Divine Intern Ayama

The Grand World Observatory, the most famous institution to exist in central Ethesia. Composed of opal fractals folding into themselves, surrounding an equally abstract tetrahedron. A perfect backdrop for Ayama’s celebratory selfie, which she will post on her Goddamnit account (the platform formerly known as Bitter), with precisely 666 followers, all enthusiastically waiting to see her ocean blue eyes and blonde hair smooth like the wind.

After years of grueling self-study at home, emphasis on the ‘self’, she has finally qualified for a public exam, which she passed. That gave her an in with the main event, a grand lucky draw, because luck is a skill a deity should have. Imagine a peon prays for you to help him win the lottery. Yep, that is the type of person you have to respond to if your luck is bad.

Ayama isn’t like the other third-rate goddesses, because she has good luck. Winning the right to an internship should be a pretty good indication of that, right? She even gets a good angle to snap a quick photo before the next flock of angels ruins the scenery.

And yes, the type that looks somewhat like her. She wishes all angles had rings of eyes and tens of wings, then at least no one would mistake them as actual deities. The fact that humans look like gods is infuriating enough.

As usual, she flips off the angels and yells slurs too violent to be holy, but it is a custom (practiced only by her), so this petty bit will fly under the cultural inclusivity act. Those figures in the sky continue to chat and laugh among themselves, ignoring her, or maybe they haven’t even noticed her in the first place.

She would fly up and beat them up, had she had time. The moments of bliss always seem to pass so quickly. Then again, once millions of peasants and richer peasants bow down to her, the pleasure she feels would surely surpass the time she discovers the hallucinogenic properties of fairy dust.

Her supervisor, June, runs late for a few minutes, even though she normally cares about time more than anything. The only things greater in magnitude are how her silky purple chiton lags behind three generations of fashion, or how another Goddess with a similar name is dimensions ahead in fame.

“Sorry, the demons were acting up again. If only they would feed J*no (read: J-BEEP-N-O) to the Hell Beast, wouldn’t that be a happy ending for everyone?”

“Not everyone.”

“And who would this ‘not everyone’ be, Ayama?” She stares at Ayama with literal fire in her eyes. Not even joking, one bad answer and she will experience the phrase ‘she is fired’ in more ways than one.

“The Hell Beast, of course. Because of how unpleasant the taste would be.”

June chuckles in her faux elegance before the sentence finishes, probably pleased by the fact that Ayama doesn’t mention the name of the accursed goddess. Ayama hopes this will mean that she gets a favorable assessment. Not TOO favorable, because a few things can top experiencing the possessiveness of a narcissist. And working as an intern for a thousand years sounds like a terrible career path.

“Here’s where we’ll work. Yeah, seems a bit claustrophobic, but if you think about it, there’s a literal world in this room.” June directs Ayama to Room 68.

A translucent dome, allowing only a vague view of a world within, rests on a marble slab, overlooked by a fume hood from above. This centerpiece dominates the room, leaving little space for the other equipment: namely, a goddess-sized metallic pod that looks suspiciously like a medieval torture device, a glass cylinder with balls of plasma bouncing within, and a device that resembles a… printer?

“So when do we start killing people?” Ayama says, excited electricity sparkling between her fingers (a trick she usually reserves for parties). She doesn’t wait for an answer, as her imagination already does her a favor by running to the edge of the galaxy. Kill a few rich peasants, and the rest of the kingdom will mourn and pray for their lost monarch. A perfect opportunity to introduce a religion that worships her. Forever. Never leaving her. Never abandoning her.

That already puts a goofy smile on her face. What practices should she include first? Torture? Too last millennium. Maybe something stupid like sacrificing babies, with a creative twist of needing them to perform a dance number before doing that.

A question pulls Ayama back to Reality Land. “Do you get all that?”

“Hm?” Ayama lifts her head. Wait, how long has she been daydreaming? Upon noticing that June’s scrutinizing expression, she forces a smile. “Yeah. It was very clear. I just know that certain other goddesses couldn’t possibly speak with such a wonderful voice.”

