Celestial Unemployment Benefits
When a recently unemployed goddess crashes through his ceiling, a struggling astronomy professor discovers that the mysteries of the universe are nothing compared to navigating divine bureaucracy and an unexpected roommate situation.
Synopsis: Dr. Alan Tenny's struggling academic career takes an unexpected turn when Astra, a recently laid-off goddess of supernovas, crashes through his classroom ceiling and becomes his roommate. As he helps her navigate modern job hunting and mortal life, she inadvertently proves his controversial theories about astronomical anomalies correct - by causing them. Together, they face mounting bills, academic skepticism, and the ruthless Celestial Efficiency Department that's determined to automate divine positions. Their unlikely friendship challenges both cosmic and academic bureaucracies, forcing them to question the true meaning of purpose in both mortal and immortal realms. As Astra's powers become increasingly unstable and Tenny's career hangs by a thread, they must find a way to prove that some things - like the human heart and divine inspiration - simply can't be automated.
Chapter 1: A Matter of Cosmic Unemployment
Dr. Alan Tenny knew his tenure presentation was doomed the moment he noticed the typo in his title slide: "Anomalous Supernova Behavior: Patterns in Celestial Mechanixs." Six years of research, a decade of observation, and he'd managed to fumble the spelling of 'mechanics.' He could already see Dean Wells making notes, her Mont Blanc pen scratching judgments into her leather portfolio.
"The spectrographic analysis demonstrates," he continued, pointing to the graph with trembling hands, "that these particular supernovas exhibit behavior inconsistent with known physical laws. The decay patterns suggest—"
The ceiling didn't just break—it dematerialized. A perfect circle of reality simply ceased to exist, replaced by a swirling vortex of cosmic debris and what appeared to be administrative paperwork. Through this impossible hole descended a woman in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, her descent punctuated by falling pieces of fluorescent lighting and ceiling tile.
She landed on his desk with quantum precision, managing somehow not to disturb a single paper. The vortex above her snapped shut with a sound like a filing cabinet closing.
"Reference number C-471, Celestial Employment Office?" she asked, consulting a tablet that seemed to be made of condensed starlight. Her eyes swept the room, taking in the dropped jaws of the tenure committee and the scattered remnants of Alan's career aspirations. "Ah. Dimensional coordinates are off." She straightened her jacket, which shimmered with what might have been distant galaxies. "Human resources really needs to update their interdimensional GPS. Budget cuts, you understand."
The woman stepped off his desk—her heels clicking against his graphed evidence of astronomical irregularities—and walked through the solid door as if the laws of physics were merely polite suggestions.
In the stunned silence that followed, Alan watched a single sheet of paper drift down from the deconstructed ceiling. Through the new skylight, he could see a supernova blooming in the afternoon sky, its light bending around the physics building in ways his equations had predicted but never proven.
"As I was explaining about unexpected stellar phenomena—" he began.
"That will be all, Dr. Tenny." Dean Wells stood, her chair scraping against linoleum with bureaucratic finality. "We'll contact you regarding your... unconventional research directions."
He found her again that evening, after spending hours dodging facilities management and writing increasingly creative incident reports. She was curled on his apartment couch, wearing his old CalTech sweatshirt, surrounded by empty ramen cups and watching cooking shows with the intensity of a newborn star.
"Your mortal sustenance options are limited," she said without looking up. "And your telescope's parallax alignment is off by 0.03 degrees."
"You're the woman who broke physics in my classroom today."
"Astra," she corrected, finally turning to face him. Her eyes held the light of dying stars, but there was something else there too—something almost like fear. "Former Superintendent of Supernovas, Level III. Currently..." she gestured vaguely at herself, at his worn couch, at the general indignity of her situation, "seeking new opportunities."
"What happened?"
"The Celestial Efficiency Department decided my position could be automated. Apparently, an AI can manage stellar death with greater cost-effectiveness than a goddess with millennia of experience." She laughed, and somewhere in the Carina Nebula, a star went supernova three centuries ahead of schedule. "Progress marches on, even in the divine realm."
Through his window, a constellation rearranged itself briefly before snapping back into place. His phone buzzed with another text from his brother about overdue loan payments. On TV, someone was crying over an underproofed loaf of bread.
"I don't suppose divine beings have savings accounts?" he asked.
She changed the channel with a gesture that briefly warped spacetime. "I'll need your WiFi password," she said. "And perhaps instruction on operating your coffee maker. I've never had to make my own before." A pause. "It won't be for long. Just until I sort out this temporary setback."
Above them, visible through the thin apartment ceiling, a star pulsed with impossible light—like a cosmic heartbeat seeking its rhythm in a universe suddenly operating under new management.