Congratulations! You’ve been selected by The Sovereign Accord for mandatory enlightenment. Your start date is “immediately” and the dress code is “galactic business casual with light armor.” Please arrive fifteen minutes early to fill out your Ascension paperwork and surrender your remaining free will at the front desk.

That’s right — the divine bureaucracy has gone corporate. The new HR department of Heaven wants to make sure your soul file is up to date, your karmic history is compliant, and your aura meets federal radiance standards. Ra learned this the hard way when her onboarding packet came with a 200-page nondisclosure agreement and a complimentary quartz USB drive labeled “Install Update 2.0: Homo Galacticus.”

The orientation begins with Mehen, of course — the charismatic CEO of spiritual capitalism — explaining that humanity is “ready for its next phase of evolution.” Translation: you’ll be evolving on his terms, at his pace, and preferably on camera for recruitment ads. “We offer purpose, pay, and planetary relevance,” he beams. “Ascend or perish.” Nothing says job security like divine ultimatum.

Then there’s the benefits meeting. “Full healthcare,” the HR rep promises, “including telepathic therapy and AI-approved emotional support cats.” Ra nearly raises her hand to ask if dental is covered, but the HR bot senses sarcasm and flags her for “vibrational noncompliance.” Someone next to her asks if they can opt out of merging their consciousness with the mainframe. The answer is no — but they do get a coupon for half off the next reincarnation cycle.

Next up is the team-building exercise: trust falls through wormholes. Nothing strengthens morale like watching your colleagues vanish into parallel dimensions. Ra watches the group laugh nervously, realizing the whole workshop feels less like spiritual awakening and more like a cult with a PowerPoint. She glances at Mehen’s flawless jawline and glowing tattoos and wonders if gods can be audited.

There’s also the classic icebreaker: “Share your biggest fear about ascension!” The answers range from “losing individuality” to “getting demoted to Pluto.” Ra’s is simple — “becoming another checkbox on someone’s prophecy spreadsheet.” The HR drone notes it down and recommends a wellness app called Calm Before the Cataclysm.

After orientation, recruits line up for their first DNA synchronization. “It won’t hurt much,” the technician says, which is what everyone says before reprogramming your mitochondria. The lights flicker, the air hums, and someone’s aura short-circuits into glitter smoke. HR applauds. “Growth opportunity!” they shout.

By the time Ra exits the building, the sun is setting, and her employee badge still reads “Provisional Goddess, Level 3.” She tosses it in the nearest cosmic recycling bin. Enlightenment, she realizes, doesn’t come from clocking in — it comes from walking out.

So if Cosmic HR calls you next, let it go to voicemail. Enlightenment shouldn’t feel like onboarding. And if the afterlife requires a dress code, a timecard, or a quarterly review, maybe it’s time to unionize the universe.

Because sometimes the most spiritual thing you can say at orientation is, “I quit.”