Reaching the front of Line 7 was a peculiar triumph. Not the kind that came with fanfare or confetti—more like the grim satisfaction of finally untying a knot you didn’t realize you’d been wrestling with for hours. Ahead of me sat a desk, and behind it, the embodiment of apathy: Nigel.
His glasses didn’t match—one lens looked like it belonged to a telescope, while the other was more suitable for a pair of reading specs. His tie drooped across his chest like a defeated flag, and the badge on his shirt declared his name with a font as tired as his demeanor. Without a word, Nigel slid a scroll across the counter, the motion so practiced it seemed automated.
“Fill this out,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection.
I floated closer to inspect the scroll. “Ah,” I said, noting its absurd size. “Perfect for someone without hands.”
Nigel adjusted his glasses. “You’re a soul. Figure it out.”
Helpful. I focused on the scroll, and, to my surprise, faint tendrils of light unfurled from my formless body, curling toward the parchment like smoke reaching for a flame. As the tendrils touched the scroll, the title Heroic Personality Assessment – Version 67A blazed into view.
“Sixty-seven versions?” I murmured. “Clearly, perfection takes time.”
Nigel didn’t respond. Perhaps he’d heard that line before.
The first question appeared in bold, archaic lettering: Would you describe yourself as: A) a selfless hero, B) a reluctant hero, or C) a hero only when no one else is looking?
I tilted slightly, the closest I could manage to a shrug. “No option for ‘None of the above,’ I see. Fine, reluctant hero it is.” The glowing tendrils traced a circle around the answer, leaving a faint, shimmering mark.
The second question materialized: On a scale from one to heroic, how many kittens would you rescue from a tree before giving up?
I hesitated, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “Nigel,” I said, glancing up. “Who exactly writes these questions?”
“The Council of Heroic Metrics,” he replied without looking up. “This is their most rigorous version yet.”
“Rigor, is it? What went wrong with the earlier ones?”
“Version 34 caused a minor uprising. Something about pancake preferences.”
I nodded solemnly. “Understandable.” I circled “two” for the kittens and moved on. Enough to seem noble without overpromising.
The scroll unfurled further, revealing its next inquiry: In a combat scenario, which weapon would you most likely use: A) a sword, B) a lance, or C) biting sarcasm?
I tilted again, debating. “Nigel, do souls even have the upper body strength for lances?”
“No,” he said, not missing a beat. “But it’s tradition.”
Fair enough. I selected lance and floated onward.
The parchment seemed endless, a blend of absurdity and introspection that felt oddly personal. One section asked me to rank the virtues of justice, compassion, and self-sacrifice. Another required me to sketch my ideal heroic lair, which I managed with some effort. My glowing tendrils traced out a modest cave with a glowing hearth at its center. Hardly heroic, but comforting. Perhaps that said more about me than I wanted to admit.
The longer I worked, the heavier the air seemed to grow. Somewhere deep inside, a clock was ticking—a quiet reminder of what mattered most. My daughter. I had to pick her up by 3 PM. How much more of this could there possibly be?
Just as that thought crossed my mind, a flickering light zipped into view, accompanied by a high-pitched voice. “Nigel! Nigel, I need a Form 82-Z! It’s an emergency!”
---
The source of the interruption was a soul unlike any I’d seen before. Where the others around us were smooth, glowing, and faintly serene, this one pulsed erratically, its light stuttering like a faulty neon sign. It buzzed toward the counter in a jagged line, leaving faint trails of static energy in its wake.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Nigel!” the soul exclaimed, its voice high-pitched and jittery. “You must help me! The Council of Celestial Spheres is reviewing my existential frequency, and if I don’t file a Form 82-Z immediately, I could be reassigned!”
Nigel didn’t even look up. “Trevor, we don’t issue Form 82-Zs at Line 7. You know that.”
“But Nigel, this is urgent!” Trevor’s glow flickered wildly. “If I miss the alignment—”
“There is no alignment, Trevor,” Nigel said wearily, adjusting his glasses. “We’ve been over this. The Council of Celestial Spheres doesn’t exist.”
Trevor gasped, his light sputtering in indignation. “That’s exactly what they want you to think!”
Nigel leaned back in his chair, his tie slipping forward like it, too, had given up on this conversation. “Trevor, I am in the middle of assisting someone else. Please return to Line 5.”
