The sun had barely risen when Guild Paperjam Task Force stormed the Bureau of Interim Detainment and Clerical Oversight, also known as the B.I.D.C.O., pronounced “bide-co,” which, as Tessa put it, “is how they want you to spend your life. Biding.”

  Jeff bounced nervously in Tessa’s satchel. “So we’re breaking in?”

  “No,” Tessa said, adjusting her glasses. “We are executing a legally ambiguous Extraction-by-Form maneuver. It's technically not a break-in if the front desk signs your visitor form.”

  Bjorn tightened his bracers. “So we’re breaking in with manners?"

  Elion smirked. ““Like a flaming etiquette manual.”

  Jeff rustled proudly. “I pre-filled some Form 82-R: Apologies In Advance. I’ve got them scented like a copier toner and mild guilt!”

  Chortlebane puffed steam from his spout. “Delightful. Nothing says infiltration like apologizing mid-crime.”

  Tessa held up a glittering stack of enchanted permits. “And I brought Form 13-F: Just Looking Around, 17-B: It Was Open, and everyone’s favorite—92-Y: Definitely Not Our Fault.”

  Bjorn nodded solemnly. “We’re armed with forms. Paper cuts incoming.”

  Tessa sighed. “Just remember, we are not bribing anyone. These are morale-boosting administrative gestures.”

  “Sure,” Elion said, already charming a stack of Form 404s: Purpose Not Found to flutter like butterflies. “Totally not a bribe. These are airborne compliments.”

  Jeff squealed. “Ooh! Should I deploy the pre-folded Origami of Reasonable Doubt?”

  “No,” Tessa said firmly, then paused. “Yes. But only after the front desk explodes in passive-aggressive riddles.”

  Chortlebane cackled. “This is how empires fall. On a tide of flaming requisitions and unresolved memos.”

  “Exactly,” Tessa raised her quill like a sword. “Let’s go file a daring rescue and possibly ignite a few policies.”

  Bjorn flexed. “We file in peace. We redact in fury.”

  Jeff waved a scroll. “Let’s jam that paper!”

  Inside, the building was all marble floors and judgmental silence. A lone receptionist with horn-rimmed glasses and the emotional warmth of a damp sock sat behind a counter.

  “Name and purpose?” she droned.

  Tessa slid forward a stack of glitter-dusted paperwork. “Form 29-T: Urgent Retrieval of Temporarily Misclassified Asset.”

  The receptionist stared. “Nobody?”

  “Yes,” Tessa said. “That’s who we’re retrieving.”

  “No, I mean… nobody filled out Section D.”

  Jeff rustled in protest. “I DID!”

  “You don’t have hands.”

  “Discriminatory!”

  The receptionist sighed and stamped something half-heartedly. “Down the corridor, past the haunted complaint box.”

  “Well,” Bjorn muttered as they shuffled away, “that was… underwhelming.”

  “I wore my dramatic shoulder pads for nothing,” Elion pouted.

  “I rehearsed a speech about bureaucratic injustice,” Tessa grumbled, flipping through her now-useless cue cards labeled Righteous Indignation – Level 2.

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  Chortlebane bobbed along behind them. “In my day, receptionists bit.”

  They went down the corridor. The box was, in fact, haunted.

  “DOOOO YOU WISH TO LEAVE A REVIEW?” it moaned, opening its lid like a terrible maw.

  “Not today, thanks,” Elion sang cheerfully.

  “HOW ABOUT A STRONGLY WORDED PARAGRAPH?”

  Tessa conjured a spectral Do Not Interact sign and smacked it on the box.

  They pressed on into a sub-basement that smelled like ink, dust, and regret.

  And that’s when the flaming quills attacked.

  A dozen enchanted quills, blazing with bureaucratic fury, swooped down from the vaulted ceiling, shrieking “INCOMPLETE SUBMISSION!”

  Bjorn swatted one with a filing cabinet lid. Jeff launched himself at another like a backpack missile.

  Elion inhaled deeply. “Cover your ears.”

