The former Pantheon members shuffled forward in a line that stretched across what used to be the Celestial Employment Bureau—now hastily rebranded as "Mortal Opportunities & Career Adjustment Services." The air smelled of burnt ambrosia (someone had tried to microwave it) and existential dread.
At the front of the line, the War God—now sporting an apron that read KISS THE COOK (OR ELSE)—struggled to operate a waffle iron. His biceps, once capable of hurling thunderbolts, now trembled as he poured batter. "This... this is an outrage," he grumbled, squinting at the instruction manual. "Where's the glory? The carnage?"
The café manager, a no-nonsense mortal who had survived three apocalypses by sheer bureaucratic inertia, tapped her clipboard. "The glory is in the perfect golden crisp, Steve. Now flip it before it burns."
Nearby, the former Goddess of Wisdom had set up a folding table with a hand-painted sign: COSMIC GUIDANCE SOLUTIONS. Her once-omniscient eyes now glazed over as she recited scripted lines into a headset. "Yes, ma'am, I absolutely see your aura is... very purple today. For just five easy payments of $19.99, I can—what? No, I can't tell you where you left your keys anymore. That was the old business model."
The Death Queen, perched on the unemployment office's roof like a vulture, sipped celestial coffee (black, with a splash of arsenic) and took notes. "Darling, we should invest. I give them six months before someone tries to unionize."
Li Qing observed as the former God of Frost attempted to work an air conditioning repair job—his hands shaking too badly to hold the tools. Without a word, she froze his wrench in place mid-air. He stared at it, then at her, eyes watering. "Why help me?"
She considered this. "Practice."
Meanwhile, the Fox Spirit had turned the "Skills Assessment" booth into pure chaos. Former deities emerged dazed, holding certificates proclaiming them experts in "Underwater Basket Weaving" and "Advanced Procrastination."
And at the very back of the line, the Void Emperor—now just a pale, gaunt man in a too-large suit—glared at the "Now Hiring" flyer for interdimensional janitorial staff. His resume, when he finally reached the desk, contained one line:
"Former Cosmic Overlord. Proficient in existential despair."
The plush demon handling intake stamped it without looking. "We'll call you."
END OF CHAPTER 97