He did not raise his fist. He calmly executed a system backup on Console Four, locked his terminal screen with a four-key sequence, picked up his travel mug, and secured it inside the steel drawer beneath his desk.

He then reached into his utility belt, pulled out his yellow noise-canceling earplugs, rolled them tightly between his thumbs and forefingers, and slid them firmly into his ears.

He had been through forty-three superhero raids in seven years. He knew the drill. He adjusted his chin strap, pulled his tinted visor down over his eyes, and stepped back into the designated safety perimeter marked by yellow hazard lines painted on the concrete floor.

Through the thick silicone of his earplugs, the shouting was muffled, reduced to the distant, harmless hum of an upset hive. He looked at his watch. It was eight-fifteen in the morning.

He still had three hours left before his lunch break.

The intake shaft exploded inward with a deafening metallic screech that Arthur felt in his teeth despite his industrial-grade silicone earplugs. A jagged shower of twisted ductwork, glowing insulation batts, and high-tensile steel rivets rained down onto the secondary assembly line in Bay C.

Through the billowing plume of pulverized drywall and vaporized refrigerant stepped Vanguard.

The hero was six-foot-six, framed by the harsh amber emergency lighting, his broad chest emblazoned with a gleaming gold-and-blue crest that caught every beam of light in the room. His cape—a seamless expanse of heavy, self-cleaning crimson silk—draped flawlessly over shoulders that looked capable of stopping a runaway commuter train. He didn't wear helmet visors or steel-toed boots; his boots were supple, custom-molded calfskin, pristine and entirely free of the grease and hydraulic fluid currently pooling on the floor beneath him.

"Yield, Destruction!" Vanguard’s voice boomed, amplified not by electronics, but by lungs that could hold enough air to freeze a harbor. "Your reign of subterranean terror ends today!"

Arthur stood precisely two feet behind the yellow safety line, his clipboard tucked neatly under his arm. He took a quiet sip of his medium-roast coffee, which was rapidly cooling, and began mentally calculating the repair requisitions.

The ceiling damage alone was catastrophic. Intake Shaft Four was a customized HVAC duct designed to pull three hundred thousand cubic feet of air per minute to keep the primary cooling loops from boiling. Vanguard hadn't just entered through it; he had sheared off three load-bearing structural trusses and pulverized a eight-thousand-dollar dampening fan.

"Attack, you fools!" Dr. Destruction screamed from his raised marble dais, his gauntleted hand pointing a trembling finger at the intruder. "Pulverize him! Melt his bones with the plasma cannons!"

Minions Five through Eight rushed forward, brandishing their tactical pulse rifles. They were young, eager, and thoroughly under-trained in superhero engagement protocols. Arthur reached out to grab Minion Eight’s shoulder strap, but the kid slipped out of his grip, charging into the fray with a wild war cry.

Vanguard didn't even turn to face them. He simply swept his left arm in a broad, effortless arc.

The atmospheric backdraft generated by the hero's movement produced a localized shockwave. Minions Five, Six, and Seven were lifted off their feet and hurled backward across the room, crashing through a bank of six modular server racks. The glass panels shattered in a glorious, crystalline burst, sending thousands of dollars of solid-state storage drives scattering across the epoxy floor. Minion Eight—Kevin, the software kid who had been complaining about his neck twenty minutes prior— flew backward into the main power distribution board. A bright blue arc of high-voltage electricity snapped across the frame, lighting Kevin up in a blinding halo of sparks before he slumped into an motionless pile against the conduit piping.

"Structural damage to primary server array," Arthur muttered under his breath, clicking his ballpoint pen and scribbling on his pad. "Estimated hardware loss: forty-two thousand dollars. Downtime: minimum seventy-two hours. One workplace injury, high-voltage electrical discharge."

Dr. Destruction leaped from his platform, his pneumatic leg actuators firing with a sharp thwip-hiss. He landed ten feet from Vanguard, his twin micro-fusion gauntlets glowing with an intense, violet aura.

"You are too late, Vanguard!" Destruction roared, launching a heavy beam of concentrated plasma directly at the hero's chest. "The Seismic Inducer is already fully energized! Within hours, the fault line will shatter!"

Vanguard didn't dodge. He stood his ground, crossing his massive forearms to block the energy beam. The plasma struck his impenetrable skin and reflected at a forty-five-degree angle, slicing through the main overhead support beam for the central glass observation room.

The observation deck—a multi-million-dollar structural addition installed just last spring—shuddered, groaned, and collapsed downward into the console pit. Tone-deaf corporate architecture gave way to cold gravity. Tons of reinforced plexiglass, steel framing, and executive leather seating rained down onto the main control consoles.

Arthur stepped four inches to his left to avoid a falling fluorescent light fixture that smashed into small tubes of phosphor dust right where his right boot had been standing a second before.

"Reflected energy collateral," Arthur noted on his clipboard, his voice flat and precise. "Secondary structural failure. Destruction of primary control interface. Total loss of telemetry array."

