“Hello, God?” Michael called into the sterilized lab, leaning around the doorway. “Yeah.” “Your package just got in.” “Oh! My goodness, that's fantastic,” God said, looking up from a tray of partially-dissected sin. He hurried over to the archangel, grabbing the package out of his hands like an all-powerful and divine child snatching their omnipotence-enhancing allowance. He unwrapped the bulky, pristine microscope and heaved it onto the desk, tinkering with the nobs and dials for a moment before sliding a petri dish underneath and peering into the device. Michael watched as the eagerness and excitement slowly faded, plateauing into a blank expression for a time before divots of concern formed across his forehead and blossomed around his mouth. “Is everything okay?” he asked his employer. God broke His silence after another moment, “Uh,” before sinking back into speechlessness again and just extending a palm out and upward, his eyes still glued to the microscope. “God?” “What the fuck is this?” “What?” God stood up and looked at Michael, his face still hardened into rigid concern. They both stared at each other; Michael opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say. “Have a look,” God said. Michael scurried over to the apparatus, hunching over and looking into the miniscule collection of galaxies floating around the petri dish. God turned a dial to focus the microscope for Michael and waited. He watched the archangel’s shoulders and wings slacken from a compound of revelation and concern. “Is that…” “Yep, I think it is.” “Yep.” “Life.” Michael twisted another dial, extending the scope for a closer look. A grimace broke over his face and his mouth opened a little in disgust. “Yikes.” God pushed air into his cheeks and steadily released it. “Are we sure those aren't just, maybe, rock formations?” Michael asked. “Take a whiff” God said. Michael leaned down and inhaled the odor from the dish. “Is that copper and… ammonia?” “Blood and urine,” God said, “There's definitely more than a couple bottom feeders scuttling around in there.” Michael looked back into the scope. “Yeah, looks like some of them are self-aware.” God cringed. “Is it salvageable?” He asked, leaning against the table, His eyes and brow covered with His palm. “I could try diluting the mixture with hydrogen and oxygen again.” “Uhh--Nope, looks like they're almost interplanetary. Probably won't work.” “Great.” “How long has this been sitting out like this?” Michael asked, swiveling the dish around a little while he peered into the universe. God massaged his forehead, “Well I was out with that cold for a little while, so--I dunno--maybe a few billion years?” “God, come on.” “I know, I know.” “And it's just been next to that dissected sin, in the open air like that?” “I guess,” God muttered. “No way is that up to code.” “Is there anything we can work with at all? There's gotta be something worthwhile.” “Um, I'm spotting war, arrogance, reality television, greed. Wow, I never see decadence and famine that close to each other,” Michael cooked an eyebrow, almost impressed. “Oh! They have a well-established social hierarchy encapsulated within an intricate political sy--Oh, no, never mind. This is a trainwreck.” God sighed and tightened his mouth into a high, thin line as he stared at His work for a moment. “Welp,” He grabbed the petri dish and tossed it into the incinerator slot on the wall, “shit just happens, I guess.”