Taking in my surroundings, I realized I was standing in what looked like the unholy offspring of a DMV waiting room and a university library. The ceiling soared at least thirty feet high, with scrolls zipping through an elaborate network of tubes overhead. Fluorescent lights buzzed intermittently, some flickering in a way that gave me an instant headache.
A cluster of pixies zoomed across the room carrying stacks of papers, leaving trails of glittering dust that made everyone in their path sneeze violently. In one corner, a minotaur in a rumpled suit pecked laboriously at a computer that looked like it predated the Reagan administration.
"Sign. In." The goblin receptionist repeated, waggling the clipboard impatiently.
I took the clipboard cautiously, eyeing the attached pen. It was a fancy fountain pen, except the nib appeared to be a tiny set of metal teeth that snapped open and closed as I watched.
"Just write your full name, date of birth, and how you came into contact with the prophecy," the goblin instructed. "And for the Cosmic Forces' sake, don't write anything false. Zarneth here," she nodded at the pen. "Hasn't had his breakfast."
I grimaced and began filling out the form, trying to ignore how the pen wriggled eagerly in my grip. When I finished and handed back the clipboard, the goblin scanned it quickly.
"Waiting room four," she pointed to a hallway. "Someone will collect you."
"Wait, but, what?"
The goblin had already returned to her computer, effectively dismissing me. With a frustrated sigh, I headed in the direction she'd indicated, my palm still glowing faintly blue under the harsh lighting and I rubbed at it hoping this was a fever dream because I knocked my head or something.
I'd barely settled into the uncomfortable chair in waiting room four when Agent Nightstar materialized through a doorway that hadn't been there a moment ago.
"This way," without preamble she turned on her heel.
I followed her down a series of corridors, each more bizarre than the last. Don't ask me how to get back. One was lined with doors that occasionally giggled; another seemed to be underwater, though I remained mysteriously dry while walking through it. After what felt like forever, we arrived at a small, windowless room on what Agent Nightstar informed me was the second floor.
A table and several chairs occupied the center of the room. Seated at the table was what I initially thought was a child, but quickly realized was a gnome, judging by the long, pointed beard and the fact that he was standing on his chair to reach the table properly. He wore enormous, thick glasses that magnified his eyes to comical proportions, and he was surrounded by stacks of ancient-looking books.
"Ms. Winter, this is Dr. Thornwick, our chief prophetic text analyst," Agent Nightstar gestured.
The gnome looked up, blinking owlishly behind his bottle-cap glasses. "Ah! The host! Excellent, excellent." His voice was surprisingly deep for someone so small. "Please, sit." He was unnervingly excited.
I lowered myself into a chair opposite him while Agent Nightstar took a position by the door, arms crossed.
"Now then," Dr. Thornwick began shuffling through his papers. "The Lost Prophecy of Alexandria! Most exciting. Thought destroyed forever, you know. But several magical artifacts were 'rescued' and lost to time. Recently discovered in a sub-basement of a kebab shop in Cairo that used to be a mage's study." He chuckled.
"Fascinating, absolutely fascinating! The scroll dust residue we collected from your palm contains trace elements of dragon ash and sphinx tears, very rare binding agents in ancient Egyptian magical texts."
"That's... nice?" I offered, unsure what response he expected.
"More than nice! Extraordinary!" He beamed, hopping from his chair to retrieve a massive tome from a nearby shelf. The book was nearly as big as he was. "We've been running magical resonance tests on your palm print for the last twenty minutes."
"I've only been here for fifteen."
"Time moves differently in the Analysis Wing," Agent Nightstar explained flatly. "Bureaucratic efficiency."
That had to be a load of crockshit.
Dr. Thornwick slammed the enormous book onto the table, sending a cloud of dust into the air that made me sneeze. My glowing palm flared brightly with the sneeze, and a potted plant in the corner suddenly sprouted legs and started doing a tap dance.
Everyone froze, staring at the dancing fern.
"Fascinating!" Dr. Thornwick clapped his hands while Agent Nightstar pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Sorry," I mumbled, tucking my hands under my thighs. "I didn't mean to?"
"Reality manipulation tied to emotional responses," Agent Nightstar noted into a small recording device. "Subject demonstrates continued instability."
"I'm notunstable," I glared at both of them. "I'm having a perfectly reasonable reaction to being teleported through a stone lion's mouth and interrogated by a gnome!"
Dr. Thornwick cleared his throat. "Let's focus on what we've managed to translate so far." He flipped through his notes. "Ancient prophecies are notoriously difficult to interpret. They're written to be cryptic, you see. Can't have fate being too straightforward!"