“I know you are trying to flatter me, but I’ll give you a pass because everything you’ve said is true. And…” June is about to continue speaking, but a dot glows at the side of her forehead. “Sorry, the demons are bombing the South Gate again. Be right back. Don’t touch anything.”

She is off before Ayama can give another compliment. As the supervisor’s figure shrinks in the hallway, a tightness also rises in Ayama’s chest, which she promptly dismisses as the pain of having big boobs.

To force her mind elsewhere, she skips into the room, the door closing after her. She can’t believe this whole place is laid before her just like this, ripe for her to explore. Like a maiden in a sweets shop, she twirls around, almost knocking over a weird-looking weapon that shares a family tree with a grenade launcher.

Also catching her eye is a case mounted on the wall with one glass surface. The axe behind it and the words ‘Break During Emergency” baffles her. What is this even for? Most deities have powers much more devastating than a human tool. And this looks too bland to be a divine artifact.

“Oh my Heavens. Are those…” Exactly, she didn’t see them at the entrance, since the World Dome at the center was in the way. Piled up neatly against the wall are six caged world-ending beasts, but Ayama only cares about a three-headed puppy that has fluffy fur, which she is tempted to just release and take home and think about the consequences later.

As if. Even though she has missed June’s briefing (which was probably important), she has enough impeccable common sense to know that something in a cage means to stay there. She is a goddess with impulse control and long-term strategic thinking, after all.

Unless… Yeah, right. Just kidding. Well, time to snap some based pics to post.

She slams open the lid of the Consciousness Pod (its name written on the lid), ignoring the label on it. Keep in mind that it isn’t because she is stupid. If she were to use the pod for… whatever this is used for, she would definitely read the paragraphs of what she assumes to be a warning.

But for a single selfie to flex on her followers? Not necessary.

She lies down in the mold for the sole reason that it feels more comfortable that way. As she prepares to lift her tablet for a Goddess’s Eye Shot, the lid falls and the pod shuts.

What… What happened…

Has she died?

Haha.

Nope.

She is immortal.

But it is a nice joke to tell. To tell?

Is she speaking?

Nope. These are just thoughts.

“Mmmmmmm.”

Wait, something blocks her beautiful voice, and the surface supporting her feels hard. Far from the soft embrace of the padding inside the pod, what now supports her weight is… if she has to take a guess, wood?

Her arms and legs rebel against her too. Perhaps she should cut them some slack, since they might be suffering from a physical binding. She can’t be sure, since darkness still permeates her vision.

As if the universe (or some asshole incel god) hears her silent protest, light slips in from the opening of a door. Ayama turns her head to it, finding after a few seconds that a male human struts in. She knows that this is a human because of the punchable smug smile on his face.

The man wears expensive-looking clothes, silky and embroidered with curvy lines that don’t even form a coherent image. This must be one of those rich peasants (commonly known as nobles).

Clearly in a good mood and seconds away from breaking into dance, he snaps his fingers while pointing at Ayama. The newfound attention makes her acutely aware that she is tied up on the floor, bogged down with a dress that has to be half her weight.

The rich peasant stops before Ayama, towering over her. “Marquess Helena. You must be wondering why you are here.”

“Mmmm…MMM! MMM!” (No, FUCK YOU!)

“Well, to answer your inquiry, since you are so cooperative. I rescued you from the—excuse my language—asshole prince. His Highness has no idea how to treat a lady as fine as you.” He traces his finger on her shoulder (ewewewewew).

“Mmmm. Mmmm!” (panicked gibberish)

“I’m certain that you want to thank me for rescuing you. So…” He removes a cloth that has been stuffed in Ayama’s mouth, narrowly avoiding his fingers being bitten.

“Wow, Marquess Helena. That’s aggressive of you.”

“Shut the fuck up, you oversized-” Cloth back in. This rich peasant is actually what people will call ‘eye-candy’. Fit, obviously keeping his shape through rigorous training schemes, and Ayama can see human ladies fawning over him.

But she just wants to squeeze him until his eyes pop out. Literally.

This is all to say that she didn’t fat-shame him. She just thinks that all humans should be smaller than deities.

“Well… I was going to wait until our wedding… but…” His finger catches the edge of her dress.

