The Bureau of Unfulfilled Prophecies smelled like mildew, burnt parchment, and the slow decay of ambition.
Grubb sloshed his mop through a puddle of prophetic ink, the kind that occasionally bled from the walls when someone filed a destiny incorrectly. He didn't flinch when the puddle hissed and spelled out "You will die alone." The ink was dramatic like that.
"Noted," he muttered, wringing the mop into a bucket that had once been a sentient cauldron but had since been demoted.
The Bureau was quiet today. That meant something terrible was probably happening somewhere else. The Prophetic Forecasting Division had issued a Level 3 Ominous Silence alert, but no one had read the memo. It was still stuck in the pneumatic tube system, which had developed a fear of paper last Tuesday.
Grubb pushed his cart past the Hall of Misinterpretations, where a clerk was arguing with a floating scroll.
"I said 'The king shall fall' doesn't mean he tripped over his ego!" the clerk shouted.
The scroll responded by bursting into flames and singing a hymn in reverse Latin.
Grubb didn't stop. He had a schedule to keep. Mop the Hall of Misinterpretations. Empty the bin of discarded destinies. Avoid eye contact with the Oracle of Regret.
He turned the corner into the Archive Annex, a dim corridor lined with filing cabinets that occasionally whispered. The bin was overflowing again. Crumpled prophecies, rejected omens, and one half-eaten sandwich labeled "DO NOT CONSUME – Temporal Hazard."
Grubb sighed and reached in.
That's when he found it.
A scroll, blackened at the edges, humming faintly. The seal was broken—an old wax stamp bearing the mark of the Bureau's highest clearance: Class X.
He squinted at the title.
"Prophecy #X-00113: The End of All Things (Revised Edition)"
Grubb blinked. "Well, that's cheerful."
He unrolled it carefully. The parchment trembled in his hands, as if it didn't want to be read.
> "When the janitor finds the scroll, the sky shall belch fire upon the tax collectors, and the world shall unravel in bureaucratic agony."
Grubb stared at the line. Then at his mop. Then back at the scroll.
"Nope," he said, rolling it up and stuffing it under his arm. "Not my circus. Not my apocalypse."
But as he turned to leave, the filing cabinets began to hum in harmony. The lights flickered. And somewhere deep in the Bureau, a bell rang—a sound reserved only for the activation of a prophecy.
Grubb froze.
"Oh, bollocks."
Grubb tried to avoid the Oracle of Regret, but the Oracle had a way of finding people who didn't want to be found.
She sat in a velvet armchair that hadn't moved in centuries, surrounded by a cloud of incense and passive-aggressive energy.
"You carry doom," she said, without looking up.
"I carry a mop," Grubb replied.
"Same thing."
She reached into a bowl of fortune cookies and handed him one. It cracked open with a sigh.
> "You should have stayed home today."
Grubb pocketed the slip. "I live here."
"Then you should have moved."
Back at the front desk, Maureen was now arguing with a quill that refused to write anything but limericks.
Grubb placed the scroll on the counter again. "It's humming louder."
Maureen glanced at it. "That's not humming. That's bureaucratic resonance."
"Is that worse?"
"Depends. If it starts harmonizing with the filing cabinets, we'll have a paperwork avalanche."
The scroll vibrated slightly.
Maureen sighed. "Fine. I'll file a Form 88-B: Potentially Active Prophetic Artifact."
She pulled out a form the size of a bedsheet and handed Grubb a quill that smelled like burnt toast.
"Fill out sections A through Q. Skip R unless the scroll has threatened you directly."
"It said I'd be blamed."
"That's section R."
Back in his closet, Grubb stared at the scroll. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
He opened it again.
> "The janitor shall be ignored, mocked, and ultimately blamed."
"Figures," he muttered.
He considered burning it. But Bureau fire was regulated. He considered shredding it. But the shredder had unionized.
He looked at his mop. It was slightly glowing.
"Don't get ideas," he said.
The mop didn't respond. But the bucket burped.
Grubb sighed, tucked the scroll into his coat, and stepped out into the corridor.
If the world was going to unravel in bureaucratic agony, he might as well clean up after it.
Grubb stood outside the Department of Doom Forecasting, clutching the scroll like a cursed sandwich. The door was locked. A sign hung crookedly:
> "Closed for recalibration. Please visit the Office of Misinterpretation for all apocalyptic inquiries."
