“Hi,” Steve squeezed out.
“Hello, Mr. Robinson,” the applicant said with a smile. Steve reached across the desk, expecting a professional handshake. Steve’s hand disappeared as the giant clasped it with both of his enormous mitts in an eager embrace. No, Steve never felt so small in his life.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
“No,” the applicant replied quickly.
“You sure? I’m convinced I’ve seen you somewhere before, perhaps television?”
“Nope. Not at all. Just a boring average Earthman.”
Steve motioned to the chair. The man parted his perfect blond hair down one side. His dark blue suit appeared to be several sizes too small. The buttons on his shirt strained to hold back the man’s righteous pecs. Steve couldn’t imagine many tailors worked with such a statuesque man. He wondered if the man dressed that way on purpose, to accentuate the uncanny amount of muscle lying beneath the thin, taut fabric.
“Thank you for coming in Mister...”
“Mister Supreme, but you can call me Samuel.”
“Samuel Supreme?” The man could bench press a Buick, how did his parents foresee the need to name him Sam Supreme? Did Janice include the resume as a joke, revenge for marrying her brother and stealing him away? If it wasn’t for Steve’s husband, she’d still be unemployed and living in her parents’ basement.
“Secret Identities Incorporated started as a way to alert the public to the presence of superhumans.” Steve began the same rehearsed speech he gave to all the applicants. “It utilizes a crowdsourced principal that lets people notify the world when they stumble upon superheroes. The more people who report, the more urgent the signal. We’re currently in the process of expanding our operations and need to hire a customer service representative.”
The behemoth of a man sat on the edge of his chair, unable to sit comfortably due to the chair’s arms squeezing his uncanny girth. His chiseled chin rested below the most sincere and heartwarming smile. Steve took a moment to ponder how well this man must do at ladies’ night. His symmetrical dimples provided a dash of innocence, while his glasses gave him a bit of sophistication. Steve leaned over his desk, squinting to inspect the man’s face.
“Do your glasses have lenses?”
Sam’s face turned several shades of red. He fidgeted. “I’m very excited for the opportunity to join the Secret Identities team.”
Steve snapped back to reality. He needed an employee for customer relations. “Ah, right, thank you for coming in. I see here...” He scanned the resume again and stopped on his last place of employment. “You worked as a barista at Coffee, Coffee, Coffee?”
“It was a great job, Mr. Robinson. I had the bestest time talking to the customers and learning about their Earth traditions. I enjoyed making their day extra super.”
“May I ask why you were let go?”
His bottom lip extended, his pout almost comical. He averted his eyes for a moment, looking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Sam finally took a deep breath, his massive shoulders relaxing, giving the hard-working buttons of his dress shirt a short break. “They said I asked for too much time off.”
“Is it true?”
“At the time I was trying to balance my professional life and my work life.”
“Professional and work, you mean professional and personal?” Something about the man seemed ever so slightly off.
“Yes! You are correct, Mr. Robinson. Yes, that’s right.”
Steve scribbled some notes on the page. He leaned back in his chair, captured by the perpetual grin plastered on Sam’s face. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
“Good question, Mr. Robinson.” Steve required more coffee to deal with Sam’s enthusiasm. The applicant established the pleasant nature necessary for angry customers. “I’m hoping to be part of a team, you know, a group, people who can work together to change the world for the better.”
Steve was about to follow up when a loud bang sounded off in the distance. Steve’s pocket vibrated again. He pulled out his phone, the “V” turning red as the building shook.
“Looks like a villain has been sighted in town. I wonder if we should head to the neutral zone?” Villains might be frequently trying to take over the planet, but thankfully they demonstrated a code of conduct. During the “Super Peace Summit,” villains agreed to leave areas off-limits to their machinations. In the sketchier neighborhoods, schools and senior centers were considered safe havens. At least villains respected a proper education and taking care of their elders.
