The Bureau of Reality Conservation

"The Bureau of reality conservation?" You mutter mostly to yourself in disbelief as you come out of the elevator and see the sigil in the marble floor ahead of you.

"BRC for short, but it's not exactly something you cry out in the field of duty. We're still top secret," your freshly assigned handler and welcome party to the secret organization you've just been recruited to, tells you as they step out of the elevator and guide you to the reception desk. "We've been given a bureaucratic umbilical cord to the feds, so that's what most of our uniformed outfits and badges look like. Not that it really comes up a lot for those of us in investigation. If we need to put on a public uniform, we've failed our core premise."

"Also, there's not much point in gearing up if your opponent have a weapon that ignores any kind of physical protection you can come up with," your handler explains while you are signing a protocol notepad handed to you by the secretary. Then they hand over a small cardboard box with a lid on it.

"I guess that's true," you mutter as you crack the lid and see some more papers, notebooks, a new cellphone and some sort of walkie talkie.

Just a basic field kit and some office equipment," your handler says as you both move down an aisle to a semi-populated cubicle landscape. The place sounds... suspiciously chirpy.

"Though without that sixth sense you have been blessed with, it's all irrelevant," your handler notes as you walk past a few cubicles. "All of us in here have it in varying strengths. 'The Awareness' as the nerds call it. Most people never can tell if reality has been changed."

"Though, as you probably can tell, just because you're aware of something doesn't mean you're immune to the changes," they add as you move past a lunch room, where you see a six foot and half a dozen inches tall woman with small horns, a cow tail poking out of a pencil skirt, and basketball-sized, gravity defying breasts that she's currently milking with a pair of suction cups hooked up to a machine integrated into the kitchen furniture. She's currently leaning against a bench while in conversation with another person, one hand nursing her bosom and the other scratching a horn, but she gives your handler a nod and a smile as you move past and out of sight.

"That's miss Daisy. She was assaulted pretty bad by someone who noticed she wasn't responding as they expected, and we've not been able to revert all the changes to a baseline within the norms of the normality codex yet. Oh, FYI, don't drink the gallon bottled milk in that fridge raw."

"Okay... So, she couldn't remember her own past and you couldn't find it?" you ask as your handler stops with a cubicle and gestures you can step inside.

"Afraid so. That's a risk we run if someone applies too much reality alteration to someone with local limitations. Universal changes are usually easier to extrapolate with the codex."

"That's the artifacts, right? the stone tablets?"

"Mhm. We know we aren't the only ones that have copies, but I suspect they're more than copies from what I've heard. They're invulnerable to change, even though they appear to be nothing more than slabs of marble. Particle accelerators, no effect, hot fusion plasma cutters, no effect, reality warping - which is the important part - no effect. And they describe anything that's worthy of a wikipedia article. And when reality doesn't fit with the tablets, we know for sure something's been altered."

"So it's thousands of stone tablets carved with wiki-articles?" you say as you put down the box in your naked cubicle. It still smells a bit like a new car. Nothing in this building has been around for long.

"Just two, but every time we slap them together, the text and graphics updates to relevant topics," your handler sighs as they lean towards a wall in your cubicle entrance. "Sometimes it's text, sometimes its gigabytes of binary encoded in old or new text files. Unfortunately for Miss Daisy and the most of us, we're not that noteworthy to get our existences described by the codex just because we've been altered. We can undo a lot depending on our personal knowledge and trust in our Awareness, but it's risky."

"Daisy, for example, honestly has a hard time remembering what she was before she grew horns and a tail, but she feels very comfortable in that form, so we let her stay that way. Some brain improvements not withstanding," your handler adds with a smirk. "Overall, we don't have the resources to undo all damages before a new crisis emerges, so don't be too surprised if you're left hanging over a weekend if the cleanup-crews has to normalize a mausoleum for fempire victims."

"Yeah, I can believe that," you shrug as you look down at yourself and think back at how you ended up in this place.