Traffic to the Freeport was slow yet again. There had been reports that the Rheinland and Liberty militaries had taken more active stances on the embargo, now that war had been formally declared, which had somewhat culled the numbers of visitors. They still let in the occasional refugee, as well as the usuals. So what if half of them were on the wrong side of the law? They respected the Freeport laws and paid good money. The docking controller was shaken from his reflections as a pilot hailed the tower. Granting him entrance to the docking bays, he went back to his thoughts.
Outside, the dark silhouette of the pilot rubbed his temples. If the stories were true, although most of the ones he'd heard he'd put down as exaggeration and myths leaked from the inside to create fear and respect, this would not be easy.
2300 Hours Freeport 2, Bering Sector
He couldn't take it any more. Perhaps he was being impatient, but he'd been standing in front of the desk for twenty minutes watching the woman write, but she hadn't so much as acknowledged his presence. I'm here to apply for the SCRA! The Coalition!
Finally, the lady looked up. Eager aren't you? she said, smiling. Stories or not, he was starting to have second thoughts. This was more the smile of a predator before its pray than one somebody would use on a friend. Well we're closed. You'll have to come by tomorrow. Noting the slightly dismayed look, she added Look, leave me your name and your room number and I'll see if we can slot you in early.
Zachary Quirm. Room 267, East Wing. Errr... The stories aren't true, are they? That you kill your failed applicants?
Again the sickening smile. Depends why they failed.
