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08: You Have the Right to Remain Confused

  It started with a teacup.

  Specifically, Chortlebane’s teacup, which hurled itself off the filing shelf the moment they returned from their airborne antics and exploded against the wall with the rage of a caffeinated banshee.

  “That’s a bad omen,” Nobody said, stepping carefully over the shards.

  Tessa sighed and pulled out a Form 16-D: Sudden Magical Crockery Incident Report.

  They had barely landed their enchanted brooms in the Guild’s courtyard when chaos erupted—again. Someone had delivered a message scroll sealed with what looked suspiciously like jelly. It hummed ominously.

  Jeff poked it with a spoon. “Should it be vibrating?”

  “No,” said Elion, who had taken to polishing his vocal cords with warm honey and passive-aggressive humming.

  The scroll popped open with a fwump, releasing a cloud of bureaucratic fog and a booming announcement: “YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR RANDOM COMPLIANCE VERIFICATION.”

  “By who?” Bjorn asked, narrowing his eyes.

  A second, smaller scroll dropped from the sky like a judgmental bird and smacked Nobody in the face. He read it aloud: “Department of Internal Dungeoneering Standards. Never heard of it.”

  Tessa groaned. “They’re real. And they are terrible. They once audited an entire guild because their dungeon torches weren’t regulation flicker-rate.”

  Jeff shuddered. “That’s how the Guild of Gilded Glory got downgraded to the Committee of Moderately Shiny Outcomes.”

  Bjorn snorted. “I heard they had to retake Intro to Adventuring because someone used a candelabra instead of a sconce.”

  “They’ll cite you for ‘excessive ambience,’” Elion added, solemnly. “Too much mood lighting is a known morale hazard.”

  Nobody clutched his cloak tighter. “What if they’re here to confiscate our break room again?”

  Chortlebane let out a low, ceramic sigh. “Brace yourselves. Bureaucracy is coming.”

  A heavy knock echoed from the hallway.

  Tessa flinched. “Too late. That’s the cadence of a Regulation Enforcer. Three knocks, one pause, and the sound of judging silence.”

  Jeff whispered, “Do I play dead? I can play dead. I’m literally a bag.”

  The door creaked open to reveal three figures in identical beige robes, each holding clipboards that emitted faint, menacing hums. One wore spectacles so narrow they looked like punctuation. Another had a quill tucked behind each ear, like twin bureaucratic daggers. The third had no visible mouth, just a permanent expression of disappointment.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Guild 417-B, operating under provisional approval status,” said the lead inspector, eyes scanning them like a ledger. “We’ve received reports of unauthorized broom travel and emotional filing.”

  Tessa stepped forward. “Everything was filed in accordance with Form 22-V: Emergency Arial Conveyance and Form 91-H: Feelings While Filing.”

  “You initialed page 3A, subsection D?” the inspector snapped.

  “…I highlighted it,” Tessa muttered.

  They gasped.

  Elion coughed politely. “May I offer the Inspectorate some tea? Our teapot is haunted, but mostly friendly.”

  Chortlebane hummed ominously from his corner.

  The inspector narrowed his eyes at Nobody. “You. Name and purpose.”

  Nobody shrank slightly behind Bjorn. “…I, uh. Assist. Silently.”

  Bjorn beamed. “He’s the stealth department. Very efficient. You wouldn’t even know he was here unless you—oh, wait.”

  The second inspector scribbled something that made his clipboard whimper.

  Tessa groaned again. “Can we skip to the part where we bribe you with properly stapled forms and a batch of expired muffins?”

  The third inspector finally spoke. “We require a full oral report. In triplicate. With interpretive reenactment.”

  Jeff wheezed. “I’ll need a volunteer to wear me like a backpack while screaming emotionally. That’s how I remember things best.”

  Elion raised a hand. “Only if I get to narrate with dramatic opera.”

