original fic.

[holli]

A somewhat silly story about an out-of-work superperson and the unemployment helpline operator. Let me know if I neglected to kill any smart quotes or close any tags.



Super

So here I am, bona-fide superhero sitting home on a Friday morning, sun shining in my window all cheerful, birds chirping their smug little asses off, while I stab desperately at the touchpad on the phone and wish for bad things to happen to whoever designed the voicemail system for the Extrahuman Services unemployment office. Yeah, it's the best day ever.

Outside my window, the world looks to be having a much better time than I am. I can see someone in costume out over the skyline, but they're too far away to tell if it's anybody I know. Too bad my roommate moved out last month-- the Human Microscope would come in handy right about now. Bet she coulda counted the pores on whoever that is, assuming they have pores. Might be Ceramic Man or that ice chick, I forget her name. Too far to tell, though, and already whoever-it-is has disappeared behind a building. Lucky-ass still-employed bastard.

Maybe I shouldn't have told Sherri her name was stupid. Or that her costume made her look like a cheap superho. Not that she was much fun to live with-- always looking at the countertops too close, whining, all "Heatherrrr, you forgot to cleeeean again." No, I just couldn’t actually see the bacteria, thank you Neatfreakia, Mistress of Cleanliness. Wasn't like I saw her jumping up to do the vacuuming.

On second thought, you know what? I'm glad she's gone. It's harder to make rent with just me living here, yeah, but the extra space and lack of anal-retentive disorder is awful nice. And if I heard one more passive-agressive little comment about how she's finding a useful outlet for her powers in the job market, I was probably gonna find a useful outlet for my powers on her face.

Anyway. I'm sitting on the couch, not even in costume for chrissake, waiting for the last couple options in the menu to finish so I can talk to a real person.


"If you would prefer to maintain your secret identity, please press seven. If you have lost your job as a result of the actions of a supervillain, please press eight. If you would like to speak to an operator, please stay on the line and our first customer service representative will be with you shortly. Thank you for calling Extrahuman Services, and have a nice day."

The Muzak kicks in. Of course. My day didn't suck enough already.

I lie sideways on the couch and drape my knees over the armrest, just like my mother always told me not to. Which reminds me: Ma's gonna call me soon if I don't call her, and if she calls me I won't have the excuse of long-distance charges to keep the call short. So, added to my to-do list: Painfully Awkward Monthly Call to Parent.

"Metro City Unemployment, how may I help you?"

I'm so startled by the operator's voice I jump a foot in the air. While still hanging there-- antigrav is a fun power, isn't it?-- I fumble with the receiver. "Oh! Great. I'm calling about my unemployment check. It didn't come this week."

"Your legal name, age and any aliases, please?"

"Legal name Heather Branley, age twenty-two, used to go by Kid Fantastik when I was first with the Power League but I dropped the 'Kid' when I turned eighteen."

"And what is your current superheroic group affiliation?"

I wince. "Uh, none. I left the League two years ago and ran with Team Justice for a while, but it didn't work out. Personality conflicts. You know." Actually, nasty breakup with that asshole Dave. Talk about your superjerks. "I went on unemployment after that. But now I'm not getting my checks, and my landlady's making threatening noises."

I tried suggesting that it was so useful to have a powered-up type in the building that she should cut me some slack, but she just scowled at me and said that Wasp Man on the fifth floor always pays his rent on time, so she hardly saw any reason to give a juvenile delinquent like me any breaks. I quite reasonably pointed out that I wasn't a kid and she was an interfering old biddy. It didn't go over too well.

"Well, Miss Branley, it would seems that your benefits have run out. Have you considered temping?"

"Wha-- Temping?! You have got to be kidding me. There are twelve-year-olds with more marketable job skills than me! I mean, holding up the City Bridge when Doc Destructo tries to blow it up, sure, that’s no problem, but I wouldn't even know what to do with myself in an office."

"Miss Branley, your file here does list superspeed as one of your powers. We've had a lot of success placing people with your abilities as typists-- it's worth giving some thought."

"You want. Me. To be. A typist. Me. A typist."

"Well, there's no need to be snippy, Miss Branley."

I sigh, and pinch the bridge of my nose. It's a meaningless gesture-- I hardly ever get headaches, barring evil alien mind control-- but I got used to doing that sort of thing when I was a kid. Anything to blend in, you know? Ma was pretty insistent on that point. I hear half the people in her church group still refer to her as "that Branley woman-- you know. The one whose daughter's a, well," and then make a whooshing, person-in-flight gesture with one hand.

I still think moving to the city was the best decision I ever made.

"I really don't think temping is for me. Don't you have any new listings-- new groups, old groups with a slot open? Anything?"

"I'm sorry, but you know how it is. The city's packed to the gills these days-- there are only so many slots, and there's just not enough money in city coffers for everyone to pursue their-- true calling." Her voice drops a little, like she's letting me in on a secret. "I suppose it can't hurt to tell you. I myself have... a few abilities. Oh, nothing as impressive as you, Miss Branley, but I used to do that sort of thing. You know." She sounds proud, and a little wistful, and I wonder if that's gonna be me in twenty years, telling some kid about the days when I used to help defend the city.


God, I hope not. I'd rather go completely norm, pretend I don't have powers at all. "That's... nice. Thanks for telling me that."

She goes back to brusque and businesslike, and I can hear computer keys clattering way faster than usual. Guess she wasn't kidding about that typist thing. "Well, if you're going to rule out temping completely, Miss Branley, I would suggest that you go back to both your old groups and see if they're willing to take you. I know it can be hard-- bad blood, old grudges, that sort of thing-- but it's really the only option you've got. From the listings, I can see neither of them really needs anyone right now, but if you ask, as a personal favor..."

Crap. That would require both humility and control of temper. Neither of which are my strong suits. And the idea of going back to Dave, groveling for a job, well... "I'll give it a shot. But-- just in case-- you mind putting me on the list for temps?"

"It's no trouble at all, Miss Branley. Do you have any other questions?"

"No. No, but... thanks."

"My pleasure, Miss Branley. Thank you for calling Extrahuman Services, and I hope you have a pleasant day."

Click, and the conversation's over. I stare out the window, at the absolutely gorgeous day that's going on without me, and I'm overcome with a sudden urge to dig out my costume and go flying.

Maybe I'll call Sherri, too. Mend some fences. Right now, I think I need all the help I can get.