The admissions process into Proctus is lengthy. Their security is no joke, and while I appreciate it, the questions feel like unnecessary probing after a while. The Angelic sitting on the chair opposite the metal table starts with the basics, dragging the questions on in a monotonous drawl. My patience dissolves the longer we do this.
“Full name, please.”
“Conin Conroy Bresshet,” I say and peer into the camera, watching my reflection stare back. “Is this necessary?”
They cast their gaze away from the clipboard and frown.
“Yes,” then proceeds with, “Where are you from?”
“Ogden, Utah.”
“Were you in school?”
Were. No longer.
“Yes. Ogden High,” I answer, clipped.
They move down the line of questions with the tip of their pen.
“What year?”
“Senior.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
They jot something down.
“Do you possess transcendental abilities?”
No mention of recidivists. No mention of the Angelics.
“No.”
They jot another slew of words.
“Does the person you arrive here with possess transcendental abilities?”
“Yes.”
“What’s their name?”
“Ezra Gray.”
“Relation?”
Relationship? What are we? We confessed our feelings for one another, said, “I love you,” and even made love . . . so what does that make us? Partners?Boyfriends?
“He’s my significant other,” I settle on.
They quickly write that down, then move to the next question without hesitation. A blanket’s been lifted, or a weight I hadn’t realized was there, but it’s suddenly easier to breathe. My stomach isn’t churning like it was before. With such a prejudiced world, why wouldn’t it be easier to be ourselves here?
Question after question after question. They become so mundane, so invasive, I have half the mind to flip the clipboard from the Angelic’s hand and storm out of the room. I don’t because they’d view me as hostile, and I’d rather not jeopardize our shot here, or Ezra’s safety. I’m expecting another pointless question next when the Angelic mixes things up.
“How did you come in possession of the Glock-19 stashed in your backpack?”
The gun.
