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.â€
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.â€
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."
