Chapter 3: Please Hold for Divine Assistance

The glowing blue window hovered in front of Elliot Vale’s face with the smug patience of a customer satisfaction survey.

Would you like to submit a complaint?

It bobbed gently in the cool evening air beyond the capital’s northern gate, translucent edges shimmering like soap film. Behind it, the golden walls of Lumeria’s capital rose in terraces and towers, all sun-warmed marble and banners embroidered with lions, stars, and the sort of aggressive destiny Elliot had been politely removed from less than an hour ago.

The gates had closed behind him with a sound like a judge’s gavel.

He stood on the roadside in borrowed linen trousers, a tunic that smelled faintly of incense and institutional laundry, and boots half a size too small. In his possession were one copper coin, one biscuit hard enough to qualify as improvised weaponry, and the lingering emotional residue of being called “administratively inconvenient” by a man wearing a cape.

A meadow sloped away to his right, thick with knee-high silver grass that whispered under the breeze. To his left, a stone road cut through rolling hills toward a dark smear of forest. The sky above Lumeria was offensively beautiful, painted in layers of peach and violet, with two moons hanging like polished pearls just above the horizon.

Elliot stared at the window.

Then he looked over his shoulder at the closed gates.

Then back at the window.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh no.”

The blue box continued to hover.

Would you like to submit a complaint?
YES / NO

A laugh escaped him. It was not a healthy laugh. It was the laugh of a man who had once spent forty-seven minutes explaining to a vice president that turning the monitor off did not count as “rebooting the database.”

“You gave me a complaint form,” Elliot whispered to the universe. “After summoning me, misclassifying me, publicly humiliating me, and expelling me into a monster-infested screensaver with a biscuit.”

The wind rustled the grass.

A cricket chirped from somewhere in the ditch.

Elliot raised one finger toward the window with religious reverence. “Yes.”

The word had barely left his mouth before the interface expanded with a bright chime. Lines of text unfolded in the air, crisp and glowing.

Welcome to Divine Assistance Portal v. 12.8.4

Please describe the nature of your complaint.

Category:
[ ] Blessing Failure
[ ] Quest Malfunction
[ ] Summoning Irregularity
[ ] Curse, Hex, Doom, or Ongoing Cosmic Grudge
[ ] Class Assignment Dispute
[ ] Other

Elliot’s expression went very still.

There were few things left in his former life that could truly awaken his professional instincts. An outage affecting payroll, maybe. A printer physically on fire. A user submitting a ticket with the subject line “urgent” and the body “see title.” But a complaint category list with both “Summoning Irregularity” and “Class Assignment Dispute”?

That touched something deep and ancient in him.

He rolled his shoulders. His back popped.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

He tapped the air beside Summoning Irregularity. The checkbox filled with a little golden star. After a moment, he tapped Class Assignment Dispute as well.

Please select only one category.

“No.”

Please select only one category.

“This is a multi-factor incident with overlapping service degradation.”

Please select only one category.

Elliot squinted. “Do you have an ‘all that apply’ option?”

The window flickered.

Error: Invalid request.

He smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

It was the smile he had used when a client insisted their paid support contract covered “emergency weekend assistance” despite choosing the “Stone Age Peasant Tier” plan with email-only response in four to six business eras.

“I would like to escalate,” Elliot said.

The window froze.

The crickets stopped chirping.

Escalation unavailable at this stage.

“Understood. Please provide the policy article stating escalation is unavailable prior to complaint submission.”

There was a tiny sound, almost like a hiccup, from the blue window.

Searching…

Elliot crossed his arms. The evening had grown colder. Somewhere far off, beyond the hills, something howled. It had too many throats. He ignored it. He had been in meetings with finance directors; monsters held no power over him.

No policy article found.

“Great. Then I’d like to escalate.”

Escalation queue currently experiencing high petition volume. Estimated wait time: 8,914 years.

“I’ll hold.”

The window dimmed.

Please hold for divine assistance.

A song began to play.