“Line 5 doesn’t understand the stakes!” Trevor wailed, darting in an agitated loop. “They told me to try Line 7 because you—Nigel—have a pragmatic approach.”
Nigel’s mouth twitched slightly, though whether it was a smirk or a grimace, I couldn’t tell. “My pragmatic approach is telling you to leave.”
Trevor hesitated, their glow dimming slightly. Then, as if rallying themselves, they let out a dramatic crackle. “Fine! But mark my words, Nigel, when the Council intervenes, you’ll regret this!”
“I’ll be sure to look forward to it,” Nigel replied, deadpan.
Trevor zipped away, muttering under their breath about celestial conspiracies. I stared after them, momentarily forgetting the scroll in front of me. “Does that happen often?”
“Every day,” Nigel said, motioning for me to continue.
I returned to the parchment, though Trevor’s strange energy still lingered in the air like static. The next question appeared: Rank your proficiency in dragon-slaying from novice to legendary.
“Do dragons even exist here?” I asked.
Nigel shrugged faintly. “Not recently.”
Encouraging. I marked novice and moved on, willing the scroll to offer something less absurd. It didn’t. The next section wanted my thoughts on the ethics of rescuing cursed villagers. Another demanded a ranking of preferred team dynamics, listing options such as fearless leader, stoic warrior, and comic relief.
As I worked, the faint ticking in my mind grew louder. My daughter’s face flashed in my thoughts—a bright smile framed by soft curls. She’d be waiting for me, standing outside the school gate, clutching her little backpack. I couldn’t let her down.
“Nigel,” I said, pausing, “I don’t mean to rush, but I really do need to finish this. My daughter’s waiting for me. School lets out at three.”
Nigel glanced up, his gaze steady but unreadable. “You have a daughter?”
“Yes,” I said. “Five years old. Loves dinosaurs and bedtime stories. She’s expecting me.”
He nodded slowly, as if turning something over in his mind. “Then I suggest you keep going.”
“Right. Thanks for the pep talk.” I returned to the scroll, though the weight of the ticking clock made each question feel heavier. How much longer could this possibly take?
---
The scroll seemed endless, a labyrinth of questions designed to test my patience and perhaps my sanity. Describe your ideal heroic motto. I hesitated, the faint tendrils of light flickering as I thought. After a moment, I wrote: Do no harm, but maybe a little mischief.
I pushed onward. The next section demanded I assess my teamwork preferences. Did I see myself as a fearless leader, stoic support, or resourceful strategist? I marked strategist, suspecting fearless leader might involve more responsibility than I could stomach.
Finally, the scroll asked me to evaluate my ability to deliver motivational speeches. I nearly laughed, imagining myself floating in front of a crowd, trying to inspire with no face, no voice, and no hands to gesture dramatically. Still, I marked adequate and moved on.
The final question appeared, bold and imposing: In a dire moment, would you sacrifice yourself for the greater good, hesitate and weigh your options, or find a third path to save everyone?
I paused, letting the question settle. It wasn’t as easy as the others. Could I really make that kind of choice? Before I could decide, a flickering shadow passed behind me. Trevor had returned, muttering something about “dimensional feedback loops” and “Nigel’s lack of vision.” Thankfully, they zipped away before Nigel had to address them again.
I shook off the distraction and made my choice. Third path. It seemed the most hopeful, even if it wasn’t the easiest.
When I finally pushed the scroll back toward Nigel, it felt like handing in a final exam after hours of frantic writing. My tendrils dimmed slightly, a sign of my growing exhaustion.
Nigel picked it up, scanned it with alarming speed, and stamped it with a red mark that read: PENDING REVIEW.
“Pending?” I repeated, my voice rising slightly. “After all that?”
Nigel set the scroll aside, already motioning for the next soul in line. “Line 8,” he said, as if that explained everything.
I floated closer to the counter. “What’s Line 8?”
“Heroic Aptitude Calibration,” he replied, adjusting his glasses. “You’ll find it down the hall.”
Of course I would. I turned, glancing at the hallway he’d pointed to. It stretched on endlessly, dimly lit and lined with other souls shuffling forward in quiet resignation. Somewhere deep inside, the ticking in my mind felt louder, sharper, more insistent. Three o’clock was looming, and my daughter was waiting.
I hesitated for a moment, gripping the faint thread of frustration that threatened to unravel me. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, I floated forward. Whatever Line 8 had in store, I’d face it. I didn’t have much choice.