So this is the sequel of my other story, Sacrifice. This is about John's POV in Prodigy and Champion. I'd like to thank AwakeUnafriadAsleepDead for suggesting this idea.

Also, I have no idea how heaven is like and stuff (duh), so I'm loosely basing it on a mix of heavens described in various books such as the Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold.

There might be a few typos since I wrote this during my study period...

Heaven is weird. Well, not entirely. I guess I'm still not used to it.

People used to say that when you die, your spirit lives in this perfect place. But you don't.

It's not what people said it was. There are no bright golden light and fluffy white clouds you walk on or a heavenly god smiling at you. There's no golden gates that welcome you in or a pit of darkness in the distance that represents hell. It looks like home, except everything is blurred.

Murky.

Sure, my heaven looks a lot like the slums on Figueroa and Watson St, but somehow, it's better. We don't need to sleep on hard beds, or wonder when our next meal will be, or if the soldiers will unexpectedly bust down our door. Because we're spirits. And spirits aren't living.

When I got here, I asked Mom how this whole heaven thing worked, and why everything looked the same. "It's not the same," she had explained. "It's something you can build. Your heaven will expand on your desires."

"Then why are other people here?" I asked, watching a few soldiers dressed in their pristine uniform and other poor beggars stumbling around.

"Because you share desires. The things you want cross paths."

I still don't get this concept. Or practically anything about heaven. All I know is this- (a) I'm dead, and (b) my parents are with me.

"Am I allowed to watch over the living?" I asked my father.

"Perhaps," he said, flipping over copper and silver coins and studying dirty green pieces of paper. "Look at this, John," he says excitedly. He holds up a coin with an eagle engraved on it. It has phrases like 'United States of America' and 'in God we trust' and so on. "It really existed," he repeats the same words he said years ago.

But I don't care. How can he be excited when Day is injured and on the run? How can he be excited when his youngest son has the plague?

I spin on my heel. That was my first desire- to find a way to watch over my brothers. There was always a road that kept endlessly continuing no matter how many days and nights I traveled. Then again, I wouldn't know for sure since heaven doesn't have time. Heaven is forever eternity. And I hate it.

"Where are you going?" a quiet, high-pitched voice asked me. I turned around. A girl with braided blond pigtails smiled. Some of her teeth were missing, leaving gaps in her grin. She couldn't have been more than seven years old. Younger than Eden. And yet she seemed wiser. There was something haunting about her mysterious golden brown eyes. They were too old for such a young kid.

But why? Why was a small child here? Here in the place for the dead? She's too young to dwell here. She was too young to die. She's dressed in strange clothes- a small flower print dress and a soft furry white sweater. My mouth feels dry, if that's even possible, as I ask her, "Who are you?"

Her grin widens and I can almost see her back teeth. "Melody," she chirps.

"I'm John," I say. I can feel my eyebrows creasing slightly as I ask, "How old are you?"

The girl pauses, pressing her lips together tightly. "I was six in 2010…" she mulls. And then she abruptly asks, "What's 2135 minus 2010?"

I think for a moment before blurting out, "125."

Melody's toothy smile returns. "I'm 125 years old!" I blink and stare at her. And then she jabs her finger at me. "I'm wayyy older than you!" All those years and her childish ways have never seemed to fade. And for a minute, I'm grateful for her innocence. But then it dies out. "Where are you going?" she repeats her original question.

"I'm trying to find a way to look over my brothers," I try to explain.

"You mean watch people in the real world?" Melody cocks her head.

"Yeah," I say, relieved that she can understand me.

"Oh, that's easy," she says confidently.

"How?"

"Look down," she simply says, pointing at the ground. Only, it isn't a dirt road anymore. I'm in the clouds, standing on some kind of glass. "Nothing's real here," Melody whispers.

"But how-" I begin to ask but when I turn around, Melody's gone. I curse under my breath. I take a step back. But there's nothing under my foot. And I fall.

I can't feel it though. I can't feel the cold air biting my skin or hear to the howling wind. I'm just falling.

People are walking past me, not even noticing my sprawled figure. I didn't even feel myself land. Getting to my feet, I melt into the crowd. I'm wondering why no one is giving me strange looks from falling from the sky.

I only realize when I stumble into a man and pass straight through him like a ghost. "Hello?" I call out, waving my ghostly hands in front of other pedestrians. No one sees me. I'm in a world where I don't exist. And I don't think this is where I want to be. Although it's useless, I call out, "Day? Daniel?"

"They can't see you," sorrowfully says a ghostly man with dark hair and golden flecks in his black eyes. "To them, we don't exist." He gazes up at the roof of a high tower, where two teens are sitting next to the chimney in the pouring ice cold rain.

The JumboTrons flicker on. And it says, Daniel Altan Wing Executed Today By Firing Squad. And for a second I think Day has been killed, until the screen shows me being shot at Batalla Hall. I let out a breath of relief.

"So you saved your brother," the man muses. Somehow, he seems familiar. "I wish I could save my sister."

"Your sister…" I begin to say.

"Is June Iparis," he finishes. "She and your brother are up there, you know." He gazes back at the two teens. My breath catches in my throat.

"That's John!" Day screams from the roof. "That boy is John!" But he's not looking at me. He's looking at the recording of my death on the JumboTron.

And then June's crying out from the pain as Day grips her injured shoulder. They say a few things, before holding each other while they watch the falling rain. The man stands next to me, murmuring, "I need to save them. I need to save them."

"I'll help you," I say as we watch our younger siblings. "I'm John, by the way."

"Metias," the man says. "And I don't need your help. Not yet." He begins to fade away.

"Wait!" I cry, but Metias has already melted into the shadows.

And I have never felt more alone.

Please review! Should I continue this story?