It sounded like a harp had fallen down a staircase and landed on a flute. The melody looped every eight seconds with a bright little trill at the end that felt designed by a committee dedicated to increasing murder rates.

Elliot stood beside the road as twilight thickened and listened to celestial hold music.

At first, he was too angry to feel tired. The absurdity powered him like bad coffee. He paced along the ditch, rehearsing possible arguments under his breath.

“Per your own interface, summoning constitutes an initiated service interaction. I did not consent to relocation. I was assigned a class without orientation. The receiving party refused onboarding. Clear breach of—what? Divine SLA? Prophecy fulfillment agreement? Interdimensional kidnapping statute?”

A firefly drifted past his nose, glowing green. He blinked at it.

“Do you know if kidnapping has a statute of limitations here?” he asked.

The firefly, wisely, did not answer.

The hold music continued.

Eight seconds. Trill.

Eight seconds. Trill.

Eight seconds. Trill.

By the fiftieth loop, Elliot had eaten the biscuit out of spite.

It tasted like sawdust that had heard a rumor about flour. He chewed grimly, every crunch echoing in his skull, and imagined the royal chamberlain’s face on it.

By the hundredth loop, the sun had vanished behind the hills, leaving the world washed in moonlight. Lumeria’s capital glowed behind him with hundreds of lanterns. The road ahead was a ribbon of pale stone fading into dark forest. His breath fogged faintly in the cooling air.

By the two hundredth loop, the first rustle came from the grass.

Elliot stopped pacing.

Something low and dark moved at the edge of the meadow. Then another shape. Then two more. Moonlight caught on wet eyes.

“Absolutely not,” Elliot said.

A creature slunk onto the roadside. It was roughly the size of a large dog, if a large dog had been assembled by someone who hated dogs and admired knives. Its body was lean and gray, its spine ridged with black quills. A pair of tusks curled from its lower jaw. Drool steamed where it hit the stone.

A second emerged behind it.

Then a third.

The blue window chimed cheerfully.

Please hold for divine assistance.

“I am holding,” Elliot said through clenched teeth, “but I would like the record to reflect that the customer is being actively menaced.”

The lead creature growled.

Elliot lifted both hands. “Hi. Hello. Good evening. I am not delicious. Common misconception.”

The creatures advanced.

His eyes darted to his copper coin. Useless. The biscuit was gone. He had no weapon. No armor. No heroic training. No idea how to throw a punch that did not end with him apologizing to the wall.

The hold music trilled.

Something in Elliot snapped loose.

“You know what?” he said, voice rising. “Fine.”

He jabbed a finger at the window. “I would like to add imminent bodily harm to my existing complaint.”

Complaint not yet submitted.

“Because I am on hold!”

Please hold for divine assistance.

The lead monster lunged.

Elliot screamed and threw the copper coin.

It bounced off the creature’s forehead with a tiny plink.

The monster stopped.

For one miraculous second, man and beast stared at each other in mutual disbelief.

Then the monster’s eyes narrowed.

“Worth a shot,” Elliot said.

A burst of golden light exploded in the air above the road.

The monsters yelped and scrambled backward as a circular sigil opened overhead, spinning with rings of script and tiny winged symbols. The hold music cut off mid-trill. A voice rang out, bright, young, and furious.

“Who in my mother’s sacred audit trail is abusing escalation keywords?”

The light collapsed into the shape of a woman no taller than Elliot’s shoulder, floating three feet above the ground with her sandaled feet crossed beneath her. She had lavender hair tied in a frazzled bun, round gold spectacles sliding down her nose, and six luminous wings that fluttered with irritated speed. Her white-and-blue robes were embroidered with clouds, stars, and what appeared to be tiny filing cabinets.

She held a clipboard like a weapon.

The monsters took one look at her and fled into the grass with high-pitched whines.

Elliot watched them go, then turned back to the floating woman.

“Are you divine assistance?”

She pushed her spectacles up. “I am Associate Minor Goddess Liora of the Department of Mortal Experience, North-Central Prophecy Fulfillment Subdivision, temporary night shift escalation responder. And you—” She jabbed her quill at him. “—are not supposed to be able to contact me.”

