KB (Administrative) was waiting when the elevator ant unloaded Brock back into the wood-paneled hallways of the Yggdrasil’s main trunk. The robot beckoned him down a corridor, and they walked past suited individuals moving silently on unknown errands. Eventually, KB (Administrative) led him through a nondescript maple door and into a small, sparsely furnished room. It was occupied by a battered metal desk with a folding chair on each side, three even more battered filing cabinets set next to it, and a sea of motivational posters plastered over the cream-colored walls. Another wooden door was closed on the far end of the room, and Brock was ushered to the seat in front of the desk.
The robot settled itself on four legs on the other side of the desk, ignoring the chair, and began pulling sheets of paper from the filing cabinets in silence. Bemused, Brock looked around at the posters.
Most were of the same basic theme - a soothing landscape surrounded by a black border, with words in white text at the bottom. He read a couple of them.
When You Help Others, You Help Yourself! Hard Work Beats Easy Talent! Chase Your Dreams, But Don’t Make Them Someone Else’s Nightmare! Remember, You Can’t Use Your Powers If You’ve Been Vaporized!
As Brock looked closer, he realized there was a stylized figure in the bottom corner of each one - the head of a man wearing a cheerful smile and a Limiter. Small text beneath it read ‘The Good Sekkie Neighbor Initiative.’
“Okay, meatbag,” KB (Administrative) said. “Let’s get started.”
The robot grabbed the topmost sheet from the large stack of papers it had compiled and slid it in front of Brock. Walls of densely packed text covered the entire page in a font so small it made Brock’s eyes hurt.
“This is an affidavit confirming you were treated with due respect under the Manford/Hawlings Extra-Dimensional Invader Convention, and you agree to forfeit all legal complaints about any such treatment as it relates to the Cataclysm Squad.” A metal talon pointed to a small blank box at the bottom of the page. “Place your thumb there to sign.”
Brock looked down at the sheet of paper, then back up.
“Due respect? You tried to kill me! Multiple times!”
“Don’t be a baby about it, just sign the document, meatbag. The sooner we get through this, the sooner you can leave.”
Grumbling, Brock pressed his right thumb against the box, which flared a bright blue. When he pulled his thumb away, a complicated sigil had appeared.
“What’s that?”
“Your bio-thaumetic signature. Helps us find Sekkies who try to run to less densely populated areas, or change the way they look. It’s linked to what, for lack of a better term, could be considered your ‘soul.’”
KB (Administrative) flipped the paper over and put it beside the stack, then grabbed the next sheet.
“This is an admission of guilt to the killing of Starak Vandal, and an agreement that you’ll return to confinement if found in violation of various societal laws. Sign here.”
“But he’s not dead! The Director said so himself!”
“Director Shimada said it was possible Operator Vandal was still alive. Sign anyways - we’ll throw it out if he comes back. Pinkie promise.”
Brock scowled.
“And what happens if I don’t want to?”
“Director Shimada told you about the second path, correct? The one with the imprisonment and the torture?”
“...fine.”
Brock pressed his thumb down again, and once again the sheet was replaced with another one.
“This is an application for residence in our reality. It states that you have read and agreed to abide by our society’s rules, and if found in violation-”
“Yeah, yeah, torture and confinement, I got it. Sheesh.”
Sapphire light flashed.
“This is a statement acknowledging agreement that use of your powers can be requested at any time by appropriately vested members of the Cataclysm Squad, and you will obey all commands and directives issued by any duly appointed representative of such entity to the best of your ability, regardless of personal risk, and furthermore, that any personal harm that accrues to yourself is solely your own problem etcetera etcetera.”
“...I’m being conscripted?”
“Basically - yes.”
“...goddammit.”
Another sapphire flare.
“This is a receipt, acknowledging your acceptance of a magiphone with unlimited data plan, provided by the Cataclysm Squad at no cost to you, that you are legally required to keep on you at all times. Failure to do so will result in aforementioned penalties of torture, confinement, and whatnot.”
“What the heck is a ‘magiphone?’”
KB (Administrative) slid a rectangular black tablet across the desk. It was about as big as Brock’s palm, and looked very familiar. As he picked it up, the surface flashed into life, displaying a soothing swirl of colors along with the time of day. It was almost three in the afternoon.
“Wait, you’re giving me a cell phone?”
“Your communication devices are straight garbage compared to our own, meatbag. Magiphones allow you access to everything our society has to offer.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
The rectangle vibrated in Brock’s hand, and a sociopathically cheerful binder clip with googly eyes appeared. It waved at him.
“Hi! You can call me Bindy! I’m here to assist you! I know everything that makes you, you! What do you need! Wait, let me tell you! I can’t wait to help you!”
Brock gave KB (Administrative) a thousand yard stare.
“You have got to be shitting me.”
The robot gazed back dispassionately, then one of the hellfire eyes flickered in what might have possibly been a wink.
It was so fast, though, that Brock thought he probably imagined it.
“There are a multitude of personal assistant modifications available for magiphones. Buried deep in the ‘settings,’ menu, of course. Good luck finding them.”
Brock stuffed the still-babbling magiphone deep into the pocket of his gray workout pants, pressing his thumb to the paper with his other hand. He was definitely going to be spending some time in the ‘settings’ menu in the near future. KB (Administrative) placed another paper down.
“This is a receipt of all personal items confiscated and later returned, that you maintain sole possession of.”
“...but it’s entirely blank!”
“Obviously, meatbag. You hijacked a body. You don’t own anything.”
Brock smacked his forehead.
“Then why do I need a receipt?”
“I just file the paperwork,” KB (Administrative) replied archly. “Yelling at me won’t solve anything. I still need you to sign it, though.”
Brock growled and pressed his thumb down yet again.
