One second, I was plummeting toward certain death without a parachute.
The next second-poof-I wasn't falling anymore.
Instead, I was standing in a room. A very depressing room. The kind of place that screamed "government budget cuts" and "we fired the interior designer to afford more printer ink." White walls, no windows, no doors-just a desk. And not even a nice desk. This thing looked like it had personally offended the concept of organization. Stacks of papers teetered like Jenga towers on the verge of collapse, some already spilling onto the floor like drunk dominoes. One wrong breath, and the whole place would probably turn into a paperwork avalanche.
Jesus. Did a tornado fuck a filing cabinet in here?
But that wasn't the weirdest part.
No, the weirdest part was the guy sitting behind the desk.
Dude looked like the human embodiment of "too much month at the end of the salary." His tie was a sad, wrinkled noodle, his hair had clearly given up on life, and the bags under his eyes weren't just bags-they were full-on Louis Vuitton luggage sets. A coffee stain on his shirt could've been a Rorschach test for "I hate my job."
He didn't even blink when I popped into existence. Just kept scribbling on some form, muttering under his breath.
"...another request to make the tsundere confess in episode three? Does Lord Nyarlathotep really have nothing better to do than binge rom-coms? The audacity..."
With a polite cough, I tried to get his attention. When that didn't work, I coughed louder.
Finally, he looked up. His eyes had the glazed-over look of a man who'd stared into the abyss and found it filled with tax forms.
"Ah. You're here." He sighed like the weight of the multiverse was crushing his soul. "Good. Saves me from filing a Cross-Dimensional Entity Retrieval Form, Sub-Paragraph 12-point-Ariel. The printer hates that one."
"Retrieval wh-?" I started, my brain still catching up from "falling to my death" to "fluorescent office hell."
He waved a hand like he was swatting away a fly. "Let's skip the confusion. You want answers. I could give a dramatic speech, but the budget for monologues got slashed last quarter." He rummaged through a leaning tower of folders before pulling one out with a tired "Aha!"
He slid it across the desk. The label read:
"Central Office for Multiversal Cohesion and Universal Stability (COMCUS) - Multiversal Public Relations (MPR) Division - Contractor Onboarding Packet (Pilot Program: Project 'Gold-Plated Fan Service' - Subject Alpha-1)."
"'Gold-Plated Fan Service'? Sounds like a bad OnlyFans knockoff," I said with a raised eyebrow.
The bureaucrat gave me a look that said "I've heard that joke twelve times today."
"COMCUS is the big umbrella," he explained, rubbing his temples. "We're the janitors of the multiverse, keeping stories from collapsing into plot holes and paradoxes. MPR? That's the new cash cow. Very profit-oriented."
Leaning in, he lowered his voice like we were sharing a secret. "See, the Overseers-big shots who run their own realities-noticed a lucrative trend. There's a whole market of Whales out there-ancient gods, cosmic entities, even other Overseers-who get obsessively invested in other universes' stories. And they have opinions. Strong ones. And more importantly?" He tapped the desk. "They have Credits."
"Credits?"
"The universal currency. Forget Bitcoin, forget gold. Creds are what make the multiverse go 'round. With enough, you can buy anything-tech from sci-fi worlds, magic from fantasy realms, even rare abilities if you've got the cash. Just, uh..." He coughed. "Officially, no sentient beings. Definitely no black market for that. Wink."
He winked so hard I thought his eyeball might pop out.
"So let me get this straight," I said with crossed arms. "You're offering me to be a high-end wish-granter for bored gods? Me? A run-of-the-mill merc, lying on the bottom of the cosmic hierarchy?"
"Bingo." With a smirk, he added, "Instead of one-off jobs, think of it as a long-term deployment. We drop you into one of their favorite stories for a full narrative arc. You'll get one primary, high-value contract from a major client. Along the way, smaller opportunities from other Whales will... present themselves. Fulfill them, and you get paid. Think of it like being a narrative mercenary on retainer." After pausing, he added with a theatrical flourish, "And I wouldn't call you a run-of-the-mill merc. You, my friend, are special~"
"Ugh." The sudden urge to vomit hit me.
"Ahem." Clearing his throat, he backtracked. "What I meant to say is, your previous employment records were quite a delight to read for the higher-ups. Especially your... theatrics. People loved that. You wouldn't know, but you have quite a TRP rating."
I blinked. "A what?"
"Theatrical Resonance Potential," he said, as if that explained anything. "Basically, you're entertaining. And in this line of work, that's half the battle."
Leaning back with crossed arms, I asked, "So what's the other half?"
"Not dying," he deadpanned. "But before we get into the fun stuff-requests from cosmic sugar daddies, eldritch tantrums over anime plotlines-let me give you the crash course on multiversal cosmology. Otherwise, you'll be about as useful as a goldfish in a mech suit."
