Happy Holidays, ladylier!

[goe_mod]

Title: The Good Omens Place

Summary: Anathema finds that she has died. But good news! She’s made it to the Good Place! And everything is exactly as it seems! At least, that’s what the architect of the neighborhood, AJ, wants her to believe. Something between a crossover and an au of Good Omens and The Good Place, mostly GO characters.
Recipient: Ladylier
Rating: G
Pairings: Newt/Anathema, Aziraphale/Crowley, Shadwell/Madame Tracy
Warnings: None really, character death but that’s kind of the point of The Good Place, they’re fine lol
Author’s note to ladylier: Well, my friend, YOU actually came up with this title a long time ago when we talked about this very idea, and I’m happy to finally have written it. That may be a hint for who your secret author is, but I have to give you credit! Happy holidays! <3

She woke up.

The first thing she saw was a white wall, and the words, written in green, EVERYTHING IS FINE!

Well, Anathema thought, that seems like a good omen.

The next thing she saw was a youngish man with far-too-well-styled hair in a dark suit and sunglasses, which did not. But when he caught her eye, he smiled at her in a friendly way that did not, somehow, in the slightest suggest that he was about to start flirting with her, which did help.

“Hello,” he said with a wave. “Listen. I know you probably have a lot of questions, but the important thing is not to worry. You’re going to be okay.”

His chipper tone of voice made it seem like he wasn’t about to sue her, either, so she felt herself calming down even more. In fact, it was almost as though it were impossible to be worried here. She couldn’t remember where she was or how she had gotten here, but it was almost like she had simply no adrenaline whatsoever, simply the feeling of peace that she had missed through even the best moments of her life.

A concise conversation with the man later, and Anathema had discovered exactly why this was.

The man, who called himself AJ, sat across a desk from her, leaning back, relaxed, his hands steepled, smiling at her. Anathema adjusted her worldview.

“So—you’re sort of like—an angel?”

AJ smiled. “Sort of.”

“I suppose you would have to be, to be running the—the—”

“The Good Place.” AJ gestured around him. “We call it that to be more inclusive of the various religions’ concepts of afterlives, heavens, nirvanas, etc.”

Anathema squirmed in her chair. So, a heaven it was, then. In spite of her rather unconventional upbringing, with a book that prophecied right up until the day of her death, and a great respect for witchcraft, she hadn’t really known what she’d believed in as far as after went. When you knew everything beforehand about the during part of life, it was hard to make yourself imagine anything else with any sort of confidence. She had been somewhat hoping for reincarnation. It might be nice to be a cat.

At least there weren’t floaty clouds and harps everywhere.

In fact, the Good Place, as AJ took her on her very first tour, looked surprisingly like the Earth. Surprisingly like a modern, Western Earth, to be more specific. In fact, it looked a lot like London. Only certain parts of London, of course. The tourist traps and poorer parts of town were gone. She felt oddly sick. It wasn’t nerves, exactly, just the faintest feeling that something was off. Maybe it would go away.

And it wasn’t quite nerves that she felt when she saw what was supposedly her ‘dream home’. It hovered more around ‘disappointment’.

“It’s—a flat.”

“One of the nicest flats you would have found in London,” AJ said with a beaming grin. “The most modern of styles, plenty of room to stretch out, and best of all—no rent. You won’t ever have to worry about paying for anything again.”

While that did sound nice, although a bit less so for someone who’d always known which horse was going to win at the races, Anathema couldn’t help wrinkling her nose a bit as she looked around. The interior was stark white—everything was, including the furniture, which looked about as comfortable as a bench made of marble—except for the television and sound equipment, of which there was rather a lot, and which was all black.

“It’s—”

“Different from what you’re used to, I know,” AJ said with a creased brow and, still, that ever-present smile. “After your stark upbringing, it might take you some time to get comfortable with living in style and luxury.”

Anathema gave him a crooked smile and felt her emotional state edge a bit closer towards ‘anxious’.

“Now.” AJ gestured her forwards and flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “The thing you’re really looking forward to now that you’ve made it to the Good Place. Are you ready to meet him?”

“Meet—whom?” Anathema ran through the list of every male family member she could remember in her head. Or perhaps he was referring to someone else, like some historical figure she’d always wanted to have dinner with. She could only think of women.

In response, AJ swooped over to one of the doors down the hall and grabbed the handle. Before turning it, he said, in a voice that suggested a wink even though she could not see his eyes, “Why, your soul mate, of course.”

Now Anathema was worried.

Because when he opened the door, behind it, standing as though he had been waiting for his cue for goodness knows how long, was a man that Anathema was ashamed to say she found very plain looking and utterly unremarkable.

But that’s okay, she thought in a panic. I’m not shallow—at least I don’t think I am. I mean, I don’t want to be. I’m sure I could grow to love him over time—that is, I’m sure they don’t allow shallow people into heaven, and apparently I’m here, so—

“Hi,” said the man. He looked incredibly embarrassed. This endeared him to her right away. She even managed to smile and wave back.

“That’s right,” said AJ like some sort of gameshow host. “Meet your soulmate, one Newton Pulsifer. Funnily enough, the two of you almost crossed paths during your lives, but you never quite met. But don’t worry—that’s what the Good Place is for. Trust us. You two were fated.”

Newton and Anathema followed AJ back to her new flat, where he left them at the door.

“I’ll give you two time to get acquainted,” he said. “Not that it should take too long—I’m jealous, really. Romantic love is one of the most fascinating things you humans get to experience. Introducing soulmates has always been my favorite part. I’m so excited for you guys! Well, ciao!” Right before he left, one hand on the doorframe, he leaned back in and added, “Whoops, almost forgot to introduce you! Of course, you know Newton. Newt, this is Sister Mary Loquacious. Have fun, you two!”

Then he was gone.

And now Anathema was really nervous.

“Wow,” Newt said. “Soulmates! Heh. Weird, huh?”

He went on talking for a bit. Anathema did not catch a single word. She stared at his face and felt a sinking feeling that she should definitely not be feeling in Heaven, or whatever this place called itself. Finally, Newt stopped talking.

“Well,” he said, “sorry, I’ve just been rattling on. Guess I’m still getting used to being dead, and all that. Er. But. Ah, tell me about yourself! You seem really interesting already. I love your—er—hair.”

“My name,” she said, “is Anathema.”

“Er.” Newt put his hand on the back of his head. “Hey. It’s not that bad. I mean, ‘Loquacious’ is a bit rough. But Mary’s nice.”

“No. Anathema—is my name.”

“You—you mean like your Christian name?”

Anathema glared daggers at him.

Newt put his hands up reflexively. “Okay. Hold on. Your name—is not Mary? Then why does AJ keep calling you that?”

“Because he thinks I’m someone else,” Anathema said. “He thinks I’m—a nun? I mean, really? Look at me. Do nuns really have this hairstyle?”

“I’m—confused,” Newt said. He actually started to pull at the collar of his shirt. Anathema didn’t know people actually did that. “Why does he think you’re a nun? Why has he been calling you by the wrong name? Why are you called Anathema?”

“Because—” and Anathema found herself pulling at her own hair, as though she were also in some sort of cartoon. “Because.” Her eyes grew wide. “Because I’m not supposed to be here.”

To put the cherry on top of the whole ridiculous sundae of clichés, Newt’s jaw actually dropped.

It was some time later. Newt was still looking like the definition of ‘frazzled’. Anathema was starting to calm down. This was mostly because she was used to having her way, and she was used to having other people not want her to. She hadn’t gotten her undergraduate degree in Women and Gender Studies for nothing.

“So—let me go over this again.” He fiddled with his glasses and paced back and forth. Lucky there’s plenty of room in this spacious flat, Anathema thought wryly. “You honestly believe, that AJ, the supernatural being with extreme knowledge, has mistaken you for someone else?”

“Listen. His name is AJ,” Anathema said. “I hardly think he’s actually a god.”

“Whatever he is, he runs this place. But you think you’re not supposed to be here. Then—then where are you supposed to be?”

Newt stared at her in horror. Anathema ignored him. “I wonder,” she said, “if his name is actually ‘Azra Josiah’ or something. That would make more sense.”

“Did you—did you try to get here? Did you somehow sneak in?”

“No! I just ended up here. One minute I was alive, the next I was sitting across from the ‘Everything is Fine!’ wall, thinking it was a good omen, only to find out very soon that it very much was not.”

“Okay. Okay, so you weren’t a nun. Then what were you?”

Anathema bit her lip. Then she told him of her life’s work.

“A witch.” Newt sank onto her flat white sofa and ran his hands down his face. “My soulmate is a witch.” He glanced at her through his fingers. “When they find out—oh my god.”

Anathema refused to be worried about anything that could be caused by her being a witch. She had made that decision long ago.

Newt looked worried enough for the both of them.

“Listen,” Anathema said in a low voice. “Maybe it’s all right. That I don’t belong here, I mean. Because to be honest, well, I don’t really like it here. I’m certainly not a nun. Maybe I should just tell AJ that he made a mistake. Maybe there’s a place that fits me better, a place I belong.”

Newt stood up and put his hands on Anathema’s shoulders. He fixed her with a stare that was more intense and serious than she would have imagined him capable of. She was almost impressed.

