According to the press, boy bands are made up of mediocre performers who get by on the strength of their non-threatening good looks. As if all it takes to have a platinum album is a record studio’s marketing department. Bullshit.
The bands who make it put in more hours training than Olympic athletes, and once they’re on tour, there’s no downtime. But all that hard work is pointless if the band members—all the band members, boy bands don’t have headliners—don’t have that something special, that something extraordinary you can’t help but be impressed by.
Bring five teenagers like that together, as I did with Never Boy Land, and you have the most popular touring band in the world in 2019. It should have been 2020 too, except Covid, fucking Covid.
Still, what goes around, comes around, and 2027 was going to be the year of the great NBL comeback. I had everything lined up, and then… the band vanished, literally.
Interview with Marjorie Banks, Never Boy Land manager
From the documentary Straight on Till Morning – the Unexplained Disappearance of Never Boy Land
Chapter 1
Ferimus
Ferimus tries not to stare at the bloated, dead rat. That’s hard to do when one is hogtied on the ground and the corpse in question is inches from one’s face. He closes his eyes, but its stench curdles in his nostrils, tormenting him with the hopelessness of his situation, the impossible mess he’s gotten himself into, and the damage that will soon spread everywhere.
Janassy has the sky rock, and she has somehow harnessed its power to twist and bend the forest trees into grotesque monsters, hungry to do her bidding, which involved driving all humans and fauna from the Drevo Woods. She also may have ranted something about harvesting the mana of Mythreal to create a golden age for flora. His mind is a little fuzzy on the details, either from the thrashing he’d received from Janassy’s creatures when they captured him, or because he is still reeling from the one truly horrific thing she’d told him: That she no longer loves him.
In light of her declaration, Ferimus’s imminent demise from starvation—his captors have gagged him, allowing him only small sips of water—is almost a relief. Except that his mind keeps imagining the chaos and destruction Janassy will sow upon the forest’s inhabitants, and the people of Bydlo, and the disruption that will spread to all of Ozema, perhaps even the whole realm of Mythreal. Not that Ferimus can do anything about it, shackled and imprisoned as he is.
Ha! Who is he trying to fool? Even freed, he isn’t much of a wizard. If only the Divine Wisdom—-
Wait! That’s it.
How could he have forgotten about the Divine Wisdom? Probably the way he forgets about most things. His mind has more holes than a fishing net.
The Divine Wisdom’s purpose is to maintain the balance of Mythreal. Surely Janassy’s plans are enough of a threat for It to act before it’s too late. It couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Please Divine Wisdom,” he mumbles incomprehensibly through his muzzle. Just as well, in case his guards are listening. “You saved this sacred forest once before. Neither I, nor anyone living here, or in Bydlo, can stop Janassy’s madness. We need your help, we need heroes.”
That is all Ferimus can do. But that’s alright. The Divine Wisdom is omniscient. Out of all possible heroes, it will identify those most capable, most suited to right this wrong, to triumph on this quest. Maybe Ferimus will even survive long enough to meet them.
At that moment, the gag around his mouth loosens.
“Don’t you dare try a spell, Wizard,” the guard warns, “or you won’t get any dinner.”
Dinner? Ferimus shudders. They’re talking about the rat.
“Please help us, Divine Wisdom,” Ferimus whispers. “Please.”
Kyle
Their text says: “Show up at the back door, before business hours. Be discreet.” Never a good sign.
It means higher-ups had a moment of clarity when they realized just how south this collab could turn. So now they’re freaking out and forgetting that heady excitement they felt when our manager sold them on the project. Can’t say I’m surprised by their lack of faith; tech bros and our kind don’t mix.
So here I am at seven thirty in the fricking morning, standing in the employee parking lot where the driverless ride share service dropped me off, and facing a nondescript security door with a sign dissuading me from unauthorized entry. There’s probably a metaphor in all this. But I’m not going to go there. Instead, I text them that I’ve arrived.
The door opens. “Welcome to Sky Coyote Studios,” says a young woman with glossy black hair and doe eyes. “I’m Mina Chawla.”
Judging from her affordable business-casual blazer and nervous professionalism, I’m guessing she’s an assistant, maybe an intern.