A pause. Thoughts bombard Ayama. What is he saying? Is he a pervert? The answer is yes, but how much of a pervert is he?

“I can’t wait to dress you up in all kinds of degrading clothes… you know… the kind that peasants wear.”

Ok, he is a huge pervert. But doesn’t he realize that he is also a peasant?

Before Ayama can start her new round of insults, which she knows will only come out as muffled noises but doesn’t care because it is about sending a message, the wall next to the opened door (emphasis on the ‘opened’) bursts apart and a short but fit dude in a full set of armor and full-gelled silver hair peeks through the new hole.

“Helena! My love! I’m here to save you!”

The large pervert turns to the small pervert (inferred) with gritted teeth, and draws his sword. “YOU WILL PAY, YOUR HIGHNESS! YOU WILL PAY FOR THE WALL!”

In a ridiculous display, the man swings his sword around seemingly aimlessly, possibly to show off his skills? A bit of pretentious, energy-wasting foreplay doesn’t normally pose an issue, but it turns out this mortal is biting off more than he can chew. In this case, slicing off.

Because he accidentally slits a perfectly horizontal gash on Ayama’s neck. “Mmmmm! Mmmmmm!”

Blood breaks free from her wound. She doesn’t remember ever bleeding this much, unless you count the time fairy dust made her hallucinate herself bleeding from every orifice of her body.

The two rich peasants stare at each other, and then at Ayama. And then at each other again. Finally, as if a spell had been broken, they drop their swords and rush towards Ayama’s side. The façade of a truce quickly dissolves once they are within striking distance of one another.

They are too busy pushing and slapping the other away that neither can kneel down next to Ayama to whisper final sweet words. But at this point, judging by their childish behavior, Ayama can believe that they would ask for the location of Marquess Helena’s stash instead.

Will she die? How did she come here anyway? Her life flashes before her eyes as if responding to her question. Her first dance at the ball. Her first meeting with the handsome prince. Her first tea party, where she bullied a baroness into knowing her place. Her first time with a male serv-

Wait, these aren’t Ayama’s memories at all. Instead, they belong to Helena. She fails to realize the implications of this, as her head just continues to build up the fog of confusion and pain and fear. Until the outside world melts away and darkness takes its place…

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” She jerks up, and her outstretched manicured hands shoot out bolts of lightning. It takes her a second to mentally place herself back in the Grand World Observatory, sitting on the open Consciousness Pod.

Oh! A Consciousness Pod transfers a deity’s consciousness into a mortal! Got it! Why do they just etch the name ‘Consciousness Pod’ on the lid? Who in hell will know from the name-

And she remembers the label that she didn’t read.

She doesn’t even have time to make up an excuse for herself, because she realizes something different in the room, namely the floating plasma balls pouring out from the broken glass cylinder.

Although she skipped June’s introduction of the place, she has enough (divine) common sense to know what those shiny, innocuous-looking spheres are.

Fortune Orbs.

Her eyes flit across the room to seek out the darkest ones and nonchalantly notes to herself to stay the fuck away from them.

Zap.

A light tingle at the back of her shoulder signals that her evasion attempts aren’t that successful.

Please be a bright one. Please be a bright one.

She has an ominous precognition that she will soon know what color it was. Amidst the minefield of energy balls, a faint, tiny smudge in the air catches her attention. It’s above the World Dome, drifting upwards to the Hood. Now that she takes a closer look, there are hundreds or maybe thousands of those smears swimming in schools to their destination on the ceiling.

Are those… souls? And why does this single, unique one call out to her?

“Helena?”

That particular smear glows weakly, noticeable even among the comparatively giant luck balls that can change the trajectory of a life with a single touch.

Ayama lets herself levitate and hover over the dome, popping several fortune orbs in the way, which include a few dark ones.

Even she, clueless as she is to the workings of this place, knows where the Hood leads to—the Underworld. It’s just unfair. Having to stand between two perverts and…

Wait, why does she care?

She retracts her hand that has been reaching out. Thousands of souls die every moment. Why her? She stares at the soul of Marquess Helena again. It seems to be speaking to her, pleading for divine intervention.

