Kitty, Sam and Powers Get Processed

Sam's Short Interview

Sam takes a seat in the chair and looks around the office for as long as the man is busy.  He tries to take note of what form the man is viewing or at least determine if it relates to him.  He also takes note of any and all blunt objects within reach that could possibly come into use if he needs to make a daring, romantic escape from the grips of the System, and looks for exits.

Sam's keen eyesight tells him that the form that the guy is filling out is some sort of betting form, but Sam can't tell what kind.  With some small consternation, Sam notes that this room, like the last one, has no visible exits.  It is the same polished bone color as the rest of the Terminal, decorated with chrome fixtures.  It has all the accoutrements of a regular office - filing cabinets, junk on the desk (mostly paper), a coffee cup with "I  Al Amarja" on one side filled with pencils.  There are also numerous fast food wrappers in the garbage can, and the entire room reeks slightly of too much disinfectant which someone has tried unsuccessfully to hide with aerosol air freshener.

The muzak in the room appears to be some horrible industrial piece that sounds mostly like two pieces of heavy construction equipment projectile vomiting at one another.  As with the music in the waiting room, it fades into silence when Sam concentrates on it, then returns, just loud enough to be grating, when he turns his attention to other matters.

Sam is just noticing,with some surprise, that the chair he is sitting in is bolted to the floor, when the man behind the desk looks up.  As soon as he does, his face contorts with rage and hatred, and he jumps to his feet.

"YOU FAGGOT BASTARD MONKEY FUCKER!"  he screams at the top of his lungs, a rich african accent all but lost in the falsetto,  "HOW DARE YOU SHOW UP HERE AGAIN!!!"  Snatching his chair up he brandishes it like a weapon in front of him, obviously prepared to throw it.  "I OUGHT TO FUCKING KILL YOU AFTER WHAT YOU TRIED LAST TIME!!!  I OUGHT TO HAVE THE FUCKING PEACE FORCE CRUSH YOUR GODDAMN BALLS IN A JEWELER'S VISE YOU STINKING PILE OF ELEPHANT SHIT!!!"

He brandishes the chair with clear intent.

(In other words...  he's got a chair, and he's not afraid to use it).

Sam, caught flat-footed by the caseworker's vehement language and violent behavior, cannot quite get his brain connected to his body in time.  The chair looms momentarily large in Sam's vision, and then there is only darkness, and very faintly, as though from a great distance, the sound of something large and body-like hitting the floor...
 
 

Interview in the Squared Circle

But that is not all - in the center of the ring is a man even larger than Powers himself.  His chest is a vast, rippling expanse of muscle, and his legs are like corded cables.  He wears only the trunks and shoes of a wrestler, and a jet black mask over his head.  When he sees Powers he poses ferociously, muscles and veins bulging in his neck arms, shoulders, and abdomen.  He would certainly be a fine specimen of wrestling manhood, if his skin was not covered with hideous warts and melanomas!

"Come on you spaghetti-armed Burger!" he growls in a thick Eastern European accent.  "You do not wear mask today, so I shall be the bad guy.  Prepare to be crushed like a cantelope, pathetic 'Goon of Doom'!"

"Yeeech!!" exclaims Powers theatrically.  "Boris, have you seen a dermatologist about that acne?  And as if that body ain't bad enough..."  Quickly looking around the gym while trying to distract the deformed man with snappy banter, David Powers (aka "the Goon of Doom") adds, "You gotta wear a mask?  You must have one hell of an ugly puss there, Boris, if you have to hide your mug behind that thing."  Grabbing a set of dumbells in one hand and a thick jump rope in the other, he turns once again to the man in the ring and asks, "Care to be a sport and take paaht in a gruelling test of strength there, Boris?"

The man in the mask flexes and poses in an even more ferocious manner than before.  Huge muscles ripple and flex under the deformed skin, and a terrifying, animal growl comes from beneath the mask.

"Pathetic Burger!  You wish to test your strength against mine?  There is no better place than the battlefield of the squared circle!  Step into the ring and prove that you are a worthy opponent, Goon of Doom!  Show me that you are truly a man, and not some animal which rolls on its back and pisses itself at the first sign of a challenge!  Fight me, Goon of Doom!  Do battle against the Eastern Block!  Or tuck your shriveled up tail between your spaghetti legs and get on the next plane back to your debased and decadent home!"