The fight continued with the mindless, repetitive violence typical of these quarterly encounters. Vanguard punched Destruction through an internal partition wall made of poured concrete, demolishing the breakroom and destroying the newly installed water filtration unit. Destruction countered by firing a volley of micro-missiles, five of which missed Vanguard entirely and blew up the automated parts inventory cage, setting fire to eighteen boxes of specialized fiber-optic cable.

Arthur watched as the smoke grew thicker. The secondary automated sprinkler system kicked in, raining cold, chemically treated water down upon the ruined, burning control room.

The liquid soaked Arthur's jumpsuit, but he didn't move from his safety zone. He pulled a small laminated card from his pocket—the Doomsday Industries Emergency Asset Evaluation Chart—and held it up against the destruction before him.

Under city ordinance Section 14-B, registered heroes operating under the Heroic Indemnity Act were legally immune from civil liability for property damage caused while apprehending an "imminent threat to public safety." That meant Vanguard’s insurance—backed by the municipal tax pool—wouldn't pay a single cent for the shattered server racks, the ruined HVAC intake, or the destroyed breakroom.

However, paragraph eight of Dr. Destruction’s own employment agreement explicitly stated that the employer was required to maintain a safe working environment, free from recognized hazards, and to provide comprehensive hazard mitigation during operational engagements.

Arthur looked over at Kevin, who was still unconscious by the electrical panel, his jumpsuit smoking lightly around the shoulders. No one was tending to him. Dr. Destruction was currently using a heavy hydraulic crane arm as a improvised club, swinging it wildly at Vanguard, who was laughing heartily while blocking the blows with his palms.

"This isn't an operational engagement," Arthur whispered to himself as the water dripped from the brim of his tactical visor. "This is gross negligence."

With a final, earth-shaking crunch, Vanguard grabbed Dr. Destruction by the chest-plate, lifted the six-hundred-pound armored villain above his head, and slammed him down through the center of the main power grid. The primary capacitors discharged all at once in a blinding flash of orange light, blowing out every breaker in the three-level facility and plunging the Doomsday Den into pitch-black darkness, illuminated only by the dying embers of the inventory fire and the red emergency exit signs.

"Another victory for justice!" Vanguard’s voice echoed through the smoking, ruined chamber. The hero dusted off his calfskin boots, turned on his heel, and leaped straight back up through the demolished intake shaft, disappearing into the morning sky above.

Silence descended on the lair, broken only by the rhythmic dripping of sprinkler water, the low groan of twisted steel, and the faint, wet cough of Dr. Destruction stirring in the wreckage of his multi-million-dollar power grid.

Arthur reached into his pocket, pulled out his waterproof LED flashlight, and clicked it on. He swept the beam across the devastation.

The Doomsday Den was a total write-off. The primary asset had been neutralized. The workspace was compromised.

Arthur clicked his pen, checked his watch—it was now nine-fourteen A.M.—and made a final mark on his clipboard. He walked over to Kevin, checked the kid’s pulse, confirmed he was breathing, and pulled out his personal phone to call a private ambulance. He knew better than to rely on the lair's HR department to call for medical transport.

It was time to talk to a lawyer.

The corporate offices of Destruction Global Enterprises—the legitimate legal entity that handled payroll, purchasing, and shell-company acquisitions for Dr. Destruction—were located on the forty-second floor of a bronze-glass skyscraper in downtown Apex City. It was a sterile, quietly terrifying place of polished white granite, expensive minimalist art, and young men in crisp three-piece suits who carried secure tablet computers instead of ray-guns.

Arthur sat in a sleek, uncomfortable chrome chair in the corner of the human resources waiting room. He was still wearing his gray slate jumpsuit, which was dry now but stained with soot, hydraulic oil, and dried chemical sprinkler foam. His steel-toed boots left small patches of grey grit on the spotless cream-colored carpet.

Across from him sat Ms. Vance, the Senior Vice President of Human Resources and Risk Management. She was a thin, sharp-featured woman in her late forty's, wearing a tailored navy blazer and spectacles with thin black frames. She was scrolling through an iPad with an expression of intense, practiced disinterest.

"Mr. Pendelton," she said, her voice dry as parchment, not looking up from her screen. "Or should I say, Minion Four."

"Arthur is fine, Ms. Vance," Arthur said, holding his clipboard on his lap. "My tax forms use my legal name."

"Right." She finally set the tablet down on her glass desk, interlocking her manicured fingers. "I have the preliminary site report from the morning's... incident. It appears Sub-Level One through Three of the main facility have been rendered completely non-operational."

"Total structural collapse of the primary command node," Arthur agreed. "The secondary power grid is fried, the HVAC system is open to the elements, and the inventory room was reduced to ash. Estimated material damages exceed fourteen million dollars."

Ms. Vance waved a hand dismissively. "The property is insured through a Cayman Islands captive firm. We'll write off the hardware as a capital loss. That isn't my primary concern this morning, Arthur. My concern is staffing overhead."

Arthur leaned forward slightly. "I have the injury logs here. Kevin—Minion Eight—suffered second-degree electrical burns and a mild concussion. He's currently at St. Jude's. I logged the incident report under Code 804, Workplace Hazard Exposure. He'll need at least three weeks of paid medical leave, plus physical therapy."

