Solutel
"Occupation?" the man droned.
"Assassin."
"Affinity?"
"Money."
For at least the fourth time, the man behind the counter repeated, “Please name one of the pre-selected options that best describes your situation. Do not attempt to invent your own answers.”
Solutel sighed. "Mercenary."
"Fashion sense?"
"Uh, yes."
“Please name one of the pre-selected options that best describes your situation. Do not attempt to invent your own answers.”
She resisted the urge to snap his neck. "Black. Gold."
"Your permit will arrive in approximately forty-six weeks."
"Four to six weeks?" she said. "That's ridiculous! What am I supposed to do until then?"
"No," the man said. "Four to six weeks would be ridiculous."
"Finally," she muttered. "Some sense."
He pointed with the tip of his pencil to a sign on the wall that said in bright red lettering, "PERMITS WILL ARRIVE IN APPROXIMATELY FORTY-SIX WEEKS."
"I give up," she said. "I'm a mercenary assassin. It's completely expected for me to flaunt the law." She turned on one finely-booted heel.
"It is illegal to attempt--"
"Oh, shut it," Solutel said, grinning as she strode towards the door and freedom. "Before I hire myself on a contract to take you out."