Powers thought he had seen him flex before, but now the Eastern Block truly shows what he is made of.  Muscles crackle and pop across his massive shoulders, veins stand out across his arms, his legs appear to be made of braided cable.

This guy is large.

"Boris, Boris, Boris. I really hate to break the news to you, comrade, but professional wrestling is FAKE!"  Getting a feel for the weight of the dumbell in his left hand, David Powers approaches the ring.  "Now.  If you want a REAL contest of strengh, Boris, howsabout a tug-o-war?!"

Entering the ring, the powerful man known professionally as the "Goon of Doom" keeps up his witty banter hoping to distract his more than formidable opponent.  "You know about wars, dontcha Boris?  Sure ya do, big guy.  So here, grab onto this bit 'o rope like a good comrade..."  Swinging one end of the rope towards Eastern Block's knees, the Goon of Doom waits for him to reach down for it.  At that exact moment, using his athletically fine tuned quickness and grace combined with his extensive career's worth of wrestling skills, the Goon of Doom lashes out at his opponent.  Using the dumbell's weight backed up by the full force of his body and strengh, he brings the weapon crashing down about the back and side of the big ugly man's head.

Being hit in the head by a 20 lb weight is not exactly the sort of thing that most people go out of their way to experience, and if he didn't know why before David Powers discovers the reason about 1/10th of a second after the dumbell impacts the Eastern Block's skull.  There is a horrible, wet crunching sound and the entire side of the skull deforms inward.  Eastern Block falls like a pole-axed steer (which isn't far from the truth) and lies utterly still in a growing pool of blood.

"UH-OH..." the Goon of Doom thinks to himself.  Then he immediatly looks around the gym to make sure no one has been a witness to what has just occured.  His mind racing, and still trying to get over the shock of this guy's APPEARANCE, let alone the new orifice he just implanted, David Powers does the first thing that comes to mind.  He grabs the dumbell he has just used to cave in the Eastern Block's head and places it in the prone man's giant hand.  "Self-defense," he says aloud to himself.  "Yeah.  That was it.  Big sonnaof-a-gun came at me with that thing.  Should've known better.  Big pro wreslter like myself is bound to turn his own attack back against him."  Trying to convince himself that this is the best plan of action, the Goon of Doom stands over his fallen adversary and attempts to fight back the urge to remove the man's mask.  "Well, maybe just a peek," he thinks.  "A quick peek."

As Powers reaches down toward the fallen man's concaved squash, he pauses a moment and considers his own earlier words.  "...You must have one hell of an ugly puss there, Boris..."  Withdrawing his hand, he mutters to himself, "Well, curiousity DID kill the cat.  So, this tiger's going on the hunt for more familiar prey."

Turning towards the door which led him into this "gymnasium of the grotesque", the Goon of Doom growls, "Now where's that little twerp that sent me in here?" and attempts to exit from whence he came.  There does not appear to be a door where Powers came in.  In fact, there appears to be no way out of this room at all.

"Hey! Where's that friggin door?!"  The Goon of Doom is perplexed.  He got IN here, now why can't he get out?  Feeling along the wall in which he believes the entrance was located he begins to shout "Hey! Let me outta this looney bin!"and then begins pounding a steady beat of loud fist drumming on the walls.  There are also some 'lyrics' involved, but nothing for sensitive ears!

There is no immediate response, and no door appears.  The room is beginning to fill with the distinct odor of recently-dead human...  a redolent odor of excrement, urine, and blood.

"Oh, man! I think I'm gonna hurl!" is the Goon of Doom's immediate reaction upon taking in the first wiffs of "Blend 'O Body Fluids."  Searching around the gym frantically, David Powers attempts to find another possible way out.  Removing his soaking wet shirt he places it over his nose and mouth, attempting to filter out the odor as he pounds along the gymnasium walls "listening" for another hidden exit.

The walls of the gym are the same eerie, polished bone color as the rest of the Terminal.  After several minutes of pounding on walls and listening (while the room gets a bit stinkier and the pool of blood gets a bit wider and the Eastern Block ceases to twitch, even a little) Powers learns that the walls here echo about as much as foot-thick concrete does when he  pound on them.

It is then that Powers notices the muzak playing in the background.  It is something slow and somber and...  classical (*SHUDDER*)!  Each time the Goon of Doom attempts to focus on it, it fades away into absolute silence.  As soon as Powers starts concentrating on something else, it returns just on the edge of noticability [if Powers was a Classical music fan, he'd know it as Chopin's "Funeral March - Op. 35"].