He pulled out a holographic display from under a pile of paperwork, flicking it on with a tap. A swirling, fractal mess of interconnected realities bloomed into existence above the desk.
"First rule: not all universes are created equal." He pointed at a lone, glowing orb. "Prime Realities. Single-timeline, no multiversal branches. Your home turf-Earth, the one you just fell from-is one of them. Stable, boring, no doppelgängers running around unless you count identical twins. In those realities, what we call Gods with the capital G exist."
I blinked. "Wait. Gods exist?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"Do you, by chance, have the number of Buddha?" I asked while keeping a straight face. "I wanted to talk with him regarding my own experiences with non-violence and my deep respect for life."
The bureaucrat stared at me. Then slowly, deliberately, looked down at my employment record in his hand. Then back at me. Then back at the record. His left eye twitched.
I waited.
He exhaled through his nose. "Please continue?"
"Right." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he continued. "Gods in Prime Realities operate on a higher tier than the ones you'll meet elsewhere. Biggest difference? They can leave their universe. Most others can't."
"Others?"
"Non-Prime Realities," he said, gesturing at the hologram. A cascade of branching timelines exploded outward, fracturing into infinite variations. "These are the worlds of fiction-anime, movies, comics, whatever. Every story you've ever read or watched? Somewhere in the cosmic sprawl, it's real."
I stared. "You're telling me Naruto's out there, eating ramen right now?"
"Yes. And Goku's blowing up another planet. And Batman's brooding in an alley somewhere." With a sigh, he added, "Non-Prime Realities exist as near-infinite parallel timelines. The ones that get adapted into media? We call those 'Prime Timelines'-not to be confused with Prime Realities, which are entirely separate. Try not to mix them up, or the paperwork gets ugly."
"What about the MCU?"
"Also real. Part of the greater marvel reality cluster"
"Fucking My Little Pony?"
His eye twitched again. "Yes. And before you ask-no, you cannot visit. The brony containment protocols are very strict."
"So when you said I could buy tech or magic with Credits…"
"It's all from those worlds, yeah. Lightsabers, dragon eggs, Stand arrows-if it exists in a story, there's a universe where it's real. And if you've got the Creds, you can get it." He paused. "Legally. Mostly."
Rubbing my temples, I admitted, "This is a lot."
"I digressed," he admitted. "Point is, these Non-Prime multiverses have Overseers-beings who know there's shit beyond their own backyard. Some of them are the top dogs in their verse. The big two everyone knows? The Presence from DC, The One Above All from Marvel."
"So the whales you mentioned earlier…?"
"Exactly." With a smirk, he continued, "Gods from Prime Realities, Overseers from Non-Primes-they're the ones with the Credits and the opinions. And boy, do they love spending."
Gesturing grandly while nearly knocking over a stack of forms, he continued, "Take Lord K'tharr of the Obsidian Moon. Ancient bastard, last spoke to anyone when dinosaurs were still a thing. He keeps sending us engraved antimatter slabs demanding an explanation for why they didn't just fly the eagles to Mordor. Says it's a logistical travesty."
"Valid," I snorted.
"Then there's Azandrozk, Cthulhu's sixty-seventh cousin, who's way too into anime. Keeps demanding we 'NTR' the protagonist of High School DxD because, and I quote, 'the kid's too much of a wuss.' And don't even get me started on the other NSFW requests." With a shudder, he added, "We had to install a filter just to block the graphic descriptions. It's... haunting."
Damn. This job's weirder than I thought.
"And what's this psychic noise mentioned here?" I asked while pointing toward the 10 paragraphs long scientific mumbo-jumbo and technical diagrams in the contract that was giving me head-ache by just looking.
"Oh, that's the best part," he said dryly. "Turns out, when regular people get really pissed about their entertainment, it creates disruptive energy. Forum rants, TikTok essays, Reddit lore debates-it all adds up. The higher-ups get migraines. This program? It's damage control. We make bank, the multiverse gets less whiny. Win-win."
Flipping through the contract, I asked, "Still 50-50 split?"
"The house always gets its cut," he confirmed. "Covers operational costs. You get a nice little off-mission apartment in a neutral demi-plane. Food replicator's wonky on Thursdays, but otherwise, prime real estate."
"For gear?"
"Stipend for your first run. After that, you're on your own. Save up, invest, or..." With a grin, he added, "Take out a CONCUS loan. Our repayment plans are... memorable."
Ignoring that last part, I asked, "What if I die?"
He shrugged. "Then you're dead. We mourn for three minutes, send flowers to your nonexistent next of kin, and hire Subject Alpha-2. The machine keeps grinding."
