Fred “The Escapee” Müller sat behind his desk, staring at the yellowed piece of paper that had suddenly found its way into his hands — or perhaps it had simply fallen into them? “Form X-93b” was written across it, as though it had drifted in from another time, a whisper from the past now resting in his hands. The edges were frayed, the writing barely legible, like a long-forgotten secret gathering dust inside the filing cabinets of history.
“This smells like trouble,” Fred muttered as his fingers gently brushed across the paper. It felt old, almost alive, as though it carried a whisper within it that was simply waiting to be heard.
With a sigh that expressed more than mere exhaustion, Fred opened the file. “Complete this form only if you are prepared to recognize reality.” A slight twitch crossed Fred’s face. “Reality? Do they really think there is anything left for me to get out of it?” His smile was thin, almost invisible — a smile that seemed to ask more questions than it answered.
Yet the words had awakened something inside him. He did not know what it was, but his hand moved as though it had a will of its own. The pen touched the paper, and the moment he filled in the first line, Fred felt it — a faint, almost imperceptible tremor beneath his feet, like an echo from another world.
“Not an earthquake,” Fred thought, and yet what followed was anything but ordinary. The glow coming from the file intensified, and the walls of his cubicle began to flicker, as though they were no longer solid but merely an illusion that was beginning to dissolve.
“This is definitely not covered in the employee manual,” Fred muttered as he watched the filing cabinets around him begin to melt, as though they were made of wax. “And if someone gets blamed for this mess, it will probably be me.”
Before he could truly understand what was happening, Fred felt an invisible force rip him from his chair and pull him into a vortex of paper, ink, and fragmented thoughts. He stumbled, reaching out with his hands, but everything he tried to hold on to slipped away from him like a dream fading at dawn.
With a hard impact, Fred found himself lying on solid ground. It took him a moment to collect himself before he slowly got back to his feet and looked around. An endless corridor stretched out before him, lined with grotesquely oversized office plants that towered over him like silent witnesses to his arrival.
“Wonderful,” Fred muttered into the silence. “Welcome to reality — or whatever this place is supposed to be.”
A weak, flickering light at the end of the corridor illuminated a sign:
“Welcome to Reality. Please complete the appropriate form.”
Fred could not suppress a bitter laugh. “Of course reality itself needs a form. Why am I not surprised?”
He began walking, slowly and cautiously, while the corridors stretched endlessly ahead of him, a labyrinth with no apparent exit. Every door he passed carried a strange inscription: “Office of Forgotten Approvals,” “Department of Lost Forms,” “Section for Overdue Applications.” A shiver ran through him. Was this really reality, or was it an even more sinister nightmare than the Central Authority for Permissions?
Suddenly, a figure appeared before him — tall and gaunt, wrapped in a stone-gray uniform that reminded Fred of the CAP, only darker and stricter.
“Stop!” the figure shouted, appearing out of nowhere. Its voice echoed through the corridor.
Fred stopped, surprised but not frightened.
“And who exactly are you?”
“I am the Queue Supervisor,” the figure replied, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.
A face as rigid as marble stared back at him.
“You have crossed the queue.”
Fred looked around.
“What queue?”
The supervisor pointed with a bony hand toward the floor, where a line of yellow tape suddenly appeared, winding through the corridor in absurd, convoluted loops.
“This queue. You have clearly crossed the line.”
Fred looked at the line, then at the supervisor, and slowly shook his head.
“That's ridiculous. There's no one here except me.”
“Rules are rules,” the supervisor said in an unwavering voice. “Please proceed to the end of the queue and wait until it is your turn.”
“My turn for what?” Fred asked, his voice sounding exhausted but also slightly amused.
“To complete the appropriate form,” the supervisor replied without a hint of emotion.
Fred could not help suppressing a laugh that sounded almost like a sob.
“So I'm supposed to go to the back of the line to fill out a form even though I'm the only person here?”
“Exactly,” the supervisor confirmed, staring at him without blinking. “And I advise you to complete the procedure promptly. Any violation of queue regulations will be reported immediately.”
Fred sighed deeply, his shoulders dropping slightly.
“Fine,” he muttered as he moved to the end of the invisible queue. “If this is reality, I should seriously consider applying for vacation.”