"Oh, great! Now somebody's messin with my head.  Hey!  Whoever's playin' the Beethoven, or whatever, get me the hell out of here!!"  When there is no response, the Goon of Doom becomes a bit concerned about his current state of mental health.  Is he really hearing that music or is it just in his head?  Why does it keep fading out everytime he tries to focus on it?

An idea strikes his desperate mind and he quickly reaches into his pants.  Feeling his way along the waist line of the wrestling trunks he alway wears underneath his pants, David Powers retrieves the miniature high-tech video recording device he always carries with him.  Setting the equipment to "record," he holds it out in front of him, aiming it in every conceavable direction in the gym.  While doing so, he tries to focus on the deep breathing meditation excercise he always uses to psych himself up before a match, hoping to elicit the previous musical tones.  Satisfied with his scan of the area, Powers sets the device on "rewind" and then "play," listening to the audio portion as well as the video images he's recorded.

The miniature video device faithfully records everything Powers points it at (including the body)  but records no other sound than the Goon of Doom's own labored breathing.  The music, however, continues to creep into Power's mind, always fading away to nothing as soon as he concentrates on it.

It seems to be getting louder too.

"Great," is Powers sarcastic response to the information, or lack thereof, that greats him from the miniature screne.  Hitting the "erase" button he returns the device to its normal hiding place.  "I'm losing my mind," he thinks to himself.  "I need to take control."  David Powers then concentrates on the music in his mind and when it fades away, he tries to permanently force it out through sheer will power.

Powers discovers that try as he might, the music won't go away, although after the current piece is over, it switches to a different piece of music (also classical).  Try as he might, he can't get rid of it - as long as he concentrates, it's gone, but as soon as he stops, it returns.

"Great. Who asked for an encore?"  The Goon of Doom is growing very frustrated.  Angry that he can't find a way out and more than just a little bit disturbed by the orchestra perfoming in his head, he contemplates smashing everything in sight.  "How can this music be playing in my head, one song after another, like a compact disc or radio station?" he wonders.  "Telepathy?"  All he really knows about it is what he read in the X-Men comics he used to collect as a kid.  "... But, doesn't it work both ways?  Can whoever is 'sending' also be 'receiving'?"  Powers decides to try and 'project' the thought "What do you want?" outwards from his mind.

With a loud 'click' a previously unseen door appears in the wall.  It appears to lead back out to the offices of Al Amarja Customs and Immigration.

The music continues.

With a look of relief, David Powers moves quickly to the newly opened door trying not to betray the cool calm exterior he is so fond of presenting.  Before stepping through the door, Powers takes one last look at the Eastern Block.  "Amateur" he mutters.  Then in a much louder voice, and while stepping through the door he adds, "Now where in hell is that little squirt that sent me in here!"

Powers finds himself back in the bustle of the C&I office.  There are numerous clerks about, but he does not see Dinesh Rajpal.

Intent on finding the most 'easily-intimidated looking' male clerk he can find, David Powers hovers and in a calm but very threatening tone says, "Take me to your leader," and smiles a very purposefully insincere smile.

None of the clerks here look like pushovers in the intimidation catagory (would they work in Al Amarja C&I if they were?) but some are tougher than others.  Powers picks out one that appears a bit smaller and meeker than the others and approaches him.  Upon Powers delivering his unique introduction, the clerk, dressed in the usual tan C&I uniform, looks up with a bit of a start and peers at the "Goon" through thick glasses and says in a mousy French accent, "Are you speaking to me?"

"You see anyone else looking up my nostrils, Frenchy?  Yeah, I'm talkin' to you.  I wanna see the man in chaahge and I mean now."

The man backs his chair away from the desk (and Powers) slightly.  "You are American," he says quietly.  He says it in the same tone most people would use to speak the phrase "You have contagious leprosy".

"I am afraid, monsieur, that you have come to the wrong person.  You should not be wandering around here unsupervised.  This area is restricted.  Please return to the waiting room, and I am sure that someone will be with you soon."  He pauses, waiting hopefully for Powers to depart so he can get back to work.