Maybe she is hallucinating. No she isn’t. She knows what hallucinations are like, thanks to her fairy dust experience. The form of the soul looks vague and undefined, but the feelings it exudes are undoubtedly real.

Ayama wants to forget, but this soul won’t let her. It won’t let her forget the pain and fear that penetrated her in her last moments as Helena. Also, the first time she feels so close to someone. Even if that someone is a worthless mortal. Maybe, precisely because she is a worthless mortal…

“You’d better start a cult for me,” she mutters, and lurches to snatch Helena’s soul… only for it to completely pass through her palm.

The goddess’s eyes widen, and a dramatic gasp escapes her lips (unintentionally).

She tries a few more times, only to fail each time. A frustrated blush sweeps her cheeks, and her mind spins to give herself an excuse to give up.

But instead, a prayer comes up, a prayer to her supervisor. Juno, please guide me to what I need to do…

By the time she realizes she prayed to the wrong deity, something catches her eye.

A pair of gray oven mitts hanging on the wall. There’s no oven in the room. Unless they are for handling the fortune orbs. Then why aren’t they closer to the cylinder container? The next logical conclusion would be…

It can’t be. These mitts can’t be used to grab souls, for one simple reason: they look too ugly for a goddess. Like, Ayama paints her nails for a reason. To stuff those dainty, smooth hands into those atrocities is a crime, plain and simple. A war crime, even. The scale calls for it.

Also, isn’t it such a coincidence that the object that she happens to set her eyes on will be precisely what solves her problem? Yes, but again, she lost track of how many bright fortune orbs she’d popped.

She was hoping all this luck would go to helping her get out of whatever consequences this series of events would lead to, but alas, the universe (or some asshole incel god) decides to spend her hard-earned quantum positive energy—or whatever the term is these days—on saving a mere mortal.

“I’ll be fine as long as no one sees me.”

Helena’s soul blinks as if answering her. Does she see what’s happening?

“Hey, don’t look at me. I won’t save you if you keep this up.”

In a manner that brings to Ayama’s mind the simple words of ‘emotional blackmail’, the glimmering smear wanders ever closer to the Hood, seemingly picking up the pace.

“Nope. A goddess doesn’t get threatened by this. It’s just stupid.”

Nearing.

“Listen. Look away. It’s that simple. Stop staring at me like that. Do you want to wander for eternity in a wasteland? Oh, wait no. You are going to hell. You had premarital sex, remember?”

She hasn’t actually visited the afterlife for humans before, nor is she privy to how humans are sorted, if they are sorted in the first place. But look, the important thing is that Helena has no way to know that she is pulling stuff out of her ass (figuratively).

Still, no answer.

Great, now she feels like a schizophrenic.

“Fuck it. Fashion trends start from bold statements anyway.” She dives through a few fortune orbs of different brightness, quietly hoping that the positive ones will cancel out the negative ones.

Once she snatches the mitts and puts them on, she learns what true regret feels like. The gloves devour her fair skin with a slimy texture that reminds her of puke (don’t ask how she knows that). In only a single moment, through a reflex that she didn’t know she had, she tries to pull the ugly pair of sins off.

They’re stuck.

Fuck.

“I’ll need to save Helena anyway. This doesn’t bother me. I can get used to this. New trends, Ayama. New trends. This is just a-”

Of course she can’t even have a second to lull herself into a new delusion, because Helena approaches the event horizon of the Hood—which to all non-nerds out there, means that she won’t be able to escape once she gets past that point. Plunging straight into hell and its tortures, which Ayama imagines involve something along the lines of forever wearing the gloves that she currently has on.

No, she can’t let Ayama feel her pain and suffering. She charges straight at Helena’s soul, crashing straight into a few really dark fortune orbs, but that matters little right now. What’s the worst that can happen, anyway? She just has to save Helena from the fate of feeling that disgusting sensation.

The gloves work (if they didn’t, she would have mutilated whoever created them), and she catches the soul in time, with… however many seconds she has to spare, though Ayama would like to think that she barely made it.

What now? Now that she has Helena’s soul in her hands.

“Go back to the wild, little one.” She gently places the soul onto the World Dome with the pose of someone releasing a frog to a pond, expecting it to sink through the outer barrier and back into the world. That doesn’t happen.