  He let loose an whistle note so powerful it harmonized with the fire enchantments and extinguished every quill mid-air in a sparkle of scorched ribbon.

  They skidded to a stop in front of Cell 12-B. Inside, Nobody was curled in the corner, looking entirely too guilty for someone who hadn’t done anything.

  “Nobody!” Bjorn shouted. “We’ve filed for you!”

  Nobody blinked. “Did… did you really go through all the forms?”

  Tessa held up a glowing, rainbow-colored scroll. “Form 88-P: Emergency Retrieval of Innocents Unjustly Detained Via Inter-Guild Shenanigans.”

  That’s when a smug voice echoed through the corridor.

  “Well, well,” Valeria said, stepping into view flanked by two junior Excel-Axe members. “How delightfully inefficient of you.”

  “You again? You were behind all of this?” Tessa said, eyes narrowing.

  “He failed to register his aura signature under Guild Subsection 14.2.3,” Valeria said smugly. “And his hat was out of regulation.”

  “That’s not even a hat,” Nobody whispered.

  Jeff growled. “You can’t just arrest someone for non-hat-hats!”

  Tessa stepped forward and summoned a radiant Form 91-Z—rare, glowing, and humming with pure loophole energy.

  “This says otherwise. By subverting standard protocol through misuse of Clause 8, Paragraph ‘M’, your entire report is invalid.”

  Valeria’s smile faltered.

  “You… you wouldn’t dare invoke the M-Clause…”

  “Oh, I dared two paragraphs ago,” Tessa grinned. “And the haunted complaint box logged your malicious intent. Enjoy the mandatory ethics seminar.”

  Valeria’s eyes widened. “You monster.”

  “Team Paperjam Task Force, retrieve our rogue hat-wearing team member.”

  Nobody stumbled into their arms. “You came for me.”

  “Of course,” Tessa said, adjusting her glasses. “Nobody gets left behind.”

  They marched out in triumph. As they passed the haunted complaint box, it whispered, “WOULD YOU LIKE TO FILE A VICTORY DANCE?”

  Tessa paused mid-stride. Adjusted her glasses.

  “Form 77-V,” she said crisply. “Victory Celebrations and Minor Gloating.” She pulled it out of Jeff’s pouch—somehow he had it—and initialed with flair.

  “I would indeed, like to file a victory dance.”

  The haunted box belched out a sparkly fog, music began playing from nowhere (possibly a cursed kazoo quartet), and the corridor lights dimmed dramatically.

  Bjorn roared with joy and began a stomping dwarven jig. Elion spun like a stage diva mid-aria, cape flaring. Jeff did what could only be described as “interpretive rustling,” and Chortlebane rotated midair in time with the beat, his spout emitting steam in rhythmic puffs.

  Nobody… tried to vanish behind a filing cabinet.

  “Nope,” Tessa said, grabbing his arm. “Guild policy mandates full participation.”

  “I don’t dance, I panic with rhythm,” he protested.

  “That counts!”

  Together, they flailed and spun down the hall, a bureaucratic conga line of questionable grace and undeniable energy.

  Behind them, the complaint box purred,

  “FILING COMPLETE.”

  Field Report Addendum: “Form 9-Y: Rescue Acknowledgement & Debrief”

  Operation Outcome: Successful extraction of Nobody (unlawfully detained).

  Casualties: Several flaming quills. Jeff consumed one out of spite.

  Recovered Items: One (1) Nobody (anxious, intact, emotionally rumpled)

  Seventeen (17) pre-stamped Form 23-Z (Rescue Variant)

  Unusual Activity: Elion’s singing now detectable on magical seismic charts.

  Ongoing Issues: Valeria filed a counter-complaint in scented ink. It smells like smugness.

  Persoal note: I would like it on official record that this operation, while not technically sanctioned, was conducted with extreme efficiency and a commendable mastery of procedural loopholes. The team performed adequately, with only minor incidents involving haunted furniture, dramatic musical outbursts, and a few fiery quills being extinguished.

  Also, I filed a victory dance. And I regret nothing.