He sighed and turned toward the elevator, which was currently stuck in a loop of existential doubt. It opened halfway, groaned, and whispered "Why bother?" before closing again.
Grubb took the stairs.
The Office of Misinterpretation was staffed entirely by people who had failed their Prophetic Literacy exams but passed their Creative Reinterpretation assessments with flying colors.
A clerk named Dibble greeted him with a smile that looked like it had been stapled on.
"Welcome to Misinterpretation! How can we help you misunderstand something today?"
Grubb placed the scroll on the counter. "I found this in the bin. It's Class X. It's humming."
Dibble leaned in. "Ah. Humming scrolls. Could be metaphorical. Could be indigestion."
"It says the world will unravel in bureaucratic agony."
Dibble nodded solemnly. "Sounds like a Tuesday."
Grubb pointed to the line about the janitor. "It's already started. The cabinets sang. The bell rang."
Dibble flipped through a manual titled "Prophetic Symptoms and You." He stopped at a page labeled "Ignore Until Screaming."
"Hmm. You'll need to file a Form 13-Z: Accidental Fulfillment. And a 7-Q if you touched it without gloves."
"I'm not a prophet."
"Then you'll need a 22-B: Unauthorized Destiny Contact."
Grubb stared at him. "Do you have a form for 'Help, the world is ending and no one cares'?"
Dibble blinked. "That's a 99-X. We don't stock those."
Grubb stormed into Mistress Vex's office, scroll in hand. She was mid-nap, her head resting on a stack of unread omens.
"Vex," he said. "I found a Class X prophecy. It's active."
She opened one eye. "You're the janitor."
"Yes. And apparently the harbinger of doom."
She sat up slowly, like a glacier considering movement. "Let me see."
He handed her the scroll. It hissed.
She read the first line, then tossed it onto her desk. "We don't deal with Class X. That's above our clearance."
"It was in the bin."
"Then it's been declassified."
"It's humming."
"So hum with it."
Grubb clenched his jaw. "You're not listening."
Mistress Vex leaned back. "Grubb, do you know how many end-of-world prophecies we get per fiscal quarter?"
"No."
"Seventeen. On average. One predicted the moon would eat the sun. Another said all birds would unionize and demand sky taxes. We can't chase every apocalypse."
"This one named me."
She paused. "That's unfortunate."
As Grubb left Vex's office, a voice called out from behind a stack of scrolls.
"You're the janitor with the doom scroll?"
Grubb turned. A young woman with wild hair and a badge that read "Zelda – Intern (Unpaid, Unhinged)" stepped forward.
"I've been tracking rogue prophecies," she said. "Mostly for fun. Also because I'm bored and the coffee machine tried to bite me."
Grubb raised an eyebrow. "You believe me?"
"I believe in chaos. And you smell like it."
She snatched the scroll and read it. Her eyes widened.
"Oh. This is juicy."
"It's not juice. It's doom."
"Even better."
Zelda grinned. "Let's find out how deep this rabbit hole goes."
Grubb hesitated. "You're volunteering to help?"
"I'm an intern. I have no rights and no fear."
Back in the janitor's closet, Grubb and Zelda spread the scroll across a crate of expired cleaning potions.
Zelda traced the lines with her finger. "It's unfolding in order. That means we can predict what's next."
Grubb pointed to the second line.
> "The sky shall belch fire upon the tax collectors."
Zelda nodded. "We should warn the Taxation Division."
"They'll laugh."
"Then we'll bring marshmallows."
Grubb sighed. "You're enjoying this."
"I enjoy everything that might get me fired."
Grubb looked at the scroll. It pulsed again.
"Fine," he said. "Let's chase the apocalypse."
The sky over the Bureau turned a shade of bureaucratic beige—a color reserved for mild catastrophes and overdue paperwork.
Grubb stood on the rooftop with Zelda, both clutching mugs of coffee that had been brewed by a kettle currently undergoing a midlife crisis.
"So," Zelda said, squinting at the clouds, "we're waiting for the sky to belch fire?"
Grubb nodded. "Upon the tax collectors."
Zelda checked her notes. "They're in the East Wing. Should we warn them?"