“Kyle Moretti,” I extend my hand and get an awkward handshake. Mina’s got a super serious expression, like she’s filing away every detail of this interaction for later analysis. I flash her a half smile and watch as, yes, she blushes. I’d be flattered if this was due to my charming and engaging looks, or even the name recognition, but—let’s be real—it’s because I’m with the band.
In confirmation of my theory, she sneaks a glance behind me. “Is anyone else with you?”
“No, we decided to arrive separately.”
“Oh, of course.” Mina gives the parking lot one last look, just in case, before letting me in. “Sorry, they told me not to use the elevator.”
It’s unreal, all this enforced privacy and sneaking around. It’s like we’re on a secret mission when it’s just PR freaking out that something might leak before their carefully managed official announcements.
And it’s pathetic how much I missed it.
We climb three flights of emergency staircases and Mina uses her badge to access a nondescript hallway. I wasn’t expecting the bronze dragon and faux stone walls of Sky Coyote’s much-Instagrammed lobby. Still, beige? Then we turn a corner and a landscape mural four feet high and the length of a tour bus stretches out along the wall.
This is more like it.
Scraggly snow-capped mountains tower over a forest that starts out shadowy and ominous then transitions to fairytale cheery. Beyond the woods is a bucolic meadow with a winding dirt road that leads to a bridge. Finally, there’s a castle sporting sixteen spires, which is somehow perched over a waterfall. Stamped at the end is the familiar logo for Heroes Summoning.
“Have you ever played?” asks Mina. Her tone is careful in case she’s crossed some line between normal people and celebrities. What she doesn’t realize is that—until the band’s relaunch next week—I’m still officially a has-been.
“Absolutely, all the time.”
“Wow,” she gasps. And then in a relaxed, more natural voice, she says, “I just didn’t think someone like you would play a video RPG.”
I shrug. “I’m a geek.”
Mina laughs. “I play a level nine rogue assassin. You?”
It feels good to connect as normal humans. “I’m currently a level four—”
An insistent chirping erupts from her pocket. Mina glances at her phone and any jovial nerding-out evaporates.
“Oh, he’s here.” The awe in her voice leaves no question who’s arrived, and it brings me back to just how extra I am to this reboot. “They said not to keep him waiting. But I need to drop you off.” She quick-walks us down the hall to a set of double doors and buzzes it open. “The studio’s in here. I’m sorry, but I was told—”
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“It’s okay. Thanks for getting me here.”
That gets me a grateful look before she dashes down the hall in order to welcome the genuine celebrity.
A poster stuck to one of the doors reads: “Time to Live the Game” with the familiar tan parchment Mythreal map. In the corner, someone’s written “Here be digital dragons.” Past the doors is a large room, all white and clean—pristine, that’s the word. It’s wider than it is deep. No windows, save for a wall of smoky glass at one end. I’m guessing from the blinking pinpoints of lights (as well as the ambient hum of the room) that that’s where they keep the server farm. Six regularly spaced large flat screens, all currently black, line the wall. In front of each, there’s a circular depression, like an inverted platform. They’re four feet in diameter and probably a foot deep.
A lanky, bronze-skinned man immersed in his phone stands in one of circles. For once we’re the same height so I get a good look at the top of his thick mop of midnight hair; he always cuts the sides close and trim. There’s a hunched strain to shoulders that wasn’t there when I saw him yesterday.
“Oscar,” I call out.
He startles as if he’s been caught out. His full lips pull at his features, giving him a solemn, even mournful expression. But with recognition, his familiar smile emerges.
“Kyle, my man!” His face comes alive with attractive creases, and even a dimple. “Gold star for most punctual band member.”
“Last I checked the Wikipedia page, you were also a listed member of Never Boy Land.” Before me, in fact, because they do it alphabetically and Jones comes before Moretti. And yes, I am that annoyingly detail oriented.
“Okay, so I’ll give you the award for most logical.” Before I can get in a snarky reply, he follows it up with. “Or should we just stick with band smartass?”
“You might want to hold off on bestowing that one till the others arrive.”
“Okay, but I got a feeling today will be one of those ‘Kyle Moretti explains it all’ days.”
