I’m standing at the massive stone archway of the Royal Department of Absolutely Everything. Carved into the granite is the slogan: “Because No Task Is Too Small, and Every Task Is Too Big.” Beneath it, someone has added in smaller letters: “And Absolutely Everything Takes Forever.”
I’d laugh if it weren’t so painfully accurate.
Inside, it’s chaos. Rows of desks stretch farther than the eye can see, each one manned by a worried clerk. Scrolls, quills, and ink bottles are scattered everywhere.
Overhead, a giant clock ticks loudly, though none of the hands are pointing to any recognizable hour. Somewhere in the distance, I hear someone crying. I’m not sure if it’s a clerk or a customer.
A desk with a giant sign that says “QUEST INTAKE” is just ahead. I shuffle forward, boots still squelching with swamp muck.
The clerk doesn’t look up as I approach. She’s wearing tiny spectacles and has a quill tucked behind one ear. Her nameplate reads: “Martha, Chief Form Sorter.”
“Name?” she asks, monotone.
“Greg,” I say. “Royal Gate Guard. Hero recently… kidnapped.”
Her quill scratches across a piece of parchment. She finally looks up, eyes narrowing at my boots. “You’re tracking muck on my floor.”
“It’s not your floor,” I say, already regretting my tone.
Her lips thin. “It’s my desk’s floor, and I don’t appreciate it.”
“Noted,” I mumble.
“Purpose of visit?” she asks.
“Filing paperwork for a hero being kidnapped,” I say. “Form 19-B. Also, apparently, Form 19-C and 19-C-2.”
Her quill pauses. “Ah, villainous gloating and monologue testimony. A busy day.”
She reaches under the desk and plunks down a massive stack of parchment. “Here you go,” she says, sounding almost smug. “Start with the first section: Incident Description.”
I drag the stack to a nearby table and sit down, staring at the first page.
> Form 19-B: Hero Kidnapped During Active Quest
>
> Section 1: Describe the Incident in Detail. Use complete sentences. Do not exceed 500 words.
I dip the quill into the ink and start writing.
Sintra, wielding a glowing purple staff, used some sort of—what I’m calling—noodle spell to attack me. While I was busy eating floor, she took Bob and vanished. It happened faster than I could…
I pause. I can feel Martha’s judgmental eyes on me from across the room. I cross out “eating floor” and replace it with “being temporarily disabled.”
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Great. This is going to be a long day.
The next section is even worse.
> Section 2: Rate the Villain’s Gloating.
>
> On a scale from 1 to 10, how impressive was the gloating? (1 = Barely Noticeable, 10 = Shakespearean Speech)
I groan. Are they serious?
I think back to Sintra’s evil laugh and how she waved her glowing staff around like she’d just won a talent show.
I write: “5. Overly theatrical but lacked originality.”
> Section 3: Describe Any Monologues Delivered by the Villain. Attach additional pages if necessary.
“Attach additional pages?” I ask. “How much monologuing do they think happened?”
I grab another sheet and start scribbling.
***
Three hours later, I’m halfway through the stack. My hand cramps, my stomach growls, and my boots are somehow even squelchier than before.
I flip to the next section.
> Section 12: Witness Details
>
> Was there anyone else present during the incident? (Circle all that apply.)
> □ Other heroes
> □ Villain minions
> □ Random bystanders
> □ Livestock
I circle “Villain minions.”
***
Finally, I reach the last section.
> Section 42: Reflection and Lessons Learned
>
> What could you have done differently to prevent the incident?
I stare at the question, the quill hovering above the parchment. What could I have done differently? Not eaten floor, for one. Paid more attention?
I sigh and write: “Next time, don’t let Sintra turn me into a human pancake.”
By the time I’m done, the stack of forms is taller than it was when I started. I lug it back to Martha’s desk and drop it with a satisfying thunk.
She looks at it, unimpressed. “You’ll need to get this stamped.”
“Stamped?!” I ask. “It’s already signed.”
“Stamped by the Sub-Department of Heroic Mishaps,” she says, pointing to another desk at the far end of the room.
I follow her finger and groan. The line for the Sub-Department of Heroic Mishaps is at least a mile long. Someone at the front is arguing with a clerk about whether their enchanted goat counts as “collateral damage.”
I wonder again if Sintra has any openings for minions. At least she’d pay me in something other than misery.
***
As I wait in line, I think about Bob. He’s out there somewhere, probably chained up in a villain’s lair. Or worse, forced to listen to more of Sintra’s monologues.
I have to find him. I have to make this right.
But first, I have to get this stupid paperwork stamped.
The line stretches forever. Ahead of me stands a glowing figure that looks like it was made from starlight.
I can’t help myself. “Long line, huh?”
The figure turns, and their face… shifts. One second it’s all-knowing and godlike. The next, it’s just a face, unimpressed. “You have no idea. I’ve been here for three hours.”
“Three hours?” I frown. “What are you even here for?”
He sighs, and I swear the air around him ripples. “A typo on my inter-dimensional permit.”
I squint. “Inter-dimensional permit?”
“Yes.” He rolls his eyes. “The Department marked me down for ‘Inter-Dimensional Chaos,’ when it’s supposed to say ‘Inter-Dimensional Order.’ Do you have any idea what kind of reputation that gives me?”
“Uh… bad?”
“Terrible!” He waves his hand. For a split second, I see a swirling vortex of stars. “Do you know how hard it is to explain a typo to a talking sun?”
“Suns talk?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
“Not well,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Mostly in haikus.”
I nod. “Paperwork’s the worst. One time I had to file a goblin theft report, and they made me categorize everything by hat size. Absolute nonsense.”
The figure freezes. Then he leans in, cosmic energy radiating off him. “Wait, they’re still making you do the hat size thing? I thought I fixed that two million years ago!”
I tilt my head. “You fixed it?”
He holds out a hand, expectantly. “Vortagos. Balancer of Universes.”
I shake it. “Greg. Guard of Gates.”
Vortagos stares at me for a moment. “Guard of Gates?”
“Yup.”
He nods slowly. “Cool.”