  Tessa put her face in her hands. “I swear to Crimble’s pigeons, I am going to lose my provisional license over interpretive reenactments.”

  The lead inspector flipped to a fresh page on his clipboard, eyes narrowing behind his punctuation-sized glasses. “You. Designation: ‘Nobody.’”

  Nobody flinched. “I—I’m just the quiet one. I make tea. I vanish when things get loud. I literally have a noncombatant clause stapled to my personnel file.”

  “Exactly,” said the second inspector, stepping forward. “Your file is too clean. Suspiciously so.”

  Bjorn blinked. “That’s because he’s extremely average. It’s kind of his whole thing.”

  Elion leaned in, whispering, “He once got a perfect score on a stealth audit by accidentally being left behind and no one noticing for three days.”

  The third inspector sniffed. “We’ve cross-referenced every dungeon you’ve entered. There are consistent anomalies. Inexplicable survivals. Forms filed without memory of submission. Teacups that refill themselves.”

  “...That last one was Chortlebane,” Nobody muttered. The teapot grumbled affirmatively.

  Tessa stepped in. “Look, if you’re trying to pin anything on him, you’ll need an E-71 form and at least two magical affidavits.”

  “We have six,” said the lead inspector smugly.

  Nobody turned pale. “Six?! From who?!”

  The inspectors stepped aside. A small stack of folders floated in, each one signed by various dungeon cores, cursed vending machines, and one oddly bitter dungeon mop.

  Tessa’s jaw dropped. “You filed a complaint? You?”

  The mop waved an indignant clump of fibers.

  “That’s it,” said the second inspector, snapping magical cuffs from a scroll tube. “Nobody, you are hereby placed under Bureaucratic Detainment for investigation into unauthorized stealth excellence and suspiciously neutral vibes. You have the right to remain confused.”

  Nobody whimpered. “This is why I never make eye contact...”

  Bjorn reached out. “You can’t take Nobody! He’s the one who makes our group photos weirdly atmospheric!”

  But it was too late. With a flash of dull beige magic and the rustle of many pages, the inspectors vanished—taking Nobody with them.

  A long silence followed.

  Elion cleared his throat, glancing around at the stunned group. “So… what do we do now?”

  Everyone turned to Tessa.

  She adjusted her glasses, tucked the glowing scroll under one arm, and said with grim resolve, “We show them nobody messes with Paperjam Task Force. Especially when Nobody’s already in custody!"

  Bjorn pumped a fist. “Yes! Classic unauthorized rescue mission!”

  Chortlebane whistled like a smug teakettle. “Long overdue. I’ve been steeping for this moment.”

  Jeff rustled. “Do we need to submit a pre-rescue notification?”

  Tessa was already pulling out forms. “No. Let’s make this creatively noncompliant."

  Jeff rustled with excitement. "Loopholes! The cuddliest way to break rules!"

  Chortlebane snorted. “More like hugs that bite back. I’m in.”

  Bjorn cracked his knuckles. “Let’s twist some fine print.”

  Field Report Addendum 472-C

  Subject: Post-Inspection Response & Loophole Deployment

  Mission Type: Spontaneous Rescue (Filed Retroactively Under Subsection 8.5: "Oopsies and Emergencies")

  Casualties: One clipboard (valiant), several regulations (unfortunate), Nobody—arrested but emotionally supported

  Recovered Items: Confidence, several rogue memos, and a wax seal shaped like a goose

  Notable Loophole Exploited: Clause 7.2.1(b) – “If an arresting authority fails to specify if the detainee counts as a ‘person’ within 72 seconds, a retrieval mission may be launched on a vibes basis.”

  Morale Status: Dangerous levels of team bonding

  Next Steps: File form 99-B: Post-Rescue Justification With Optional Apology Letter

  Thanks for sticking with our ridiculous crew.

  Next time: a high-stakes, paperwork-heavy Nobody-rescue involving flaming quills, a haunted complaint box, and at least one bureaucratic duel.

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