It’s crazy how easily we slip back into our roles. The five of us hadn’t all been in the same room since 2023, but when I showed up for rehearsal a few weeks ago, it felt like we’d never been apart—at least on an emotional/social level; physically I’m pathetically out of shape. Not that Oscar would ever point that out. He’ll always be the encouraging older brother to the rest of us greenhorn brats. He’s only two years older than me, but back in 2015 when Marjorie Banks signed us on as a band, I was a fourteen-year-old with a YouTube channel looking up to this sixteen-year-old (practically an adult to us) who’d already been in two, albeit failed, boy bands. He wasn’t just an upperclassman showing us the ropes; we trusted him to look out for us in the glamorous scary world of showbiz.
Now I’m twenty-five with three and a half years of college experience, while Oscar stuck it out in the music industry. Most of it’s been background singing and dancing for established artists or cameos on his siblings’ reality tv show, but making a living in this business proves he has both the talent and passion. I respect that.
A note of seriousness slips into Oscar’s voice. “You know, Kyle, I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m glad you signed up for our comeback tour.”
“So we can keep all the old choreography, right?”
“More than that. It’s good to have the band back together.” His eyes start to go dark and soulful; it’s a technique they teach us in boy band school. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
He doesn’t rush in with defending my musical contributions (nothing about my voice or dancing or stage presence). I decide that means he’s being honest. “Thanks, man.”
“Tristan—” Oscar’s words are cut off by a buzz and click of the security lock.
“Speak of the devil.” But I’m mistaken, it’s someone else.
The guy who enters is sprouting facial hair that’s three days past needing a shave but at least a week away from being recognizably a beard. He’s also wearing a sagging hoodie with another internet company’s branding. In other words, he’s a techy hipster.
I pick up on the signaling because two months (and another lifetime ago), it was a look I was slipping into, save that I wore my belt two notches tighter. When I first showed up for rehearsal, our stylist went tight-lipped and scheduled me for bootcamp at a spa. I emerged with a lot less hair. What remains looks like I just rolled out of bed, but—improbably—every disheveled lock of highlighted brown hair manages to fall into just the right place.
“This is Dave. Dave, Kyle.” Oscar’s phone convulses with an angry buzz. He scans the screen and his features tense up. It’s a look he reserves for when his siblings are getting themselves into trouble. I don’t envy Oscar’s celebrity family drama; it makes me glad to be an only child. Still reading his phone’s screen, he says in a flat distracted voice, “Dave will get you fitted for the VR face-screen-thing.”
“Headset,” Dave corrects him, curt-like. You don’t diss a nerd’s tech.
Normally Oscar would be falling over himself to apologize, but each phone alert pulls his smile down. I step towards Dave to give Oscar the space to deal with whatever is blowing up. Marjorie Banks' 10th Law of Boy Bands: The first thing anyone you’ve interacted with should recall is, “He was so nice.” I’m not the first choice for a Never Boy Land charm offensive. But like I told Mina, I’m a geek.
“Did you guys manage to get your hands on any of the new Opthallus MX360s?” I had one on my Christmas wish list, but supply issues made the manufacturer pushed back the release till April.
Dave perks up. “They wish we’d use their gear. But we’ve got something custom that blows those guys away.” Yeah, I got this.
He takes me over to a cupboard and opens it with a flourish. What’s inside elicits a spontaneous gasp of envy out of me. They’re the size of ski goggles with a comfortable wrap-around that covers the ears. Dave hands me one and—damn—it’s light. I’d had reservations that we’d be able to perform any of our dance moves for the virtual performance, but this could just work.
“Bluetooth?” I ask.
“It’s got its own CPU and battery.”
“What? It hardly weighs anything.”
“Well, the charge is only good for ninety minutes. We’ll need to arrange for an intermission to swap them out.” He pulls out a digital caliper (because why would a computer engineer use a tape measure?) “I’m going to measure your head, unless you happen to know your head dimension.”
“Metric or Imperial?”
“Um, metric.”
“Fifty-nine point seven centimeters. And it’s sixty-two millimeters between my pupils.”
“Wow, most people don’t know that.”
I shrug. “It’s so our clothes fit just right.” Which is true, although I doubt Oscar or the others could recite those measurements. I’m blessed/cursed with a good memory (which I’d trade in a heartbeat for perfect pitch).
“Yeah, I remember the way you guys used to dress.” Dave gives me a different headset and inputs something on his phone.
I pull it on, marveling again at the lightness. The initial black screen switches to a color version of the room that’s so clear I’d swear I was looking through glass and not viewing a real-time computed projection.
