The glass door materialized in the frozen moment between seconds, its brown lettering gleamed. Transtemporal Urgency Readiness Department. Captain Zex'thor the Annihilator, Scourge of Seven Galaxies, stood before it with his three remaining tentacles clenched in profound irritation.

Inside, fluorescent lights hummed like a funeral dirge. The office was beige. Walls with dirty, tattered wallpaper, oscillated green and light blue tiled flooring, filing cabinets stretching into impossible distance, with the faint smell of old coffee and existential dread.

Behind a desk of compressed paperwork sat Gary had just opened the latest iteration of the T.U.R.D. existential guidebook to chronal exfoliant.

He adjusted his spectroculars, three-lensed reading glasses perched across the triangular formation of his eyes. His middle eye blinked independently as he examined a form. His pin-striped short-sleeve button-up was pressed so crisply it could cut through calcified corrodense carbonoids.

"Number," Gary said without looking up, his voice carrying all the emotional range of a dial tone.

"What?"

"Your queue number. No queue number means no queue position. No queue position means you'll need to fill out a Retroactive Queue Assignment Request, which is the salmon-colored form. Not coral, not pink, not the color of a sunset on Kepler-442b, located in the third drawer from the bottom of the filing cabinet marked 'R through S, subsection Temporal.'"

Zex'thor's translator made a sound like it was considering self-destruction. "I destroyed seventeen planets last week. I have a permit for eighteen. I need authorization for the eighteenth."

"Ah." Gary set down his form with careful precision. "Planetary Destruction Authorization. Section 47, subsection 12, paragraph 94 of the Transtemporal Commerce and Destruction Regulatory Code."

"I just need you to stamp the form."

"Stamp?" All three eyes blinked in sequence. "Sir, we don't use stamps. Stamps were phased out in Regulation Update 7,429. All authorizations must be processed through the Multidimensional Approval Matrix."

The Annihilator's brows furrowed over two sets of desperate eyes. "How long will that take?"

Gary's expression didn't change. It never changed. "Six to eight standard temporal units, not including holidays, temporal anomalies, or days when Mercury is in retrograde in more than forty percent of observable universes."

"I've been waiting outside for three hours!"

"Impossible. Time doesn't pass outside this office. You've been waiting for exactly zero hours."

The door burst open. A woman in a chrome business suit stormed in, hair crackling with temporal energy.

"GARY!"

Gary looked up slowly. "Please take a number."

"I HAVE a number! I've HAD a number for six WEEKS! I need approval for a time-travel vacation to 1920s Paris, and you keep rejecting my applications!"

"Ah, yes. Ms. Karenthrap. Your most recent application was rejected due to insufficient documentation regarding the temporal impact assessment."

"I'm going to look at ART! I'm going to drink WINE!"

"According to Section 89, subsection 3, paragraph 2 of the Temporal Tourism Regulatory Framework, all visitors must provide detailed documentation of every breath they plan to take, as each exhalation could introduce future-cured bacterials into a chronal setting not native to their own, creating a cascade effect that could result in the premature invention of the internet, violating the Natural Technological Progression Act—"

"This is INSANE!"

"—which states that no technology may be introduced to a timeline before its naturally occurring development window, calculated using the Fibonacci sequence multiplied by the square root of the local population's average IQ, divided by—"

"I want to speak to your supervisor!"

The office fell silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights.

Gary set down his pen. He folded his hands. All three eyes focused on Ms. Karenthrap.

"Then please fill out the dark purple, but not violet, not aubergine, not 1984 Purple Rain form on the far left corner of the east wall, labeled Departmental Unsatisfactorily Managed Persons. Once you have completed the base 8 math section of the form found on page 67, please locate the office stapling device in the topmost corner of the western wall and attach the Departmental Unsatisfactorily Managed Persons form to a holographic copy of your fleshstamp date and existence of origin. Please annotate existence of origin by localized flashpoint of when exactly the gorilla known as Harambe dies, how it happened, if it happened, and what color the zoo keepers pants were in the existence being annotated. Once this is completed, please place all required documentation into the Asymmetrically Assisted Assimilation turn-in receptacle, take the generated ticket and please return to your existence of origin where you will receive a personalized response unit in the form of a natural disaster, miracle, or alien abduction best befitting your existences state of flux in the subsequent 42 local galactic north rotations."

Ms. Karenthrap's mouth opened. Then closed. Her temporal energy flickered and died.

