Chapter 9: Divine Therapy (and Other War Crimes)
The white room looked like heaven threw up IKEA.
Bright lights. Floating chairs. A table that looked like it was made of clouds and sarcasm.
Aza slouched in his seat, masked, legs crossed, twirling a pen he "borrowed" from the receptionist. Across from him sat the most done-with-everything angel in existence — wings half-molted, halo flickering like a dying bulb, wearing glasses that screamed "I haven't slept since the Fall."
"Name?" the angel asked, writing without looking up.
"Aza," he said proudly. "Full name: Ass Assin. Profession: chaos with a salary."
The angel's quill froze mid-air. "...Your name is literally Ass Assin?"
"Yup. Blame my parents. Or the author. Whichever's funnier."
Sol sighed inside his head. "Behave, Aza."
"Don't worry, I'm on my best behavior," Aza whispered. "For the first five minutes."
The angel rubbed his temples. "I'm Seraphiel, your celestial therapist. I'll be conducting a divine mental evaluation." He gestured to a glowing orb hovering beside him. "This will record your emotional responses."
"Cool," Aza said, grabbing it. "Does it play music? Maybe some Taylor Swift?"
"It records, not entertains."
"Bummer."
Seraphiel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright, first question: How do you feel about your relationship with Sol?"
Aza leaned back, smirking. "It's complicated. He lives in my head rent-free, nags like a mother, and occasionally yells during explosions. Classic toxic roommate energy."
"I am not your roommate," Sol growled in his mind.
"See?" Aza said aloud, pointing to his forehead. "He's right there. Constant commentary."
Seraphiel wrote something down. "Delusional auditory manifestations, check."
"Hey, he's real!"
"Of course he is," Seraphiel said in that tired therapist voice that meant he definitely didn't believe him. "Tell me, Aza — why do you fight?"
Aza shrugged. "Because violence is cheaper than therapy."
"I'm literally your therapist."
"Yeah, but you're free. That's suspicious."
Seraphiel sighed deeply, like an angel regretting immortality. "Let's rephrase. What motivates you? Money? Glory? Redemption?"
"Gas money," Aza said without hesitation.
"Gas money?"
"Do you have any idea how expensive teleportation runes are these days?"
"...We're in heaven."
"Still expensive!"
---
Seraphiel stared at him for a long moment, then said, "Alright, let's do a guided meditation. Close your eyes."
Aza crossed his arms. "If this turns into a cult thing, I'm suing."
"Breathe in."
He inhaled loudly.
"Breathe out."
He exhaled even louder, like a dying walrus.
"Try not to sound like a deflating balloon, please."
"No promises."
"Imagine a calm meadow."
"Done."
"There's a river flowing peacefully beside you."
"Can I drink from it?"
"It's metaphorical."
"So… no?"
"...No."
"Then what's the point of it?"
Seraphiel's halo dimmed slightly. "Fine. Imagine your inner peace."
"I'm imagining pizza."
"That's not peace."
"It is to me."
---
Seraphiel groaned, flipping a page in his notes. "Let's move on. What about your childhood?"
Aza blinked behind his mask. "Oh, you mean that episode of character development no one talks about?"
"Yes."
"Well, my parents named me Aza. That's trauma enough."
"Anything else?"
"I once accidentally joined a cult. Thought it was a book club."
"...How do you accidentally join a cult?"
"They had snacks and matching robes."
Sol sighed. "He's not lying."
Seraphiel froze. "Wait—you heard that voice too?"
"See? Told you!" Aza said, triumphant. "I'm not crazy, just cosmically gifted."
"I'd argue both," Sol muttered.
"Gifted and talented," Aza corrected.
---
Seraphiel set his quill down. "Alright. Let's try something different. I'm going to show you a series of Rorschach images. Tell me what you see."
He held up the first card.
"Easy," Aza said. "That's a dragon eating a taco."
"It's a butterfly."
"Your butterfly's hungry."
Next card.
"Looks like my ex."
"You had an ex?" Sol asked.
"I think so. Hard to tell, we were both wearing masks."
Next card.
"That's clearly a clown with tax problems."
"It's a tree."
"Still a clown."
Seraphiel buried his face in his hands. "I was not paid enough for this afterlife."
---
Then came the emotional whiplash.
Seraphiel leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Do you ever feel alone, Aza?"
The air changed. The lights dimmed. The humor evaporated — just for a second.
Aza didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted down to the floor. "...All the time," he said quietly.
Even Sol went silent.
Seraphiel waited.
Aza smirked under his mask. "But that's why I talk so much. You can't feel lonely if you never shut up, right?"
Seraphiel studied him, eyes softening. "That's not how that works."
"Maybe not for you."
There was a pause. A heavy one.
Then Aza snapped his fingers. "Anyway, how's your love life, Doc? Anyone special in the halo department?"
Seraphiel blinked. "What—no, that's not—"
"Oh come on, don't lie. You look like you listen to sad harp music at 2 a.m."
"I do not!"
Aza gasped. "So you do listen to harp music!"
"I said—!"
"Caught you, halo boy!"
Seraphiel's halo flickered red. "You are the worst patient in existence!"
"And proud of it!"
---
At that moment, alarms blared through the room. The glowing orb began flashing crimson.
"What's that?" Aza asked.
"The orb detected elevated chaos levels!" Seraphiel shouted. "You're destabilizing the sanctum!"
"Cool," Aza grinned. "Therapy speedrun!"
The walls cracked. The floor opened beneath them. Aza fell backward, arms outstretched. "WHEEEEEEE!"
Sol screamed in his head, "STOP ENJOYING THIS!"
"NEVER!"
Seraphiel's voice echoed faintly from above. "You're banned from divine therapy forever!"
"Best review I've ever gotten!" Aza yelled as he crashed through several glowing layers of sky before splattering onto a soft cloud.
He sat up, brushed off the ashes from his suit, and muttered, "Ten outta ten. Would traumatize therapist again."
Sol groaned. "You're impossible."
"Impossible," Aza said with a grin, "is just my middle name."
"You don't have a middle name."
"Then I'll make one."
He stood up, cracked his neck, and looked at the burning sky above.
"Next stop," he said, stretching his arms, "whatever's dumber than this."