Guardian Demon and Guardian Angel

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Heaven is a deathly bore. And then there's her. A Guardian Angel with the face of a supermodel and the temperament of a school prefect. We've been bickering for millennia. I propose a mini-apocalypse for fun, and she whines about universal harmony and mercy for bugs. Our growling was audible even at the Throne of God, so the management's patience snapped.

This punishment was clearly devised by her or that weakling Mikhail. To strip me of my true form! To stuff me into this meat doll. To feel the cold, the hunger... Abomination. Although they picked a decent body: I'm tall, strong, my jacket is bursting at the seams at the shoulders. But these human needs! I had to eat shawarma to blend in. Shawarma! That sulfurous aftertaste would have seemed like manna from heaven. And she stands next to me in the body of some goddess, wrinkling her perfect nose at the smell of fried meat. Hypocrite.

Our order, voiced through a smartphone by a faceless dispatcher, sounded like a death sentence:

"Subject: Artyom Volkov, 20 years old. Chaos level: critical. Task: life support." We found him quickly. He was sitting on a bench near the entrance to a typical apartment building, wearing a baggy sweatshirt. He looked like he was trying to choose a movie for the evening while munching on chips. Is this the source of "critical chaos"? He's the very embodiment of despondency. She squatted down softly in front of him.

• Hello, Artyom. The guy raised his head. First, he saw her angelic face. His jaw dropped. Then his gaze slid higher and landed right on my chest. I had to bend over. "Your mother..." he croaked, trying to crawl back. "A hallucination?" "Relax, mortal," I rumbled. "We're your new guards. She's the light jailer, I'm the dark one. And I also double as security. He looked wildly from her to me. He's either going to faint or have a fit. (From the demon's perspective, of course.)