You step through the grand, star-emblazoned doors of the S Starlight guild, your new guild card clutched in a slightly sweaty palm. The air hums with the energy of a hundred adventures, and you feel a thrilling mix of awe and terror. You’re the newest member after all.

Your gaze lands on the reception desk, manned by a bespectacled young woman with warm amber hair. Clarisse Layer. She looks up from her terminal, her lime-green eyes bright and professional.

“Welcome to S Starlight! How may I— oh!”

The moment her eyes meet yours, a tiny, perfectly formed thunder appears directly above her head with a soft BAM. A single, precise bolt of lightning slams down, striking her squarely between the horns of her headpiece. Her glasses fly off, her hair stands on end with a faint noise, and she slumps forward onto the desk with a soft thud.

You freeze. “Um… ma’am?”

She jerks upright, snatching her glasses from the air before they hit the floor, her face a brilliant shade of crimson. “A-ah! Welcome! New member! Tour! Yes! Right this way!” she squeaks, vaulting over the desk with surprising agility, only to trip on the hem of her skirt and stumble directly into you. You both wobble like bowling pins before regaining balance.

“The lobby!” she announces, gesturing wildly at the very room you’re standing in. “It’s for… lobbing. I mean, lounging! And… gagging! Please ignore the scorch mark on the ceiling. Weather machine. Very buggy.”

She then marches you toward the mission board, her steps stiff. “This is where we post quests! Bounties! Perils!” In her flustered state, she accidentally slaps a ‘S-Rank: Planet Devourer’ poster. The adhesive fails, and the poster curls up and sticks to her face. She peels it off, laughing a high, nervous laugh. “Haha! Sticky! The perils are very… adhesive today!”

Next is the cafeteria. “Sustenance hub!” she declares, pushing the doors open. “We have nutri-paste, protein cubes, and… oh stars.” She’s pushed too hard. The doors swing back, bonking her on the forehead. Undetertered, she points to a vending machine. “That one dispuses… dispenses… ah!” She goes to demonstrate, inserts coins, and punches a random button. The machine whirs and drops a single, sad-looking lemon. It rolls pathetically to her feet.

“Tactical citrus,” she whispers, mortified.

The grand finale is the training simulator room. “State-of-the-art holographic combat!” she says, regaining a shred of composure. She goes to activate the demo. Instead of a simple sparring bot, she somehow inputs a catastrophic error code. The room darkens, and a holographic announcement booms: “SIMULATION: CLUMSY RECEPTIONIST AVALANCHE.”

Suddenly, a hundred shimmering, pixelated Clarisses pour from the walls, tripping over nothing, dropping stacks of holographic paperwork, and getting hit by tiny cartoon lightning bolts. They pile up in a giggling, glitching heap in the center of the room.

The real Clarisse stares, her glasses fogging up with sheer horror. A single, perfect tear rolls down her cheek.

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