“Anathema,” he said. “You may not be what I was expecting for my soulmate, but there is no way I’m letting you go to the Bad Place. This guy, one of our neighbors, was talking to AJ, and he got him to say a few things about it. He was talking about how he had spent his life fighting witches and warlocks and, and wiles, or something, and he said he hoped they were ‘ablaze and repentant of their evil ways’, and AJ started talking about how they torture people in the Bad Place and—well. AJ is immortal so he probably doesn’t understand pain like we do. But he winced. A lot.”

Anathema blanched. “Okay. So, maybe not the dancing naked in the forest while the devil is there, playing a pan-flute and partying with half-goat people that some historical artwork made me imagine—”

“We can’t tell him,” Newt said. “We’ll just pretend you’re Mary. Okay? This is eternity we’re talking about. Eventually you’ll get used to it. I doubt you’ll ever get used to people burning off your fingernails, or whatever it was he said they did as part of the Bad Place morning routine…”

Anathema didn’t know how she felt about lying for eternity. But Newt had said ‘we’, and it had made her, against her better judgment and the fact that he was wearing socks with sandals, trust him. She smiled.

“Okay,” she said. “And, Newton?”

“You can call me Newt,” he said. He gave a nervous laugh. “Like that’s better.”

“You’re talking to an Anathema,” she said with a grin. “Well, Mary now, I guess. Newt. Thank you.”

The next few days were a whirlwind. There were all sorts of ‘orientation’ activities to introduce everyone to the Good Place, since they had all arrived at the afterlife close together, and Anathema—Mary—was finding it hard to get her grounding back, especially since she didn’t think it was a good idea to do any of the witchy things she had used to do whenever she’d felt stressed. Maybe she could pretend to burn incense in a pious-at-an-altar way instead of a way that would probably make her neighbor Shadwell start talking about pagan rituals.

It also didn’t help that they didn’t need to sleep here. AJ had informed them with a smile that since they didn’t have physical bodies anymore, it simply wasn’t necessary, and so the orientation events had been going on night and day—except there was no night. The sun shone constantly, without one drop of rain, or even a little gloomy weather. Anathema would have killed for a chill October breeze. She felt like mentioning something about how sleep was important for processing information in the brain, but since she technically didn’t have a physical brain either, she bit her tongue.

“But I’m exhausted,” she said to Newt as they followed the rest of the heavenly crowd to the opening of the new Good Place restaurant, The Rites. “What do you think? Maybe since I’m not supposed to be here, my afterlife form isn’t the same as everyone else’s, and that’s why I can feel discomfort? After all, I guess I would have to, if I’m supposed to be being tortured.”

Newt pulled at his collar again. “Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had a headache ever since I first spoke to you.”

Anathema stared at him.

“Because of the trouble you’re in!” he added in a panic. “And because I’m worried for you!”

Anathema sighed and looked ahead again.

“And I was trying to reassure you that you’re not just miserable because you’re supposed to be tortured, because apparently I’m capable of being tortured too even though I’m supposed to be in Heaven, and—oh, forget it.”

They were seated at a table with their two soulmate next door neighbors, Marjorie Potts and Sergeant Shadwell. After the founder of the restaurant had given her welcome speech, AJ strolled over to their table and pulled up a chair.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Marjorie Potts scootched her chair over, leaving room for the supernatural entity who seemed to control Anathema’s accidentally stolen fate to sit right next to her. She ground her teeth and tried to smile at him.

“Do you eat?” Newt asked.

“I don’t have to,” AJ said brightly. “Have tried it, though. Chewing is so tedious. But I like the tongue stuff.”

Shadwell burst into a coughing fit.

“Hmm,” AJ said. “You shouldn’t still have phantom lung pain. I’ll have to look into that. Anyway, most food is not really my style. I’ve a friend who loves licorice. It’s disgusting.”

“I bet you’d like angel food cake,” Newt said with a laugh.

“HAHA!” AJ said, a bit too loudly, and then he stared off into space for a moment.

“Um.”

“Anyway! Don’t mind me. Dinner is served.”

The four once-humans stared at the table in front of them. Anathema wondered how this would work, if she’d get her favorite food, a good miso soup, maybe a curry.

Instead, she felt the most curious sensation. One moment she’d been feeling slightly peckish—not hungry, of course, seeing as this was the afterlife, but in the mood for food—the next, she felt similar to how she’d felt as a kid when she’d eaten too much popcorn. She felt stuffed. Full. And no food had even appeared.

“Well,” AJ said, clapping his hands together. “That’s that. Now—”

“Th’ devil,” Shadwell snapped. “Where’s the food?”

“Don’t you feel full?”

Shadwell’s mouth opened and closed.

“Er,” said Newt. “I—do, but—but where—”

“We don’t serve actual food here,” AJ explained. “You don’t have bodies, remember? But we’ve found that memories of being full bring peace to spirits like yourselves. Saves a lot of cleaning up, this way. No—” he waved his hands about, “—dishes.”

“Didn’t mind doin’ the dishes of a Sunday afternoon,” Marjorie whispered to herself, barely loud enough for Anathema to hear. “Gave me time to think—”

“But—what about—tastes? Flavors? Textures?” Anathema asked AJ.

He stared at her blankly.

“Erm,” Newt said.

“Nevermind,” Anathema sighed.

“I know we’ve been keeping you all busy,” AJ was saying. “So you might not have had much time to get to know each other. Mary, you and Sergeant Shadwell are actually a part of the same religion. That should be nice for you.”

Anathema forced a smile at the man across the table, who looked up from the table’s lack of dishware with a startled expression.

“And what religion is that, dear?” Marjorie said with an inexplicable giggle. “We’ve hardly had a chance to talk, soulmate to soulmate.”

The sergeant grumbled something. He said, “The witch-burnin’ one.”

Newt burst into a coughing fit that paled in comparison’s to Shadwell’s. Anathema patted him on the back and said pleasantly, “That certainly does sound like what they taught us at the convent. No witchcraft for us!”

“Did you know that Sergeant Shadwell was the head of the entire Witchfinder’s Army of the UK?” AJ said. “You must be proud to have him as soulmate, Miss Potts. I suppose you must have been a spiritual woman yourself?”

“There’ll be plenty of time for us to talk about ourselves,” Marjorie said with a hearty chuckle. “We do have an eternity, after all. Er, AJ, love, it’s truly an honor to have you join us tonight. I’d actually like to take this opportunity to get to know you.”

“Yes,” Anathema said quickly. “It’s thrilling to finally meet an angel, or whatever it is you are. Are there more like you? This surely isn’t every person who’s ever died, so where is everyone else? Are there more of these flats and neighborhoods?”

“Oh yeah,” AJ said. “There are plenty of neighborhoods filled up with people just like this one. I’d tell you the number, but it’s too large for your human brains to comprehend. They’re all led by people like me. I’ll tell you a secret, though—this is my first ever neighborhood! I’m just thrilled to be here with you all!”

“Wow,” said Newt. “What have you been doing up until now, then?”

“You might say I’m a sort of preliminary researcher,” AJ said. “A field agent, if you will. I’ve been living on Earth for the past few millennia, studying humans. Trying to see what makes you tick. Er, that is, I’ve been trying to determine what exactly will make people truly happy.” He gave a low laugh. “Well, good people, that is.”

“Yes, I’d imagine Heaven for bad people would look a bit different,” Anathema said.

“Well, there isn’t one.”

“Right.” She felt her spirit droop.

“But how exactly does the Good Place determine who is good and who’s bad?” Newt asked. “I mean, it’s a question that has been baffling humans since—well, since time began.”

“That’s because you’re humans.” AJ sounded affectionately patronizing. “Really, it’s very simple. There’s a set of rules that have to be followed. No murder, no envy, all that kind of thing. It’s a perfect system.”

“And you watch us and judge our actions on Earth?”

“It’s hard to explain in human terms, but I’ll try—there’s a sort of surveillance camera that watches you and records what you do. It keeps score, and after death, only the humans with the very highest scores end up in the Good Place.”

“That sounds like a competition,” Anathema said.

AJ nodded. “Getting into paradise isn’t easy. Which is why you should all be so proud to be here. Sergeant Shadwell and Sister Mary’s stories are self-evident. They’ve sacrificed their lives for the purposes of fighting evil and promoting piety. Marjorie Potts is here because of the good she did to others. She was a grief counselor.”

“Not officially,” she said with a shy titter.

“Don’t be modest! Your counseling helped countless people face the deaths of their loved ones. Now, Newt, your case is a bit special.”

“I was wondering,” Newt said, “cause I have to admit, I didn’t think I’d ever done anything as spectacular as fighting witches or healing peoples’ hearts.”

“You should still be proud. Newton, you’re here because you never had a negative impact upon another person’s life that was considerable enough to get you sent to the Bad Place. I don’t know how you did it, honestly. It seems like peoples’ actions always managed to affect others, too often for the worse, but not yours. Nope, you kept to yourself, keeping your impact on others’ lives minimal, and hardly hurt a soul. I know a lot of monks and wise men who secluded themselves for their entire lives who would be impressed by you.”

“Oh,” Newt said, scratching the back of his head and smiling, at least he was probably smiling, Anathema thought. “Huh. Would you look at that.”

“I do have one question for you, AJ,” Anathema said.

“What’s that, my dear?”

“I hope this isn’t rude—”

“Highly unlikely, coming from a nun.”

“—erm, thank you, but—why the glasses?”

