Chương 3: The Standard Issue Ballpoint Pen

The door slammed shut behind Bart with the distinct, echoing gurgle of a toilet flushing. He stood perfectly still in the dark. He looked down. His neat, sensible walking shoes were buried ankle deep in foul smelling mud. Bart stared at the mud on his shoes. Then, quite suddenly, his legs gave out. He fell back against the cold, rocky wall of the tunnel, sliding down until he was sitting in the dirt. He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them. Bart Sanders, Asst. Librarian.

The image of the shiny wooden plaque on his desk flashed in his mind. He had waited three years for that promotion. He had reorganized the entire non-fiction section by himself just to prove to Mr. Ashburton that he was ready. He had bought a celebratory turkey sandwich and eaten it at the desk. And foolishly then he had dived in front of a city bus to save a book. He was dead. He was actually, truly dead. He would never see the Beaumont Public Library again.

He would never drink coffee by the front window while it rained. The bus had hit him, and now he was sitting in a dark, stinking tunnel in the middle of nowhere, holding a giant block of wood that said STAFF RESTROOM. A tight, heavy pressure built in his chest. He took off his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stayed like that for a minute. Then, a deep, ingrained military habit kicked in. His father's voice echoed in the back of his mind: Panic makes a mess, Bart. Clean up the mess.

Bart took a deep breath of the terrible air. He wiped his glasses on the only clean spot left on his green sweater, put them back on, and stood up.

"Okay," he whispered to the empty tunnel.

"Compartmentalize. You are dead. You are the new manager of a broken cosmic library. And if you want a chair to sit on, you need to find a piece of paper." He turned to look at the door he had just come through. It was just standing there, framed by dirt, a pristine white office door in a filthy cave. He made sure the heavy brass key was securely tucked into his pocket, letting the wooden block dangle. He turned toward the faint orange glow of a fire deeper in the tunnel and began to walk.

He tried to keep his footsteps light, but his shoes made a terrible sucking sound with every step. As he got closer to the firelight, he heard voices. They were harsh, guttural, and sounded like two people gargling rocks. Bart pressed his back against the damp cave wall and peeked around the corner. Sitting around a small, smoky campfire were two creatures. They were about the size of children, but they had warty green skin, large pointed ears, and sharp, crooked teeth.

They were wearing dirty rags and had rusty knives strapped to their waists. Goblins, Bart thought, his mind supplying the word from a hundred fantasy books he had shelved. The goblins were arguing loudly, pointing at an object on the ground between them. Bart squinted. Lying in the dirt, dangerously close to the fire, was a crumpled piece of thick yellow parchment. It had black ink scrawled across it. A written word.

"Perfect," Bart muttered. One of the goblins reached for the paper, intending to throw it into the fire to keep the flames going.

"Hey! Don't do that!" Bart yelled, stepping out from behind the rock before his brain could stop him. He used his best, loudest Library Voice, the one he reserved for teenagers riding skateboards in the lobby. The two goblins froze. They slowly turned their oversized heads to stare at the tall, skinny human in the dirty green sweater. For a second, the cave was perfectly quiet.

"Who are you, long legs?" the first goblin snarled. The words sounded like barks, but a tiny blue system alert flashed in Bart's eye, translating the local words straight into his brain.

"I eat his legs," the second goblin declared, drawing his rusty knife.

"Dibs on legs."

"Gentlemen, please," Bart said, holding up his hands in a calming gesture.

"There is no need for violence. I am simply here on official business. I need that piece of paper." If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The first goblin looked down at the parchment, then back at Bart.

"The fire starter? Why? You cannot eat it. It tastes like a tree-spit."

"I don't want to eat it," Bart said, taking a careful step forward.

"I just need to take it back to my office. If you give it to me, I will leave, and you can go back to... whatever it is you are doing." The goblins looked at each other. Then they looked at the giant block of wood dangling from Bart's wrist.

"He holds the Great Wood," the second goblin whispered in awe.

"He is a Wood-Priest," the first goblin agreed. Then he narrowed his eyes.

"But we need a fire-starter. Cold in a cave. Trade."

"Trade?" Bart patted his pockets. He was wearing his work jeans. He had his keys, his phone (which had zero bars and a cracked screen), and a roll of peppermint breath mints. He dug into his chest pocket. His fingers closed around something smooth and round. He pulled it out. It was his work pen. A standard-issue, blue-ink, plastic ballpoint pen with the Beaumont Public Library logo printed on the side.