"Restricted?  Woooo!  Restricted!  Well, Frenchy, I figure if this place is so important, then there must be important people hangin' around."  The Goon of Doom swings his arm in a backwards motion in the general direction of the clerk, holds it for full effect, then knocks off several items on the desk. Satisfied that the noise from this disruption has gotten everyone's attention, Powers sits up on the middle of the clerks desk and says with a smile, "This place is MUCH better than any ol' waitin' room, Frenchy.  So, I can just wait here until you get the important little man in chaahge of this important little restricted place.  Oh, and howsa bout gettin me some munchies, Frenchy?  I'm just absolutely staahving!"

The small French man is completely taken aback, and turns to another of the clerks sitting nearby for assistance.  "Miss Ugonjwa?  This gentleman seems to have gotten lost.  Could you speak to him please?"

Miss Ugonjwa, who is sitting near enough to have seen, and heard, the entire previous exchange, stands up from behind her desk.  She appears to be of middle age, and wears the tan C&I uniform with all the casual grace and panache of an SS officer.  Her lapel is decorated with numerous pins and ribbons, indicating awards for going 5 years without a sick day, 10- and 20-year service badges, etc.  Ugonjwa herself is the dark, blue-black color seen only in pure blooded natives of the African interior.  Her hair is close shaved (on a guy it would be a crewcut), and she wears intricate tribal scars on each cheek.  Most notable, however are her earlobes, which are pierced and elongated to shoulder length, and adorned with heavy brass earrings.  They sway as she walks.

"As you are well aware, since Mr. Bertrand so informed you," she begins without preamble, her voice speaking with a perfect British school accent, "this area is off limits save to approved personnel.  You are not allowed to be here, and your presence is both unwelcome and disruptive.  After retrieving the items you so rudely knocked from Mr. Bertrand's desk, and replacing them thereon, you will return to the waiting room and await further instructions.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Hold on a sec, toots," is the Goon of Doom's response to Miss Ugonjwa.  Turning towards the Frenchman, Powers whispers "Hiding behind a skirt, Frenchy?  You guys are as cowaahdly now as you were back in doubla doulba two, the big one."  Getting up from the desk, Powers turn back to Ugonjwa and says, "You know, Toots, I like your style.  You sound like you actually think you can make me do something I just don't want to do.  So, I'll tell you what.  I won't disillusion you.  This time.  But toots, your gonna owe me one."  Walking past the woman and back towards the waiting room, Powers looks over his shoulder and adds  "You know, it's only a WAITIN' room toots, if I'm in there WAITIN."

Miss Ugonjwa does not raise her voice.  Ever.  However, she is as skilled in its use as a master swordsman.  So when she speaks, though it is not loud, the sound cracks through the room with the force of a sergeant on a drill field, bringing Powers to an abrupt halt.

"Sir," she says, "you have NOT returned the items you knocked from  Mr. Bertrand's desk to their proper location.  Under the circumstances, I believe that an apology to Mr. Bertrand would also be in order.  You will please attend to BOTH of these matters prior to your departure to the waiting room.  Further, you will, in the future, address me in a polite and civil tone as 'Ma'am', 'Miss', or 'Miss Ugonjwa', and refrain from the use of disrespectful and vulgar titles such as 'toots'.  Finally, if I may take a moment to make a personal observation, it is you who should be thankful that we have thus far put up with your loutish and base behavior, rather than I who should be grateful for the modicum of sense you appear finally to be demonstrating.  If you have any idea that I may owe you anything, allow me to inform you that you are sadly in error.  Let me remind you that you stand in the Customs and Immigration offices of the government of Al Amarja, and that if you wish your vacation here to consist of more than a long wait at the airport security kiosk followed by an ignomious return whence you came, you will, in the future, comport youself like a polite, civilized, and gracious guest to our island, rather than as a brutish, sweating, farm animal.  Do I make myself clear?"

"Sweating faahm animal? Listen, toot...ah, forget it!"  Returning to the Frenchman's desk, David Powers decides that there is no benefit to this.  The whole idea was to get out of this loony bin in the first place, wasn't it?  Better just to let this dog have her day and be on with it.  Replacing the items back onto the desk, the Goon of Doom turns to the clerk and says, "I'm sorry I knocked over your toys, Frenchy."  Patting the little Frenchman on the back and smiling, Powers adds, "Just try to learn the difference between an 'ugly American' and an assehtive one, ok?"  Powers adds one last 'pat' to the Frenchman's back to let him know that, were circumstances a bit dfferent with more at stake then a hasty exit, the Frenchman would truly learn how assertive Americans can be.  Turning back to Ugonjwa, Powers again smiles and says, "You know, I STILL like your style toot... ah... MA'AM!  You ever think about becoming a wrestling manager?"  Not waiting for an answer, David Powers heads back to the waiting room.