“Like those matching, embroidered tuxedos you wore to the Grammys.” I’m not sure if Dave’s laugh is ironic or sarcastic. The screen’s momentary lag means I may just be misinterpreting the vibe, but I feel like we’re done talking tech. I take off the headset to make sure we can both read each other’s expressions.
“Yeah, those were pretty ridiculous. And hot. We sweated like pigs.”
“Or those kilts with suspenders from the ‘Can’t Be U’ video?”
I laugh. Maybe Dave did a recent internet image search, but he sounds more informed. Obsessed stalker? Unlikely. As a rule, boy bands don’t have fanboys, much less crazed ones. Never Boy Land officially broke up in 2023, and Dave doesn’t look much older than me. Most likely scenario: he was dating—or wanted to be dating—some girl who was way into us and this is just him blowing off years of suppressed inferiority. Or worse, she may have forced him to attend one of our shows.
“You know, my younger sister was obsessed with you guys,” says Dave. Girlfriend, sister—close enough. “It was during the pandemic. She was twelve. I was eighteen. I should have been heading off to college; instead I was stuck at home taking classes online. And every day it seemed your band released a dance, or zoom chat, or some impromptu video on your TikTok channel. And she’d demand that I watch them too, to increase your view count.”
Yeah, I remember those. I’ve heard people claim that 2020 was our big year and that we owed our popularity to the lockdowns. Like the best thing to happen to us was promoting our songs and brand religiously over social media. They forget all about us having to cancel our sold-out world tour, delay our third album, and basically put our careers on hold.
“And then there was your music. Stacy claimed headphones gave her migraines, so she played your albums out loud, nonstop.”
“You must have hated us,” I sympathize. I’ve spent plenty of time hating on NBL, and its members. That includes Kyle Moretti.
“There were times I fantasized about punching you in the face—not you personally—the main guys,” Dave admits. “But you kept Stacy sane. She was stuck even more than me. She couldn’t go to school, couldn’t hang out with friends. The social media stuff Never Boy Land released helped her get through it. And… your music doesn’t actually suck.”
I hope he’s not expecting me to say thank you.
Dave grins. “I know all your lyrics. I’ve got an NBL playlist I pull out when I need some ear-sugar. I even begged my manager to be part of the VCPT. That’s virtual concert performance team.”
“Wow,” I say, and mean it.
“I was wondering, could I get a photo with all of you?”
“Of course. We can even record a hello for Stacy.”
He laughs. “Oh, she’s not that into you anymore. She’s told me her music tastes have evolved.”
I calculate; his sister would be nineteen or twenty now. “Emo girls with guitars?” I hazard.
“Metalcore. I know, right?”
And that—in a nutshell—is why we crashed and burned as a band. It’s true; most boy bands’ initial run of stardom doesn’t last more than five years, but no one predicted our 2023 implosion. We’d built up so much goodwill during lockdowns, and venues were desperate to rebook our tour. But further Covid outbreaks kept causing show cancellations, and the stress brought out the worst in us. Then there was what Marjorie calls the “Comfy Pajamas Effect.” That warm, fuzzy piece of clothing you wore every day during lockdown just loses its appeal afterwards. You want to put on real clothes and go out into the world. It’s not like you hate those pajamas, but they’re carrying a lot of baggage. You don’t want to see them—much less wear them—ever again. Never Boy Land was the metaphorical equivalent of a hoodie-footie-onesie.
Makes me wonder why we’re attempting the comeback tour. Of course, Marjorie has a rationale for that too. It’s 2027. As a band, we’ve been out of the spotlight long enough for our old fans to be nostalgic. But we’re still young enough—Oscar just turned twenty-seven—to radiate that non-threatening boyish charm. Plus there are opportunities, like performing the first virtual concert in an online video game. I wouldn’t have thought that a massive multiplayer online swords and sorcery game like Heroes Summoning would attract our twelve to eighteen-year-old female target demographic, but according to the PowerPoint presentation the Sky Coyote marketing guy did, girls like slaying monsters and defeating demon lords—provided they get to wear cute outfits and the demon lords are hot (his words, not mine). Sky Coyote wants to lure their audience over to their newly-launched virtual-world platform and Never Boy Land has enough name recognition to build up a buzz without the demands and constraints of a current stadium-filling performer.
The door to the VR studio buzzes, and in walks the real reason we’re getting a second chance: NBL’s one successful breakout star, Tristan Ives.