Work Text:
I still don’t know what I’m looking at.
It’s a piece of paper, that much I’m aware. On this piece of paper, there is ink. This ink forms letters, which form words, which form phrases, which form sentences, which form paragraphs, which form what Regent has just indignantly informed me is called a ‘Tax return form’.
Of those three words, one is known, one is unfamiliar, and one seems to be used incorrectly. Return means to, well, return, a simple enough concept. Something moves in one direction, then turns around to head back to whence it came. On the other hand, I can’t even guess as to what a ‘tax’ is. It appears to be a plural noun which has a capacity for movement of some degree, but that’s as far as I can extrapolate from the one and only time I’ve heard it used. ‘Tax returning’ conjures the image of some four-legged beast slinking back to its burrow under a downpour of lashing rain, which seems about as far from paperwork as I can imagine. Perhaps I simply misheard Regent and he said ‘Tanx’ instead, although that wouldn’t make much more sense considering the last word.
Form is almost certainly a misnomer. As far as I’m aware, a ‘form’ is a temporary state of enhanced ability each of us can manifest in battle. Defect’s, for one, creates a hologram over itself that copies its movements and is strangely tangible enough to cause damage and channel the same magics. The drawback for all of us is that initiating the state requires immense frontloaded energy, which again is demonstrated by the fact that Defect had to be carried in bits after a recent encounter with a mecha-knight where it remained sputtering in place, unresponsive, for five consecutive seconds, which was demonstrably enough time for it to be reduced to its constituent parts. Wordlessly yet unanimously, it was decided that I should be the one to carry its core, which I wouldn’t have objected to had they not also handed me its head. And arms. And legs. And practicaly everything except for the scrap of fabric around its neck which Necrobinder tied around her own as a cape and afterwards had the audacity to give me a thumbs up.
Which is all to say that I know the meaning of a ‘form’ and am confident that the black-and-white, faintly chemical-smelling sheet before me is not one of them. There are no benefits to becoming a piece of paper, other than perhaps ease of transport.
“I WAIT, Scrapmetal.” Regent’s exasperation rivals my own confusion, nudging a quill closer to my hand as though a lack of writing implement is what keeps me from doing… whatever it is he wants me to do with this damn piece of paper.
“Waiting for what?”
The following silence is steeped in disdain. At last, he surrenders to my ignorance. “Oh you’re—Just start with writing the date. Near the top.” Notably, that is not an answer to my question, but it’s far from the worst thing he’s requested of me. That would have to be when he asked me to fetch the reagent he had left near the campfire in order to finish smelting an experimental new alloy. In my defense, it was a liquid in a drinking glass. In his defense, copper (II) sulfate is bright blue.
I lift the quill gingerly, the delicate rachis liable to snap under any pressure. Down comes the tip, slowly scrawling out letter after letter in a barely legible font. Regent makes a shrill sound of protest at the sight, seemingly a second away from snatching the quill from my hand.
“No, no NO! WHY would you—”
“Not everyone can reach your clandestine standards for handwriting, Regent.” It’s not my fault my hands were built to grip and pull and tear apart, unlike his which seem perfectly suited to a life of cursive script and tea parties with stuck out pinkies.
“I want you to read what you’ve just written, Scrapmetal.” And then cuts me off before I can even begin, putting the same amount of pomp into his voice as when he first introduced himself as a ruler from beyond the stars. “Postal Address, if different from billing address: Decembuary 44th.”
“Hells, it’s the 43rd, isn’t it?” I realise my actual mistake the moment it leaves my mouth. Which is too late, admittedly, as Regent briefly reverts to native Starrian, face glowing in a series of short pulses which I can only assume is a set of expletives he’s yet to find Preon equivalents for.
“Have you ANY idea of the purpose behind this one simple task I’ve assigned you?” Back in a language I can understand, albeit riddled with utter exasperation teetering on the edge of implosion. “Because by the Ancients this is just as, if not MORE painful for me as opposed to you.”
An hour ago, when the five of us first piled into this abandoned building, he did say something about needing to forge documents that proved we were long-term, legal residents here in light of the Architect’s recent security protocols in the upper levels, which do involve door-to-door checks. After all, we would remain here for some time while we gather the numerous mechanical doohickies to repair Defect. Or maybe he didn’t. I was too busy depositing the 90% of it relegated to me in the upstairs bedroom.
Since we obviously aren’t citizens of Glory, “Can’t you just forge this one?”
The Regent’s sigh reverberates through the walls, scattering long-settled dust from the ceiling. “For the last time, due to the Municipal Code Section 4 Subsection 18b, proof of residence for a household with a population greater than or equal to 2 must have documentation of economic status signed by at least 2 members of the household.”
I zoned out somewhere after ’subsection’. “You could have mentioned that before Necrobinder and Silent left. They’re far more qualified for… this.” ‘This’ being an exercise in futile humiliation because every time I flick my eyes back to the paper before me, they unfocus seemingly out of self-preservation.
“I could have provided no job MORE befitting of your intellectual capability! I had to meticulously record the necessary components to purchase-slash-acquire-by-other-means while Silent had to sneak out and steal THIS very sheet of paper, among others, the types of which I had to specify lest she return with Appeal notices for the Magistrate’s Court. And you are lucky you were spared from the AGONY of attempting to explain to those two the very CONCEPT of neodinium magnets and iridium-plated cabling without even touching upon how to identify them in person.” He pauses to catch his breath, single eye turning the bright scarlet I’ve only ever seen when he caught Necrobinder teaching Osty how to throw his minions for ‘more effective dive bombing’.
