MASON

We continue walking, but I decide not to press Shay on her lie. Until that point, she hadn't given me any reason not to trust her, so she must have a good reason for not telling me the truth about the white lights. Despite deciding not to ask further about the lights, that didn't stop my mind from running through all sorts of possibilities for the lights' use.

After another couple of blocks and some more mental gymnastics on my end, Shay stops and announces that we are here. I look and a grand building sits in front of me. It reminds me of one of the buildings that I studied during an ancient Roman architecture course that I took last semester. At that thought, the pit in my stomach makes a quick appearance due to the realization that I won't be returning to school. Whisking that feeling away as quickly as possible, I study the building. Giant white, marble columns with gilded Corinthian caps supported the pediment of the building. These columns stand like soldiers guarding the interior of the building. On the pediment, there was writing, but like the rest of the Wandering Plane, the writing seems to shift. This time, however, I can tell that the writing is shifting between different languages. Each language says the same thing--"Department of Reincarnation."

Shay gives me a few minutes to fully take in the facade of the Department's building. After I've had my fill of the exterior, Shay suggests that we go inside. We ascend the few steps to the portico, then cross the threshold. Given the exterior, Shay I expect that we will enter a large, single room building reminiscent of the temples of old, but the room we enter, to put it frankly, is impossible. Less the temple of a long-forgotten god, and instead, the room more resembles the local Department of Motor Vehicles. On the left, a single counter sits with an older woman who, by all accounts, seems to exude the very essence of a curmudgeon. Rows of seats, which remind me of the folding kind that theaters house, stretch as far as my eye can see. The room is bustling with people, a few of whom are waiting to speak with the woman at the counter, some sit int eh folding chairs, and the rest carry on conversations amongst themselves.

I look above the woman at the counter and see a large board that says, "Now Serving Number 76,894." I look at Shay and exclaim, "There are that many people here!"

Holding back a laugh, "Likely, many more than that, guy. Think of the Wandering Plane like a hub with tunnels connecting to every place on the living plane. Everyone who passes on the living plan gets funneled here to, eventually, move beyond. Don't worry, the Worker move through things quickly."

For the second time, this building has me in amazement. After what I suspect is a few minutes, Shay knocks me out of my reverie by elbowing me in the side.

"Best that you get in line to speak with Frances, don't want to wait too long. I'll find a seat nearby. And, have fun with that one," she ends and tilts her head towards Frances.

"You don't want to come with?" I ask in almost a pleading tone, but Shay has already taken off towards a couple of empty seats. I turn back towards the counter and prepare myself to speak with Frances. How bad could it be? Then, my mind involuntarily dredges up old memories of going to the Department of Motor Vehicles, particularly when I had to change my residence, and I'm reminded that it could be terrible.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

I find my place in line and can see that there are only about seven people in front of me. While I wait, I hear snippets of conversations from those in front of me, including things like, "...it was a major heart attack..." and "...just took a tumble down the steps..." The increasingly familiar pit in my stomach tries to latch on to what these people say and bend me to its will. With each attempt, I become more accustomed to it and more able to keep it contained. But Shay was right, the line moves quickly and I'm standing before Frances within minutes.

"Name?" A gravelly voice asks without lifting her eyes from what appeared to be a newspaper.

Frances' voice caught me off guard only because it suited her perfectly. I must have taken one second too long admiring the way that Frances' voice corresponded to her overall personality. She lifts her head towards me and uses a pen to push the cat-eye glasses up the bridge of her nose, likely trying to get a better view fo the person holding up her line. "I said, 'name.'" The gravelly voice now has a tinge of frustration.

"Uh, sorry about that. Mason Behlke." I quickly say trying not to upset her any further.

Frances' hand moves to a large and ancient-looking rolodex. Without having to look at it, Frances flips through the cards and pulls out a slip of paper. She takes a look at the slip and a grin replaces what had been, until that moment, pursed lips. She hands me the slip. "You'll be number 83,891 and Worker Abrahim will be assisting you," her voice this time was sickly-sweet. With that she waves me off.

While she may not have been as curmudgeonly as I initially thought, she definitely was not pleasant to deal with. I look down at the sip and it was not too elaborate. The words were those that Frances had said, the only other detail is that the slip includes the method of death, and in my case, one simple word is printed--"Murder." Not again, I think to myself as the pit beckons, but I refuse to answer its call. I stand still for one second, making sure I am in full control. Then, I head back towards Shay.

I make my way back and notice that everyone is giving her a wide berth. A few people stare at her, which she seems to not notice. I reach her, "Is there a reason why everyone is avoiding you?"

"It's no big deal. It's not entirely usual for a Watch to come into the DOR." Her hand reaches up to a curl and, again, she twists. "How did it go with Frances?" She changes the subject before I can delve further into the question of people avoiding her.

"I suspect that you know it didn't go well," I say with a laugh, again choosing to ignore her deception. "It didn't seem to help that I took longer than she would have liked to answer her question."

"If nothing else, Frances is predictable. She likes to move the line like a well-oiled machine, and any cog interrupting that gets the shit-end of the stick," she says with a snort. "Well, let's take a look at the slip," Shay insists and I hand it over.

While she takes a quick glance at it, I look towards the board above Frances and see that the number has already reached 83,853. Again, Shay was right that they move things quickly here. I turn back towards Shay and her face is pale. "What's wrong?"

"My poor boy..." is all that she can get out. A mixture of her motherly concern and fear, apparently for me, masks the friendly face I had been getting used to.

"Why do you say that?" I ask, perplexed by her reaction.

Before she can answer, a smooth, velvety voice sounds behind me. "Mr. Behlke, I am glad you found your way here, presumably thanks to Office Greer. I am Worker Abrahim and I will be assisting you today."