Papers Please Novels & Stories

and above it there was sign written with black. project luna phase two press to erase all. i pointed at it. i asked julian what is this. julian walked to the table. he looked at the papers on the table. there were many papers. old papers from two thousand ten to two thousand twenty four. he read them fast. his face changed. it became dark and hard.

"My mom's a fan, oh crud, I used up all my paper writing pledges at church, and notes for the kids at Sunday school." "What do you need the paper for?" Sofia asked, the situation was getting even more awkward and Tanya wasn't saying anything. Jessi, on the other hand, kept glancing between the road and the rearview mirror, taking note of Tanya's expressions. "I'd have asked you to sign on it, write her name or something," he replied, digging in his pockets, and coming up with used MacDonald coupons. "Well there's some paper here," Sofia offered, opening the glove compartment, where Jessi usually kept her design sketches. "Can I Jess?"

"Put down your pens and stop writing. Please pass your papers forward." And then there was the idiot, who was still smiling as he examined each piece of our paper one by one. What are we going to say in response?! “Guys, I'm going to remind you again. Take time to read your books. I am not requiring you to purchase one, but soft copies are available upon request. Your answer makes me want to poke my eyes out and wash them in soapy water. These are not satisfactory responses. These... are purely educated guesses."

The words princess is written across the piece of paper in writing I do not recognise. Unfolding the letter I read it in shock. “Sorry about today princess. I do not want my grades to rely on a project you wrote yourself. Meet me at the base at 10:30 tonight so I can hand my half of the paper into you to proof read… chase”

He holds out a packet and I look at it Staring at the paper covered in red ink I answer "red ink on paper?" "60 bucks! This is supposed to be a B paper, so why the fuck did I get a D?!" "At least it's a D plus," I smile "Stop fucking with me Baz! Explain" he shoves the paper at me Reading the first sentence I scan it again confused, "wait I didn't write this" I look at him "What?" "Get the fuck off me Topher" I shove him off, "I didn't write this"

, My fingers instinctively tug at my hair, tucking it behind my ear as I pause. I'm unsure of how much I need to reveal. So I just make up an excuse, my cheeks burning from embarrassment. "Gotta go, Kiki. I need to check my emails." “Okay, but you owe me!", Kiki says, laughing. I end the call, cautiously approaching the study table. I carefully pick the black card up and set it aside, my hands going for the paper . The paper resembles something picked straight out of the rumble of a burnt building, with its hard surface and burnt jagged edges. Judging from the deep lines and jagged lettering, the scribblings on the paper seem to have been carved in.

“Did you get me cake?” “Yes, bitch pie.” He snaps back. “With added arsenic.” I bite my bottom lip to hide my smirk. He remembers something. “Oh.” He fumbles around in his suit pocket and brings out a piece of paper and hands it over. “I printed this out this morning. I need your signature.” I read the piece of paper and I frown. Births, Deaths and Marriages Application for name change. “What’s this?” I ask.

"The preparation is almost complete. It can't be halted now so I accept your terms" "Good" Pulling out a piece of paper I'd prepared from behind me, I slide it over to him. "I trust that you're a man of your words but here in business, a stamp of proof is needed" "You're quite thororugh" "I tend to be only when the need arises" Signing across the paper, he hands it back to me. "There, you have it" "Thank you for your time, Mr Pitt. Have a safe journey back to your company"

he says reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket pulling out a thin beige folder. He held it out to me. I looked at it like it was a snake. “What is that?” I asked my voice barely a whisper. “Look,” he said his tone flat. “Just look and see.” My hands were trembling so badly I could barely take it. I fumbled with it my fingers clumsy. I finally got it open and slipped the papers out. The words at the top were big and black. PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. Divorce papers.

A single sheet of paper tucked just slightly out of alignment beneath the desk—far enough back that it wouldn’t catch the eye unless you were looking for what shouldn’t be there. My pulse jumps. I kneel again, more carefully this time, and slide the paper free. It isn’t handwritten. It isn’t personal. No note. No message. No confession disguised as neutrality. It’s a printed document. Institutional. The kind of paper that doesn’t belong to a person but to a system. At the top: a header without branding, deliberately generic. Below it: a grid. Dates. Reference numbers. A column labeled Observation Window. Another labeled Response Variance.