[@Eklispe]

[center][h1][b]PRILIPALA[/b][/h1][/center]
Somewhere in downtown, a particularly troubled man of certain valuable skills stood directly in front of Denver's PRT headquarters, looking up at the monumental building from the sidewalk with a somewhat puzzled expression on his broad and usually stoic face. From the point of view of an outside observer, the situation might've been reminiscent of the way a professional boxer subconsciously examines the physicality of anyone he strikes up a conversation with - sizing them up, attempting to measure their power, their weak and strong points, their stance and posture, all just in case a fight breaks out. The man's eyes darted from place to place, taking in the simple geometry of the place, the great number of windows, the occasional silhouette of a person behind some of these windows, visible when the lighting was accomodating enough, the lack of obvious threats. Overall, the man was surprised, maybe a little suspicious on the matter of absence of overt displays of force. Perhaps, such a casual, down-to-earth appearance was meant to put the civilians and petitioners at ease - the complete opposite of PRT's analogue in the man's old country.

One way or another, he was here to act, not to gawk. It was polite and useful to introduce yourself to the masters of the domain you were in, however impotent - or tyrannical - they were. The man proceeded to move towards the doors and through them, his shambling gait somewhat unsure, slower than it could be. Somehow, for some reason, he expected an attack, or an ambush. Moving like that, on his own two feet, out in the open meant you were basically asking for it - anyone with half a mind to handle a gun and the guts to take a life could do it, here and now. Thankfully, an overwhelming majority of people were not sick in the head enough for murder, so at least the man had a headstart there.

Forcing the unneeded thoughts out of his head and concentrating on the task at hand, the visitor pushed open the entrance door and, after orienting himself in the lobby - a fairly simple and utilitarian-looking chamber only noticeable for a number of paintings which the man did not care for hanging on the walls - made a beeline for what looked like the reception desk, all while quietly rehearsing the words he was about to speak under his breath. Making a good first impression was important. Firmly planting both of his hands on the tabletop, he looked the secretary person dead in the eye and, with a cordial smile on his face, began to speak in his best, almost unaccented English. The man's voice was deep and rumbling, a basso so low it almost resonated within one's gut, as if the intestines were afraid of the sound and attempted to flee their mortally endangered host. The intimidating effect, however, was offset quite a bit by the way the man spoke. His statements were short, simple and slow, almost unconnected to each other, with noticeable pauses between the words, like he had to fight his tongue over every thought he wanted to express.

"Hello. I want to speak to the Protectorate... authority. The squid man. Or someone else." 

There was a considerable pause as the visitor chewed his lip for a while before tenatively adding a twist on top of his request.

"I am parahuman. Do I use the real name or the fake name?"