By the time Powers finishes picking up the aforementioned items and placing them back on the desk, Miss Ugonjwa has moved to open a door to the waiting room.  She responds not at all to Powers latest comments, but merely stands silently as he passes through the door, then closes it behind him.
 
 

Kittys' Interview

"Ms. McCombe, please allow me to welcome you to Al Amarja.  Let me know if there is anything that I can do to make your stay more pleasant.  As part of the visa process we conduct a short interview with those who come to visit the island.  Before we get to the formal questions, perhaps you would simply tell me what brings you here?"

Kitty thanks Dinesh politely for the coffee, smells its aroma and then takes a small sip.  "Sir, I'm here on a vacation."  She smiles warmly.  "Amarja was suggested to me since I like new experiences.  From what I have read, I'm sure Al Amarja is quite different from the U.S."  She acts calm and relaxed with her answers as if she was talking to an old highschool pal.

Dinesh smiles and nods at Kitty - it's a nice smile, and one of the few that Kitty has seen recently that appears both sincere and open.

"Many people find that Al Amarja offers interesting experiences not found elsewhere, and choose it as a vacation site for that reason.  Certainly there is much to do here, and distractions and entertainments to fit almost any taste or budget."

In the background, Kitty notices for the first time that soft sitar music is playing, just on the edge of her awareness.  It seems to be a rather lively and happy tune, but as soon as Kitty tries to focus on it, it fades off into silence.  When she turns again to listening to Dinesh, the music begins again.  A bit unsettling, but not entirely unpleasant.

While Kitty is trying to focus on the elusive music, Dinesh is flipping through a file folder and glancing at the pages within.  He stops suddenly, and reads some portion of the file in detail.  A look of...  worry?... distress?... sadness? crosses his normally cheerful face for just a moment, and he closes the file and puts it in his desk, before clasping his hands together in front of him on the blotter.  When he looks back at Kitty his face is serious and composed, though certainly not in any way hostile.  He looks, more than anything else, like a friend concerned for Kitty's sake.  When he speaks his lilting accent holds a certain gravity that it it did not before possess.

"Ms. McCombe, please understand that we are still talking completely off the record here.  It is part of my job to see to the needs of those who come to our island, and because of this, I normally like to chat with my clients for a few minutes to get a feel of what they expect of their stay, in order that I might properly direct them to services which might provide for their expectations.  In most cases this is a simple matter, easily taken care of, but there are times when individuals pass through my office who have needs which are not taken care of by such simple expedients as handing out the address of the better hotels and bars.

"I know you must be quite tired after your long trip, and I certainly do not want to detain you any longer than needbe, but if you will indulge me, I would like to ask just a few more brief questions."

"If I may, was your journey to Al Amarja a planned event, or a spur of the moment decision?"

Kitty chuckles.  "Oh, dear, I'm sorry, I did not mean to laugh.  My trip here was planned by someone else but quite spur-of-the-moment for me."  Kitty listens to the music for a moment  "Honestly, I came here to casually and quietly get away from dealing with the sadness of my father's death...  I thought that activity would keep my mind off more stressful things".

Dinesh Rajpal does not laugh.  If anything, his features settle into a somewhat more serious expression (the effect that has on Kitty, who has to date seen him almost exclusively happy and buoyant like a small child with a new toy, is, admittedly, somewhat comical).

"Yes, indeed, the death of your father must have been a great blow to you."  Dinesh speaks solemnly, nodding his head slowly.  He pauses a moment and retrieves two files from his desk.  One appears to be the same one he examined previously, and Kitty guesses it to be her own.  The second, however, is huge and thick, almost overflowing with papers, forms, etc.   It is this file that he opens and scans momentarily.  "Career military, decorated five times, served in Korea, Vietnam, Panama, Colombia, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Kuwait.  Assigned to Military Intelligence.  Apparantly killed in the explosion of a gas water heater at his home."  Dinesh closes the file, which Kitty notices is stamped "Classified" in large, red letters, and puts it back into a desk drawer.