Elliot inhaled slowly.

“Hi, Liora. Thank you for taking my call.”

Her wings faltered.

“My… what?”

“My call. Ticket. Complaint interaction. Whatever terminology you prefer internally.” He folded his hands in front of him, the very picture of professional courtesy weaponized to a lethal edge. “Before we begin, may I confirm this interaction is being recorded for quality assurance purposes?”

Liora’s eyes widened.

The clipboard made a frightened squeak.

“How do you know that phrase?”

“Trauma.”

She looked him up and down. “You’re the fourth summon.”

“I prefer Elliot.”

“You’re the defective one.”

“I prefer Elliot.”

“You were issued a Support class.”

“Which, based on recent events, appears to include customer support access to divinity.” Elliot smiled politely. “Congratulations. We’re both disappointed.”

Liora hovered closer, squinting at him as though he were a typo in sacred scripture. Her golden eyes flicked left and right, reading information only she could see.

“This can’t be right,” she muttered. “Support classes are supposed to stabilize party cohesion, distribute minor buffs, carry spare bandages, maybe say something encouraging before dying heroically in chapter six.”

“Hard pass.”

“You opened a complaint portal.”

“It asked.”

“You requested escalation before submitting the complaint.”

“Your interface failed to provide policy language prohibiting it.”

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

Elliot knew that face. He had seen that face across help desks, conference tables, and video calls with managers who had confidently promised impossible things to customers and then discovered documentation existed.

It was the face of someone realizing the trap had already sprung.

“That,” Liora said carefully, “is not how mortals are supposed to use the system.”

“And yet.”

Her wings buzzed in agitation. “Listen, Elliot. Can I call you Elliot?”

“Since I’ve requested it twice, yes.”

“Excellent. Elliot. This portal is for minor experiential irregularities. Missing quest rewards. Blessing sparkles appearing asymmetrical. Priests complaining that visions arrive in dialects they don’t like. It is not for summoned heroes filing adversarial litigation against the heavens.”

“I haven’t filed litigation.”

“Good.”

“Yet.”

Liora clutched the clipboard to her chest.

The road was quiet now except for the distant song of night insects and the fading rustle of monsters deciding to be someone else’s problem. Moonlight limned Liora’s wings in silver. She smelled faintly of ozone, ink, and exhausted office tea.

Elliot rubbed his arms against the chill. “Look. I’m willing to be reasonable.”

“That sentence has never preceded anything reasonable.”

“I was involuntarily transported across dimensions by your organization or an affiliated prophecy vendor. Upon arrival, I was assigned a class without explanation, mocked by stakeholders, denied basic onboarding resources, and expelled into a hostile environment with inadequate equipment.”

Liora’s quill began writing by itself, scratching frantically against the clipboard.

“Furthermore,” Elliot continued, “the other three summoned individuals received weapons, armor, social standing, and presumably catered meals. I received a copper coin and what I can only describe as a structural biscuit. This suggests unequal distribution of starter resources, potentially violating fair hero provisioning standards.”

The quill snapped in half.

Liora stared at him.

“You talk like a contract demon.”

“I managed enterprise support.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Imagine hell, but with quarterly goals.”

She shuddered despite herself.

A new quill appeared in her hand with a pop.

“Fine. Fine. Let’s just process the complaint before you discover subpoena prayers.” She tapped her clipboard. A rectangular screen of pale gold unfolded between them. “State your desired resolution.”

Elliot’s mind, which had been operating on anger and biscuit dust, suddenly stalled.

Desired resolution.

The phrase landed with strange weight.

He looked down the road toward the dark forest. Looked back at the shining capital that had discarded him. Thought of the three other heroes standing beneath chandeliers while nobles bowed. Thought of himself in a vending machine’s shadow, coins scattering, fluorescent lights buzzing above his last breath.

He had expected oblivion.

He had received a ticket form.

He swallowed.

“I want to not die tonight,” he said first.