"I will trade you this," Bart said, holding up the pen. The goblins squinted at it.

"What is the blue stick?"

"It is a writing tool," Bart explained.

"But more importantly, it does this." Bart pressed his thumb down on the top of the pen. Click. The tiny sound echoed in the quiet cave. The goblins gasped, their large ears twitching. Bart pressed it again. Clack. The goblins took a step back, their eyes wide with wonder.

"Magic noise," the second goblin whispered.

"The stick speaks."

"It is very rare," Bart lied smoothly, relying on years of customer service experience to keep his face perfectly blank.

"I will trade you the magic clicking stick for the fire-starter." The first goblin did not hesitate. He snatched the parchment from the dirt and held it out. Bart stepped forward, handed over the ballpoint pen, and took the crumpled paper. The goblin immediately pressed the top of the pen. Click. Both goblins giggled happily, instantly ignoring Bart to huddle around their new treasure. Bart looked down at his prize. The parchment was greasy and smelled like rotten fish.

Written in messy, jagged letters were the words: WANTED: GREGOR THE THIEF. REWARD: TWO PIGS. Bart turned around to walk back to the door. Behind him, he heard a frustrated grunt.

"Stick stopped talking!" the first goblin yelled. Bart paused. He knew exactly what had happened. The goblin had pressed the button too hard, and the cheap plastic spring had jammed.

"Magic is broken!" the second goblin screeched.

"Wood-Priest tricked us! Eat his legs!" Bart did not look back. He broke into a dead sprint. He slipped and slid in the mud, clutching the greasy bounty poster to his chest. Behind him, he heard the angry yells and splashing footsteps of two armed goblins. He reached the freestanding white door, shoved the rusty key into the lock, and threw the door open. He dove through the frame, landing hard on his stomach on a cold stone floor. Whoosh. Gurgle.

The door slammed shut behind him and immediately faded away, vanishing into thin air. Bart lay panting on the floor of the Archive. The air here was clean, smelling only of old dust and dry paper.

"Ah, welcome back, sir," Albert's dry voice called out. The skeleton walked over, his broom sweeping the floor nearby.

"I see you survived your first trip. Please, place the item in the Intake Tray." Bart slowly pushed himself up. He was covered in mud, he was tired, and he smelled terrible. He looked at the stone table. A small wooden tray was now glowing with a soft white light. Bart walked over and dropped the greasy bounty poster into the tray. The paper did not just sit there and floated a few inches in the air. A bright blue light swept over the messy ink, scanning it from top to bottom.

Then, the whole floating ruin began to shake. Loud cracking sounds echoed in the dark space above. Two giant chunks of floating stone slammed together, making the floor bigger. Then, right in front of Bart, a tall, dark wooden bookshelf grew straight out of the stone floor like a fast growing tree. The greasy bounty poster flew out of the tray and pinned itself to the very first empty spot on the new shelf. In a flash, thousands of empty folders appeared next to it, waiting to be filled.

The glowing blue system screen popped up in front of Bart's face. SYSTEM ALERT: INTAKE SUCCESSFUL Item: Bounty Poster (Poor Quality). New Section Added: Crime and Bounties. Archive Size Increased by: 0. 0000002%. REWARD GRANTED: +5 Mana. Management notes that you brought back trash. However, management congratulates you on not dying immediately. Please claim your office furniture. Bart stared at the brand new shelf. Every single piece of paper mattered here.

He really was rebuilding this place, one category at a time.

"I got it," Bart breathed.

"Now where is my chair?" A soft chime rang through the air. A small flash of blue light appeared next to the stone table. When the light faded, Bart stared at his reward. It was just a chair not a grand, magic throne or a comfortable leather armchair. It was a cheap, gray, plastic folding chair. The kind you would find in a high school gym or a film shoot. Bart stared at it for a long, long time. Then, the Almanac of Inevitable Doom fluttered down from a floating shelf above.

It hovered next to Bart's ear and magically scribbled a new line of red ink across its pages.

"The Keeper is going to sit down, and his back will immediately start to ache. Also, he smells like a toilet." Bart closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and walked over to the plastic chair. He sat down. It was hard, cold, and uncomfortable.

"Well," Bart said, looking out at the brand new crime shelf and the cracks in reality.

"It is a start."