Ms. Vance stared at him for three long seconds. The silence hung in the room, heavy and cold.

"Arthur," she said softly, leaning over her desk. "Do you know what a force majeure clause is?"

"Acts of God, war, or natural disaster," Arthur stated cleanly. "Section twenty-two of the standard employment agreement."

"Precisely," Ms. Vance said, picking up a pen and clicking it once. "A superhero attack by an S-tier operative like Vanguard falls under the legal classification of an Unforeseeable Act of Catastrophic Intervention. It is, for all legal and operational purposes, an Act of God."

"Vanguard is a registered private contractor operating under municipal authority," Arthur countered. "He is an established threat. His tactics are well-documented in eighteen city-wide damage assessments filed over the last five years. He enters facilities through air ducts seventy percent of the time. His presence is entirely foreseeable."

Ms. Vance's eyes narrowed slightly behind her specs. "Be that as it may, the company's position is clear. The facility is no longer operational. The project has been terminated. Therefore, under Section 22-C, all non-essential operational contracts tied to the Doomsday Den facility are immediately severed."

She picked up a thin blue folder from her desk drawer and slid it across the glass toward Arthur.

"What is this?" Arthur asked, not touching the folder.

"That is your severance agreement," Ms. Vance said smoothly. "In light of your seven years of loyal service to Destruction Global, the Boss has authorized a discretionary severance payment equivalent to two weeks of standard base pay, minus withholding, in exchange for a full waiver of all future liability claims, including medical, psychological, and property loss."

Arthur stared at the blue folder. Two weeks. Seven years of working sixty-hour weeks, crawling through toxic waste conduits, rewiring high-voltage death-rays, dodging flying shipping containers, and breathing in micro-particulates of burned carbon fiber, and they were offering him fourteen days of base pay.

"Two weeks," Arthur repeated. "My contract guarantees sixty days of transition pay in the event of a structural site shutdown, provided the termination is without cause."

"The termination is with cause," Ms. Vance snapped, her calm veneer cracking slightly. "The cause is that your workplace no longer exists! You can't perform operational maintenance on a facility that is currently filled with four feet of contaminated fire-suppression water and pulverized masonry."

"And what about Kevin?" Arthur asked. "What about Gary? Minion Seven has a broken collarbone from falling off the server rack."

"Their contracts are also being severed under the same clause," she said, leaning back and smoothing her blazer. "They will receive their final paycheck through Friday, along with a standard COBRA continuation form for their health insurance—which, as you know, requires them to pay the full premium out of pocket."

Arthur sat very still. He looked down at his clipboard, at the neat rows of numbers he had recorded while standing in the smoke and sparks of the ruined command pit. He thought about his apartment on 4th Street, his mortgage payment, his five-year-old compact car with a leaking power steering pump, and his retirement account, which was currently sitting in a volatile offshore hedge fund managed by one of Destruction's shell entities that had dropped twelve percent last month.

"I’m not signing it," Arthur said gently.

Ms. Vance paused, her pen hovering an inch above her desk pad. "Excuse me?"

"I’m not signing the release," Arthur said. He picked up the blue folder, opened it, swept his eyes over the three pages of dense, ten-point legal boilerplate, and placed it back on the desk. "This agreement violates the state labor code regarding emergency workplace closures. Furthermore, Dr. Destruction failed to provide adequate structural defenses for the air intake system despite four separate maintenance warnings I submitted last quarter regarding the structural weakness of Shaft Four."

Ms. Vance laughed—a short, sharp bark that held no humor at all. "Arthur, you are a minion. A henchman. You wear an anonymous gray suit with a number on the chest. Do you really think you can challenge Dr. Destruction in a legal venue? Do you have any idea how many attorneys this organization retains?"

"I know how many you retain," Arthur said calmly, standing up and tucking his clipboard under his arm. "Fourteen on retainer, plus three specialized firms in Washington to handle the orbital weapons compliance treaties. But none of them are going to like explaining to a municipal labor board why a multi-billion-dollar enterprise doesn't carry mandatory state workers' compensation insurance for its sub-level technical staff."

Ms. Vance's face went very pale. The manicured hands on her desk froze.

"Are you threatening us, Mr. Pendelton?"

"No," Arthur said, adjusting his collar and turning toward the heavy oak exit door. "I’m just giving my two-week notice. And I expect my full severance package, including accrued vacation pay and hazard rollover, by Friday afternoon."

"If you walk out that door without signing that waiver," Ms. Vance called after him, her voice rising in pitch, "you will be blacklisted from every syndicate, secret society, and villainous enterprise on the Eastern Seaboard! You’ll never work in this sector again!"

Arthur paused with his hand on the brushed-brass door handle. He looked back at her over his shoulder, his face entirely unreadable.

"Ms. Vance," Arthur said softly. "I’ve spent seven years being shot at by guys in spandex and yelled at by a man who wears a chrome bucket on his head. I think I’m ready for a career change."

He pulled the door open and stepped out into the clean, air-conditioned hallway, his soot-stained steel-toed boots leaving one last gray footprint on the pristine corporate floor.