Who: Bartleby and Eve What: Searching around for God When: Evening Where: LA Streets Status/Rating: Incomplete/High (This is Bart and Eve. Language abounds.)
"She's probably playing skeeball in New Zealand," Bartleby muttered underneath his breath. "Or floating in the Dead Sea. Or impersonating a nun in Austria. We're overreacting."
Bartleby stared down at the sidewalk as he talked and walked next to Eve. He wasn't talking to her, more at her, not completely caring if she was actually listening or not. The more he talked about how much of a crisis this wasn't, the truer it would be, right? He wasn't worried. No, of course not. She'd just run off like She usually did, with no care for those who She left behind. The Metatron had to know better than anyone else that She wasn't exactly the type to leave a note, a phone number, or send a postcard. But then, the Metatron also knew better than anyone else when and when not to panic.
If his wings had actually been out his feathers probably would have been molting with the stress of the worry he was trying so hard to hide. "If the Stygian Triplets aren't here, then Azreal's not here, and She is fine." And what about every other being here far more powerful than the Triplets and Azreal combined? He wasn't thinking about those. Purposely. Yes, She was God, but there was a reason why all of humanity wasn't privy to her love of skeeball and sabbaticals. In human form She was just as human as the rest of them. 'Created in Her image' went further than the aesthetic and while it had been a relative few number who'd managed to figure that out, it had happened.
"And I'm not trying to destroy the world again," Bartleby added in defensively. "By the way. She probably just got bored. I bet She's eating a hotdog at the Atlantic City boardwalk in 1938."