Ken stood still with his mouth slightly open as though he was dumbfounded, but then somebody came up from behind him the very next moment. “Press,” the man said in Japanese, with an accent that indicated he wasn’t from here. Must be a travelling journalist, Ken thought once he had got a good look at him and noted the dreadlocks. There was a good chance he was the only person in the entire country with dreads. Ken grinned when he said that his kids would chew his head if he was late. He quickly caught on to what was happening: the journalist recognized him from his MMA fighting years.
“I’m his translator,” Ken said in Japanese to security, to which they seemed satisfied and let him continue. He remembered witnessing the power of a journalist back in the US. All they said to do was say the magic word and they’d get VIP access, free stuff and extra special treatment. Even when he used to fight regularly, he had never experience quite the same kind of treatment. “Thanks for that,” he said in English once they were far enough from security. “As you probably know, I haven’t had a fight in years, so I’m actually kind of broke,” he added, grinning at his own misfortune.
He was glad to have somebody to talk to and be around for the time-being, but he had no idea how long he could be there for. He figured the longer he stayed the more risk he invited to being caught and arrested. It’s possible he could be dragging his new friend into his personal mess. For the first time, he noticed the anti-poetry buttons the journalist wore and couldn’t help but feel disappointed. By now he associated such beliefs as being in favor of having a police-state, but he was certainly ignoring the fact that poets had a way of making people hate them on a personal level.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ken said with a warm smile. “What’s your name and where are you travelling from?”
Elise’s grimace instantly turned into a polite smile once Dr. Plant had opened the door, which just as easily disappeared when he turned around to lead her into the living room. Her mind was so preoccupied with her presumably broken device that she had almost forgotten what she had told him to get into his suite in the first place. Her eyes darted from one place to the other, looking for any indication that something else was there with them. Magic, she reminded herself, we’re here to talk about magic. Once they had reached the living room, she put on her smile again and stopped looking around.
“I really appreciate you taking the time to speak with me,” she said as she sat down on a couch, crossing her legs. “And it’s nice to actually meet you personally. As I mentioned, I have been to a few of your shows. My father took me when I was younger and this was when science and magic working together was becoming the norm, so I think he wanted you to be this example that I was supposed to take to heart.” She made various hand gestures as she spoke—a staple for those who enjoy hearing themselves talk or just talking about themselves.
“I ended up focusing more on magic than science. What I can do is manipulate electricity. I usually need a source but…,” she explained, lifting her right hand up to face level and generating electricity. Her hand looked like an out of control electrical outlet for a moment before the electricity disappeared. “I can generate my own in very short bursts, but it’s quite physically taxing. Do you have any advice? How do you avoid getting tired too quickly? From watching your shows, it’s hard to tell if you…”
She was cut off by a sound coming from a closed-off room behind Dr. Plant. It sounded like something had fallen. It wasn’t loud, but it was quiet enough in the apartment to be able to hear little things. “And um…, what was I saying?” she asked, not thinking much on the sound from the other room.