Sam jumped to his feet. Chest puffed out, he froze, as if waiting for somebody to take his photo. He held his glasses in his hand as he struck a dashing pose, staring off into nothingness. With a flip of his hair, Steve believed the man could be a shampoo model or on the cover of a romance novel. Even his voice rang with confidence. “I’m sure one of the heroes will come to save the day.”
Steve spun his chair to peer out the window. He hoped to catch a glimpse of a supervillain in action.
His love of comic books surged as superheroes’ evil counterparts started to appear. He created the program for his phone to keep track of emerging superhumans, wanting to witness their fantastic powers. Now, the app alerted the public to the presence of heroes and villains, a recipe guaranteeing an epic fight. Heroes always derailed the dastardly deeds of villains and then deposited them in the “superhuman” supermax prison in the harbor.
“It’s Hothead,” Steve exclaimed. The villain, known for a scalding temper, exaggerated by a fire-covered lower half of his body. The powered man zoomed past the building, fire erupting from his hands to the street below. Steve noticed Sam’s expression change from glee to fear, something almost comedic on the big man’s face. Seconds past as Steve watched Hothead, when he turned back to Sam, the gigantic man was nowhere to be found.
“They’re villains, I get being scared, but running away, really?” The cascading muscles, classic overcompensation. He hoped he didn’t find Samuel cowering in the stairwell.
Steve believed the temperature in the room increased, either from the supervillain, or perhaps the broken air-conditioner, he wasn’t sure. A quick inspection of his phone gave all the relevant information bystanders may need. Pyro. Flight. Hothead’s origin, a tragic fire at a chemical plant granting him powers. With a swipe of Steve’s finger, several images of the man appeared, both in his superhero outfit and in his street clothes.
“He really should work on his disguise. He’s not even trying.”
Outside his window, Hothead spewed fire like a human flamethrower. The screams of gangsters and hoodlums erupted from the street. Steve strained against the glass to behold his target. A hero. A classic match, two superpowers combating above the city streets. An unsaid rule required heroes to wear bright vibrant colors, while villains basked in their deep tones and black. Lots of black.
Mister Supreme.
“Wait,” Steve did a double take, eyeing the empty seat across from his desk. Superheroes were common, but that common? He tried to visualize Sam, tightly bound in form-fitting spandex and a miniature blue cape. “It can’t be him, Sam had glasses.” He thought about the possibility.
“Nah,” he said, half laughing at the thought, that one of his potential hires might be a superhero. He jotted down some notes about the Samuel, mostly reminding him the interview ended early due to his cowardice from a b-rate supervillain. He scribbled a “maybe” next to the man’s name.
Fire bounced off Mister Supreme’s chest. The flames washed over the hero’s body, barely shifting his iconic blond hair. Mister Supreme didn’t have much in the way of flashy powers like some of the heroes. He didn’t wield built-in missile launchers, or the ability to rain down lightning on his foes. Mister Supreme flew close to Hothead and with a single punch, the villain flew in an arc and landed three streets away.
Steve left the window as the victor raced after a flailing Hothead. He got himself situated in his chair
again. He eyed his cell phone, an image of Mister Supreme and the words “victory” flashing on the screen. If the brutish man wore spectacles, Samuel could have an identical twin. “Couldn’t be,” he muttered.
Steve shoved the device into his pocket, thinking if the hero was indeed Samuel, he needed to work a bit harder on his secret identity. He pressed the button on his desk phone. “Janice, could you send in the next applicant.”
She pouted. “Steve, a super battle is taking place outside right now.”
“Mister Supreme just clobbered Hothead. Like, right outside my window.”
“I told you leaving your basement was a bad idea.”
He ignored her jab. He happily traded spider webs and mildew for jewelry store robberies. He opened the manila folder with the applications and stared at another resume, beautifully decorated, name emphasized with looping calligraphic letters. He expected a woman sweeter than Sam. The door opened and he raised his head.
“Felicia Fierce?”