“Half an hour was spent on the periodic table ALONE! The majority of which was used to convince her that there are more than 4 elements, not to mention—”
I let him continue his verbal crusade against this oddly complex piece of furniture (a table, even one that periodically generates new elements shouldn’t cause him such strife) until I feel my helmet shift above my scalp.
For a moment, it burns.
Like clockwork, my breath catches on nothing. My heart pauses, then accelerates. My mind jettisons all thought and sensation and memory until there is nothing left for Him to run his fingers along and poke apart and laugh at until he’s pleased with the carnage that—
Relax, it’s just me.
???
The Regent of Starris, currently standing behind you, whom you last spoke to a minute ago.
This is… new and unsettling. How long has he been able to do this?
It’s not a new skill by any means, but one that until now has seen little need. Such is your insolence that I can see no other method for making you focus on the task at hand. Now, cross out what you’ve written and try again.
I obey his command without further protest. Jagged, bleeding lines form over the previous letters, rendering them completely unreadable under the second layer of ink. The letters of “Decembuary 43rd” slowly appear in their intended place, motions enacted without thought, mind still reeling with relief that it’s only him.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I ignore him.
For address, write 17 Veronica Street, Sector 4B.
I fill in the next part quite slowly, pausing between each word, waiting to see if Regent has anything to say about it.
Are you always like this in your mind palace, or are you making guest accommodations?
I physically shrug and continue on. My lettering grows marginally less pathetic under the scrutiny of another. The words continue smoothly until I’m stopped by an impenetrable barrier of dense legal jargon.
It’s not legal jargon, it’s just—Forget it. Just say your TFN is 24991387. If an inspector takes the time to check, we can use that time to set an ambush.
Finally something I can understand. Although it violence was a possibility before, it’s cruel of him to only mention it now.
…
Disappointingly, he seems to have grown numb to my slights already. I fill in the numbers, certainly in the wrong order, and continue down the page. I skim through the following parts, being both more time-efficient and less mentally draining. Citizen of the Spire? Tick yes. Long-term resident? Tick yes. Not affiliated with any Ancients? A no on two fronts, but ticked as yes like the others.
Type of employment?
Part-time under undisclosed employer. For income next to it, say variable.
Several more questions pass without need for further clarification, most of which are marked as no immediately because I genuinely don’t know what they mean. No trust funds, no foreign income, no insurance payouts, no investments, no superannuation, no union association. Finally, I arrive at the final box at the bottom of the page helpfully labeled ‘personal details’. And am immediately blindsided by a question that is both irrelevant and probably not allowed to be asked on such a document. I’m torn between writing ‘no data available’ and ‘not interested’.
…Scrapmetal, please tell me you’re kidding.
That’s enough to inform me that the intended answer is actually ‘male’, which admittedly makes more sense. The remaining stragglers are cleared up until only one blank spot remains. I pause, ostensibly taking a short break from the monotony.
Ostensibly to whom? I can hear you.
My pause continues out of spite. And also to avoid having to make eye contact with the final dotted line. It’s no more complicated than any other part, the short length of it attesting to that fact. It simply wants me to write my name.
I remember it, of course, but in the way I remember the misstep that sent my training blade into my palm, the way I remember the slipping of a handle in my grasp before splashes of scalding oil descended upon my wrist. Only pain-blurred flashes with the motion that caused them rejected with the same conviction that prevents me from sticking my hand into a furnace.
But I’ve been trained well enough to push through such mental boundaries. Deep breath, gritted teeth, letting my hand guide the way. Only a few more letters and I can break from this bureaucratic hell. It's just a worthless document; there’s no magic involved. It really shouldn’t be this difficult to—
This is hard to watch. Has it occurred to you that you can simply… make something up? Because that’s what we’ve been doing this whole time.
I hastily change the single wobbly line I’ve written so far into the first stroke of 'Victor Emmanuel III'. Which seems reasonable enough a name by Spire Standards and is also likely to upset Regent, so win-win.
I’ve just finished connecting the beams of the three I’s when Regent snatches the document out of my hands.
“Your performance was subpar, but the results are acceptable. Dismissed.” It’s a relief that his voice is now coming from a concrete direction behind me instead of within my own head. It’s even more of a relief that I can think whatever I want without him needing to comment on it. As a quick trial:
Space is boring, the colour orange is tacky, and pop music is great, actually.
“Ahem, I said dismissed. I don’t want you hanging around downstairs should inspectors come knocking. Even I can’t save your responses then.”
As if on cue, the front door shudders in its frame, looking for all the world like it’s about to fall from its hinges. Regent quickly tries to shove me towards the stairwell and equally quickly realises he can’t. Walking up those failing stairs carrying a hundred-plus kilograms of metal and glass was already a gamble in itself, one that I don’t want to parlay by running up at full tilt. Instead, I quietly place myself against the furthest kitchen wall, sword clutched at my chest. Just in case.
“Starman! We’re back with the metal whater-you-call-them’s you wanted, now open up!”