It began, as many unfortunate things do, in a line.
Vespera and Liora stood shoulder to shoulder in what appeared to be the Multiversal Licensing Department, a soul-crushing labyrinth of paperwork, glowing queue numbers, and severely undercaffeinated clerks. The decor was somewhere between "government brutalist" and "post-apocalyptic thrift store." A sign above the receptionist desk blinked: "Now Processing Ticket A38: Requests for Retroactive Birth Certificates."
"Why are we here again?" Liora whispered, arms crossed and expression a cocktail of suspicion and boredom.
"Phase Two requires interdimensional credentials," Vespera replied. "Apparently, saving reality isn't enough. We need forms."
A demon at the front of the queue exploded from impatience, reducing three counters and a ficus to cinders. Nobody reacted. The receptionist blinked, picked up a small bell, and rang it once. A new ficus materialized.
"Ticket B666 to window 34," an overhead speaker croaked in an ancient tongue that translated roughly to, "Good luck."
They waited. For an hour.
"I think that ficus just tried to apply for reincarnation," Liora murmured.
"And got denied," Vespera said. "Twice."
A bureaucrat with too many elbows finally waved them forward. Their name tag read: "Jgth'xl, but you may call me Doug."
"Names?"
"Vespera D'Angelis."
"Liora no-last-name," she added without blinking.
Doug sighed with existential weariness. "That'll delay processing."
"I've delayed worse," Liora said.
Doug handed them thirty-two forms, demanded four blood samples, and scheduled them for a sentient stapler duel, which Liora won by applying sarcasm at precisely the right moment. When it tried to staple her irony, it self-destructed.
Hours later, they were issued temporary Class-4 Multiversal Explorer Badges.
"Don't lose those," Doug warned. "The penalty is... creative."
Their first destination: ChronoCluck-9, a realm ruled by poultry and governed by time-loops. The sky ticked. The ground tocked.
Chickens in capes pecked at glowing sundials. Time hiccupped every few minutes. Eggs unlaid themselves.
"Why are we here again?" Liora asked.
"Aris detected a sentimental echo."
A rooster in a monocle clucked at them in perfect English. "You're late. Or early. Or both. Follow me."
They were led to a throne room made of cracked hourglasses and feathers. At its center sat an egg the size of a barn, vibrating with unstable energy.
"That's the anomaly?" Vespera asked.
"No," said the rooster. "That's lunch. The anomaly is you."
The egg cracked.
Out stepped... Vespera. But feathered.
"I'm Chickenspera," it said, in a dignified cluck. "I chose fowl immortality."
Liora nearly choked. "You went full poultry."
Chickenspera bowed. "My cluck echoes through causality. I've become unstuck from destiny."
"We're fixing this," Vespera muttered.
Cue a slapstick chase across a Möbius loop made of straw and feathers. Liora weaponized breadcrumbs like caltrops. Vespera wrestled Chickenspera atop a spiraling sundial while trying to hold philosophical debate with himself.
"You'll never escape me," Chickenspera shouted. "I'm the yolk that binds your soul!"
Eventually, Vespera offered Chickenspera a lifetime supply of worm-flavored paradox smoothies. Chickenspera clucked his thanks, made a pun about "eggistential crisis," and vanished in a puff of feathers and causality.
Next stop: Bureau of Allegorical Infrastructure.
They arrived mid-eviction. Metaphors were being carted away by irony bots. A metaphor for heartbreak wept as it was stuffed into a crate marked "obsolete."
"The whole narrative zone's collapsing," said a clipboard-wielding bard. "Too many inconsistencies."
"Can we help?" Liora asked.
"Can you juggle symbolism while outrunning budget cuts?"
"We fix reality," Vespera said. "Sometimes with duct tape. Sometimes with metaphysical affirmations."
Cue montage: riding a literal plot twist through a flood of lazy exposition, negotiating with a pun that refused to retire, and debating a retired villain about narrative purpose over tea and cheese wheels.
In the end, they filed a petition to restore the Allegory Sector with backup metaphors.
"You filed in triplicate," said the bard, awestruck. "That hasn't happened since the Sonnet War."
"We're thorough," Liora said, offering a conspiratorial wink.
Then came the dimension of Sentimental Tax Collection.
An accountant with the emotional range of wet toast explained their purpose: "You owe back-taxes on unresolved nostalgia and three counts of unauthorized emotional resonance."
"How much?" Vespera asked.
"One childhood memory, a dream you forgot, and your third favorite sandwich."
Liora gasped. "Not the sandwich!"
"We have no choice," Vespera said, solemn. He reached into his coat and withdrew a perfectly preserved pastrami on rye. The collector salivated, stamped a form, and wept silently.
"It's so... balanced."
Later, they found themselves in a waiting room outside the Department of Cosmic Reconciliation. The chairs were existentially uncomfortable.
"What's next?" Liora asked.
"We reconcile paradox with causality while holding hands and humming in unison," Vespera read from a pamphlet.
"That's oddly wholesome."
"Also mandatory."
They hummed. The paradox sighed.
"Better," it said, and dissolved.
Back at the Core, Aris met them with an arched brow and a flickering hologram of their chaos trail.
"You caused a poultry-based timeline revolt, reinstated expired metaphors, got audited by a sentient spreadsheet, and someone resurrected a romantic subplot that was never canon."
"We didn't get sued," Liora added.
"Your next assignment involves quantum nostalgia. Try not to awaken any dormant tropes."
"We make no promises," Vespera said.
They stepped through the next portal. It sneezed.
And somewhere, the universe chuckled.