Director Masrabi laid the briefcase down on the table, between a pair of stone-washed jeans and a pair of black slacks.  She opened the briefcase and produced from it a manilla folder.  Opening it, she turned a picture so Leva could see it. 

               It was a picture of herself. 

               “This is Leva Dorm,” said the director.  “This is one of the few surviving pictures of her.  She was very careful prior to the fall of the nukes to avoid drawing too much attention to herself.” 

               “It looks like a mug shot,” said Colonel Garret. 

               “Close.  Driver’s license photo,” said Masrabi.  She looked at Leva who was studying the eight-by-eleven image of herself.  “She lived in Washington DC.”  Masrabi leaned forward and down a bit, trying to see Leva’s eyes.  “Have you ever lived in Washington DC?” 

               Leva looked at the eyes of the woman staring back at her.  There were her eyes, and the eyes of a complete stranger.  Leva swallowed hard, then lowered the photo.  “I don’t know.” 

               The Director looked intrigued.  “You don’t know?” 

               “I…”  Leva exhaled, staring at the photo she placed on the table.  She glanced up at the Director.  A thought hit her and her head turned slightly.  “Tell me, did Leva Dorm have any tattoos?”  The Director glanced at the Colonel, then back at Leva.  “Do you hate me?” she asked Masrabi.  The Director’s confusion only intensified.  “I’m not being obtuse, or trying to be argumentative,” Leva assured her.  “I’m asking honestly.  Do you – YOU – do you hate me?” 

               Masrabi stared back at Leva for a long moment, then blinked.  She licked her lips before saying, “I don’t think hate is a—” 

               “You do,” Leva concluded.  She stood up tall and grabbed the hem of her t-shirt.  She yanked it over her head and turned around.  She showed her back to the Director and said, “Do you know what this says?”  On Leva’s back, etched into the defined muscles, was the large Chinese character the height of her ribcage.  “It says ‘hatred’ and it seems to affect a whole lot of people I talk to.”  She turned around to Masrabi and glared at her. 

               Garret sighed and rubbed his eyes.  “Ma’am, would you mind covering—” 

               “You’re an adult, get over it,” Leva told him.  To the Director, she asked, “Who put this on me?” 

               The Director answered the question with one of her own.  “What makes you think I’d know?” 

               “Because you know more about me than I do,” Leva said back.  Staring defiantly at the woman, she leveled with the subtlety of a battering ram.  “I woke up in an underground facility with absolutely no memory of who I am, who I was, or anything about me.  But least of all, about what seems to be a whole batch of superpowers.  Including the ability to stop time – sometimes – slow down time, change the composition of things, heal injuries, and apparently kill on command.” 

               Leva stood up straight.  She glared right at the director and demanded, “What do you know?” 

Director Masrabi stared for a moment, then looked down.  She took the photo from before Leva and, returning it to the folder, said, “Not a whole lot more than that, I’m afraid, Miss Dorm.”