Kara-Suzanne Blackwood
The office was dimly lit as the immigration official inside finished off the last of his paperwork. He was an overweight, balding man with patchy stubble on his face; he might have looked better without it, but he was determined to compensate for the lack of hair on his head in some way. The clacking of his keyboard and his sniffling nose were the only sounds to come from the office, with an occasional grumble of discontent about his situation interrupting the regular sound of allergy-induced nose blowing and sneezing. It was a scene that many such workers had likely gone through—a late night at the office and a miserable run of seasonal allergies. Still, the sound of the keyboard and the sniffling continued, the occasional opening and closing of a desk drawer joining in as well.
A small giggle came from the corner, ghostly and hushed. The man in the chair got goosebumps as it hit his ears, but brushed the sensation off as a draft.
“Still only an office clerk?” the voice said, “I thought you’d be the department head of this joint by now, Robert. Then again, you were always the unassuming type.” The man tried to look behind him to see who or what was speaking to him, but a sharp whistle from in front of the desk caught his attention. He quickly turned around in his chair, his face turning pale with shock.
Sitting in the chair was a young woman—she looked no older than 20, with black, pixie-cut hair. She wore a characteristic mischievous grin on her face—her trademark—and had eyes of red that faded to grey shortly after he turned around. Her skin was pale, even for someone who was Caucasian—the color of the dead. In life, she might have had some color to her: a light tan from her days out in the field, perhaps; however, now that was not the case. The woman sitting in the chair was a spirit now, manifesting herself in the physical world through shadows and magic; one could touch, hear, and see her—physical in every way—but she was not alive, and held none of the bodily signs that would indicate such. Dressed in a black hoodie, a light grey tank top, and darkly colored jeans, she might have looked like a college student were it not for her deathly-pale complexion and momentarily glowing red eyes.
“What’s wrong, Robert?” she asked in a playful tone, “Birdie got your tongue?”
She kicked her feet up on the desk, which wrinkled a few of the papers underneath her Converse-styled shoes. Seeing how he was still in shock, she followed up with a more serious tone.
“Listen, we can talk about this later,” she said, “What I need from you right now are some papers: passport, national ID card, birth certificate—the whole kit and caboodle.”
“Y-You’re supposed to be dead…” the man said.
“Yes, I know,” she replied, rolling her eyes, “But, here I am.” The man tried to stutter through something, but the young woman cut him off as she continued. “Look, I just need some papers cooked up so people aren’t asking questions about why a girl that’s been dead for years is walking around Fiore. Can you do that for me?”
“A-Ah…um…yes,” he said after a moment, trying to regain his composure. “Did…did you have a preferred alias, Kara-Suzanne?”
“Nope,” the woman replied, “Just try and make it believable, okay?”
As the man wrote down some ideas, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and frowned at the time.
“Well, I’ve got other things to attend to this evening,” she said, “Sorry I can’t stay and chat more, but….toodles~” With that, she dissipated into a flurry of shadowy feathers and disappeared from the room.
The office was dimly lit as the immigration official inside finished off the last of his paperwork. He was an overweight, balding man with patchy stubble on his face; he might have looked better without it, but he was determined to compensate for the lack of hair on his head in some way. The clacking of his keyboard and his sniffling nose were the only sounds to come from the office, with an occasional grumble of discontent about his situation interrupting the regular sound of allergy-induced nose blowing and sneezing. It was a scene that many such workers had likely gone through—a late night at the office and a miserable run of seasonal allergies. Still, the sound of the keyboard and the sniffling continued, the occasional opening and closing of a desk drawer joining in as well.
A small giggle came from the corner, ghostly and hushed. The man in the chair got goosebumps as it hit his ears, but brushed the sensation off as a draft.
“Still only an office clerk?” the voice said, “I thought you’d be the department head of this joint by now, Robert. Then again, you were always the unassuming type.” The man tried to look behind him to see who or what was speaking to him, but a sharp whistle from in front of the desk caught his attention. He quickly turned around in his chair, his face turning pale with shock.
Sitting in the chair was a young woman—she looked no older than 20, with black, pixie-cut hair. She wore a characteristic mischievous grin on her face—her trademark—and had eyes of red that faded to grey shortly after he turned around. Her skin was pale, even for someone who was Caucasian—the color of the dead. In life, she might have had some color to her: a light tan from her days out in the field, perhaps; however, now that was not the case. The woman sitting in the chair was a spirit now, manifesting herself in the physical world through shadows and magic; one could touch, hear, and see her—physical in every way—but she was not alive, and held none of the bodily signs that would indicate such. Dressed in a black hoodie, a light grey tank top, and darkly colored jeans, she might have looked like a college student were it not for her deathly-pale complexion and momentarily glowing red eyes.
“What’s wrong, Robert?” she asked in a playful tone, “Birdie got your tongue?”
She kicked her feet up on the desk, which wrinkled a few of the papers underneath her Converse-styled shoes. Seeing how he was still in shock, she followed up with a more serious tone.
“Listen, we can talk about this later,” she said, “What I need from you right now are some papers: passport, national ID card, birth certificate—the whole kit and caboodle.”
“Y-You’re supposed to be dead…” the man said.
“Yes, I know,” she replied, rolling her eyes, “But, here I am.” The man tried to stutter through something, but the young woman cut him off as she continued. “Look, I just need some papers cooked up so people aren’t asking questions about why a girl that’s been dead for years is walking around Fiore. Can you do that for me?”
“A-Ah…um…yes,” he said after a moment, trying to regain his composure. “Did…did you have a preferred alias, Kara-Suzanne?”
“Nope,” the woman replied, “Just try and make it believable, okay?”
As the man wrote down some ideas, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and frowned at the time.
“Well, I’ve got other things to attend to this evening,” she said, “Sorry I can’t stay and chat more, but….toodles~” With that, she dissipated into a flurry of shadowy feathers and disappeared from the room.
