Reaching the front of Line 7 wasn’t a moment of triumph but one of quiet inevitability. After all, even the slowest queues eventually move if you wait long enough. The counter was a battered thing, its wood worn smooth by countless restless souls before me. Behind it sat a man who looked as though he’d been there for eons, quietly bearing witness to every inefficiency in the universe. His mismatched glasses gave him a slightly lopsided appearance, and his tie drooped across his shirt like it had long since given up the fight. The badge on his chest read Nigel.
Nigel didn’t greet me. He didn’t even glance up. Instead, he slid an enormous scroll across the counter with a single finger, the motion so practiced it could have been muscle memory—if he had muscles, that is. “Fill this out,” he said, in a tone that was less a suggestion and more an immutable fact of existence.
I eyed the scroll warily, then glanced down—or rather, inward—at my amorphous, glowing self. No hands. No arms. Not even a phantom limb to work with. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I don’t exactly have the right... tools.”
Nigel finally raised his gaze, his expression one of profound indifference. “You’re a soul. Figure it out.”
Helpful. I leaned closer to the scroll, and as I focused, faint tendrils of light extended from my form, curling toward the parchment like vapor drawn to a flame. The scroll shimmered faintly, and the first question appeared in bold, archaic letters: 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—my approximation of a shrug. “No ‘None of the above,’ I see. Brilliant.” I selected reluctant hero with a flick of thought, the tendrils leaving a faint, glowing mark on the parchment. “Nigel, out of curiosity, do these answers actually matter?”
“Everything matters,” he replied without looking up, his voice as dry as the scroll itself.
Comforting. I turned back to the next question: On a scale from one to heroic, how many kittens would you rescue from a tree before giving up?
“Nigel,” I asked, glancing up again. “Who came up with this? A council of bored philosophers?”
“The Council of Heroic Metrics,” he replied. “Version 67A is their most recent improvement.”
“Improvement, you say? What was wrong with the first sixty-six versions?”
He adjusted his glasses. “Version 34 had a question about pancake preferences. Caused a minor uprising.”If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
“Pancakes, you say...” I marked “two” for the kittens—enough to seem noble but not so ambitious as to invite follow-up questions—and moved on.
The scroll continued its surreal interrogation: In a combat scenario, which weapon would you most likely use: A) a sword, B) a lance, or C) biting sarcasm?
“Do souls even have the upper body strength for lances?”
“No,” he said simply. “But it’s tradition.”
Fair enough. I selected lance, though biting sarcasm felt more authentic.
The questions grew stranger as I progressed. One section demanded a diagram of my ideal heroic lair. Using the same tendrils of light, I sketched a modest cave with a glowing hearth at its center. It wasn’t exactly heroic, but it felt peaceful. Another asked me to rate my dragon-slaying proficiency, and the one after that wanted my thoughts on hostage negotiation tactics.
Before I could tackle the next question, a burst of flickering light zipped into view, accompanied by a jittery, high-pitched voice. “Nigel! Nigel, I need a Form 82-Z! Urgent!”
The soul behind the interruption was... unusual. Where most of us were faintly glowing and steady, this one pulsed erratically, like a malfunctioning neon sign. Their energy crackled in the air, making the scroll’s edges quiver slightly.
Nigel sighed deeply, his tie slipping forward as if even it were exasperated. “Trevor, we don’t issue Form 82-Zs at Line 7. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“But it’s an emergency!” Trevor buzzed, their glow intensifying. “The Council of Celestial Spheres is auditing my existential frequency. If I don’t file—”
“There is no Council of Celestial Spheres,” Nigel interrupted.
Trevor gasped, their light stuttering. “That’s exactly what they want you to think.”
Nigel rubbed his temples—or where temples would have been. “Trevor, I’m in the middle of assisting someone. Go back to Line 5.”
“Line 5 doesn’t understand my plight!”
“Line 5 doesn’t care about your plight. Now, please leave before you disrupt the scroll calibration.”
Trevor hesitated, their glow dimming. “This isn’t over!” they declared, zipping away in a flurry of light and static.
I stared after them. “Does that happen often?”
“Every day,” Nigel replied, motioning for me to continue.
I turned back to the scroll, pushing through its increasingly bizarre queries. One section required me to rank justice, compassion, and teamwork in order of importance, while another asked for my thoughts on the ethical implications of rescuing cursed villagers. The questions blurred together, my glowing tendrils moving automatically as I answered.
All the while, the faint sound of ticking echoed in my mind. Time. My daughter. She was waiting for me. “Nigel,” I said, my voice quiet but firm, “I don’t mean to rush, but I’ve got to pick up my daughter. School lets out at three. If I’m not there... she’ll worry.”
Nigel’s gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained steady. “You should keep going.”
“Helpful,” I muttered, marking another answer.
At last, I reached the final question: What is your preferred heroic motto? I hesitated, then wrote: Do no harm, but maybe a little mischief. It felt fitting.
I pushed the scroll back toward Nigel, my light flickering faintly from the effort. He scanned it with a quick, practiced eye, then stamped it with a bright red mark: PENDING REVIEW.
“Pending?” I asked, incredulous. “After all that?”
“Line 8,” Nigel replied, already gesturing for the next soul to step forward.