9th of Ymiden Arc 721
A white room. Not pure, it’s just a little off, like cream. Waves of a very light grey and brown run through it, static and unmoving, captured in the marble. The material of choice for the construction of this building, it seems. The floor, support pillars, and walls are all hewn from it. Maybe the ceiling is as well, but it is too high up to tell. Or perhaps the cold white light radiating from the preposterously oversized crystal chandeliers is what makes it difficult.
It is a lesson in excess. Gold decorations line the walls and frame doorways. Statues polished to a blinding shine stand at regular intervals. All of a single man, each time in a different yet dignified position. A massive portrait of the same man encompasses most of the back wall. Sour-faced, mouth a thin line, eyes hard. Painted in a way that gives it an uncomfortably realistic amount of depth, and its lighting perfectly matches that of its immediate surroundings. It feels as if a giant decided to stick his head into the room and found a nest of disgusting bugs, buzzing incessantly.
And the room is definitely abuzz.
The tapping of soles on tile echoes through the entire chamber, as do dozens of voices. Mixing and mingling, blending together to form an amalgamation of ambient noise. It is white too. Whispers carry far despite being spoken in hushed tones, but it’s just the sound that travels, not the words themselves. Sometimes a chair scrapes over the marble, which is more felt than heard.
Oberan blinked. He smacked his lips and swallowed, mouth dry, tongue sticking to the roof of it. Craning his head and staring around as if he saw all of it for the first time. Gaze drifting down slow as realization set in he was seated in an uncomfortable chair in front of a desk. Both looked like government property. That is to say, the wood did its best to seem high quality with a nice grain and deep color, but was actually very cheap.
“Where am I?”
Raising an eyebrow, the bespectacled older man who sat behind the desk glanced up from the form he read aloud, the stream nonsensical yet official-sounding legalese flowing from his lips abruptly coming to a stop. Adjusting his glasses with thumb and index finger, he studied Oberan’s face with a deep frown. “You’re in the Ministry’s Office of Official Citizenship Application and Registry, son.”
That didn’t explain much at all. But it did give some context to what he saw. To the endless queue of people snaking from one side of the room to the other and back multiple times, contained between gold-painted metal stanchions and red velvet rope. To the row of desks underneath the enormous portrait, separated by simple wooden barriers to give an impression of privacy. Leaning back in his seat and straining his neck to peep around them, Oberan could see all the desks were currently occupied. On his side people of all stripes of life sat in the chairs, listening, nodding, signing papers, speaking. On the other were beleaguered clerks, men and women dressed in stiff, dull grey suits.
“I don’t remember entering the building.”
“I don’t recall you walking up to my desk either, but here we are.” The clerk paused, lips pursed. “You are number seven billion nine-hundred forty-four million one-thousand three-hundred sixty-one, correct?” He pointed at a sign suspended near the end of the queue. It listed each desk in order alongside a number with too many digits. Next to desk five the number the clerk had rattled off shone in bright red. Looking up, Oberan spotted a board with a large five hanging above the desk he was seated in front of.
“I’m not a number. I have a name.”
“Of course you do, son. I mean the number on your ticket.”
“Ticket?”
“You need to take a ticket from the dispenser before queueing up. I’m sure you have one on you.”
The clerk was right. Oberan found it in a pocket of his cloak, crumpled into a little ball. The number matched. He nodded to the man.
“Then you’re in the right spot. No need to wrack your head about the hows and whens and whys.”
Oberan did so regardless, tilting his head and stroking his beard and letting deep furrows carve up his brow. “Okay, but this doesn’t make sense. I don’t remember queueing. You don’t remember me walking over and taking a seat. So how did I get here? And when? And why?”
A great deep sigh escaped the scribe. One that spoke of having heard these questions time and time again. It was the sound of a defeated man who’d long since reconciled with the fact that people disregarded his words, though couldn’t stop the annoyance from cropping up every once in a while. “Well, son, I imagine you walked through the door, just like everyone else. When? Just now, a couple minutes ago. Why?” He gave a wry smile. “This is the Ministry’s Office of Official Citizenship Application and Registry, so no doubt you’re here to apply for your citizenship.”
“I see.” That did make some amount of sense, though since Oberan didn’t remember anything up until a couple minutes ago he couldn’t be certain that was indeed his objective. Then again, apparently he had lined up, had waited in the queue for Immortals knew how long, and had headed for the desk the number on his ticket corresponded with. Everything lined up perfectly with the clerk’s explanation.
“Let’s get to it then, shall we? I’ll run you through the form and provide exposition.”
“Huh?”
“I said I’ll run you through the form and explain everything you need to know. Unless you’re not in need of any assistance, of course. Then I’ll just hand you the forms and you can fill them in yourself over there.” The clerk gestured in the direction of a small area at the leftmost side of the hall. A handful of simple desks stood ordered in neat rows, equipped with inkpots and quills. Two were occupied, a beggar clad in rags and a woman dressed in extravagant colors ploughing through a tower of paperwork.