“Glad you asked. I’ve spent a lot of effort on my appearance, since technically, I look like—well, you wouldn’t understand it even if I told you. It requires descriptions of things that you’ve never experienced, since your senses are only designed to experience things in three dimensions. Anyway, neighborhood hosts choose their appearances in such a way so as to increase the confidence, comfort, and trust of their inhabitants. The suit is to make it clear that I am someone knowledgeable who can help you, while the style of the suit and the glasses make it clear that I’m also laid back. I’m not here to intimidate you! I’ve done a lot of studying, and I’ve found that an adult man in a suit is something that most inspires peoples’ trust.”

“Hmmmmmmmmmm,” Anathema said. “Mmmmmm—mmhm. Fascinating.”

“Also, the glasses are there because if you were to meet my gaze head-on, your spirits would internally combust.”

“Gosh,” Newt said.

“I know.” AJ’s tone brightened. “But no worries there, right? Personally I think the glasses make me look cool. And everyone likes cool people.”

A woman appeared next to the table.

“Hello,” said the woman, who was wearing a purple dress. “I am here to deliver the reminder that you set for yourself that humans consider it rude to only socialize with one group at a party, even though that is the only way to have a truly valuable conversation that goes beyond small-talk, and that exactly fourteen and a half minutes have passed, which means it is time for you to rotate your meaningless socialization to the next group.”

“So soon?” AJ said. “Gosh, humans are silly. But I guess that’s one of the delightful things about you. Oh, introductions. This is Janet. She’s here to provide you with all of your needs. Just call out her name and ‘poof’, she’ll appear.”

“I will not actually poof,” Janet said, with a consistent smile that almost rivaled AJ’s. “I will simply appear instantaneously. To ‘poof’ would suggest that I am appearing by magic, which does not exist. Fun fact! The practice of ‘magic’ is in fact one of the things that will get humans sent to the Bad Place!”

“You don’t say,” Anathema grumbled.

Newt had made a startled squeak at the appearance of Janet, and now was attempting to get her attention with a series of “Um”s and “Erm”s.

“I am programmed to comprehend every language that has ever existed,” Janet said proudly. “Including Klingon and the secret languages of every single childhood friend group. That, however, was not a language.”

“Ah—sorry—er. Janet. Can you answer questions as well as provide us with things?”

“Answers are one of the universe’s most valuable resources. Ask away.”

“Why is magic considered evil? I mean, why is it up there with murder and stuff? Seems like if every magician ended up in the Bad Place, well, that wouldn’t really be fair.”

“The answer to that question is: Ineffable.”

“Um—what?”

“It means impossible to be described,” Anathema said. She turned to Janet. “So then you don’t know the answer?”

“Oh, I know the answer,” Janet said.

“But you just can’t tell us?”

“I just did. ‘Ineffable.’”

“Great,” Newt sighed. “Thanks.”

“Fun fact! ‘Ineffable’ is one of the most common answers to all questions pertaining to the workings of the Good Place.”

“You don’t say,” Anathema said.

“Why d’ye lot keep sayin’ tha’?” Shadwell grumbled. “’You don’t say’. They did say. These youths ‘n their mumbo jumbo….”

“Is there any way to get to the other neighborhoods from here?” Anathema asked Janet. She thought it might be easier to spend an eternity pretending to be someone else if she could move around between more than the several dozen people in this one.

“Each neighborhood is meticulously designed to hold the humans who are most compatible with each other,” Janet said. “So the answer is, No. You can, however, get to the Bad Place.”

“Of course you can.” Anathema glowered down at her plate. “It seems it’s only too easy to get to the Bad Place from pretty much anywhere.”

“Glad to help!” said Janet.

Over the next few days in the Good Place, Anathema discovered more and more how little she belonged here. It was ironic how, even in something like heaven, all she wanted was to feel alive. She would have given anything for an itchy back, just so she could scratch it. Even a tangle in her hair. Instead, everything was perfect all the time, and she was feeling her witchiness reaching its boiling point. Where was the dirt that she could get under her nails? Where was the dust? The cobwebs to clear away, for the sake of feeling that you’d accomplished something, or the spiderwebs to leave, for the sake of living and letting live?

She missed burning her tongue on tea—missed tea at all—missed having to sneeze for the satisfaction of doing it. Her eyes missed peeling wallpaper and cluttered tabletops and tchotchkes and chipped wooden furniture. Her feet missed creaking floorboards and exposed tree roots to trip over. The ‘gardens’ here were perfectly manicured, as at Versailles. She missed overgrown rosebushes with too many thorns and flowers that were small. Flowers that were small always smelled the best.

The people here were perfectly nice. She hadn’t had a good debate in days. Only Newt ever disagreed with her, and even he put up a meek fight at best. She almost loved him just for having said, “Well, actually, I don’t think—” earlier that morning, just because of the blood boiling it gave her, just because at least here was someone else who acted like a person. She would have preferred him to agree with her that their house was altogether too clean and bleach white. She would have preferred him to say, “I think—” instead of “I don’t think—” so she could have heard an actual opinion, thought, taste. Anything from someone else, to make her feel like having a self was still worthwhile.

She could hardly blame him, though. He was in a position that was almost as difficult as her own. She had gotten the feeling early on that Newton Pulsifer did not take well to secrets. Plus, he wanted to help her. Plus he seemed to keep forgetting that if she wasn’t Mary Loquacious, then she couldn’t be his soulmate. He certainly never crossed any boundaries or asked anything of her. But she caught him giving her hopeful looks whenever she said anything approving at all to him. Perhaps, though, that was just the sort of soul he was. Perhaps he hadn’t had much approval his whole life through.

He was nice, really. Not bad at all. And for keeping her secret, and listening to her vent, she almost could have loved him. Almost.

But then, what sort of a place would let love come from as little as that?

She wondered if the others here were genuinely happy with their soulmates. She’d always thought the best kinds of friendships came from shared experiences, and from the little things. A love of the same kinds of museums. Compliments over old boots, so worn the leather was all cracked, and that’s the way both of you liked them. She’d assumed romantic love would be the same. Only with snogging. She’d never done much of that.

Most of the neighbors seemed perfectly content. Marjorie Potts and Shadwell, though, seemed an odd pair. Shadwell seemed confused by absolutely everything, Ms. Potts’s attentions being no exception. But Marjorie herself had more to her than the cheery, deary persona she put forth, Anathema was sure.

Dear Newt was doing his best to entertain them whenever they popped by. He was asking Miss Potts and Shadwell about their relationship, whether or not they had met before their deaths, and what it was like for them finally meeting their soulmate. Anathema knew she was a disappointment to him. They hadn’t even tried being romantic. Holding hands seemed a bit out of place when she was facing the Bad Place and the prospect of meeting the devil himself.

“So it sounds like you were a bit of a relationship expert, as well?” Newt asked her one day. They’d met while taking a walk—they took a lot of walks, as the weather was always temperate and there wasn’t much else to do. My queendom for some weeds to pull, some leaves to rake, anything, Anathema thought.

“Well, love,” Miss Potts replied, looking rather shy. “What I really said was that the, er, grief counseling was only several days a week, and during the other days I spent with clients working on matters more related to intimacy…”

“What kind of intimacy?” Anathema said with narrowed eyes, feeling the time for subtlety was nearly passed.

Ms. Potts gave a nervous chuckle.

“Stand up, laddie,” Shadwell was barking at Newt, who was obeying to his best ability with a panicked expression. “Ye’ll no make a fit husband fer a nun wi’ a spine like that.”

“It does seem a bit odd, a nun having a husband,” Ms. Potts tittered quietly.

Anathema decided enough was enough. She hooked her arm around Ms. Potts’s and dragged her several yards away, behind a flowering bush so perfectly spherical, it was as though the leaves were curled into themselves in terror of being out of place,

“All right, I suppose it’s not fair of me to interrogate you without giving up something of my own,” Anathema said in a rapid, hushed voice to the startled Marjorie. “I know you’re hiding something. You’ve looked awfully nervous ever since I’ve met you, but never more so than when AJ appears, and I know that feeling because I have that feeling. I’m—not entirely, one hundred percent certain that everything here is completely as it should be. And it’s supposed to be the Good Place, so saying that is very suspicious, so really, I’m really putting myself out here, and—and I hope, if you’re as kindhearted a person as I think you are, that you’ll—that you’ll consider telling me—”

“I’m a fraud,” Ms. Potts cried. She burst into tears, and Anathema felt like a horrible person for the first time since entering the Good Place. But, to her astonishment, the woman hugged the witch to her and held her tightly. “Oh, thank you, pet, you’ve no idea what good you’ve done me. I don’t care if they throw me into the Bad Place! I can’t keep up this pretense anymore.”

“But—but you seem lovely,” Anathema said. “I mean, I thought you had something to hide, but I don’t understand. You’re not secretly evil, are you?”

“Not—as such,” Ms. Potts hiccupped. She sighed. “I’m not who they said I am.”

“You’re not Marjorie Potts?”

“Well, I am. Or I was. In my youth. But, love, I don’t think they quite know what sort of intimacy work I’ve done under the name of—of Madame Tracy—er—”

“Ah,” said Anathema.

“—or that my ‘grief counseling’ was more in the séance line of work.”

“You held séances?” Anathema was intrigued. “Did they work? Did you ever get in contact with anyone from the other side?”

“Certainly not from this side, love,” Madame Tracy said, her tone a bit pitying, whether for Anathema or herself, it was hard to tell. “Really, it was more like grief counseling. I did those folks a bit of good, I truly believe that. But I never found real magic. Sorry to disappoint you, dear.”

“Oh, you didn’t. I’m a witch.”

“O-oh!”