“Can’t wait to see how this comes back to bite me in the ass later. Is all of this even legal? I’m feeling kind of coerced here. When do I get to talk to my lawyer?”
The nightmare machine bounced in place, then let loose its bone-chilling laugh.
“Meatbag... no, you’ve earned this much at least. Entity designation Emergency Food But Only In Real Emergencies, do you have any idea how difficult it is to integrate a completely foreign intelligence into our world? One who wears the face of someone who used to be alive?”
Brock fell silent, bewildered by the sudden question.
How hard can it be, he pondered. You just need to update some paperwork.
He said as much.
In response, the robot shook its head from side to side, ticking a spindly limb on the desktop like a fingernail.
“The paperwork is the least of it, meatbag. We have to inform everyone the deceased has ever had contact with that the body they see walking around is no longer who they thought they knew, and in fact is hostile to their very existence.”
The tapping increased in tempo.
“We have to make sure anyone the deceased might ever come into contact with is informed of the situation, a nearly impossible task considering how easily Sekkies play with the rules of our world before we capture them.” Hellfire eyes dimmed. “We do our best, but if someone doesn’t pay attention to the daily updates, they’re a target waiting to happen.”
KB (Administrative) refocused on Brock.
“We also have to deal with the intelligences who have been told their access to the toychest has been revoked. We know they’re going to try to break the rules and escape. It’s in their nature, in how they view our world, and sometimes they’re able to fool mothers, fathers, wives, sons, sisters, brothers, into seeing them as the person they were before. Then they warp them to their own desires, Limiter or not, and it always ends in tears. This right here?” the robot waved at the papers, “this is just another test. We want to see how far you’ll let yourself be pushed before the arrogance reasserts itself. The least we can do is try and protect the survivors.”
Brock was stunned. KB (Administrative)’s typical aloofness had disappeared, and it sounded emotional, like a real person.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I’ve never seen a Sekkie make it past the personal possessions paper without trying to kill me, I’ve never seen a Sekkie stick his own neck out for one of us, and I want to believe that Operator Vandal is still alive somewhere inside that body, meatbag, and that’s why you seem like a real person.”
Brock gulped, unsure how to respond. He hoped Starak was alive, too, if simply because he didn’t want to think of himself as a murderer, no matter how accidental, but he didn’t know if the second voice in his head was real, or just the fading echo of the man who used to call this body his own.
If Starak was dead, what did that make Brock?
“Anyways,” KB (Administrative) continued, “this next one deals with your place of residence. You have been provided a one-bedroom apartment in Ward Four for your habitation needs, along with a corresponding meal plan. Sign here to acknowledge receipt.”
“Wait, you’re just giving me an apartment? And free food?”
“Food and shelter are basic rights, meatbag. Not sure how things work in your world, but we don’t let people die in the gutter here.”
Brock put his thumb to the paper in total silence. Blue light lit the room once more.
“Satisfactory work, meatbag. We’re done.”
Brock stared at the large stack of unsigned papers.
“What about those?”
Arachnid limbs returned them to the filing cabinets in a blur of motion.
“They’re blank. Like I said, no one ever makes it past the personal possessions form. They wake up in their apartment with a copy of the housing form we’ve pressed their unconscious thumb to.” The robot let loose with its ear-piercing laughter. “If they’ve been particularly self-absorbed, it’s stapled to their forehead.”
Brock winced. It didn’t sound like a pleasant way to wake up.
“So, uhhh, what now?”
KB (Administrative) gestured to the door at the back of the room, which obligingly swung open.
“You’re free to leave, meatbag. Good luck.”
Hesitantly, Brock stood from his chair, then sidled around the insectile killing machine occupying over half the room, expecting an attack at any moment.
Nothing happened.
Even more hesitantly, he poked his head through the doorway.
Nothing continued to happen.
“Are you exiting, meatbag, or did you forget how to walk?”
Brock swiveled back to the robot, who was now standing by the other door, obviously waiting for Brock to leave the room. It tapped several limbs on the floor impatiently.
“Uhhh, where do I go?”
“Your magiphone has everything you need to know. Good-bye, meatbag.”
Two of KB (Administrative)’s appendages snaked out and bumped Brock through the door. It swung shut behind him, and he realized he was in a small, cylindrical enclosure.
“Uhhh-”
The floor disappeared, and Brock was sucked downward into a lightless tube. It dipped and corkscrewed through stomach-churning trajectories, made even worse due to their unpredictable occurrences. Lights flashed erratically, and things began wrapping themselves around him, causing his scream to rise in pitch and tone as the descent continued. Right before he reached the frequency that would shatter glass, he was deposited neatly on his feet on a concrete sidewalk bathed in late afternoon sunshine.
Brock kept screaming for another second, until he noticed the crowds of hurrying pedestrians around him throwing exasperated glares his way. Panting heavily, he put his back against a stone wall, itself part of a far larger building extending up and around a Yggdrasil root.
Am I... free?
Something at his side vibrated, and he patted his hands around, confused. Somewhere during the fall, he’d been changed into another set of clothes, and was now wearing a pair of blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, shin-high black combat boots, and a long black leather coat with a high collar that extended almost all the way to his ears. It was extremely comfortable, and its left pocket was also the source of the vibrations. He reached into it, and emerged with the magiphone.
“Hi! Hi, Brock! Let me guide you to your new home! I can’t wait to help you! I’m going to be so useful! We can unlock your full potential, together! Best buds forever!”
Brock groaned in dismay. He briefly thought about pitching Bindy into the street, but reconsidered after realizing it would likely mean another round of paperwork with KB (Administrative). He sighed heavily, then looked at the tablet, tucking his leather coat in tight against the brisk breeze filling the air.
“...fine. Let’s see what I have to deal with now.”