“I’ll graciously accept your assistance, if it’s all the same to you,” Oberan grimaced. Not for any amount of money in the world would he even consider subjecting himself to the brutal torture and drudgery and confusion of filling in complicated forms on his own.
The clerk beamed him a radiant smile. “Very well! Then let’s get started.” He shifted the papers on his desk, returning several that’d been placed face-down to the side back on top of the pile. “Okay, so, you are applying as a Prime Citizen, correct?”
Oberan nodded without conviction. This was the first question and he already had no idea what the clerk was talking about.
“Great. Then in order to get your registration filled in correctly, I’ll need you to provide me with some personal details. Be honest please, as this is an important document to be used for your official inclusion in the citizen’s registry.” He scraped his throat and adjusted his glasses, quoting the document. “’Prime Citizen name?’”
“Oberan.”
The clerk dipped his quill in the inkwell and jotted it down with a few quick strokes.
“’Age, race and gender?’ If you’ve got any mixed blood in your veins, we need to know which.”
“Eighty-two? Eighty-four? I don’t quite recall my exact age. Early eighties, I think. Maybe eighty-five, tops. Male.” He hesitated then, and the clerk glanced up from the paper, quill waiting. “Mortalborn.”
“What’s your mortal parent’s race and Immortal parent’s name?”
A frown. “Do you need to know that as well?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just curious, but it doesn’t hurt to add it in.”
“If it’s not required, I’m not telling.”
The scribe shrugged. “’Are you a citizen?’”
“Not yet, obviously.”
“’Reason for being here?’”
If only he knew that himself. “Uh… To acquire citizenship?”
“’Immortals you are devoted to?’”
“None.”
“None? Not even your parent?”
“None means none.”
“’Goals and slash or profession?’”
Again a bit of hesitation, though Oberan responded before the clerk had a chance to glance up. “Master thief looking for a change of scenery, I suppose.”
“’May the Overseers meddle with your life at any point during your stay?’” He lifted his gaze form the paper to look Oberan in the eye. “This one has three options: ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘ask first’. Oh, and in case you aren’t aware, Overseers can be thought of as gods.”
It took a few moments for Oberan to find his tongue. In the meantime his mouth opened and closed, but made no sound. “I-? Huh? Gods? Do you mean the Immortals?”
“Immortals?” the clerk chuckled, not even bothering to hide it. “Not at all. Immortals are just Non-Prime Citizens, after all. They’re not even on the same level as the beings I’m talking about. Granted, they are the most powerful Non-Prime Citizens, and even a first interaction with them requires submission of the proper forms and approval from this city’s Overseer. Or if you say ‘yes’ to letting the Overseer meddle with your life according to their whim, they might just have one pop up in front of you when you least expect it. That happens only rarely though. Most of the time they smack you around the head with the unexpected consequences of your actions. Or decouple certain series of events from reality. Also I must make clear that choosing ‘no’ doesn’t mean they won’t intervene when they deem it necessary.”
“I… see?” The words trailed off as Oberan considered the options and tried to parse the information that had just crashed into him like a tidal wave, pulling him into the deep as the current caused him to spin around his axis. “Ask first?”
“Ask first it is.” The clerk recorded the answer without second thought. “Also, I noticed I’ve forgotten an important follow-up question to the Mortalborn thing. It’s not on the form by default since we don’t get many of you, so I accidentally skipped over it. ‘Are you an Heir Mortalborn?’”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Well since you don’t know it, I suppose you’re not one, then. But just to be certain, you do have abilities which are limited in scope and function, and specific to your domains?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic. That saves me a whole lot of trouble. If you were an Heir, your Prime Citizenship application would be rejected, and we’d have to start over with a Non-Prime Citizenship application form. Which would lose us a couple days, and waste all the time spent on the first application, which, incidentally, has to be submitted and rejected first before we can start with the Non-Prime Citizen application.”
“That sounds rather inefficient.”
“Tell me about it. But those are the rules. Anyway.” He tapped the form with a finger. “Let’s get back on track. ‘Are you in the possession of any Prime-bound Non-Prime Citizens?’”
Oberan frowned. “Do you mean slaves? I don’t own any slaves.”
“Slaves, yes. Or best friends, siblings, parents, someone indebted to you. Perhaps a spirit who follows you around. Subordinates, colleagues, drinking buddies. Rivals, apprentices, informants, employees, bosses, et cetera, et cetera. Any of those? Basically someone you interact with on the regular, who’s often hanging around you for whatever reason.”
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Oberan sighed. “No, no-one comes to mind.” Way to put him on the spot like that.
“Lonely fellow, aren’t you, son? But that’s fine, if you are in need of any of those, the Ministry is more than willing to provide. Given you submit the relevant forms and are willing to wait several workdays that end up being work-months, of course. And given that your application isn’t rejected outright.”
The clerk nodded to himself a couple times, then laid his quill down and gently placed the sheet of paper carefully to the side so it could dry. “Okay. That concludes form number one. Let’s move on to number two, shall we?”