“Which is not exactly a nun,” Anathema sighed. “And certainly not Sister Mary Loquacious. My name is Anathema Device. I’ve spent my life as a witch, following an accurate book of prophecies left by my ancestor, also a witch. But I don’t think any magic is going to help us out, here. I’m all out of prophecies, and I don’t suppose there’s much point in burning sage to clear out the bad energies in the Good Place, is there?”

They were interrupted by a cacophonous outburst of coughing from Shadwell, who had been trying to show Newt the drills he’d used to do in his peculiar army days.

“I’m not so sure,” Madame Tracy said, her words slow with doubt. “Oh, I don’t know, but this place feels odd. I don’t like keeping secrets. I’d almost turn myself in, only now I know you’re in the same pickle I’m in, I don’t want to stir up trouble for the both of us.”

“I—suppose,” Anathema said, watching uncomfortably as Newt whacked Shadwell on the back. “Thank you. I—I don’t know what I want to do. But, it has to be better than the Bad Place, right?”

They both agreed. Even though Anathema thought Madame Tracy looked a bit sad with the answer to the mysteries behind the veil she’d spent her life pretending to understand.

All of the books in The Good Place had a good moral lesson as their backbone.

Anathema was pulling out her hair, sitting cross-legged on the couch in their too-clean home, wishing, for the first time in her life, for a magazine full of lies about celebrities, just so she could construct a complicated impression of a human being from them.

Newt came in and sat next to her. He sighed in the half-content, half-worried way he did. Anathema wondered, irritated, what he could possibly have to be worried about in the good afterlife he’d rightfully obtained by doing absolutely nothing, until he turned to her and she saw that the worry in his eyes was for nothing but her.

“Er,” he said. “I found what I thought was a snail in the garden, and thought you might like it. You said you missed bugs, right? Er, insects. Creepy crawlies, anything other than beautiful butterflies that float up so high above us we can’t see their actually quite disturbing faces. But, um, now I realize, it’s not a snail, it’s just a perfectly smooth spiral stone.”

“Of course it’s perfect,” Anathema sighed. “Everything dead and lifeless here is.” She realized dimly that ‘dead and lifeless’ technically referred to herself, here, as well. But she gave Newt a small smile. “Thanks, though.”

Newt shrugged. “What are soul mates for?” he said with a weak chuckle.

“You know I’m not actually your soul mate.”

“I know.” Newt shrugged again and gave an awkward sniff. He put on his crooked smile. “You know, I’m not so sure I would’ve liked having a nun as a soul mate, anyway.”

Anathema nodded contemplatively. “You never know. Maybe she was one of those modern nuns.”

“Modern as in--?”

“I don’t know. Rode a pink convertible, felt the wind in her coif and wimple? Watched all the modern television shows and swore on occasion?”

Newt laughed. He had a nice laugh, really, always seemed surprised to be doing it.

“She might say she’s ‘not like other nuns’,” Anathema went on, actually smiling herself. “And watch sports. And be really good at arm wrestling.”

Newt guffawed. “I don’t think I’d like that much at all.”

“All right, then, what do you like?”

“Maybe she’d be good with computers?”

“Oh yes, definitely. The greatest techno-nun you’ve ever met.”

Newt snickered, then sighed. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“Well, you never know.” Anathema even gave a little chuckle herself. The muscles in her core felt out of use.

“No. S’pose I never will.”

And then her smile vanished.

“Still.” Newt turned his half-grin to her, gently sad eyes. “Maybe it’s for the best. Last time I tried to work with computers, I ended up dying.”

“Oh! Gosh. What happened?”

“I can’t remember, exactly. Janet says the memory has been blocked from the forefront of my mind because AJ doesn’t want it to traumatize me. Probably set a house on fire. Wouldn’t want to do that to the Good Place, would we?”

Anathema watched Newton Pulsifer, laughing weakly about his own horrible luck, horrible skill, horrible death, and the horrible outcome of having ended up paired off with an imposter who complained there weren’t bugs enough for her. His laughter trailed off, and he snorted at the end. He looked sober for a moment. Then he said, turning back to her, “Do you think the real Sister Mary is in the Bad Place?”

And that decided it.

Anathema had never much trusted organized religion. People who gave their lives to it may not have been people with whom she’d seen eye to eye.

But if this was the Good Place, then the Bad Place must truly be a nightmare. Or perhaps simply a less-good version of Earth, focused on all the grime and grit, while this place had washed it away. Either way, no one deserved that. Especially if they literally had not deserved it, as decided by whoever or whatever decided who ended up in this place.

She had to talk to Madame Tracy.

AJ stared at the four of them from across his desk.

Anathema, Newt, Ms. Potts AKA Madame Tracy, and Shadwell stared back.

There was one of those Newton’s cradles on his desk. The silver balls went back and forth.

AJ steepled his fingers. He seemed calm. His glasses certainly gave none of his expression away. But Anathema saw a muscle in his mouth twitch, and thought she heard the sound of his foot restlessly tapping from under the desk.

“So—er—” Anathema said. “What do we do now?”

“Well,” AJ said. “Sssince the two of you don’t belong here—” and she could have sworn his sibilant was drawn out more than usual, “—and you’ve gone and told me—” and the snap in his voice there was not lost on her, either, “—I suppossse we’ll just have to decide where you do belong.”

And he smiled. It wasn’t the same flashy grin he’d been using to attempt to disarm them all this whole time. There was bite to it. Had his canine teeth always been that long?

“Er—how do we do that?” Newt asked. “Who does do that, in the first place?”

“The Judge,” AJ said, absentmindedly stroking his chin. “But we can’t—”

“Why not?” Anathema asked.

AJ’s brows pulled together as he gave her a sharp look. “Because the Judge is very busy. And, technically, you were already judged. Both of you,” he gestured to her and to Madame Tracy, “were destined for the Bad Place. You’re a witch. You’re a con-artist who secretly believes in her heretical trade with courtesan-like tendencies on the side. So tell me.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, steepled fingers pressed together so hard they turned white pointed at her. “Tell me a reason you should get to be in the Good Place?”

Anathema stared into the blackness of the glasses this inhuman man-shaped being always wore, almost as if he knew they could never reach him if he did. She could not think of a thing to say.

“Because she’s a good person,” Newt said. “She came here because she didn’t want the real Sister Mary to suffer. And everyone knows Ms. Potts—erm, Madame Tracy—is absolutely lovely.”

“Oh—I wouldn’t—I mean, I don’t mean to—” Madame Tracy sputtered, blushing.

“Madame Tracy has lied to us all—”

“Don’t you go pointing your finger at her!” Shadwell erupted, standing up so suddenly his chair was shoved back with a horrible scraping noise. “Jezebel she may be, but she’s noo denizen of the sulfrous pit! You lay one hand on her, and I’ll—so help me, I’ll—”

AJ sat back in his seat and held up a conciliatory hand. Shadwell was silenced. They all held their breaths.

The corner of AJ’s mouth twitched, this time, into the smallest smile. He said, “Defending her, are we, Sergeant? Mr. Pulsifer? I didn’t know either of you had it in you to take up the role of knight in shining armor.”

Shadwell, still crouched over the desk, tried desperately to hold in a cough, his cheeks poofing out to the sides as his chest rumbled. Newt, meanwhile, had shrunk down in his chair, and was now attempting to slide upwards again without drawing notice to the fact.

AJ put his hands flat on the desk, sucked his lips in, nodded once or twice, then grinned. “That’s an improvement, at least. Might be something I can work with. All right, then. I’ll see what I can do.”

The Judge, apparently, had to arrive by train which could only be called by Janet. She did so. It blew a trail of smoke into the air that blotted out just a tiny part of the too-long perfect sky, and Anathema adored it for that. As she stood on the platform and waited for the doors to open, for the being who would determine her eternal fate to step out, she clenched her fists so hard she could feel her nails digging into her palms. The pain was a relief, but not, she was surprised to find, as much as Newt gently grabbing her hand to stop her from doing it.

The door slid open. A man-shaped figure stepped out. Anathema, Newt, Madame Tracy, and Shadwell peered at him through the smoke and steam.

He looked like someone who might glare at her at a university library for turning her textbook pages too loudly.

The Judge straightened his bowtie, glaring up at the sunny sky and coughing. AJ stepped forward, hesitated, and gave him a little wave. The Judge turned his glare towards him. Then, seeming to notice the human spirits for the first time, something in his face softened.

“Sir,” AJ said, “these two are the, erm—mistakes.”

AJ had gestured to Anathema and Madame Tracy. The Judge’s face hardened again immediately.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”

They sat in AJ’s office. It was as pristine as the rest of the Good Place. There was a single succulent plant on the windowsill. Next to the crisply dressed proprietor of their heaven, the Judge looked positively rumpled. There was a bit of frayed yarn on his sweater-vest. Anathema kept staring at it like a lifeline.

“Are you sure that’s absolutely everything you can tell me to make your case?” the Judge said, eying Anathema. “Not a single detail of goodness missed?”

“I’m sure I helped some neighbors when they ran out of flour, or something,” Anathema said. She tried to keep her tiredness from adding a bite to her tone. “You can’t really expect me to be able to remember every time I was ever a good person. Plus, don’t they have surveillance?”

“She’s right,” AJ mumbled, leaning sideways towards the Judge. “We need something else.”

“I know,” the Judge snapped at him. Then he gave a smile, one that didn’t meet his eyes, to the humans. “Perhaps we ought to focus less on good deeds, and more on internal character. How would you describe yourself, Miss Device?”