It just hovers on the surface like a rubber duck, and eventually, starts to drift upwards again.

“No, no, no…” Ayama mutters.

Little does she know, the universe (or some asshole incel god) has something for her to truly ‘no, no, no’ about. Out of the numerous luck mines dispersing about, one of the brightest ones happens to pass through the walls of a certain cage and collides with its prisoner.

Pop.

The lock spontaneously breaks. The barred door swings open, and the movement brings Ayama’s attention to the escapee. The three-headed puppy that she admired earlier steps out. Under the light of the room, she can see for certain that the six yellow eyes are all trained on her. Or on Helena’s soul, maybe?

She can’t take any chances. Before her thoughts can tell her what a bad idea it is, she grabs the smudge that is Helena and slams it onto the barrier around the world. Her panic catches up and she checks under her palm, only to find the soul gone.

“What?” Did Helena manage to return to her body? Does it even work this way? Why does she care, now that the judgmental soul is out of her sight? A lot of questions, but barely a moment to consider them.

The hound pounces at Ayama, two of its heads (yes, two) bearing their teeth. Its jump ends up impressively high to the point that it is almost flying, and so it crashes into Ayama spot on and tackles her to the ground.

Two gaping mouths of canines fight to tear her apart. Ayama lets out a scream of horror. “No, no, no! Not my… not my face!”

Indeed it is her face. More specifically, the makeup on her face. She has prepared for hours for this day of vlog-

…

…this day of respectful internship. Anyhow, the teeth of those stupid dog heads can’t hope to break her immortal skin, but her carefully curated appearance is being effortlessly ruined by saliva and the teeth scraping away her foundation.

She can’t hope to show herself in public at this rate. Everyone will call her the clown goddess (according to her), they will shame her (according to her), and her Deiternet presence will become a parody of her past glory (whatever this means).

This can’t go on for any longer, not even a second more. Like how she has done it so many times throughout her life, she aims her hands at the beast, one for each head. Her trusty lightning will clear the way for her once again.

Zap.

Contrary to her expectation that the dog would be comically repelled to the other side of the room, her body fails to rise even after the familiar sound, still pinned down by the weight of the beast. What follows though, is a strange burning smell. She stares at its source, at her hands.

Shit, the mitts.

They perfectly insulated the electricity and the resulting horrible fallout (she suspects that her painted nails didn’t survive). The only tell of the tragedy comes from the smoke rapidly leaking out from the opening of the gloves. And of course, not a single trace of damage on the mitts themselves.

It’s hard to assess the damage from the constant annoyance of the puppy’s attempted (disputed) assault. Her eyes search for an out, finding for the first time that the center head actually wears a collar, with the name ‘Aichu’ written on the tag.

“Hey! Aichu!” She shouts through the ear-grating growling of the beast.

“Bless you.” A sophisticated, annoyingly prim voice answers.

Huh? She looks around, not finding anyone else in the room. The possibility arises that she must have been going insane due to her deteriorating appearance. The logical thing is to go back to commanding the thing to get off.

“Aichu! Stop! Roll! Hand! Shit! Wait, no! Don’t shit! That’s not-”

“Bless you.”

She gets a glimpse of the owner of the voice​​—the right head, the only one of the three that isn’t out for her divine blood. As it speaks, it reveals a human arrangement of teeth instead of all canines.

“Gross, but I see you speak! Aichu-”

“Bless you.”

“Stop saying that! Just get your other two heads away from me!”

The head only stares back at her with an eerie, neutral look.

She racks her brain for her next course of action, when a distant, frustratingly familiar voice breaks her line of thought.

“Good gosh! Helena my dear! You lived!” It belongs to that short, rich peasant whom people in that world call ‘a prince’. The sound originates from the screen of the so-called ‘printer’ in the corner, on which a scene of Helena’s revival at her funeral plays. Or at least that’s what Ayama thinks is happening, as from her position, she can only glimpse part of the monitor. On the bright side, even if she is struggling, at least she can take solace in the fact that Helena has successfully made her way back to her body.

“Beware! Your highness! This might be the result of some witchcraft. Best if we burn this abomination.”

