As the God of Technology and Technological Innovations, Hermes loves this new age mankind is enjoying now. People live well into their 90s, they text, they buy songs on iTunes, they chat with friends on the Internet that are halfway across the world. Like his uncle Prometheus, he loves mankind, the ugly little children of the gods. He wishes to help them, protect them, and advance them. He was happy when Prometheus gave them fire, and thought his punishment was unnecessarily harsh and cruel. He didn't say so, though, because his brother Hephaestos had set more than enough of an example. Dissent with Zeus, speak up against his judgment, and you get tossed off Olympus like trash. As God of Messengers, he is sort of ambivalent. This world moves so fast, it's like they think they don't need him anymore, and their buildings glitter like solid seawater and rise as if to help Atlas hold the sky. Hermes remembers when the tallest buildings in any town were temples to honor the gods. Everything must be instant now, even food. No one wants to wait or work for anything these days. But it's not his business to worry about whether or not humanity is on the right path. All he can do is deliver the messages.
He doesn't deliver much for the gods anymore. They use Iris-messaging, and he can't say he really minds. With every Johnny Jones and Susie Smith down the street getting their little hands on technology he is busier now than ever. He hasn't taken a day off in five decades, and today, he is taking a well-deserved break. George and Martha can handle the input and output of the webs, snail mail and phone calls for a day. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual messenger's garb, and looks just like an ordinary young man roaming the autumn streets of New York. He likes to mingle in the crowds, seeing what snippets of conversation he can overhear, seeing if he can change any lives with a simple gesture. He is a little saddened by how irreverent most mortals are to any power they deem unable to be proven to exist.
He is sitting on a bench in Central Grand Station, nibbling a bag of popcorn (a most delicious invention of the mortals) when the milling, loud, echoing crowds part ever so slightly. A young woman, maybe sixteen or seventeen, is walking toward him, gliding over the polished marble floor. Like him, she has dark hair and happy features, but where he is dressed to fade away, she is dressed to make a splash. She wears rainbow hair ribbons and knee socks, a purple miniskirt, a green tank top emblazoned with a flock of blue butterflies, orange arm socks, a yellow and red striped scarf, teal tights and faded white converse. All the mortals plainly find her garb ridiculous and shoot her dirty looks, but in all her colorful splendor, she is impervious to the black, gray and white clad glares of businessmen and commuters. Hermes pulled out his earbuds and tucked his iPhone into his pocket. They warmly hug each other and walk around the station, arm in arm, catching up. They haven't seen each other in many years, except to wave in the passing on Olympus. Hermes finds her delightful as a companion, because they have so many of the same viewpoints and interests. When there is not that much more to be seen in the station, they stroll out into afternoon sun and continue walking and talking on the colorful, crowded streets.
"So what do you think about humanity nowadays?" He asks, wondering if asking a question like this would put a damper on their fun filled afternoon, or would be construed as questioning Zeus' authority by any who might be listening. "All of this hustle and bustle?" she responds, gesturing with her free arm at the cluttered tangles of human activity surrounding them. "Yes, on most days, I like it. They certainly have come a long way from shivering in caves and eating fruit in the dark. But the world was a lot simpler of a place when they feared us, respected us." Hermes nods his assent. "I was on the subway, taking the scenic route as I delivered some emails. A little boy, he must have been seven or eight, certainly old enough to know, asked me who I was supposed to be, because I was listening to my iPod and texting and talking on my Bluetooth all at the same time. I said to him, I said, 'I'm Hermes, God of Messengers', and you will never believe this, but he laughed in my face, and said, in that obnoxiously childish way, 'Yeah, right! All those dumb old gods died a bunch ago!' Do you know what would have happened if I'd said that in the old days? He'd have fallen to his knees in worship. But now they scoff and laugh, thinking us the ridiculous superheroes in the sky of days gone by, the long-dead rulers of superstitious, primitive people." Iris nods compassionately. "We definitely aren't respected the way we used to be."
"You know, sometimes I almost envy them." She says lightly, tripping out the words a little too fast like she is afraid they will get lost on the way to his ears. "They have such short lifespans, and they don't have to worry about anything too serious. They can foul everything up and not even have to deal with the consequences. That kind of freedom is something immortals have always been denied, because we'll always be around to face the music for what we've done." Hermes nods and hugs his friend. He knows exactly how she feels.
I think this is a likely friendship, as they're both messenger gods. But I do think there would have been a decade or two of unspoken competition to do each other's jobs better a few centuries ago, until they just got over themselves and became friends. I have never really liked Hermes that much, but I tried not to write him too annoying. Let me know what you think!
