[ WP ] You are a refugee trying to escape your war-torn country and enter Europe

I was amazed by how short and squat they were. This desk-jockey, tapping the screen with a knobby middle finger, was darkly-olive. I wondered if this was a descendant of the Syrian Refugee Migration of the... what was it, early 20s? Late 10s? He looked up at me with heavy bags under his eyes as I readjusted Zelda in my arms. She was getting big, already four and a half feet tall at age three. She looked back at her mom and brother who sat on the packed benches. 
 
 `` Can you help us, Mister...'' I looked at his name tag, `` Hasan?'' 
 
 `` Name?'' 
 
 `` Yes?'' 
 
 `` I need your name for my records, sir.'' 
 
 `` Ah.'' He readied his finger in front of the screen and glanced peripherally at me and my daughter. I cleared my throat. `` Benjamin Kylon.'' 
 
 `` Last name Kylon?'' 
 
 `` Yes, sir.'' 
 
 `` Date of birth?'' 
 
 `` First third, 54th, 2094.'' 
 
 `` Earth months, please.'' 
 
 `` Oh, umm,'' I attempted some quick mental math. `` April... first? I think? Yeah, April first.'' 
 
 `` Ha ha.'' Why had he laughed? `` Birthplace?'' 
 
 `` Sea of Tranquility Regional Hospital, Yeltsin, New Britain.'' 
 
 `` Ahh, British Diaspora then? Which side? Mother's or father's?'' 
 
 `` Grandfather was an immigrant. My parents were both Moon-born.'' 
 
 `` Mmm, not a citizen then?'' 
 
 `` Of the British Confederation? Sadly, no. My family and I are from New Britain, like I said.'' 
 
 His fingers blazed over the screen. `` How many members in your party?'' 
 
 `` Four, including myself.'' 
 
 `` Are you the primary provider for your family, or is your spouse?'' He said each question with the practiced drawl of a man who had to say the same words over and over, eight hours a day everyday. The English flag pin on his lapel called to me; my mouth watered. Zelda cried and I set her down, allowing her baby legs to sprint off to her open armed mom. She almost stumbled in the heavy gravity, and my breath caught in my throat as I realized how much this heaviness was making me sweat despite the chilling air conditioning blasting down from evenly spaced vents. 
 
 I gave the question some thought. My wife was a doctor, but not Earth accredited. I was a civil engineer, same problem. What should I say? Am I going to dig ditches? Fry fast food? `` Yes, I'm the primary provider.'' 
 
 `` Why are you trying to enter The Confederation of Britain and Western Europe?'' 
 
 I blinked. Was he kidding? `` What?'' 
 
 `` Why do you want to enter the Confederation?'' 
 
 Oh, I do n't know... Maybe the war? The slaughter of my people by the neighboring nation, the sight of tanks rolling over freshly seeded hills covered in soft virgin grass? The draining of the Sea of Tranquility, my family's back yard for as long as any of us could remember? Blood splattered on paved streets, dark maroon in shaded spots where the Sun-lights had been demolished? My children screaming in the night as they watched over, over, and over again their friends and neighbors being killed? `` We are refugees from war.'' 
 
 `` But why the Confederation?'' 
 
 `` Britain is our ancestral home.'' His pursed lips asked for a more concrete answer. `` And this is one of the only places where refugees like us are being let in.'' 
 
 Mr. Hasan leaned back in his chair. `` Mister Kylon, do you know how many refugees I've seen today?'' I shook my head. `` Neither do I. That's how many. I've completely lost count. Everyone is a refugee from war.'' 
 
 `` Yes, but...'' 
 
 `` But what I need from you is to know what you have that is a special reason why I should let another one of you bean-pole Moonies into my country.'' 
 
 `` What will you do if you do n't let us in?'' 
 
 `` Then you stay in the camps until the government decides you're worth the money.'' He leaned forward. `` So? What does your family offer the Confederation of Britain and Western Europe?'' 
 
 I looked back at my family, and then at Hasan. My heart pounded, the gravity of this place forcing blood through my veins faster than I was used to. My bones ground against each other under the weight and I felt fragile, more vulnerable than when I was at home. We could n't go back, we'd die, but staying in the offshore camps? On one of those floating platforms, those giant slums? And he'd called us Moonies. If someone hired by the government to handle refugees hated us, then what did that say about... No, there had to be a way to get in. I gripped the counter, my long fingers feeling brittle around the granite edge. I opened my mouth to speak.
