"Welcome to the Department of Interplanar Consequence Management," droned the receptionist, a sentient paperclip in a bow tie. "Please take a number and a complementary existential crisis."
Rose stared at the glowing red number in her hand. "What happens if I don't take the crisis?"
"It takes you," the paperclip replied with a smile.
She looked around. The office was vast—endlessly vast. Rows of desks stretched into dimensions that didn't seem to follow Euclidean logic. Some floated upside down. Some whispered. One was on fire. A demon in a pinstripe suit handed out tax forms to a wailing banshee. A banshee who, notably, had three mouths.
Mortain leaned close. "This was your idea."
"I thought filing a complaint might fix the talking goat," she muttered.
Gregory the Goat, now wearing bifocals and smugness, munched a clipboard. "You're lucky I'm housebroken."
Nimbus was attempting to read the pamphlet on "Planar Reformation Procedures." It immediately caught fire and began singing a lullaby in reverse Latin.
Basil returned from the break room. "I found cursed doughnuts and a guy named Steve who's made of haunted ink. Lovely fellow."
"Why are we even here again?" Mortain asked.
Rose sighed. "To report a tear in the Veil of Unmaking near Emberfen. And maybe get a permit for turning a cursed bog into a meditation retreat. Also, Gregory needs legal paperwork to prove he's not livestock."
Gregory bleated in indignation. "I hold rank!"
They waited.
Number 666 finally blinked on above an obsidian door that smelled like burnt libraries.
Inside, the room was suspiciously normal. Wooden desk, parchment stacks, tea kettle. A woman sat behind the desk in robes that shimmered between timelines. Her eyes glowed faintly blue, and her quill scribbled on its own.
She didn't look up. "Name?"
"Rose," she said. "Just Rose. Witch. Partial fire hazard."
The woman nodded. "Cause of visit?"
"There's a tear in the fabric between here and the Seventh Fracture. We sealed it temporarily with sarcasm and sandbags, but we need a more permanent solution. Also, the talking goat was once a god. And I'd like a license to own haunted shrubbery."
The clerk paused, slowly raising her eyes.
"You again."
Rose blinked. "Have we met?"
"Yes. Three timelines ago. You accidentally merged me with a thesaurus."
"Oh," Rose said. "Did you get better?"
The woman's left eyebrow twitched. "Do I sound like someone who got better?"
Mortain stepped forward. "Is there a form for reparations, or…?"
"Form 9-Hell," the clerk snapped. "Triplicate. Fireproof ink."
She stamped something violently, then pushed forward a shimmering scroll and a key that seemed to hum with indecision.
"Here. This unlocks the barrier point near Emberfen. Use it wisely. And please don't destroy any more incarnations of metaphysical filing systems."
Rose took the items. "No promises."
They left in silence.
As the obsidian door shut behind them, Gregory said, "Well, I think that went rather well."
Rose snorted. "Remind me never to join a union for magical chaos again."
"Too late," Basil whispered, holding up a glittering membership badge. "I voted us in."
And off they went—heroes, hazards, and all.