“You’re right. How dare this demon impersonate my… my dear Helena.”

What the fuck! Isn’t the title of ‘marquess’ somewhat important in that world? Can I even revive her again if her body becomes crisp?

Ayama struggles some more, but her divine strength can’t lift the mass of the dog. Yes, she is fat-shaming this time. Sue her.

All her slaps and blows are rendered useless by the soft surface of the mitts, but her futile attacks do lend her a curious observation. The snobby third head of the beast leans backwards, scrunching its face every time the mitts come close.

A devious, definitely-not-divine grin crawls across her face as an idea spawns. She pushes away the two savage heads while shooting electricity into the gloves, and so smoke wafts into their sensitive nose. They wince, but this isn’t enough to set her free.

“Aichu.” The pettiness practically bursts from her voice.

“Bless-”

That instant. She has been waiting for that instant. When the third head opens its mouth to speak, she utilizes the eye-body coordination trained from millions of selfies to spit the biggest wad of saliva into that dog’s mouth.

Perfect shot! The win audio from the sports video game she played last week echoes in her mind. The third head’s eyes widen, and it jerks backward. Thanks to its cooperation, Ayama adds to its backward movement with a push.

Freedom finally—no longer pinned down by the dog. However, she’s not out of the woods yet, so she scrambles towards the nearest weapon in the room: the grenade launcher thingy.

The colors of the fortune orbs she passes through matter little, nor does the background chattering of the rich peasants interest her. Not even the angry growls from all three heads of the beast are important. Protecting Helena becomes her only thought and only goal.

Has she experienced this before? This level of drive and joy. She feels amazing when her posts go viral. Excitement when she soars through the heavenly sky faster than those lowly angels. Pleasure when she steals some goddess’s look and wears it better than her.

But not like this.

Not this level of… rightness. Like she is doing what she is supposed to do.

She snatches the launcher and aims at the mutt, who has just regained its footing. Without a hint of an idea what this thing would do, she still deploys the tried-and-true method of ‘press the button first, find out later.’

The mitts restrict her finger movements and raise the difficulty of a simple button press, but she has enhanced finger dexterity from… maybe from swiping through the Goddamnit pages (the platform formerly known as Bitter) or whatever.

The important thing is that she manages to strain her muscles and pushes the boundary of the mitts. The trigger sinks in response.

She’s done it.

A meteor blasts out from the tube and slams into the beast, knocking it towards the World Dome. To Ayama’s surprise, the dog passes through the barrier and dissolves inside.

Well, surely this is a good sign. Yeah, it’s good. Nothing bad will happen because of this.

Whatever speculation she has is tossed to the back of her mind once she hears a delicate voice chirping, which she instinctively knows is Helena’s. “Prince Phlegmuald! It’s me! Don’t you recognize me?”

Prince… what?

Ayama scrambles to her feet and traverses through the fortune minefield towards the monitor mounted on the ‘printer’ that is obviously not a printer. At a glance, it becomes obvious that the device is what the gods use to spy on mortals. It’s a violation of privacy, and who is going to arrest them? The God Police? Nope, they only arrest those who use fairy dust for illicit purposes.

The interface includes a ‘smite’ button at the top. Ayama fumbles to select it and channels her fury to press the short prince on screen.

“Oops, a slip of my hand.”

She doesn’t know why she has to say it out loud. Regardless, that cheeky comment might have manifested a real slip, as her oversized mitt hand fails to aim at her target.

Bang!

The angel (humanoid) statue behind the prince pays the price for her mistake. Parts of the ceiling collapse from the strike.

“Gah!” The prince yells the loudest out of the group as everyone turns to the scene of the divine act.

Oh, right. They are holding the ceremony in a chapel. Indoors…

“I won’t miss it this time!” Ayama declares, and perhaps she should stop jinxing herself by speaking her intentions out loud.

Indeed, she must have crashed into too many dark fortune orbs. Her careful aim fails again. Oh how she wants her delicate fingers back. Is this what birds have to deal with? No wonder they are always so noisy.

Her error leads to a strike of lightning tearing through the chapel roof again onto a man next to the prince.

