Ilyan walked into the Ministry of Posthumous Affairs, feeling strangely lighter, despite the heavy weight of the form in his hands. The space around him was overwhelmingly sterile, the walls white and smooth, with no traces of life to be found. Everything in the Ministry screamed "order"—in a way that made it feel like a coffin where too many rules had died.
The clerk at the desk, a woman with sharp, metallic features and a headset that seemed to hum with its own rhythm, looked up as they entered. She blinked once. Twice. And then her eyes locked on Ilyan, and her lips curled into a practiced, disinterested smile.
"Can I help you?" she asked, in the tone one might use to ask a fly if it needed assistance with its flight plans.
"We need to submit a form," Ilyan said, walking forward and holding up the slightly crumpled paper. He'd been holding it so long, he half-wondered if it had absorbed some of his doubts.
The clerk glanced at the form, then at Ilyan, then back at the form. "Form 27B? The one for... posthumous identity confirmation?"
"That's the one," Ilyan said.
The clerk made a series of mechanical noises with her keyboard, but there was a noticeable delay as she typed, as if every keystroke had to be approved by some unseen hand. Finally, she clicked a button, and the form disappeared into the void of her screen with a soft whoosh.
"Processing." She said it like a mantra. "Now we wait."
Ashwen crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. "You can't be serious. We waited for that?"
"I like the suspense," the clerk said, her voice just a bit too chipper to be natural. "It builds character. You'll see."
Ilyan shifted uncomfortably. "Right. And if it's not approved?"
"Oh, it will be approved," the clerk said, with the confidence of someone who has seen too many souls walk through the gates of bureaucracy. "But you'll need to take a number, of course. It's the process."
She handed Ilyan a small slip of paper with the number 404 written on it in blue ink. She looked him dead in the eye and said, "Please, take a seat."
Ilyan's stomach dropped. Not again. Not this—anything but this.
Ashwen stared at the slip of paper. "404? That's... that's the number for people who are lost." She raised an eyebrow. "Seems fitting."
"I swear, if I see Clerk 404 again, I'll lose my mind," Ilyan muttered, already dreading what was to come. The memory of their previous encounter with the overly-helpful yet completely unhelpful Clerk 404 still stung. They'd gotten caught in an endless loop of paperwork, forms being misplaced, and receiving more forms just to correct the previous forms. It had been an experience that left Ilyan considering a career in alternative death just to avoid another visit to this place.
Ashwen put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just keep your cool."
"No promises," Ilyan said.
They sat. Time, or what passed for it, stretched on. And as minutes turned into... well, more minutes, Ilyan felt the familiar sense of dread settle in his chest. The ticking of a far-off clock echoed in the background, its rhythm slower than he liked. His mind wandered back to the form they had submitted—Form 27B. The witness had told him it would bring him answers, but as he sat there waiting for something to happen, he couldn't help but wonder whether he was simply walking deeper into a labyrinth with no way out.
A loud ding from the desk broke his reverie. The screen in front of the clerk flickered, and she looked up from her paperwork, blinking slowly as if waking from a nap.
"You're up," she said, before giving a little mechanical smile. "Clerk 404 will be with you shortly."
Ilyan's heart sank. "No. Not again."
"I think he's probably dead," Ashwen said, barely containing a grin.
Before Ilyan could protest, the glass doors to the back room opened, and sure enough, Clerk 404—the same one from before—ambled in. He was still wearing that ridiculous bow tie, and his mustache had grown even more extravagant since their last encounter. But this time, there was an odd twinkle in his eye that was... almost conspiratorial.
"Ilyan of the Recently Dead," Clerk 404 said in a voice far too excited for the circumstance. "I see you're back for more."
Ilyan could feel the blood drain from his face. "Why are you still here? Shouldn't you be... I don't know... fired? Or something?"
Clerk 404 sighed dramatically. "I get that a lot. But I'm a permanent fixture, Ilyan. The Ministry likes to keep me around for... procedural reasons."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Ashwen asked, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.
Clerk 404 leaned forward. "It means that I, too, am dead in some ways. But in others, I'm very much alive, and so I do my part. Paperwork and bureaucracy never truly die, you see? And someone must maintain the system."
Ilyan glanced at Ashwen, trying to suppress a groan. "Great. So, what now?"
"Now," Clerk 404 said with a dramatic pause, "you get to go through the next stage of your paperwork." He motioned to a long conveyor belt that was... surprisingly clean for something that had to deal with so many forms. "Follow me."
The conveyor belt was adorned with labels like Verification of Existence, Confirmation of Non-Living Status, and, much to Ilyan's horror, Retroactive Witness Statements.
Ashwen raised an eyebrow. "We have to stand on that?"
Clerk 404 gave her a smile so wide it could only be called menacing. "It's the process. A very important part of the process."
Ilyan exhaled sharply and stepped onto the conveyor belt. The sudden sense of dread that had been gnawing at him for weeks now tightened its grip. What were they about to face? What strange fate was in store for him now?
Clerk 404 gave a small wave as the belt began to move.
"Good luck, Ilyan," he said, his voice dripping with playful malice. "You might just find your final form. Or your first."