The Time-Traveling Bureaucrats: A Journey Through Red Tape

In the not-so-distant future, where the term ‘convenience’ had been redefined to include apps for everything from ordering coffee to scheduling one’s emotional breakdown, a small group of bureaucrats worked tirelessly in the heart of the Department of Temporal Affairs (DTA). Among them was a remarkably underwhelming employee named Dave.

Dave was not what one would call a ‘go-getter’. His desk was perpetually cluttered with stacks of paper forms – all marked with various colored sticky notes that had been applied over the years like warnings in a minefield. The bright yellow ones read: “FOR REVIEW!,” the blue indicated, “WAITING FOR APPROVAL,” and the dreaded red declared, “STOP! DO NOT PASS GO!” In a world where everything moved at light speed, Dave’s life was a slow train wreck, perpetually on the verge of going off the rails.

The DTA had recently announced an exciting new initiative: the Time-Travel Program for citizens, aimed at promoting historical tourism. However, the irony of a bureaucracy responsible for time travel being as slow and convoluted as a snail in molasses was not lost on the employees. The program promised the chance to visit any point in history, provided that one filled out the requisite twenty-seven forms, secured three separate approvals, and scheduled an appointment precisely three weeks in advance.

On this particular Tuesday, Dave was in a particularly foul mood. He had been handed the task of calculating the bureaucratic red tape required for an application to visit the year 1650. Little did he know that he was about to discover that his mundane existence could take a turn for the ridiculous.

“Dave! Get in here!” barked his boss, Karen, a woman with a penchant for unnecessary capitalization in her memos and an unnaturally loud voice that echoed through the office like a drill sergeant.

Dave trudged into her office, filled with mismatched furniture and a clock that was stuck at 12:03, for it was both a metaphor for the state of the DTA and a reminder of how time had become irrelevant when caught in an endless loop of paperwork.

“Look,” Karen said, shuffling through a pile of forms, “we’ve got a live one! A citizen named Lenny wants to go back to witness the Great Fire of London. Can you believe it? That’s a huge historical event!”

“Uh-huh,” Dave muttered, still half-heartedly contemplating the possibility of throwing himself out the nearest window.

“Well, we need to process his application. And guess who gets to do it?”

Dave was about to respond when Karen added, “You’ll need to run it through the timeline approval process. Remember, it’s crucial that we avoid any historical paradoxes!”

With a sigh, Dave returned to his desk, envisioning the upcoming paperwork that would ensure Lenny’s trip would take approximately ten years to approve. But then something sparked in him—a fleeting thought. What if, just for once, he could circumvent the red tape? What if he could actually embark on a time-traveling adventure himself?

In a moment of reckless impulse, fueled by caffeine and a half-eaten donut, he hatched a plan. From the dusty corner of the office, he pulled out the “Time Travel Manual” that dated back to the department's inception in the early 22nd century. The cover was barely intact, and the manual seemed to be more ornate than functional, filled with vague diagrams and outdated bureaucratic language.

After a quick skim, Dave located a passage that suggested time travel could occur under special circumstances—specifically, if an employee needed to “verify authenticity of historical events.” It was a loophole as wide as a barn door, and he was determined to exploit it. With a smirk, he decided to draft his own application, filled with absurd detail, and submit it as if it was official. What could go wrong?

After spending the next hour crafting his application with a flair for the dramatic, Dave submitted it electronically, barely containing his excitement. He chose to visit 1666 London during the Great Fire itself.

The next day, to his astonishment, Dave received an email notification that his application had been approved! It seemed he had stumbled upon not just a loophole but a bureaucratic oversight so glaring that it could only happen in the DTA—the one department where nothing made sense, and everything was designed to be confusing.

With his heart racing, Dave arrived at the DTA’s Time Travel Chamber, a dimly lit room filled with a hodgepodge of futuristic computers and what resembled an oversized toaster. He was greeted by an aloof technician named Jen, who barely glanced up from her device.

“Your portal is ready,” she mumbled, pressing a few buttons on the toaster-like machine. It whirred to life, emitting a series of beeps and whizzes that sounded suspiciously like the latest pop hits.

“Uh, how does this thing work?” Dave asked, nervously eyeing the pulsating portal.

“Just step in, and it’ll do the rest,” she replied, still not looking up. “But make sure to come back within two hours or you’ll be stuck in time.”

Taking a deep breath, Dave stepped into the portal. In a flash, the world around him morphed into a swirling whirlpool of colors and sounds.

When he finally emerged, it was as if he had been thrown into a medieval painting. The air was thick with smoke, and he could see people running in all directions, shouting in panic.

“Bloody hell! The fire!” Dave exclaimed, momentarily overwhelmed by the chaos.

He quickly reminded himself of his bureaucratic mission: to verify the authenticity of the Great Fire. He needed to see it up close. Amidst the commotion, he grabbed a nearby journalist’s notebook and began scribbling down observations like a seasoned historian, “People are panicking! Fire is spreading rapidly! Must remember to file a report!”

But as he took notes, he felt a twinge of guilt. Here were real people facing real peril, and he was merely a spectator turned bureaucrat. Lenny, after all, had wanted to see history, not be stuck in endless paperwork. And then it hit him—he had the power to help.

In a moment of clarity, Dave put down his notebook and rushed to aid a group of people trying to save a burning building. He helped them carry a few precious items out, realizing that maybe being a bureaucrat wasn’t just about forms and paperwork; it was also about humanity.

After two hours of frantic activity, he felt a rush of exhilaration, and before he knew it, he was zapped back to the DTA, a changed man.

When he returned to his desk, he found Karen waiting, arms crossed and tapping her foot impatiently.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“Well,” Dave said, smirking, “I verified the authenticity of the Great Fire. Let’s just say it was quite illuminating.”

Karen raised an eyebrow. “Illuminating?”

“Yeah, you know… things are more than just paperwork. Sometimes, you gotta dive into the fire.”

Karen rolled her eyes, but a hint of a smile crept onto her lips. “You think that’s going to change anything here?”

“Maybe not. But at least I won’t be filing Lenny’s application!”

Their laughter echoed through the office, a rare sound that carried with it the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, the world of bureaucracy needed a little bit of adventure after all.