Licence

Got a couple of posts today to make up for the lack last week. This first one was inspired when I was looking up the difference between 'licence' and 'license'.

The antechamber was spartan and impersonal. Plain white walls with perhaps a hint of blue surrounded two cream armchairs that were as comfortable to sit on as they were plain, deep enough to sit on but not enough to relax. There was no other furniture, no small table with old magazines or television playing the news. A single painting hung opposite the armchairs, a modern art display, whorls of colours on a background white, with perhaps a hint of blue.

Leo alternated having his hands on the arms of the chair or in his lap every few minutes, occasionally checking his watch. He had been fifteen minutes early for his appointment forty minutes ago. He was dressed in a middle-range suit: fancy enough to definitely be formal, casual enough to still be able to talk to people in regular clothes. He had just graduated to alternating the placement of his hands in under a minute when the door to his right opened and a tall, honey-skinned woman stepped out, holding a clipboard at a calculated angle. She wore a suit that was slightly more formal than his and looked down her impressively pointed nose at him.

“Mister Jones?” Her lips pursed as she spoke, making no attempt to hide her distaste.

Leo stood. He wasn’t sure why she had asked. There was no one else it could be.

The woman eyed him up and down for a moment, narrowing her eyes. Finally, she moved to the side and said, “Miss Reave will see you now.”

Leo walked through the door, acutely aware of the daggers she was staring at him. The room beyond was much larger than the waiting room, but it still contained only what it needed to. At the far side of the room was a wooden desk, no larger than the one Leo had at home. On his side of the desk was a chair that looked marginally less comfortable than the one he had been sitting on for the past three quarters of an hour. On the other side was a chair that looked significantly more comfortable, but was unfortunately occupied by a woman with vivid blue eyes and nine fingers, the left pinkie ending at the first knuckle. She sat with her fingers interlaced and resting on a small stack of papers on the table, almost appearing to be in prayer.

“Welcome, Mister Jones.” She said, leaning back slightly and motioning to the chair with one hand. “Please, take a seat.”

Leo obliged, although he didn’t really see much choice. On his way to the chair, he heard the door close behind him with a soft click.

“Mister Jones, I expect you enjoy small talk about as much as I do, so I’ll skip to why we’re here. You application has been reviewed and discussed and the board has decided against issuing you with a Class-A licence. This is partially due to your past demeanour and partially to your skill set, which the board thought was too limited and not quite what they were looking for. However, if you wish to reapply for a Class-B licence, the board feels you would have a much stronger chance to—”

“I don’t want a Class-B licence.” Leo interrupted calmly. “I want a Class-A. If I wanted a Class-B licence, I would have applied for it.”

Miss Reave waited a beat before speaking again. “Mister Jones, I don’t want you to mistake our relationship. I am not your equal. I am high enough above you as to barely consider you a person at all. If you interrupt me again, you will cease to be a person, and will only ever again bother the poor soul who will have to clean that chair. Do we understand each other?”

Leo fought back a sneer and nodded.

“Good.” Miss Reave nodded. “As I was saying, the board feels you would have a better chance applying for a Class-B licence. Do you wish to go through this process now, or would you rather think about it?”

Leo sighed. “Now.”

Miss Reave rifled through the papers on the desk. “Very good. If the board issues you with a Class-B licence, you will be assigned a territory and will be expected to stay within your borders unless otherwise specified. You will have a large degree of freedom, but will be expected to defer to and Class-A licence holders. Do you agree to these terms?”

“I agree.” Leo nodded.

Miss Reave handed Leo a slim booklet and a pen. “In that case, please fill out this questionnaire. You may notice that some of the questions are similar to the Class-A licence form.”

Leo scanned the booklet. “Class-B Licence Application” was written at the top of the first page in clear, bold print. The yellow paper was rougher on one side, but only slightly. Some of the questions were indeed similar to the Class-A form he had filled out the week previous, such as “Have you been convicted of any criminal offences?”, “Would you say that you have difficulty respecting others?” and “How many 10-year-olds do you think you could take in a fight and win?”, but there were a few differences.

When he had finished filling out the form, Leo lay down the pen and passed the paper back to Miss Reave, who had sat silently while he wrote. Her blue eyes flicked rapidly back and forth as she read over his answers, then placed it precisely on the stack of papers.

“Thank you, Mister Jones.” Miss Reave said curtly. Leo heard the door click open behind him. “I will contact you when the board has made its decision.”

Recognising this as a dismissal, Leo nodded and left the room, past the glare the honey-skinned woman was giving him. It’s probably not personal, he thought. Some people just look like that.

He stood in the antechamber until the telltale buzz filled him and closed his eyes to avoid getting motion sick. When he opened them, he was standing on the street beside a nondescript apartment block. A booming sound preceded a shape flashing past him, a man in a tight-fitting red and white outfit carrying a whip. Whiplash. The Class-A licence holder in Leo’s town. Leo scowled, letting flames begin to lick at his hands as he began to walk home.

So I can’t get a Class-A yet, he thought. That’s okay. I can get a Class-B and work my way up from there. In the meantime, though… he let the flames work their way up his arms and trailed his hand along the wall beside him, leaving a ragged line of scorched brick and concrete. He spied a young couple cowering in a corner, still hiding from Whiplash’s passing. In the meantime, I can still have fun.