Judging by his armor and sword around his belt, he must have been a knight. Oops, but since he serves the short royal, he must have been evil too.

The man drops to the floor with a clank and lies there still, his skin charred and smoking.

No one says a word. They must have forgotten to breathe. Well, they have forgotten to check their fallen brethren’s injuries too. What if they aren’t lethal? What if he is still alive? (He isn’t.)

But what if.

“The gods have spoken! We have to burn this abomination right now lest we face punishment!” A fresh new voice resounds in the hall. The guy is outside the screen so Ayama can’t see him, or smite him. Not that she is confident in her precision.

She isn’t about to give up though, even if it means she will destroy the whole chapel (foreshadowing). Just have to be careful not to accidentally kill Helena (she is screwed).

At this point, she has entered a trance, not a thought about stopping, too trigger-happy and salty about her botched attempts.

A whole wall of the chapel rips off.

Woah, has Ayama’s luck finally turned around? (Nope)

Aichu, the three-headed beast, stands at the newly forged doorway. Not that it can get in, even with such an inclusive entrance, as it towers twice the height of the chapel. All three of the heads (yes, three) are growling. Looks like the third head got over its iam14andthisisdeep phase.

What follows is the expected cacophony of screams, which Ayama can never understand because making so much noise in the presence of a predator is akin to yelling ‘eat me, eat me.’

“Help! I can’t move!” Helena cries. As if proving Ayama’s point, the dog heads all turn to the marquess.

Without hesitation, Ayama jams her mitt onto the screen again. Surely with this big a target, she won’t miss.

The lightning hits the beast in the most anticlimactic way. It barely flinches.

Ayama unleashes her power of spam clicking (trained from her years of online shopping). Bright bolts blast through the air onto the unharmed furry skin of the mutt. The charge dissipates upon contact.

The bright side is these heedless strikes actually keep the dog in place, too annoyed by the disturbance to move.

Maybe Ayama can delay it like this until she thinks of a better plan.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The assaults cease. A notice pops up on screen as the feed cuts off.

Out of Energy

Please Insert a Fresh Energy Cartridge

Is this a printer after all???

Ayama looks around the room again, and her gaze settles upon the emergency axe. This is kind of an emergency, right? Well, her plan will cause an emergency, for sure.

She charges at it, popping bright fortune balls along the way, because she definitely needs them.

Please break. Please break.

Her mitts knock softly on the glass, and it shatters immediately. So thoroughly that the glass pulverizes into sand.

She chooses not to question it and wield the axe. Turning around, she swings the axe at the barrier. The strike tears a hole in the dome.

In an instant, she finds a faint black spot amidst the vast land. Normally, she wouldn’t have spotted it, but her attention was directed there by a soft glow next to that dot.

From everywhere and anywhere, she is sure she can find Helena. All because of the brief moment she spent in the marquess's body, the flashback of an entire life she has witnessed, and the first connection she has felt.

“Bless YOU!” She yells (unnecessarily) again as she stretches one of her mitts through the hole she created, aiming at the black dot, as if she were squashing a bug. Not thinking about the possibility of missing. Guided entirely by her feeling of connection to that tiny, insignificant mortal.

Splat! (She doesn’t actually hear this, but her imagination fills in the blanks)

The first thing June does after she returns is to curse (“What in the fucking J*no!”). The second thing is to fire Ayama from her internship. And Ayama realizes with horror that her tablet has broken in the chaos.

Things aren’t all bad though. June teaches Ayama to take off the mitts, which involves pressing them down before pulling them out. As for why she hasn’t figured this out, even when she was punching the dog? Ayama doesn’t want to think about that too much. And she can barely look at her nails, which have valiantly sacrificed their lives for the greater good.

The world gets its happy ending. It was slated to be destroyed at first, but apparently the miracle of a hand from the heavens coming down to crush a world-ending class monster has helped Helena to jumpstart the Ayama religion (cult).

That means… Ayama gets the authority to manage the world. After a single day of being unemployed, she is invited by a grumpy June back to the cleaned-up observation room. And thus starts her first day as the designated goddess. And somehow, by some greater miracle, she doesn’t ruin their civilization on the first day.

Not yet.