"Ms. McCombe," he says, again with great gravity, "forgive me if this comes as something of a shock to you, and let me assure you once again that we are speaking off the record at the moment.  May I ask if you are aware that your father spent time on our island many years ago?  And if you are further aware that there is a warrant issued for his immediate arrest should he return?  Said warrant signed by no less an individual than Her Exaltedness, Monique D'Aubainne herself?"

Kitty smiles when hearing about her father's awards but her facial features show a slight tinge of shock although her voice is all business.  "Warrent for his arrest?  No, I did not know that he traveled here before or for what reasons.  Not to sound paranoid, but I can assure you that I am not here to cause trouble and that I surely shouldn't be judged by my father's actions."

Rajpal raises a hand.  "Please, Ms. McCombe.  It is not my intention to accuse you of any wrongdoing.  As I have said before, this conversation is strictly off the record, so for right now it might help if you thought of me as a concerned citizen rather than as an official caseworker.  I am certainly not attempting to accuse you of anything, far from it!"  He laces his fingers back on the desk top, then considers for a moment.

"In honesty, Ms. McCombe, it does not appear to me that your father was the sort of person who would die a random and tragic death caused by a household appliance.  This, coupled with the fact that the United States Army has taken the unusual step of sending notices to its diplomatic offices across the world for informantion on a certain Kaila McCombe, now listed as AWOL, leads me to wonder if there is not more here than meets the eye.  So far as I know the disappearance of a single soldier is not normally considered grounds for such extensive precautions."

Kitty runs her fingers through her dark hair and fidgets a little at the word AWOL.  "It would be normal if this one soldier was a science project."  Kaila looks solemn as she tries not to make eye contact with Rajpal.  "I'm their science project...  I... I don't know why they killed my father.  I wasn't going against their rules.  You see, when they said to step aside if you had mental powers, I... I.. didnt know what to do.  It's not that I have mind powers but the U.S. government has turned me into an animal freak.  This is what I mean by science project."  Kaila then looks Rajpal in the eyes.  "I just don't want to die like my father."

Dinesh drums his fingers on his desk thoughtfully for a moment, then sighs.  "It is as I expected," he says quietly.

Then he is focused and businesslike once again.  "Ms. McCombe, my sincere condolances on the death of your father.  Now that the situation is clear, allow me to offer you a small amount of comforting information.  At the present, Al Amarja has no formal diplomatic relations with the United States, nor does it have any form of extradition treaty.  Regardless of the pressure that the U.S. brings to bear, there is no way that the government can be forced to return you."

"This does not mean that it is impossible for a deal to be worked out wherein you are returned in exchange for certain favors, but I would say that the chance of that happening are slim, at best.  The Al Amarjan government prides itself on its independence from all other national governments.  It is, however, a fact that you should be aware of.  There is no absolute safety on the island for you.  Then again," Dinesh smiles briefly, "there is no absolute safety for anyone on the island, so you are no worse off here than anybody else."

"As for the possibility that you do, in fact, have governmentally restricted psychic powers, there is series of questions which I can ask you to determine whether you need worry.  If it appears that you qualify, then I will stamp your visa for 24 hours, and you will need to report to the Center for Paranormal Control for testing prior to having your visa finalized."

"Now, still off the record, if you could tell me what sort of assistance you need perhaps I could direct you to the proper authorities to make your stay here on the island appropriate to your desires."  Once again Dinesh smiles his confident smile.

Kitty thinks quietly for a moment. "No disrespect to you personally, sir, but there are going to be a few things that I'm going to say that might sound disrespectful."  Kitty returns to a trained business posture and begins to speak as if she was hired to do something.  "Even though you have told me that this talk has been completely off the record, for my safety I would suggest that if there is a camera or recording device in any of these rooms that I have been in, they should be put out of sight or even become classified information...   No, wait, classification would cause interest... just out of sight "

Kitty smiles respectably.  "I came here in hopes to live my life as normal as possible.  So to be able to learn all of the natives customs would be an asset.  I do not want any attention brought to me... though I may have caused attention to myself when stating I was from the U.S. military to the group outside.  That was completely idiotic."  Kitty nods to the files on the desk.  "Those should also become a disinterest to you office.  Other than that, a place to change my currency without having to have a signature.  Does the hotel that we are being grouped at accept Al Amarja currency without a signature?  If not, I will have to be placed somewhere else."

"Ms. McCombe," says Rajpal, "there are no recording devices or cameras currently active in this office, except for a single camera that goes to the security office which is visual only.  Everything you have said is confidential - I promise."