"I tried. They asked if the fire was deductible."
A low rumble echoed across the sky. The clouds swirled, forming the shape of a disgruntled accountant. Then, with a sound like a sneeze in Latin, a flaming pigeon shot downward.
It divebombed the Taxation Division's window, exploded in a burst of feathers and fire, and left behind a scorched ledger that read "Audit This."
Zelda blinked. "That was oddly specific."
Grubb stared. "It's happening."
Inside, the tax collectors screamed. One tried to file a claim for emotional damage. Another attempted to bribe the fire with coins.
Zelda took notes. "So far, prophecy is one for one."
Grubb looked at the scroll. The next line glowed faintly.
> "The Oracle shall weep ink, and the clocks shall forget time."
They rushed to the Oracle of Regret, who was mid-monologue about missed opportunities and expired coupons.
Her eyes were leaking black ink, staining her velvet chair and dripping onto the floor in elegant cursive.
"I regret everything," she whispered. "Especially Tuesdays."
Grubb knelt beside her. "Are you okay?"
She handed him a napkin that read "Too late."
Zelda collected a sample of the ink. "This is prophetic-grade. She's leaking destiny."
The Oracle sobbed. "I told them. I told them all. But they filed my warnings under 'Poetry.'"
Back in the Bureau's main hall, the clocks were in revolt.
One was spinning counterclockwise and chanting "Back to the womb!" Another had stopped entirely and was demanding a vacation.
Grubb checked his watch. It was now labeled "Maybe."
Zelda grinned. "This is beautiful."
Grubb frowned. "This is terrifying."
Mistress Vex appeared, holding a clipboard that was slowly melting.
"Status report," she said.
Grubb pointed to the clocks. "Time is broken."
Vex scribbled something. "We'll file a complaint with Chronology."
Zelda held up the scroll. "The prophecy is fulfilling itself. Line by line."
Vex glanced at it. "Still not our department."
Grubb stepped forward. "How many lines before you care?"
Vex looked at him. "All of them. Preferably after lunch."
A meeting was called in the Department of Symbolic Interpretation.
A panel of experts debated whether "fire-belching sky" was literal or metaphorical.
"I think it represents fiscal anxiety," said one.
"Or indigestion," said another.
Grubb stood in the back, holding the scroll.
Zelda whispered, "They're going to ignore it until it eats them."
Grubb nodded. "Then we need a plan."
Back in the janitor's closet, Grubb and Zelda laid out the scroll again.
The next line shimmered.
> "The intern shall defy fate, and the janitor shall mop the blood of bureaucracy."
Zelda raised an eyebrow. "That's oddly flattering."
Grubb sighed. "I hate being relevant."
Zelda grinned. "Let's be inconvenient."
Grubb looked at the mop. It was glowing again.
"Fine," he said. "Let's clean up destiny."
The Bureau's Archive was a labyrinth of forgotten memos, misfiled destinies, and shelves that occasionally rearranged themselves out of spite.
Grubb and Zelda stood before the entrance, which was guarded by a sentient filing cabinet named Harold.
Harold blinked. "Purpose of visit?"
Zelda held up the scroll. "Prophecy. Fulfillment. Mild panic."
Harold sighed. "Fine. But don't touch the folders labeled 'Oops.'"
The air grew thick with dust and regret. Lights flickered overhead, illuminating rows of documents that hadn't been read since the Bureau's founding—or possibly before.
Grubb whispered, "This place smells like forgotten birthdays."
Zelda nodded. "And suppressed ambition."
They passed a shelf labeled "Unapproved Miracles" and another marked "Pending Catastrophes."
At the far end, a door pulsed faintly. It was labeled "Archivist."
The door creaked open to reveal a figure cloaked in paper—literal sheets of memos, reports, and reprimands. Her eyes glowed with ink.
"I am the Archivist," she said. "I remember what others choose to forget."
Grubb stepped forward. "Do you remember the prophecy?"
She nodded. "It was filed under 'Unwelcome Truths.'"
Zelda asked, "Why was it buried?"
The Archivist gestured to a scroll encased in glass. It was identical to Grubb's, but older—burnt at the edges and annotated in red ink.
"They feared it," she said. "Because it predicted their irrelevance."
Zelda examined the glass scroll. "This version has more lines."
