Maxwell Mather, standing at a podium and shuffling papers, appeared to be encased in something that very much resembled a pneumatic tube found at a bank drive-through window.
Thick and clear, it kept him insulated from any kind of science or magic (and occasionally a combination of the two) he might encounter.
And encounter it he would; as the head of human resources at World Metahuman Clearinghouse, Inc., it was his job to screen, interview, and onboard new superheroes, as well as make sure they left without making a scene after being relieved of their duties.
Things rarely went sideways, although when Colonel Skunk was asked to turn in his uniform several years earlier after a period of downsizing, there was a spraying incident.
During the summer – especially on breezy days – employees at WMC Inc. claim they can still get a whiff of the odor.
On this day the applicant was Nate Raimi, a young man from America’s Heartland who hoped to convince Mather his skills were worth support and, more importantly, worthy of funding.
While Mather stood inside his cube, Raimi sat in a chair situated several feet away.
“Welcome, Nate … I hope you don’t mind if I call you Nate,” said Mather, whose voice was projected through an intercom system inside the tube.
“Not at all,” Raimi said. “I just appreciate you taking the time to talk to me today. It’s very kind of you.”
Mather looked down at Raimi’s application, pulled it closer to his face, then laid it down on the podium.
“So, I see you want your hero identity to be ‘Compassion-Nate,’ is that correct?”
Raimi smiled and nodded.
“Very clever. Could you describe exactly what your powers are?” Mather asked.
Raimi cleared his throat.
“It’s pretty simple,” he said. “I feel compassion … a genuine concern for other people. When I meet someone, it makes them feel that same compassion, and then they spread the feeling to someone else, and it starts something of a chain reaction.”
Mather raised an eyebrow.
“So, basically, you’re just … sympathetic to people?” Mather said.
“Well, there’s a bit more to it than that,” Raimi said. “I have to personally interact with them – have a conversation – and that triggers the spread the compassion. I don’t have to say much, just a brief chat. And after that, they start to feel it and they’ll go in search of someone else in need of having compassion shown to them … they’ll be drawn to them. They retain some of my compassion power, or whatever you want to call it, and pass it on to someone else, who passes it on to someone else, and so on. It’s really cool.”
Mather displayed a puzzled look.
“How do you know?” he asked. “I mean, how do you know it’s working?”
“Each night when I go to sleep, I dream about the people I’ve had an encounter with and in these dreams, I see all the people that it affected,” Raimi explained. “And sometimes I’ll see them again in person, and when I do, they’ll talk about some of the people whose lives they’ve touched. It’s a good feeling.”
Mather forced a slight grin.
“You’re obviously a nice person, Nate, and I think it’s admirable what you’re doing. And I must say, that’s an interesting power. But … it’s not really a superhero power, now, is it? And I don’t understand why you’d need funding since you already have the ability to make people feel compassion. If you want to do that, maybe you should just do volunteer work at a non-profit or something like that.”
Raimi expected that response, and had an answer ready.
“Basically, I’d like to have money to travel so I could go all over the world and meet as many people as I can and spread compassion,” he said. “You always hear about people at supermarkets who have to put back some food because they can’t pay for all of it, or folks who can’t afford rent. I can’t be everywhere, so I could use some of the money to open food banks and shelters and that sort of thing.
“Just think … if I do this every day for a year, it’s possible that millions of people would suddenly have a true sense of compassion, and have the power to make others feel it, too. And a year after that, there’d be millions more all across the globe. Imagine all of the problems it could solve. If you had a planet filled with compassionate people, you could rid it of violence, of wars … and less violence would make the other superheroes’ jobs easier, wouldn’t it? And as for a uniform, really all I’d need are some hats and T-shirts with a logo … maybe just a caricature of my face.”
Mather picked up Raimi’s application and shoved it in a folder.
He then placed his elbows on the podium and rested his chin on folded hands.
“Nate, World Metahuman Clearinghouse, Inc. spends billions of dollars each year helping superheroes carry out their important work,” Mather said. “Arachnid-Guy, for example, requires huge sums of money to help create the fluid needed for his webs that can pin criminals against the wall until the police arrive. Mr. Nocturnal spends a lot of money on upgrades to the Nocturnalmobile and the Nocturnalcycle, not to mention the high-tech weapons he uses against the forces of darkness. Destroying the lair of Captain Conundrum and wiping out his henchmen didn’t come cheap. And Titanium-Bro alone spent nearly $50 billion last year on rockets for his flight suit. It cost $15 million to kill the Ne’er-do-well Gang in Garzastania, and millions more to settle lawsuits and rebuild all those civilian homes he inadvertently destroyed.
“The point is, while I appreciate what you’re trying to do, it just doesn’t fit into our mission. I’m sorry, but I cannot grant you permission to work under the title ‘Compassion-Nate’ and we’re unable to fund your efforts. Good luck in your future endeavors, though, and thanks for coming in.
“Have a great day.”
Raimi stood up, turned around, and slowly walked toward the exit.
“Well,” he said. “Maybe you won’t let me be Compassion-Nate, but I’m still compassionate. I’ll just help as many people as I can, whenever I can.”
Once the door close behind Raimi, Mather powered down the tube, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone.
“Dorothy,” he said, “Yeah, it’s me. Look, we need to set up a Zoom meeting with our stakeholders, especially some of the more, shall we say, lethal ones. I just met with a guy who could put us out of business.
“He has to be stopped – at any cost.”