[ WP ] Being a superhero is now a recognised career and regulated profession . A NEET with no abilities applies for a superhero job .

George Meyers sat behind the stained mahogany desk in the expansive Hero Regulation Administration office of San Francisco. It was a slow day for him -- he had updated a few files on existing heroes to include changes to their existing powers or capabilities. The major point of the job was sifting through data provided on villains and vigilantes who refused to register -- much of the data that came in was baseless and was n't true. 
 
 A new applicant had n't come into the office in almost two months. A wayward homeless man had entered the office by accident a few weeks ago, and to break from the monotony of it all, George had offered him coffee and a bagel from the break room. 
 
 George tapped the edge of his desk absentmindedly. He had checked Facebook, his email, and YouTube at least ten times already, and it was n't even nine. 
 
 `` Got any plans for the weekend?'' George's co-worker nearest to him, Marcy, asked. She had been hired a few months ago, a cute little thing with a small button nose and bouncing blonde hair. She was always texting on her phone, finding some small way to occupy herself. George, in his old age, envied her. 
 
 `` Carly's got a birthday party I'm supposed to go to. Not much else,'' George replied. Marcy cooed. `` That's so sweet! How old is she going to be?'' she asked. 
 
 George counted in his head the number of birthdays he had been to -- and the number he had missed. When he received the invite in the mail, it was n't signed. He was n't sure he was even wanted there. `` She'll be nine,'' he said. Marcy cooed again. `` They're so cute at that age.'' 
 
 George nodded absentmindedly. His ex-wife had divorced him three years ago when the booze had taken too deep of a hold on his life. It had caused him to miss ballet recitals, birthdays, and school programs for their daughter Carly. This job was supposed to be a change, for George to use his social work experience to do some good, but all he was doing was data entry and pencil pushing. 
 
 George sat there in silence, looking up at the ceiling. The government had spent a lot of money on this building and others like it across the country. The busiest H.R.A. location was in New York -- it seemed like the city busted at the seams with criminal activity and heroes. It was quieter here in San Francisco, but not by much. The city still held fast to some of the darkness within. 
 
 The doors swung open with the whoosh of wind. George continued staring at the ceiling, then realized the sound he had just heard. He turned to look at Marcy, who was buried in the screen of her cell phone. 
 
 The person who had walked in was a young man with light blonde stubble on his face. His hair was unkempt, and he wore a leather jacket over a plain T-shirt and jeans. He looked like he was barely out of high school. 
 
 `` H-hi, I'm here to apply for a Hero's License?'' the kid asked. 
 
 George cleared his throat, and motioned the kid over to seat in one of the mahogany chairs in front of the desk. `` Sit down, kid,'' he muttered. The young man hustled over, and sat down in front of the desk. 
 
 George gave him a once over again, and Marcy was looking at him, too. Usually, potential heroes came in wearing their costumes, so they could display their powers or abilities. This guy looked ordinary. 
 
 `` You said you want to apply for a Hero's License?'' George asked. The kid nodded. `` Yes, sir. Uh, sorry, I should introduce myself. My name's Daniel. Daniel Wheeler.'' 
 
 `` Alright, Daniel. So, uh, here's this form -- it's just a general application, it's mainly so we can categorize you. How you got your powers, if any, any special abilities, special skills --'' 
 
 George was reaching into a drawer of his desk when Daniel interrupted him. `` Oh, I do n't have any powers.'' George looked up at him, and then pulled the application from the drawer. `` That's alright. You do n't have to shoot laser beams to be a hero. We've got some masked vigilantes running around with bow staves and boomerangs and shit like that.'' 
 
 `` I do n't have any of that either,'' Daniel replied. He was smiling this nervous grin when George looked up at him. 
 
 `` Do you have any special skills?'' George asked. Daniel shook his head. George slapped his hand on the blank application form, then looked over it to refresh his memory. `` Were you exposed to gamma radiation and imparted with powers as a result?'' 
 
 `` Nope.'' 
 
 `` Cosmic intervention?'' 
 
 `` No.'' 
 
 `` Human experimentation?'' 
 
 `` Nah.'' 
 
 `` Do you have *money? *'' 
 
 `` No, I'm broke. Before you ask me anything else -- I really do n't want to waste anyone's time -- I do n't have any money, no powers, no special skills, or abilities. I'm a normal, human man, with normal parts. Hell, I can barely fight.'' 
 
 George looked at him incredulously, then dropped his hands to his desk with a slam. `` Then what are you doing *here? *'' 
 
 `` I want to be a hero,'' Daniel replied. 
 
 `` A *hero? * Kid, I'm sorry, but without powers or anything, the H.R.A. wo n't allow you to get a Hero's License.'' 
 
 `` You do n't have to have powers to be heroes, you just said that. There's masked vigilantes with weapons running around the city fighting crime!'' Daniel's voice had risen a few decibels, and George was taken aback by how quick he had gotten upset. 
 
 `` That's true, but those vigilantes have their own weapons, and know how to use them. The government is confident in their proficiency. Do you have any weapons? Do you even have a *gun? *'' 
 
 `` Well, no, I do n't. But I want to help people.'' 
 
 `` Listen, kid,'' George began, rubbing his temples with his forefinger and thumb lightly, `` I'd really love to help you. But without anything'special' as defined by the government, or even knowledge of combat, or weaponry... I ca n't in good conscious give you a license. I'm sorry.'' 
 
 `` Is n't there a program I can enter to be considered for experimentation? Or super soldier training? I'm eighteen years old, I just want to be able to do something.'' 
 
 `` Eighteen? Kid, your whole life is ahead of you, why do you want to throw it away? Those programs usually only accept people in peak physical condition. Even if you were eligible for a program like that, the experimentation is agonizing and you're away from your family. Why are n't you going to school? Or getting a normal job?'' 
 
 Daniel sighed, and sat up slightly in his chair. He reached into his back pocket, and produced a piece of paper folded up. He sat it on the edge of the desk, and slid it towards George on the other side. 
 
 George picked it up and unfolded it. It was a medical diagnosis. Daniel's name in the top left corner. Pancreatic cancer, stage four. 
 
 `` Prognosis says I've got maybe a year. I wanted to do something in that time. Make the world a better place somehow. I c-ca n't join the military, or -- or I would. I feel like I'd be wasting my time in school or some dead-end job. I refused treatment, my mom worked three jobs just to raise me and I-I ca n't burden her with my medical bills.'' 
 
 Daniel was crying now, his eyes puffy and red and leaking tears down his cheeks. Marcy was watching the scene unfold, her eyes wide. George continued to stare at the diagnosis form when Daniel reached across the table and took it back. 
 
 `` Just forget it. I'm sorry for wasting your time,'' Daniel said. He stood up, brushing his face with the sleeve of his jacket. `` Thanks for your help.'' 
 
 He turned and started towards the door. George did n't know what it was -- that this boy wanted so badly for his life to matter in the short time he had remaining, or the thought of someone trying to make the world a better place for his daughter, or the fact that Daniel's spirit sparked something within him -- the same fascination he had had as a child, growing up and reading comic books. 
 
 `` Wait, kid. Come back over here. Fill out this application, and we'll attach your medical documentation to it. There are experimentation programs that are looking into applicants with extenuating medical history, and I'd say stage four cancer fits the bill.'' 
 
 Daniel turned around, and was crying, and then smiling. He crossed the room back to the desk and sat down. George handed him a pen, and he excitedly began marking every bubble marked'NO' with a check mark on his application. 
 
 Maybe there was nothing special about him. But he certainly had a hero's spirit.