Grubb leaned in. "What's this one?"
> "When the mop glows thrice, the Bureau shall fracture."
Zelda counted. "It's glowed twice already."
Grubb looked at the mop. It was humming faintly.
The Archivist whispered, "The third glow will not be gentle."
The Archivist led them to a vault labeled "Founding Lies."
Inside were portraits of the Bureau's founders—each depicted with exaggerated halos and suspiciously clean hands.
Zelda read a plaque: "Truth was considered inefficient."
Grubb asked, "What were they hiding?"
The Archivist opened a drawer. Inside was a memo:
> "In case of prophecy, deny everything. If denial fails, blame the janitor."
Grubb groaned. "Of course."
Zelda smirked. "You're officially scapegoat-grade."
The Archivist handed Grubb a key.
"This unlocks the Chamber of Unspoken Protocols," she said. "But beware—it contains the Bureau's emergency plans. Most of them involve fire."
Grubb took the key. "Why help us?"
She smiled. "Because I'm tired of remembering alone."
Zelda nodded. "We'll make them remember."
As they left the Archive, the shelves began to whisper.
"Truth… truth… truth…"
Harold the filing cabinet blinked. "You touched the 'Oops' folder, didn't you?"
Grubb shrugged. "It touched me."
Zelda held up the scroll. A new line had appeared:
> "The Archivist shall speak, and the walls shall listen."
Behind them, the Bureau's walls began to tremble.
The Chamber was hidden behind a vending machine that only dispensed existential dread and expired granola bars.
Grubb inserted the Archivist's key. The machine groaned, dispensed a granola bar labeled "Regret Crunch," and slid aside to reveal a spiral staircase descending into shadow.
Zelda cracked the bar open. "Tastes like missed opportunities."
Grubb took a bite. "And cinnamon."
The staircase was lined with portraits of Bureau officials who had "retired" under mysterious circumstances. Each had a plaque reading "Voluntary Departure (Definitely Not Screaming)."
Zelda muttered, "This place has the ambiance of a haunted HR department."
Grubb nodded. "And the lighting of a guilt-ridden confession booth."
At the bottom, a steel door awaited. It was engraved with the Bureau's motto:
> "If it's not written down, it didn't happen."
Zelda snorted. "That explains a lot."
Inside, the Chamber was a circular room filled with floating scrolls, each glowing faintly and whispering in bureaucratic tongues.
Grubb reached for one labeled "Protocol 13: In Case of Prophetic Uprising."
It read:
> *"Step 1: Deny prophecy.
> Step 2: Blame janitor.
> Step 3: Initiate Controlled Collapse.
> Step 4: Rebrand as 'The New Bureau.'"*
Zelda grabbed another: "Protocol 9: If Clocks Rebel."
> "Declare time irrelevant. Promote timelessness as a lifestyle brand."
Grubb frowned. "These aren't contingency plans. They're marketing strategies."
Zelda nodded. "They planned for failure. Just not accountability."
At the center of the room hovered a scroll sealed in obsidian glass.
It pulsed with a low hum and bore the label: "Protocol Zero."
Grubb touched it. The glass cracked.
Zelda whispered, "This one's not supposed to exist."
Inside, the scroll read:
> *"If prophecy reaches fulfillment, initiate Bureau-wide amnesia.
> Erase all records.
> Reassign all staff as 'Inspirational Consultants.'
> Burn the mop."*
Grubb recoiled. "They want to forget everything."
Zelda stared. "Including us."
Grubb looked at the mop. It glowed faintly—third time.
The walls trembled. The scroll shimmered. The Bureau above began to groan.
Zelda said, "If we leave now, they'll erase it all."
Grubb clenched his fists. "Then we don't leave."
He grabbed Protocol Zero and tore it in half.
The room screamed.
Scrolls burst into flame. The Chamber shook. Alarms blared in languages no one had spoken in centuries.
Zelda grinned. "You just broke bureaucracy."
Grubb nodded. "Let's see what happens next."
Back in the Bureau, clocks exploded into confetti. The Oracle danced in ink. The Taxation Division declared independence.
Mistress Vex stood in the main hall, watching the chaos unfold.
She turned to her assistant. "Prepare a press release."
"What should it say?"
Vex sighed. "Something vague. With a logo."