“Got something to say about it?”
He sat back in his chair, partially for comfort, partially to put more distance between him and the overly aggressive woman. His sister’s recommendation came to mind, a gun mounted under his desk would be a warm comfort sitting across from this applicant.
She plopped down in the chair, draping one of her legs over the wooden arm. The magenta maxi dress complete with black pearls revealed an elegance her personality lacked. Fluorescent purple hair and matching fingernail polish, now that seemed fairly appropriate.
“Want to stare a little harder? Take all of this in big boy.”
Somewhere on her body, she hid a tattoo of a man being decapitated, he knew it. Perhaps scribbled across her abdomen the words, “Rage. Murder. Kill.” The slit up the side of her dress gave way to a black garter. He couldn’t be sure, but she might be hiding a hunting knife on her thigh, a very threatening hunting knife.
“Ms. Fierce,” he tried to hide his nerves, “what makes you think you’re a good fit for a customer service manager position at Secret Identities Incorporated?”
She dropped her leg and leaned in, closing the distance between them. The dark makeup around her eyes made them more frightening than the knife. He suspected she got laid off from her last job for attempting to kill her boss. Her eyebrows, sculpted to perfection, closed in on one another as she licked her lips, preparing to go for the kill.
“I’ve been told I have a way with people.”
“What way might that be?” Why did he ask that? Certainly, she would reach across the desk and drag him screaming to the floor. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair, as he considered stooping under the desk for safety.
“It’s obvious, I’m a ray of fricken’ sunshine.”
“Why do you want to work at Secret Identities Incorporated?” He secretly wished she would remember the body left bound in the trunk of her car and leave the interview. Perhaps leave in the pursuit of terrifying a gaggle of Girl Scouts until they surrendered their Thin Mints.
He yelped as his cell phone vibrated. He maintained eye contact with the ferocious Felicia Fierce. Several dings sounded. The villain proximity alert. “Again?” he mumbled. He couldn’t imagine why so many villains were active today.
Steve wanted to place his cheek against the window behind him to see which villain appeared only minutes after a Mister Supreme sighting. He locked eyes with the woman, uncertain if turning his back on her would be a wise decision. She pulled out her phone and swore loudly.
“I have to go, but I can start on Monday. I better hear from you.”
“We haven’t finished the interview,” he said, but it sound more like a question.
She slapped her hands down on his desk, getting as close as the piece of furniture allowed her. “I’m the daughter of Carnies. I competed in the Olympics as the world’s youngest gymnast. And the thing you have to know about me...”
She paused. Her eyes devoured him as they worked up and down his body. She waited until he asked, “What should I know?”
Her whisper terrified him more than the knife in her garter. “I always get what I want.”
Steve wrote, “Crazy, call cops,” on her application. Frightening in person, but in a sales position, if she could intimidate people on the phone as well as she had him, she might have a career with him. He added a “maybe” next to her name. Before he could ask another question, something bright flew at his face, landing on his head.
“Don’t kill me! You can have the job!”
He heard the door open and slam shut. He pulled at the fabric, a dress, her dress, the one she had just been wearing. He reached over to his phone and pressed the intercom button to the front desk.
“Janice, did a naked woman backflip out of my office?”
“Not naked, she had on heels.”
A world-class weightlifter and a venomous vixen. A primal scream outside grabbed Steve’s attention. Is the lease breakable if the building got destroyed? With the powered battles happening so close, he understood why the neighborhood appeared empty. He couldn’t remember if he bought death ray insurance. He should.
“Speaking of roofs.” Across the street, a man wearing a black trench coat carried a massive gun, strolling along the top of an apartment building. Killsy, a world-renowned mercenary who hunted down his victims in exchange for money. The man raised his gun, firing into the air, wanting all attention focused on him. Steve imagined mad cackling, there must be cackling, it’s what evil people do.