Anathema pulled at the fabric of her shirt. In truth, there were many words she would use to describe herself. She had the feeling few of them would impress a judge of this particular system.

“I could describe her,” Newt said. He’d spoken up in what Anathema had grown to know was his ‘I am going to be bold now’ voice. It was a bit shaky, and still not quite loud enough to break through the average conversation, but she felt affection well up within her at the sound of it. “Wouldn’t that be better? To see what sort of a person she is, from an unbiased source. And—and to see what effect she has on people. It’s been only positive, I assure you.”

“It’s led you to lie to us all.”

Newt gulped. “Erm. Y—yes, well—”

“But in the name of helping someone—” AJ said, nudging the Judge.

“I don’t think that’s quite going to fly—”

“It’s worth mentioning—”

The two of them broke out into half-whispers and meaningful expressions that they must have spent millennia honing. Anathema wondered how they had formed such a method of communication, if the Judge was really so hard to reach as AJ had claimed he was, but the two stopped, AJ jerking his thumb violently at the humans, who had been staring at him. The Judge glowered.

"Anathema is honest,” Newt said. “More honest than anyone I know. And she’s kind. She won’t lie to you to be kind, but she tells the truth because she cares. It hurt her to see me lying for her, I know it. Even though she won’t show that side to most people.”

Anathema blinked at him, surprised he had noticed.

“And she’s smart. So smart, she thinks everything through. All her ideas about morality may seem unconventional, but it’s only because she stops and thinks about what actually does and doesn’t hurt people. Witchcraft? She only ever did it to help. A lot of people can’t say that about their so-called charities, or religions, or—or—erm, what-have-you’s.”

He had trailed off, starting to look very nervous. But the Judge had cocked an eyebrow. “That,” he said pensively, “may be something.”

“I don’t think,” AJ whispered out of the side of his mouth, “that discrediting religion is the way to—”

“But edited,” Aziraphale hissed back, “to focus more on the thoughts that count—well, and the actions, too, rather, the actions resulting from thoughts, rather than merely thought and good intention alone—” He wrote some notes down in his notebook. Anathema was dying to know if his handwriting was as messy as his curling hair.

“What do we have to do to convince you?” Newt said, sounding bravely desperate, something Anathema heretofore would not have thought possible. “What, exactly, is it that you’re looking for?”

“If it were that simple—”

“But it is, isn’t it?” Anathema said. “I mean, your original plan is exceedingly simple. Get points, lose points. As though all of humanity were playing some sort of video game.”

“Now, see here. I don’t make the rules—” the Judge said peevishly.

“You don’t?” Newt said. “Then who does?”

“The—er—Higher Power, of course—”

“I thought you were the highest ‘Power’,” Newt said with contempt.

“The Highest Power we can access,” said AJ. Anathema would have bet 100 quid that he was longing to loosen his tie.

“But you do make the decision, don’t you?” Anathema said. “If this ‘Higher Power’ can’t be accessed by us, then you’re the only one we have to convince. So, what do you want to see?”

The Judge looked outraged. He looked irritated. He sputtered something about ‘seeing here’. Then, he looked, for the briefest flash, heartbroken.

“I,” he said, and his tone was different than they had ever heard it, almost, Anathema thought, human. And a little broken. “I have seen enough.”

“So what you’re saying is,” AJ said, a little too loudly, “that you just need some time to deliberate. Yesss? Hmm?”

Anathema glared at the man, but the Judge was already nodding.

“Yes—yes, I suppose this is the best we can expect—”

“You’re not explaining anything,” Anathema exclaimed. “Aren’t you supposed to be just? To be on the side of the Good Place? Why wouldn’t you want to open it up to as many people as possible? Why are you trying to keep people out?”

“I’ve had quite enough,” said the Judge, who was extricating himself from behind AJ’s desk in rather a hurry, “and I shall get back to you, young lady, as soon as—as soon as I can!”

“But aren’t you an all-knowing—?” Newt started, but stopped as they all noticed something none of them had before. There was a door behind AJ’s desk. The Judge opened it. All four of the humans strained their necks to see what lay beyond the doorway. But the Judge blocked most of it out. He stepped through, stopping only to give the humans a last tired look.

“I will do my best,” he said, “to come to the right decision.”

He stepped through, closing the door behind him. As it swung shut, AJ rose from his seat, giving the humans a last hurried grin, then slid through the closing door at just the last minute as though he were the Judge’s shadow.

The humans sat in stunned disbelief.

Anathema waited approximately one and a half whole days—there was no nighttime here, no darkness to wait for, but people kept going to the pointless restaurant to ‘eat’ three meals at specific intervals, with a longer interval between, so she considered that one ‘night’—and then she sprang into action.

“I do not spring,” she said to Newt, rolling her eyes at his description. “I—stride.”

“Striding into action, then,” Newt whispered back. “Still, are you sure striding into action so soon is a good idea?”

They were making their way towards AJ’s office. They were crouching—hiding behind whatever shrubs and hedges they could find—but it felt a bit silly in broad daylight, or nightlight, whichever it was, and was more a habit of instinct than reason.

“There’s no point in waiting. The Judge takes the train out of town any day now. Who knows if he’ll even bother sticking around to give us an answer? Why should they? We have nothing over them.”

“Maybe out of the kindness of their hearts? Ow,” Newt said as his shirt’s sleeve got caught on one of the shrubs. “They do run the Good Place, after all.”

“And the Bad Place, apparently. If he’s the Judge who sends people there as well. Plus, I don’t trust that AJ. ‘The goodness of his heart’ just doesn’t feel as forthcoming as I’d like.”

“But—sneaking into the office of an omniscient being seems—seems—”

“Not omniscient, just able to see our whole lives, but clearly he didn’t know everything we’d done in the Good Place, or he wouldn’t have bothered talking with us—”

“—seems impractical.”

Anathema stopped. She ignored the little ‘oof’ and horrified ‘sorry!’ from behind her as Newt bumped into her. She turned and gave him a look, arms crossed.

“It’s entirely practical. Witches are nothing but practical.”

Newt straightened up, straightened his glasses, and gave a lopsided grin, a little furrow between his brows. “Oh, come on. Witches?”

Anathema could have kissed him—on the cheek—for having the backbone to display more of a discordant opinion with her than he ever had since she’d met him. Instead, she tapped her foot and made a face at him.

“I mean—we could be in a lot of danger—”

“—which we’re already in, and doing this is the only way to get out of it. Besides, AJ never said we couldn’t enter his office.”

“That’s not practical—”

“Newton. Witches are nothing but practical. It’s how we work. People have been using the same herbs to do the same things for thousands of years, but new science says there’s no reason it should work? Real reason says we simply haven’t found the real reason yet. We keep doing it. Everyone says ‘don’t do magic, it’s not real’, we do it anyway, and so we can. The only impractical thing would be to avoid doing something we need to do simply because someone says not to, or even worse, we assume someone will say not to if we ask. A world in which rules are all-powerful is a world that exists only in whimsy. Everyone following rules just because they believe rules are unbreakable is far more fantastical thinking than simply doing what must be done.”

And with that, she turned and started on her way toward the office building again, not even bothering to crouch this time. No one was around to see them or hear Newt’s worried mumbling anyway.

They reached the door. Anathema reached forward and touched the handle. It was unlocked and turned easily in her grasp. She hid how surprised she was from Newt, who gave a very gratifying sigh of relief and tipped his head at her to lead the way.

“Janet,” Anathema said, before opening the door more than a crack.

The not-a-woman, not-a-robot appeared instantly with her usual smile. “Hello!”

“Hi. Janet, is AJ in his office right now?”

“He is not. As I told you when you asked me earlier, AJ never stays in his office during the nighttime.”

“Great, thanks. Erm. You can—go now?”

Janet disappeared.

“So I’ve done my research,” Anathema said.

Newt, not looking pleased, nevertheless followed her silently through the door.

The office was indeed deserted. It was darker than any place Anathema had been since departing the Earth, but there was still enough light coming in through the blinds to cast long shadows from the desk, chair, and singular succulent plant against the bare white walls. It looked almost like a painting, one about loneliness, like the one of the nearly empty cafe, though the succulent’s color reminded her of the apple hiding a man’s face in another. Yet there behind the desk was the outline of the door, barely visible behind the shadow of the chair.

Anathema approached it.

“Would be whimsy not to,” she whispered to herself. She took a deep breath. She opened the door.

She felt as though she’d walked onto the Earth.

Her first step, onto a wood floor that creaked, one plank uneven with the others under her feet, felt like the first step of Eve into the Garden. She looked ahead in wonder as her eyes adjusted to the gloom—gloom! Beautiful thing! There were dust motes in the air. Nothing had been so imperfect since before her death. It was not really the Earth—something within her human soul could tell that she was still dead—but it sang at the familiarity. The room was lit by dim yellow lamps and candles, and their light glowed upon rows and rows of bookshelves. There were old wax drippings on almost every surface.

“It—it smells—” Newt stammered. His voice echoed the wonder Anathema felt.

“Like wood,” she said, creeping forward. “And old leather. Lavender, and licorice.”

“There haven’t been any smells in the Good Place. Have you noticed that? I never did, only now.”

“None. Not good or bad. Well, we only have to breathe to speak, so why make it pleasant?”

“Because why not,” Newt said, following her. The floorboards under him creaked, and they stepped slowly. “Why not, in the Good Place? Do you think they know? How much more we feel at home in—in all of this?”