Gary stared at her, unblinking. Ten seconds passed with geological weight. A small timer on Gary's desk beeped.

"Anything else?" Gary asked.

Ms. Karenthrap made a sound that might have been her soul leaving her body. She turned and walked out.

Zex'thor watched her go. "Does anyone ever actually fill out that form?"

"No. The form doesn't exist. It's a theoretical form that will exist once someone completes the Form Creation Request form, which requires approval from my supervisor, who can only be contacted by completing the Departmental Unsatisfactorily Managed Persons form, which—"

"Stop. What do I need to do to get my planetary destruction permit?"

Gary's three eyes scanned a document. "Proof of ownership or lease agreement for the planet, an environmental impact statement, a Neighboring Celestial Body Notification form, a Debris Field Management Plan, and a Certificate of Completion from an approved Planetary Destruction Safety Course."

"A safety course? For DESTROYING a planet?"

"Section 23, subsection 8, paragraph 15 clearly states that all destructive activities must be performed in accordance with Occupational Safety and Health Administration guidelines. The course covers proper protective equipment, safe handling of planet-destroying weapons, and the correct procedure for filing a Workplace Injury Report in the event that a planet fights back."

"Planets don't fight back!"

"Tell that to Sentient Planet XJ-7, which filed a Worker's Compensation claim after being partially destroyed in 2847. The case is still in litigation."

The door opened again. A robot rolled in, digital display showing an angry emoji.

"GARY! My invoice for temporal flux capacitors has been rejected SEVENTEEN TIMES!"

"Ah, yes. RoboMart Industries. Your invoices have been rejected due to improper formatting. The date field must be filled out in accordance with Form 8472-B, which requires dates in both localized Gregorian calendar format AND the number of seconds since the Big Bang, rounded to the nearest thousand, not including seconds that occurred during temporal anomalies, which must be listed separately in Appendix F."

"THERE IS NO APPENDIX F!"

"Exactly. You'll need to create one. The guidelines for creating an Appendix F can be found in the Appendix Creation Manual, available upon request after completing a Document Request Form, which is the form that's kind of a teal color. Not turquoise, not cyan, not the color of the ocean on a planet that has oceans-"

"I'M GOING TO DISASSEMBLE YOU!"

"Threats of violence against a Transtemporal Urgency Readiness Department employee are a violation of Section 156, subsection 42, paragraph 7. I'll need you to fill out a Threat Acknowledgment Form, which is the form that's sort of a burnt orange. Not tangerine, not rust-"

The robot's display flickered through angry emojis before settling on one that was crying. It rolled backward out of the office.

Zex'thor looked at Gary with something approaching awe. "How are you still alive?"

"Killing a Transtemporal Urgency Readiness Department employee would require filing a Justifiable Homicide Permit, which requires approval from the Department of Transtemporal Ethics, which requires a letter of recommendation from the intended victim, which would be me, and I don't approve of violence in the workplace-"

"Never mind. Just tell me what I need to do. All of it." Gary's three eyes brightened slightly. "Excellent. Let me print the complete list of requirements."

A printer in the corner began to hum. Paper flowed out like a waterfall of bureaucratic despair. It printed for fifteen minutes. Slowly.

Gary collected the stack that towered over himself and carried it back with careful reverence. "This is the complete list of requirements for a Planetary Destruction Authorization, current as of this moment. Please note that regulations may change at any time."

"How long will this take?"

"That depends on your efficiency, attention to detail, and ability to perform complex mathematical calculations in base 8, base 12, and base 16 simultaneously."

"Give me an estimate."

Gary's three eyes blinked in sequence. "Somewhere between six months and the heat death of the universe. Though if you work quickly and don't make mistakes, you might complete it in four months, assuming you don't sleep, eat, or experience temporal anomalies."

Zex'thor stood. "I'm going to....go destroy that planet now."

"That would be a violation of Section 3, subsection 1, paragraph 1 of the Unauthorized Planetary Destruction Act, which carries a penalty of up to ten thousand years in chronal lock, a fine of seventeen billion credits, and mandatory community service consisting of reassembling the destroyed planet using only a spoon and your regret."

Zex'thor's eyes drooped. "I don't care anymore."

"You'll also need to fill out a Notice of Intent to Violate Regulations form—"

Zex'thor slammed the door with as much intensity as the metal hydraulics would allow. Which was not very much.

Gary made a note. "Customer departed without completing transaction. Will require follow-up enforcement action." He pulled out a form, this one was sort of mauve, not lavender, not lilac.