Steve dropped down to the floor, his eyes high enough to peer over the ledge of the window. Out of nowhere, a woman swung onto the roof, rolling to a crouching position. She gripped a whip hanging from her waist. With lightning-fast movement, the whip snapped, knocking the gun from Killsy’s hand.
“Are you serious?” Purple hair. Sensational purple hair. The trademark of Feral, the acrobatic femme fatale. The female hero’s magenta body suit reminded him of Felicia, her dress still sitting on his desk. Two? Two heroes in one day? Were they even trying to blend in at this point? “They should be a bit more concerned about their secret ident...”
It made sense. “Damn.”
As she flipped through the air, her high heeled boot knocked the spit from her foe’s mouth. Steve believed he uncovered the reason why heroes flocked to his office building. Feral ducked under a sword swipe. She punched him in the throat and grabbed his neck and leg, raising the villain over her head. She screamed, a guttural cry, the Feral trademark.
Steve cringed as she slammed the man downward. Fitting her name, she jumped, on the way down, driving her elbow into the man’s torso. She sprung to her feet, a victory dance taking place like she made a winning touchdown. As she thrust her hips and bounced her backside, Steve admitted she might not be the most family-friendly superhero running through the streets.
“At least she has an outlet for all that rage,” he said climbing back to his feet. The woman tied up Killsy, but not before she pulled out her cell phone and took a selfie with the man. She posed with an unconscious Killsy on the ground, pursing her lips and exaggerating her deep cleavage. As the sirens sounded, she tucked away her phone and leaped off the roof in a perfect dive.
His cell dinged multiple times. He reconsidered going back to the oh so safe garage. A black V? That meant a citywide villain event. As the symbol blinked on his screen, he contemplated the confusing user interface. He set his phone on the desk as the building rumbled. Unlike before, the tremors continued.
Outside, on the street below, a horde of mutant insects clawed their way from sewer grates. The swarm grew steadily until the avenue vanished underneath their durable exoskeletons. King Mite, scourge of the insect kingdom, rode atop his infamous ten-foot-tall praying mantis. He raised his scepter into the air, pointing forward, urging his minions to wreak havoc on the city.
Mister Supreme soared past the window, clobbering two wasps before a dragonfly collided with him from behind. The bug grabbed his tiny blue cape and dragged
him off as he tried valiantly to reach the perpetrator.
“Mister Supreme?” Steve couldn’t believe it. The battle, barely underway and already one of the most impressive heroes neutralized. He hoped Supreme wrestled his way to freedom. The other heroes needed his brute strength.
On the apartment building across the street, Feral returned, swinging open the stairwell door. “Okay, taking the stairs to a fight, not nearly as dramatic as I hoped for.” Steve tried to hide his glee as she cartwheeled and somersaulted through the pincers of two man-sized Rhino Beetles. He gasped as she switched directions, jumping underneath one beetle and snapping her whip at the other.
With a snap of her wrist, the whip wrapped around the legs of a beetle. She pulled a knife from a holster on her leg. “I knew it!” She struck the insect in the head, piercing its exoskeleton.
An angry man-sized housefly landed behind her. With perfect form, she flipped backward, landing on its head. She straddled the winged beast while the beetle bounced back and forth, attempting to throw her.
“She’s doomed,” he whispered.
Steve darted to his door. His waiting room could only hold ten people at best, but at least twenty people packed themselves into the space. The room looked like a guild of professional wrestlers were idly waiting. He had a vague idea who some might be, the fiery hair, or the body covered in tattoos. Did a wing just appear near the water cooler? The world appreciated their constant do-gooding, but somebody needed to show these titans how to fit in with mere mortals.
“Oh no,” Steve said with a sense of faked urgency. “King Mite is running loose downtown with his insect army.” Every eye focused on him. Did that woman have three eyes? No hero could resist the urge to demonstrate their superness. The energy transitioned from calm to agitated. Those at the door ducked out quickly, making no attempt to be coy about their vanishing.
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