“Perhaps we should tell them.”

“Or perhaps we only miss these things,” Newt’s voice drifted to her through the gloom, “because we’re not perfect enough, and aren’t meant for the Good Place as it really is.”

Anathema wrinkled her nose. Newt, from behind her, reached a hand out and touched her elbow, seemingly for no reason. But Anathema allowed it as they walked forward.

There was a sound ahead. A slight rustling. It could have been wind through an open window, except there had never been any breeze in the Good Place, and this room felt an almost comforting kind of stuffy. Anathema looked back at Newt, and her stared at her with wide eyes—then nodded. They moved forward.

As they rounded one row of shelves, Anathema saw a flash of fabric, someone’s shirt sleeve. She almost backed into Newt and turned them right around again, as though there could possibly still be time to run away. Instead, she froze, and squinted. She took a step forward, looking around the shelves, and gasped.

“Anathema!” Newt hissed, pulling on her elbow, but she pulled him forward and he gasped, too.

They’d come across the Judge, and AJ, both at once, and they still could most certainly have had time to run away unnoticed, for they were snogging passionately, lost to the world.

That is, until Newt’s rather louder gasp broke them out of it.

They came apart, still holding the other at a distance, and stared at them.

“Ah—” said the Judge.

“Shit,” said AJ.

Seems about right, Anathema said, as many thoughts, doubts, concerns, and annoyances fell into place in her head, and she pointed a finger at them and said, her voice far calmer than she felt, “The two of you have been lying. And that is not what angels do.”

The effect on the two was almost comical. The Judge was gaping, looking from AJ to the humans with wide, petrified eyes. He stuttered out a “See here—” and a “Now what you need to understand is—” now and then. AJ, meanwhile, had leaned against a shelf with his head tilted back and his eyes closes, letting out a small, airy laugh.

“Erm—” said Newt. “Are we—are we sure this means—”

“It means,” Anathema said, “absolutely nothing, because the Judge and AJ could be snogging innocently, except that clearly they’re terrified we found out, plus we’ve been miserable the whole time we’ve been in supposed Heaven, and I’m not even supposed to be here, so I’m no longer pretending that I’m the one with a horrible secret. You, shush.”

She had pointed to the still-stammering Judge, whose mouth closed and who fell silent with a final indignant sniff.

“You,” she said, pointing to AJ, “talk.”

And the man tilted his head forward, smiled, and opened his eyes to meet her stare.

And that’s when she realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“Oh—no,” Newt said.

“Oh, yesss.”

“So—so you’re—” Anathema said. AJ nodded at her. Anathema tried to reclaim all of the confidence being a witch had ever given her. “So either the Good Place has been infiltrated, and we are in a lot of trouble, orrr—”

“Clever girl,” AJ said.

“—or you actually are allowed to be here, and we’re in so much more than just trouble.”

AJ grinned, golden eyes sparkling at her.

The Judge sighed. It sounded so genuinely caring. Anathema glared at him.

“It’s not quite what it seems,” the Judge said sadly.

“Oh? No? We’re not in the Good Place after all—how could we be, if it’s presided over by him—and you’re telling me it’s not as bad as it seems?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

“Hold on,” Anathema said wildly. “Then I’m not the one who’s not supposed to be here. Newt shouldn’t be here. He was supposed to be in the Good—”

A long, drawn-out sound, somewhere between a whine and a low groan, was coming from her side. Anathema turned to look at Newt in dismay.

“No,” he moaned. “No, I’m not.”

“What?”

“’No effect on another human being strong enough to send me to the Bad Place’, remember? Only it’s the reverse, too. I never did anyone any good. Definitely not myself. I’m not supposed to be in the Good Place, either, Anathema. Which means this is—this is the Bad Place. Through and through.”

“Madame Tracy wasn’t who they thought she was,” Anathema murmured. “And Shadwell—well—”

No one said it. But neither of them was particularly confused about why Shadwell might be sent to the Bad Place.

They looked slowly up at the ethereal beings controlling their destiny.

AJ, yellow snake eyes now rolling up to stare at the ceiling as he leaned back against the bookshelf again, gave a huff, and the Judge was twiddling his thumbs while giving them an awkward smile.

“Hold on,” Newt said slowly. “Are you even the real ‘Judge’?”

The judge—Anathema mentally removed the capital J—wilted even more.

“Clearly,” she said, “he’s a demon.”

The man looked affronted. AJ laughed. At least that finally got him to stand up straight and look at them, again, and Anathema was ashamed to admit she felt a lot more comfortable when he put on his dark glasses, too.

“The gig is up, Aziraphale. They know everything.”

“They do not, Crowley. And I’m not a demon!”

“Crowley?” Anathema asked.

“Anthony J, but yeah, the surname usually suffices.”

“And—Aziraphale?” Newt asked. The man nodded. “If you’re not a demon, then what are you?”

“I really am an angel!”

Anathema scoffed.

“No,” said Crowley, whom Anathema was horrified to discover she trusted. “He really is.”

“Then—then why—?”

“It’s quite a long story,” Aziraphale said. He looked almost pleased as he puffed himself up. “But—perhaps we’d better start—in the Beginning?” He gave a sideways look to the demon. Crowley waited a moment, they shrugged and looked away. Anathema could have swore she felt her dead heart racing.

“The beginning of what?” Newt asked. “Our deaths?” He looked a bit pale.

“Oh, we’re going far further back than that, dear fellow. No, this will be quite a journey.”

They heard about the Beginning. The angel and the demon, alone on the world. Alone but for the plants, and the animals, and the humans and the things they made. The wonderful world they made.

As the centuries went on, millennia went on, the angel and demon said, the world grew bigger and brighter, then darker and more crowded, but wonderful, always more wonderful than before, full of so much life you could look at it forever, could never stop.

And amidst all of that? A loneliness, beaten back only by occasionally running across each other.

As time went on, ‘running across each other’ became something more. It was unspoken and without signals or actions, but the demon and angel shared more and more of the world together. The world kept growing. Its shadow and light became, to them, more than evil and good. It was the refuge of cool shade on a hot summer day in the park. The warm light of candles in a dark bookshop where two had become lost in conversation so long that the sun had gone down, and they could barely see the other’s eyes. The world was not just human souls to be saved or won, but people writing songs, arguing on the streets because they felt passion for something, clothes with stupid logos on them that made friends laugh and paintings people fought tooth and nail to protect for centuries.

There were soft scarves and tragic plays, the northern lights and electric guitars, hors d’oeuvres, days at the seaside, long empty stretches of road, wine and biscuits that didn’t go together unless you were alone or with one special person who understood and didn’t judge, at least, not beyond a light teasing, and shared them with you.

There were human souls.

There was each other.

Then, they had been told, it was all to be taken away.

The demon and the angel had tried. They’d considered ways to stop it, even to slow it. None had taken.

And as they said all of this, Newt and Anathema started to remember.

“Shadwell and I met, before,” Newt said slowly. “Before—right before—I joined the Witchfinder’s Army, and then I—I—”

And Anathema was starting to remember—she wasn’t just any sort of witch. She had a Book of Prophecy. The very last, very most important of which, were about—

“I died,” Newt said. “Trying to save the world. I didn’t burn down a house. I just—failed to stop nuclear war.”

Anathema said a silent prayer—something new—to Agnes, an apology, not only forgetting, but for having failed.

Newt turned to her. “I tried to save the world with you. I had just met you. We—well—you know. We went to the air base. And then—”

“We tried to stop the Horsemen,” Anathema said. Her voice sounded hollow. “We couldn’t.”

Newt looked pleadingly at the angel and demon. “Why don’t we remember?”

“When you died, we thought it best to spare you from that,” Aziraphale said kindly. For once, Anathema could recognize that his voice truly was kind. It was everything else that had been faked. Self-defense.

“We tried to stop it, too,” Crowley said. Even he seemed truly sorry. Given what they had just heard, the way he’d talked about his time on Earth, Anathema couldn’t even find it in herself to be mistrustful of him. “But—we couldn’t think of anything. It wasn’t enough.”

“But—we’ve been dead for days. Weeks?” Newt’s eyes were round. “So—does that mean Earth is—?”

“Time is different here,” Crowley said. “It’s—wimey. Earth still exists—only just.”

“Adam and the others have gone into hiding,” Aziraphale said. “War is brewing—not just the horseperson, but many of them—breaking out all over. The trees are dying. It’s—happening, and happening fast. We get a bit of a break from it here. It’s only been about a day there, and it turns out Earth takes longer to end than all that. But it’s only a matter of time.”

“We’ve played all our cards.”

“So, then, you’re done?” Anathema stared into the demon’s dark glasses. “You’re doing what your bosses tell you, now? Building hells for all those human souls to rot in, starting with us?”

Crowley stared back at her, expression not wavering.

“N-no,” Newt said slowly. “That’s not it, is it? Because this isn’t like normal Hell. You talked about Earth like it was an escape from it. This—the Good Place, the fake one you’ve made—” Newt frowned at him. “It’s weird.”

“I had to make it just bad enough,” Crowley said. Anathema couldn’t tell if he sounded smug or apologetic. She realized that had been how he’d sounded the whole time she’d known him.

“It was quite brilliant, really,” Aziraphale said, with an endearing amount of pride and affection in his voice as he glanced at Crowley. “He convinced them all his time on Earth had taught him a new type of misery. What was it you called it, my dear? Torture two-point-‘O’? And who better to deserve it than those of you who’d tried to stand up to the divine plan itself?”