"No, I mean-after. Reincarnation? Hell? Cosmic void?"
He barked a laugh. "Oh, you Prime Earthers are adorable. Your reality's running on legacy software. The original devs quit eons ago, and nobody left knows how to install updates like 'soul recycling.' So when you die? Poof. Game over."
"Meh. Never believed in that afterlife crap anyway," I shrugged.
The bureaucrat blinked slowly, as if trying to determine whether I was being profound or just plain stupid. Then he leaned back in his creaky chair, folding his hands over his stomach like a man preparing for a long-winded exposition.
"Fair enough," he said finally. "But let's talk shop before we get to the shiny toys. You're not exactly walking into a charity here. This job comes with rules-some written, some implied, and some that'll be tattooed on your soul once you sign up."
Raising an eyebrow, I asked, "Tattooed?"
"Metaphorically. Probably." He flipped open another section of my file. "For starters, no breaking the fourth wall unless it's part of a sanctioned request. No recruiting other Prime Earthers without clearance. And try not to cause a full-scale reality collapse on your first day. The cleanup costs are astronomical, and they come out of your pay."
"Point taken."
"Good. Now, compensation. As mentioned, Credits are the main currency. You earn them by completing your primary contract and any secondary opportunities you take on. You can convert them into real-world money-or keep them in your account for gear upgrades, interdimensional travel, or bribing plot gods to not kill off your favorite side characters."
With a low whistle, I remarked, "So it's basically being a freelance story janitor with benefits."
"Exactly," he said. "And speaking of benefits, there's the standard issue Neural HUD System. It's how you'll track missions, manage inventory, communicate across realities, and access the MPR database. Think of it like a Swiss Army knife for multiversal freelancers."
"Sounds useful," I admitted.
"It is. But don't expect miracles. The AI companion's basic-no sass, no crying, no unionizing. And you can replace or upgrade the AI as per your economic capabilities, but please don't attempt to access the system without one present. Directly accessing the COMCUS API stream may result in irreversible mental and soul level damage."
"Understood."
"And now," he said while sliding the contract toward me again, "we come to the final step. Signing on the dotted line. Literally. Metaphorically. Chronologically. Legally. If you have any questions, please ask now or you can ask your assigned AI later on."
Picking up the pen carved from what might've been fossilized tentacle, I tapped it thoughtfully against the desk. "One last question. What happens if I say no?"
The bureaucrat didn't blink. "Then I erase your last five minutes and send you back to falling. With a memo."
"Alright, pencil-pusher. You've got yourself a merc," I smirked.
He slid over the contract and a pen. "Sign here, here, and legibly here. Try not to get gunk on it-archives throw a fit."
Scrawling my name-barely readable, just how I liked it-on the dotted line, I finished signing.
He exhaled like he'd just unloaded a grenade into my hands. "Welcome aboard, Adjuster. Try not to die immediately."
As soon as I finished signing, the room shimmered slightly, and a HUD flickered to life in my vision-sleek, futuristic, embedded right into my brain.
[System Initialized]
Interface Type: Neural HUD
AI Companion Assigned: Type-III Basic ("No Sass, No Crying, No Unionizing")
Additional Notes: Basic AI. Expiry date: the day you die or whenever you hit the delete button. Warning: direct COMCUS access prohibited. 100% privacy-focused, verified by 47,328 independent quality assurance firms across the multiverse.
"Objective tracker, inventory, shop, comms-all in your head now," he said. "Your AI will notify you when new opportunities that align with your location and current situation become available. Pure efficiency."
Glancing around the office, I noted how papers were literally forming sedimentary layers in the corner. His coffee cup had evolved its own ecosystem. The cat poster on the wall looked like it wanted to die. "Hold up," I said while gesturing at the paperwork apocalypse. "You've got interdimensional tech, neural HUDs, but you're still drowning in paperwork? Why not just, I dunno, digitize this mess? Or throw an AI at it?"
The bureaucrat didn't even look up from his scribbling. "Oh, these?" He flicked a stack, and it dissolved into shimmering code before reforming. "The papers you're seeing are the metaphorical representation of my workload. You're currently talking to Processor #42,919 of my 72,997 embedded consciousness fragments."
Finally meeting my gaze, he revealed something behind the exhaustion-a glint of scale, like staring into the back-end of a cosmic server farm. "AI is too slow for COMCUS throughput. Every second, we handle trillions of reality adjustments, narrative paradox patches, and entitled god-whales demanding their ships sail faster. If we ran on AI, the multiverse would've collapsed into a loading screen by now."
I blinked. "So… you're basically a living supercomputer?"
He shrugged. "More like a glorified Excel sheet. But sure."