Postcards from the Subconscious
that's what dreams are
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All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author--in this case, Rose. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
“...This isn’t Hell.”

“Observant as ever,” came the voice of the Voice from behind Bartleby, causing the ang–hum–whatever he was now to whirl. “I’m starting to think you should have left Wisconsin sooner.”

“What the fuck’s going on here?” There wasn’t exactly a lot of emotion behind that–Bartleby was, after all, recently dead, and that takes a lot of energy out of you–but it was a serious question none-the-less. He had been expecting flames and screams and the traditional smell of sulfur (though here he was quite wrong–hell smells like that one perfume that instantly gives you a headache and makes you want to be sick to your stomach) not...Heaven. If this was Heaven. It seemed to be Heaven.

It was quite possible, at this point, that Bartleby was slightly hysterical, but he wouldn’t be caught admitting that.

“You know, for all the Rules going on, the Laws, the Regulations, as it were, it seems that everyone,” pause, “myself included, forgot one very important fact.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“God can do anything. Even change His mind.”

From Somewhere Over There–the geography of Heaven isn’t very precise, much to the annoyance of those who get in and want to only spend their time with others of their faith–a female voice yelled, “Her mind, Metatron!” to which he replied, “Him, her, bloody well make up a new pronoun, why don’t you? Some of the humans even had the sense to, you’d think Heaven could keep up with that.”

“...You have got to be kidding me.” Bartleby didn’t quite think there was any other response he could make.

“Unfortunately, no.” He shrugged. “You were human. As a human, you start over. Fresh slate. Then you and Loki had to go screw the whole thing up. Brilliant, that one.” Bartleby bristled, but Metatron merely continued. “But you both had the sense to repent. Granted, it was a close one with you, but it was before you died. Ergo,” he waved idly, “Heaven.”

“So why isn’t the universe destroyed then?”

“Can’t you just accept that you’re back home and leave it at that?” Irritated, he sighed, absently rubbing at a stain on his coat–and that, Bartleby decided, was not something he wanted to think about too in-depth. “Bartleby and Loki, the angels, couldn’t return. Technically speaking. But you died human. Get it? And, besides, what good is a God who can’t even change hi–HER mind when she wants to?”

Bartleby stared. He pondered. He went so far as to sit down heavily, pulling his knees to his chest and staring–again–at the beings around him, humans–well, former humans–expired humans, one might say–and angels alike. “So...what am I?”

“What are you?” He twisted to see the blonde haired angelmanspirit smiling at him, eyes alive, instead of glassy like they were when he–he–no, don’t think about that. “You’re home, Bartleby.” Loki’s voice was almost teasing as he extended a hand to help his friend up.

After a moment, Bartleby took the hand and rose, upon which he found himself behind slugged rather hard in the jaw. “What the hell was that for?!” More energetic this time.

“Only for killing me. Come on, I feel like a drink, and I hear they’ve gotten around to getting decent substitutes for actual alcohol.”

Bartleby stared after his friend as he sauntered off, before looking back at the Metatron.

“Don’t ask me. I’m still pissed over the suit.”

...No. Don’t think about that. Really don’t think about that, he decided, before heading off to see where in Heaven one could find a decent drink.

And the God who was not only capable of changing hisher mind, but also had a sense of humour, laughed.

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