“So it had to be bad, you see. At least, bad enough that I could exaggerate how uncomfortable keeping secrets made you, or how sick you’d get of the ‘perfect Earth day’. Of course, I framed it as Earth being a miserable place altogether. Upstairs and downstairs don’t really get that it’s the variety that makes life worth living.”

“But this can’t be it,” Anathema cried, unable to help herself. “I get all that you’ve done—I do, but—but this can’t be the fate of all humanity. The world can’t end.”

“It could help billions of human souls,” Aziraphale said. “If Crowley can convince the Bad Place to adopt this new way of working, then he could give all of the souls the Judge sends there a much better go of it. Perhaps they’d even start transforming the old hells into something like this one.”

“Most demons wouldn’t be able to pull it off,” Crowley said. “They’d do something so bad, the humans would figure it out. The whole point was that you all would at least think you’re in the Good Place, so it’s not as awful. Ironically that’s also how I sold it as being more torturous for you. Human minds are complicated, and most demons don’t get them. I’m not honestly sure which is more true, what I told them, or what I told myself.” He sighed. “I might have to be lead architect for all of the new ones they build, to make sure it works. I—could do it. Maybe. I think.”

Anathema looked at Newt, who was putting on a brave face. His eyes were shining more than they ought to be. Witchfinder soldier, she thought, then, my friend. The man who tried to save the world, with no qualifications except, ‘well, someone has to.’

All of them—even Shadwell—had tried to help. They were all good people, when it came down to it. They deserved better.

“But it didn’t work this time,” Crowley said, slumping. “You lot figured it out. And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to pretend you’re being tortured for the rest of, oh, say, eternity? Just to keep up the ruse?”

“I s’pose I could—” Newt was saying before Anathema elbowed him in the ribs.

“It would save all of humanity,” Aziraphale said.

“But it wouldn’t,” Anathema pointed out. “Not really. Not the world, either. The world. Oh, all the animals—”

It was a small comfort that the angel and demon looked hurt by this thought, too.

“So—there is a real Judge?” Newt said. “And they really said I deserve—well—?”

“Are they like the persona Aziraphale was putting on earlier?” Anathema asked.

“Oh, no. That was just Aziraphale’s normal personality under stress.”

“Crowley!”

“The real Judge is much more chill. She’s not a bad person, not spiteful or cruel. She just goes off of the criteria she was given at the Dawn of Time. It’s a bad list. And she sticks to it because, well, what else is she supposed to do?”

“Well then, let’s talk to her!”

Aziraphale and Crowley gave each other a look.

“Why not?” Anathema asked. “What have we got to lose?” She tried to ignore the fact that the two of them clearly had more to lose than she and Newt did. Newt, with his sheepish obedience and his brave words, was becoming more and more what she really cared about.

“We—have considered it,” Aziraphale said slowly. “We thought perhaps, if the Judge could actually hear a more thought-through explanation of why humans do the things they do—”

“A personal case,” Crowley explained. “That’s always been humanity’s strength. Not humanity as a whole, oh, Satan, no, not all of you all as a group. But each individual one. Meet one or two of you lot, get you talking, hear all the wild and wacky things you have to say, see the heart of you, and suddenly it’s hard not to take an interest. Even for someone like me.”

“Even, perhaps, for someone like the Judge.”

“That’s what you were actually doing,” Newt said. “When you were questioning Anathema and Madame Tracy and I. Taking notes. We didn’t have to convince you, we had to convince her.”

“I don’t know that we got enough,” Aziraphale said, brows pulled together as he looked down at his hands. “Not enough to go against millennia of difference.”

Crowley was giving Anathema a keen look. She stared back at him. She’d been in the dark bookshop so long, long enough that her eyes had adjusted and she could just see his eyes beyond the black glasses he wore. “But maybe,” he said, “meeting you might be enough of a shock, she might not be able to condemn you to your faces.”

“Yes, she’s never actually met a human before,” Aziraphale added eagerly. “We couldn’t exactly introduce you to the real Judge, it would have ruined the secret. And humans who go to Heaven are typically considered to be beyond her notice—she’s done her duty, there’s no need for them to know about her, they’re all perfectly well, right? And ones in Hell, well—they haven’t earned the right, I suppose.”

“Then we’ll meet her,” Newt said. “We might actually have a chance.”

Anathema was staring Crowley down. She felt too much of a connection to the demon for her taste—and what was worse, she’d only started to feel that way when she’d discovered who he truly was, and not when she’d thought he was some sort of angel. In spite of his blazer and tie and his winning grin and his devil-may-care smirk when he thought no one was looking, he had a grit to him that reeked of something genuine. Right now, he looked cool, but he thrummed with anxiety. Anathema felt it, too.

“Do we have a chance?” she asked him.

Crowley yawned. “Who knows? We’ll have to find out. But for now, I’m going to bed.”

“Wait—you sleep?”

“Yeah, yeah, and you can, too. Look, I had to torture you in some realistic ways in order for Downstairs to not get suspicious. But sleep is good. I know. I once slept for almost a century.”

“Actually,” Anathema said, “that sounds kind of like depression.”

Crowley gave her an even stare for a full ten seconds before waving her off and turning on his heel. “C’mon, angel. You two, meet back here in twelve hours. Janet can set an alarm for you. Bring Madame Tracy. And—I suppose the Sergeant, given that it might raise eyebrows if we leave off one of the four humans of this whole trial. You can sleep. But I suggest you prepare what you’re going to say. Miss Device, you like arguing. Here’s your chance to make it count. Newt, maybe you’d better take a back seat.”

Anathema felt anger bubbling within her at this, but she was stopped in her tracks before she could bite back a response. Crowley had glanced back at her with a look, as though he knew this. As though he’d said it on purpose.

Caring about someone. Wanting to defend them. Wanting to hide this, even from yourself. And being good at arguing.

Human beings were complicated. But perhaps that was their strength, after all.

Anathema did sleep. She told the others she believed it made her a better person, after all. Madame Tracy agreed and took a catnap in an armchair in her house, holding hands with Shadwell, who couldn’t have stayed awake past nine PM if he tried (and apparently his internal clock couldn’t be killed even by death) and who had apparently somehow found a home in Madame Tracy’s heart. Anathema decided not to question any sort of love under the circumstances they were in. Newt stayed awake all night, pacing, keeping a silent, anxious vigil over them all.

They met with Crowley and Aziraphale in the morning, and then Janet summoned the real Judge. She stepped off the train, looking very serious in her judicial robes, then immediately ruined it by complaining about how train stations always gave her ‘train hair’. She seemed good natured enough, but through it all, there was something otherworldly about her.

They invited her into Crowley’s office, where she helped herself to the demon’s seat, and the other six of them squashed into the space in front of the desk. Newt kept bumping into the windowsill and nearly knocking over the tiny succulent. Anathema wondered wildly if it was so tiny because it was being kept away from its lush, much larger friends in the secret, hidden bookshop beyond the door.

The Judge had not noticed the door.

They’d hardly prepared an argument—they hadn’t had much time. In the wee hours of the morning, sun bright as always, Madame Tracy had roused them all and they’d gone over a few key points, over and over again. Now here they were.

At first, they’d hardly been able to get a word in edgewise. The Judge was positively psyched to meet real humans in person. She’d spent a while asking them all about their favorite kinds of foods, and if having your back scratched really feels as good as people make it seem. She asked if they really would sell their souls for a Klondike bar. When Anathema had acted somewhat indignant about this, the Judge had replied that they had gone to war over things like pineapples before, after all, which had made all of them fall into an uncomfortable silence.

Now, she finally fell quiet, herself. She gave them a smile, folded her hands on the desk, and said, “Well? What do you have to say?”

The question sounded like she meant it. No malice behind it. Or maybe it was just that she had nothing to lose.

So they talked. They told her about their lives. How Newt had not done much good, yes, but living on Earth was hard enough without actively harming others. How Shadwell had been raised to believe things about people that were unfair, but how he’d served what he’d thought was a valiant cause with honor, never giving up, because he thought it was necessary to keep the world safe from evil. How Madame Tracy had treated everyone with kindness, how she’d melted even Shadwell’s heart, and how she’d never hurt a soul.

Newt did most of the talking about Anathema, which she’d expected, though her heart still leapt as though she’d never had anyone say a kind word about her before. But Madame Tracy and even Shadwell had nothing but nice things to say about her, too, which made her blush. She hadn’t known witches could do that.

Finally, the demon and angel, mostly Aziraphale, talked about how they had continued to help one another while in the afterlife. He talked about how Crowley had tried to make them miserable by pairing them together, but they’d only grown to understand each other, grow closer.

“If two people such as Marjorie Potts and Shadwell can grow to see the good in one another,” the angel said earnestly, “and Newton Pulsifer and Anathema Device can grow to be close friends, then surely it’s worth taking a second look, ourselves? After all, humans know far better than we do what harm they do to one another. Perhaps we ought to take their word for it if they truly are worth saving?”

The Judge raised her eyebrows at this, not in disbelief, but as though it were a new thought, one that had never occurred to her before. Then she turned to Crowley. The demon had been standing with his arms crossed, half turned away from the rest of them, only listening.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” she said to him, with a pointed look. “These humans are your purview. Are you sure you want to lose them?”

Crowley turned his head and removed his glasses and stared at her. As he leaned in, the humans subconsciously leaned out of his way. “I don’t lose humans by them going to Heaven, Your Honor. Do you?”