The door opened again. A being made entirely of light floated in. "I need to file a complaint-"

"Please take a number," Gary said.

"I don't NEED a number! I'm a being of pure energy!"

Gary's three eyes slowly focused on the being. "All entities, regardless of physical composition, dimensional origin, or existential state, are required to take a number. This includes corporeal beings, non-corporeal beings, beings of pure energy, beings of pure thought, beings of pure spite, and beings who exist as a philosophical concept."

The being of pure light dimmed. "Where's the number dispenser?"

"To your left. Or what would be your left if you had a left, which you don't, so please orient yourself according to the standard dimensional axis as defined in Appendix Q of the Spatial Orientation Guidelines."

"Where's Appendix Q?"

"It doesn't exist yet. You'll need to file a Missing Appendix Report-"

The being exploded in frustrated photons and disappeared. Gary made another note. The office fell silent except for the scratch of his pen, the hum of lights, and the quiet sobbing of the universe itself.

A small creature that looked like a cross between a hamster and a tax attorney poked its head through the door, took one look at Gary, squeaked in terror, and vanished.

Gary didn't notice. He was too busy filling out a form documenting the creature's brief appearance.

Somewhere in the multiverse, a planet exploded without proper authorization. Gary would find out eventually, probably in six to eight standard temporal units. He would then begin the enforcement action paperwork, which would take approximately four hundred years to complete. But that was a problem for future Gary.

Present Gary had seventeen forms to process, forty-three emails to respond to, and a lunch break scheduled for exactly thirty minutes from now, during which he would eat a sandwich that was composed of precise rectangular organoid nutrient slices.

The door opened one more time. A young intern from a time-travel startup stumbled in, looking hopeful and energetic.

"Hi! I'm here to pick up our approved permit-"

"Number," Gary said.

The intern's smile faltered. "Oh, uh, I have it right here-"

"Not your permit number. Your queue number."

"I... I didn't get a number?"

"No queue number means no queue position. No queue position means you'll need to fill out a Retroactive Queue Assignment Request, which is the salmon-colored form. Not coral, not pink, not the color of a sunset on Kepler-442b, located in the third drawer from the bottom of the filing cabinet marked 'R through S, subsection Temporal.'"

The intern's smile died. "How long will that take?"

Gary consulted a chart written in a language that hurt to look at. "Processing time for a Retroactive Queue Assignment Request is approximately two to three standard temporal units, after which you'll receive a queue number, at which point you can proceed with your original request, assuming you have all the necessary documentation, which includes but is not limited to a Certificate of Temporal Existence, a Proof of Dimensional Origin, a Letter of Intent, a Background Check from at least three different timelines—"

The intern was already backing toward the door, eyes wide with dawning realization. The door closed. The intern was gone.

Gary made a note. "Customer departed without completing transaction. Third occurrence today. Pattern emerging." He pulled out another form, sort of a dusty rose color, not pink, not salmon, not the color of hope dying slowly in a beige office. Gary began to fill it out with careful precision.

Somewhere in the multiverse, civilizations rose and fell. Stars were born and died. Entire species evolved, achieved sentience, developed space travel, and then gave up and went back to being single-celled organisms because it was less stressful than dealing with transtemporal bureaucracy.

But Gary didn't notice.

He was too busy making sure every form was filled out correctly, every regulation followed precisely, and every customer left his office understanding that the universe was held together not by gravity or dark matter or love, but by paperwork.

Endless, soul-crushing, beige paperwork. The fluorescent lights hummed their funeral dirge. Gary's spectroculars glinted in the light.

And somewhere, in a timeline that may or may not have existed, a gorilla named Harambe looked up at the sky and wondered why he suddenly felt cosmic dread. But that was probably unrelated.

Gary finished his form, filed it in the appropriate cabinet (third drawer from the top, left side, behind the forms that were sort of a seafoam green, not mint, not sage), and pulled out the next form from his inbox. It was going to be a long day.

Though in a place where time didn't exist, every day was long. And short. And exactly the right length according to Section 892, subsection 47, paragraph 12 of the Temporal Duration Standardization Act.

Gary adjusted his spectroculars and got back to work.

Somewhere in the multiverse, everyone who had ever dealt with T.U.R.D. collectively shuddered without knowing why.

But Gary didn't notice. Gary never noticed.

He reopened his copy of the T.U.R.D. existential guidebook to chronal exfoliant and finally turned to page 2.