Liora nodded, writing.

“Reasonable.”

“I want basic survival tools. Food. Storage. Information. Some way to defend myself.”

“Defensive blessings require approval from Martial Allocation, and they are awful after sunset.”

“Then whatever you can approve.”

She made a face. “I am an associate minor goddess, not a miracle vending machine.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Liora eyed him suspiciously.

Elliot leaned slightly closer. “Also, I’d like written acknowledgment that the summoning process resulted in substandard onboarding.”

“No.”

“A note?”

“No.”

“A non-admission goodwill gesture?”

She paused.

He saw it. The flinch. The tiny bureaucratic opening.

“Goodwill gestures,” he repeated softly.

Liora’s wings drew in tight.

“You didn’t hear that.”

“I very much heard that.”

“Mortals are not supposed to know about goodwill gestures.”

“Associate Minor Goddess Liora, I have personally authorized three months of free premium service to a man who broke his own router with soup and threatened to review us on every platform known to civilization. I know a goodwill gesture when I smell one.”

“Soup?”

“Tomato basil. Don’t change the subject.”

Liora drifted backward, muttering. Her clipboard expanded again, pages flipping so quickly they stirred the dust on the road. Elliot caught glimpses of headings in glowing script: Mortal Dissatisfaction Mitigation, Heroic Summons Edge Cases, Do Not Offer Unless Cornered.

He smiled wider.

“You are cornering a goddess,” she accused.

“I am requesting equitable service recovery.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“After the day I’ve had? Deeply.”

Liora dragged both hands down her face. “Fine. There is a starter compensation package for summons who experience significant arrival irregularities.”

A warm thrill ran through Elliot’s chest. “Wonderful.”

“But it’s not meant for heroes.”

“I was told I’m not one.”

“You were summoned under a hero prophecy.”

“Then I’d like to file a complaint about inconsistent designation.”

“Stop.”

“Happy to pause that thread if we can resolve this one.”

She pointed at him. “You are dangerous.”

“I am cold, hungry, and employed by spite.”

Liora sighed so hard the grass bent away from her.

“Starter compensation may include one low-tier companion, one minor dimensional storage item, and up to three apology coupons.”

Elliot blinked. “Apology coupons?”

“Do not get excited. They are not as powerful as they sound.”

“I am absolutely getting excited.”

“They are single-use divine consideration tokens redeemable for minor conveniences, subject to availability and mood of the reviewing department.”

“So coupons.”

“Yes.”

“From gods.”

“Yes.”

“God coupons.”

“If you call them that in writing, Legal will bite someone.”

He lifted a hand. “Noted.”

Liora tapped the golden screen. “Low-tier companion options include: field mouse, lantern moth, suspicious chicken, junior dust sprite, emotionally complex fern, or training slime.”

“Training slime?”

“Basic familiar. Teaches new adventurers how not to step into acid puddles. Minimal combat capability. Highly adaptable. May attempt sarcasm if overfed.”

“That one.”

“You haven’t heard the drawbacks.”

“Does it talk?”

“Eventually.”

“That one.”

Liora narrowed her eyes. “You chose very quickly.”

“I’ve been alone in another world for an hour and the last conversation I had was with a magic complaint form. Give me the sarcastic blob.”

“Training slime selected,” she said, and tapped the screen.

The air beside Elliot rippled.

There was a wet, unimpressive plop.

A slime landed on the road.

It was about the size of a melon, round and translucent blue, with a glossy surface that reflected moonlight. Suspended inside its jelly body were two black bead-like eyes and a tiny curl of something that might have been a mouth if nature had been feeling whimsical. It jiggled once, twice, then flattened slightly as though contemplating whether life was worth the effort.

Elliot crouched.

The slime stared up at him.

“Hello,” he said.

The slime made a bubbling noise.

Companion acquired: Training Slime
Designation: Pending
Disposition: Damp
Combat Rating: Embarrassing
Special Trait: Customer-Facing Adaptability

“Combat rating embarrassing?” Elliot read aloud.