The Judge smirked. She looked pleased. “No, Anthony. I do not.”

“So, then?”

“Other demons might not feel the same.”

“But it’s not about what demons feel, is it? Or angels? And certainly not what humans feel. So what is it about?”

“It is about,” the Judge said, “right, wrong, and who did what.”

“Which is a very complicated thing.”

“Which is why I follow the system that was set up at the very Start of things. Look.” She spread her hands and shrugged at them. “I sympathize with you all. I really do. But, I’m sorry, the system does work. I can’t just throw away millennia of judgements because four humans didn’t want the world to end, so now one angel and demon are invested in them. What would all the humans who worked hard to get into Heaven think? Now they get to share their paradise with people who didn’t earn it? And what if you somehow mess it up, make it worse?”

“It’s Heaven,” Crowley said, a low growl in his voice. “They can’t ‘make it worse’. What kind of Heaven is that?”

“It’s only Heaven if heavenly people are there!”

They were interrupted by a quiet cough. The demon and the Judge turned, and saw what Anathema had been staring at dazedly for a second longer. Aziraphale was holding up his hand politely.

“Actually,” he said, “you’re both wrong.”

Crowley raised his left eyebrow, and the Judge raised her right, and they both stared at him, odd mirror images of each other.

“Adding these people to Heaven wouldn’t make it worse for anyone else,” Aziraphale said. “I mean, it’s not as though the people there are all that happy in the first place.”

Anathema was watching the others fiercely. Crowley’s mouth opened a little. The Judge’s opened wider and she looked around as though to see if anyone else had heard that, too. “Excuse me?” she said.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “it’s all harps and clouds, isn’t it? Only that’s not what humans really want. It’s not what they’re meant for. Tell me, you four. Would you be happy in a place even less like Earth than this one? With even less to do, even fewer familiar comforts, but this time told you belong there?”

Newt looked around at the others. Shadwell’s forehead formed itself into knots. Madame Tracy fiddled with her shawl and twittered nervously. But Anathema sat frozen, thinking about all the thoughts that had run through her head since her death. She shook her head.

“Most humans in our heavens are fairly miserable, too, only far less so than the ones in our hells.”

“What do you mean, they’re not happy in our heavens?” the Judge exclaimed. “Then what’s the point?”

“There is no point,” Aziraphale said testily. “That’s what we’ve been telling you. I thought, Your Honor, that this was fairly obvious.”

The Judge gaped like a fish, then looked at the humans. Anathema had to admit that for once, she related to her more than to anyone else in the room. “Did you guys think that was what they were saying?” the Judge asked them.

“Er, no,” Newt admitted.

“I rather thought,” said Madame Tracy, “that they were trying to get us into Heaven.”

“We were,” Aziraphale said. “Because it’s the best option. But it’s only the best option out of what we’ve actually got. No one likes existing for eternity in bland perfection, Your Honor, not even angels. It’s why, and I apologize for saying it so bluntly but it’s been rather a trying week, but it’s why most angels are such twats.”

“The ones I’ve spoken to have been a bit testy,” the Judge murmured thoughtfully.

“But if we can’t even be happy in Heaven,” Anathema said, “what are we hoping for?”

The humans stared at the angel and demon, who stared at the Judge, who stared back at all of them. She blew air out of her lips, making the raspberry sound, and sighed. “Well, you two? What are you hoping for? Where do you think the humans belong?”

“The only place they can be truly human,” said Aziraphale, “is the only place they can be happy.”

The Judge turned to Crowley, who tilted his head at her and raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said. “Earth.”

The Judge blinked at them. Madame Tracy let out a little oooooooh sound, and Shadwell coughed. Anathema thought he was trying to hide a smile behind his fist, and it was one of the very few times she had seen him smile at all. Anathema felt something brush her hand, and she grabbed Newt’s hand in response and held it tight.

“Was this your plan all along?” the Judge said. She sounded almost impressed, and definitely amused. “Pretend the problem was where the humans go after, but actually save the world?”

“Maybe,” Crowley said smoothly.

“Or we just got lucky,” said Aziraphale in a quiet voice, leaning in towards Anathema, who had to hold back a cackle.

“It seems the afterlife does need changing,” the Judge said. “I mean, if no one’s happy—woof. And that doesn’t mean the system is entirely broken! Buuuut.” She wrinkled her nose and smiled at them like they were babies who had just waved for the first time. “Well, look at you! Making me doubt an eternity of judgements because neither outcome actually works! Aren’t you clever?”

“So—you’re not mad?” Newt said. Anathema squeezed his hand.

“Mad? Pfft. Please.” The Judge waved her hand. “Look at me. I’m an all-knowing Judge. I’ve been watching the TV you all make for the last few decades, and I’ve got to say, it’s all remakes now. I’m getting bored. It’s about time I had a project. Maybe I’ve been wasted here.”

“Oh, definitely,” Crowley said.

“And, you sneaky sneakers—how am I supposed to remodel the afterlife to look like Earth unless I have the Earth to model it on?”

“That does seem reasonable,” said Aziraphale, grinning.

“Although I really shouldn’t be rewarding you for lying, tricking all of Heaven and Hell, plus these four humans, and pestering me,” the Judge said, narrowing her eyes at the two of them.

“Oh, but,” Madame Tracy said. Her voice wavered, but the tone was clear. “Please, do. They’ve been ever so good to us.”

The Judge blinked at her. Shadwell patted his soulmate—faked, or forged, it was hard to tell—on the hand. Newt put his hand on Madame Tracy’s shoulder. Anathema made eye contact with Crowley, who was staring at her with an expression she’d seen too much lately from him. It looked as though he were asking her something—or for something. What was she supposed to do? She was only human. She thought about all he’d said to her about beings like him meeting humans face-to-face. How it didn’t happen often. How when it did, it led to beings like him, and Aziraphale. This was the eleventh hour. If one couldn’t ask for help now, even from measly humans, then when could one?

Besides, she was no mere human. She was a witch.

If one couldn’t ask for help now…?

“Please?” she asked the Judge.

The Judge smiled. “Well,” she said. “What would a little mercy cost me, really?”

She woke up.

The first thing she saw was the spiderweb in the corner of her ceiling. She’d been meaning to brush that down for weeks. She finally saw the spider, who had eluded her for so long, peering at her from the middle.

Anathema sat up in her bed, hair a mess, mouth stale, neck aching, and beamed.

It only took her a few hours to track down the others. Newt, in the end, had tracked down her. Once they’d been resurrected—or rather, once the Judge had turned back time so that they had never died anyway—they’d had their memories restored. He’d come right to her cottage where he’d crashed Duck Turpin what felt like ages ago.

An hour, several tea cups, and lots of twitchy hands on the table between them afterwards, there had been a knock at the door. She’d opened it to a delivery person with a large box who seemed very excited to open it.

The book inside contained years’ worth of prophecies, but Anathema had only looked at the first few. They’d told her how to find Shadwell and Tracy, and then, to her surprise, Adam and the Them. They all met in the center of Tadfield, and then followed the gang of kids to their kingdom in the small wood not far away.

“So they’re fixin’ it?” Adam asked, swinging one leg back and forth from the makeshift throne where he sat amongst his friends. “All of it?”

“They’re remaking the heavens,” Newt answered, “and, from what I can tell, rethinking the hells altogether. The Judge didn’t give us a ton of details, but I actually don’t think she was being secretive on purpose. I think she’s got a lot of thinking to do.”

“And Crowley and Aziraphale will help,” Anathema added. “By being back on Earth, observing us, and reporting to the Judge what they find.” And snogging, she thought, trying to conceal the smile this thought gave her. Probably lots of that, as well.

“What they find about humans, and what makes us good,” Madame Tracy said, smiling as she wiped some of the dirt off of the kid named Brian’s face with her handkerchief. “And bad. But mostly how we help each other.”

“And what makes us happy,” Newt finished.

“And they’ll keep those minions o’ Satan out o’ it,” Shadwell grunted with a decisive nod.

Well, the Judge at least promised not to let them run the show, Anathema thought. And who knows? Maybe they’ll learn something about their own happiness, too. Crowley couldn’t be the only demon who would thrive better outside of Hell.

“And the Earth’s safe,” Wensleydale clarified.

“For now,” Pepper added.

“Yep,” Newt said.

Adam just kept on nodding. He stroked Dog, whose tail had not stopped whipping back and forth in the whole half hour they’d been telling their tale. “Then,” he said, finally, “that’s all right, then.”

Anathema smiled. Yes, she supposed it was.

They said goodbye to the Them, who went back into the woods to play. The last few weeks of their summer before school started again, and the next part of their lives.

They said goodbye to Sergeant Shadwell, retired, and Madame Tracy, who was bursting with life as she took her man away, fussing over him, his face red as he obediently went home with her.

Anathema stood by Newt. Her hand twitched. He gave her half a smile, scratched the back of his head.

“Would you like to grab lunch?” she asked him. “I’ve been literally dying for the taste of miso soup.”

Newt’s eyes widened. Anathema reached out and took his hand, which twitched under her fingers, then both of them stilled.

It was the big things, in the end. Standing up for her against all odds, but also the little ones, the way he smiled with only half his mouth but all of his eyes. And what kind of place would let love grow like that?

Newt nodded, swallowed, and grinned.

Earth would be best for it. But really, it could grow absolutely anywhere, as long as humans were there to feel it.