"You need not worry about changing your currency, unless you have acquired francs, pounds, or rupies.   Al Amarja uses the United States dollar as its currency.  You may spend your money here without qualms or difficulties."

Kitty crosses her legs and sits quietly.  "I assume that you have more questions for me... well, about my abilities?"

"There is a questionnaire which can help to determine your exact status.  Many individuals who believe that they have unique powers are actually in error.  Most commonly this is some form of delusional state which, unfortunately, must be determined by the Center for Paranormal Control.  However, there are also a great wealth of individuals who are merely genetically unique or specially trained.  An example of the former would be genetic mutations resulting in horns, fangs, claws or other natural weapons, while an example of the latter would be the special abilities of certain highly trained yogis to go for extended periods without food, water, or air."

Dinesh speaks in a completely matter-of-fact manner, as if every government immigration officer in the world questions clients about their psychic abilities.  He pushes a form across the desk towards Kitty.

The Paranormal Questionnaire consists of a number of questions in which you are supposed to rank yourself on a scale of 0-5, on the following scale.

    0-never
    1-once
    2-a few times
    3-on numerous occasions
    4-Frequently
    5-an everyday occurance

"Total up your scores.  If you score 5 or higher, you need to visit the Center for Paranormal Conrtol for further examination."  Dinesh proffers a pencil for Kitty's use.

The young woman reads the questions and fills in her answers.

1.  Have you ever exercized what you believe to be psychic powers?

0

0

0

0

0

4

0

0

2

0

2

2

0

As Kitty fills out her questionnaire, the phone on Dinesh's desk rings.  Dinesh answers, speaks quietly for a moment, then pales visibly.  "Hai," he says into the phone, then after a pause, "Ja.  I took him there myself."  Finally, after another pause, he responds, "Da.  A great tragedy.  There is no sign of Mr. Powers?  I see.  The Peace Force has been notified?  Good.  I am with a client at the moment, but I will be with you momentarily."  With that he hangs up the telephone and turns his gaze back to Kitty, still somewhat pale.

"Ms. McCombe, please forgive my abruptness, but a matter has arisen which requires my attention."  As he speaks, he takes Kitty's visa from the desk and stamps it.  "I have validated your visa for twenty-four hours.  You must go to the Center for Paranormal Control, located on the Plaza of Arms, in order to complete the validation process.  It is quite important that you do so, as violation of the Paranormal Control laws is a serious offense.  I have enjoyed talking with you immensely, and wish that I could spend more time with you, but circumstances prevent this.  If you encounter any difficulties regarding your visa, please feel free to contact me."  He slides the passport, along with a business card, back over to Kitty, then stands and walks to the door, opening it for Kitty.  "If you will follow the passage to the end, you will find a door leading back to the...  to the waiting room."  His voice trails off to nothing, and he whispers quietly "My god...  you don't suppose...."

As she walks along with him, Kitty can sense the hurry of his voice and almost as if she can see his brain working like clockwork...  "I'm sorry... I don't suppose?"

Dinesh appears to be startled out of a reverie.  "Oh, I am sorry.  Simply thinking aloud.  Please forgive me, but I really must go.  I am afraid this business is urgent.

After seeing Kitty graciously but quickly through the door, he closes it behind her (needless to say, as with most doors in the Terminal, it instantly disappears).

As she stands in the corridor (which is short, has the same "bone and chrome" look as the rest of the Terminal, and does, in fact, have a door at the other end marked "Waiting Room") Kitty notices that the muzak is no longer playing sitar music but has switched to something harder, possibly something from "The Tragically Hip".  Having nowhere else to go, she walks down the the corridor and opens the door to the waiting room.  Inside things look pretty much as they did before, save that there are now several chairs stacked in one corner.  The guy with the weird shoes and rainbow suspenders, Leo,  is doing a handstand in one corner, and the pretty young woman, Ariel, is on the far side of the room speaking earnestly with the large guy who brought the chairs.  Ariel seems to radiate intensity and focus, but the man seems a bit confused.  Towards the center of the room, near the stacked chairs, a young girl of around 6-8 fidgets.

But something is wrong.  There is a smell that shouldn't be here - a smell which Kitty's enhanced senses pick up through the background of wet clothing and wet person.

It is the smell of blood.
 
 

To Be Continued...