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Father Berislav      Father Berislav can be difficult to track down, for those who don't know how to look. He is rector of no parish but that which he sees fit to establish, called to no diocese but that where he is presently needed. Like many Watchmen, he avails himself of safehouses, but he makes of these safehouses places of spiritual rest and counsel, for those who need it.

     This one is located in an abandoned apartment building. The world is one of fantastical heroes, the city in question no less so. But the neighborhood rarely sees attention from them, for its problems, as much as they are those solvable by the application of superpowers, are just as often systemic.

     Eastgate was meant to be a refuge for the moneyed class. It never had that chance, split apart some twenty years ago by an ill-conceived plot to render the neighborhood into a hideout. It worked too well, and much of the original neighborhood is buried beneath tons of rubble.

     The vulnerable populations of the city flock here, though traffic is closed off. As it is now, Eastgate is effectively a non-place, the city continuously unable to reclaim it from the now-entrenched groups of superpowered fugitives, outright magical entities disturbed by the original explosion, and criminal organizations.

     Some of those organizations mean harm, some perpetrate it simply as a consequence of their other intentions. The largest, however, only wishes to be left alone, to have a place they can call their own amidst a city all too ready to weigh its expectations and demands upon them in microcosm of the larger country. Known as the Outcasts, they are often allies of the Watch.

     The sign of the crescent moon is a sometimes-sight in this neighborhood, leading the savvy collaborator or Watchman to the relatively upright Atlas Arms Apartments. A safehouse on the third floor has had its walls knocked down, reinforced with nevermelting ice, serving as a commons area and connecting to individual units for those in need of rest. It's here, tending to a small congregation of Outcasts with stony hair or freezing fingers or molten veins, that Father Berislav can be found.
Rita Ma      Concrete ruins feel like home, nearly as much as boats do. Rita, dressed in her old humble postapocalyptic-thrift style, doesn't stand out. Given the density of people with superpowers, she likely doesn't even stand out when she hops up to the third story of the safehouse in a couple of brisk bounds and slips in through a window.

     On second thought, she might look slightly too normal for this crowd. But the smiles she gives the Outcasts in passing are sincere, unguarded.

     Whether or not the never-melting walls are really cold, Rita draws away from them, shrinking in on herself. When she greets the priest with a wave, her demeanor is a little restrained, cheeriness damped by a half-dose of something between shyness and shellshock. Her hands clutch the strap of her satchel like it's a seat-belt.

     "Um, you're Father Berislav, aren't you? I'm sorry. I came to ask about something, but do you need help with the medical work first? I have a few supplies."
Father Berislav      The priest is an unassuming man, for someone who talks about holy wars and idolaters. His medium-length white hair is tied into a ponytail, while horn-rimmed reading glasses rest upon his slight nose, which sits above a small smile. He looks more like someone's older brother than a man you'd call 'Father,' and yet here, he looks entirely at home. He wears a simple black cassock, over which is draped a gown-like white garment, and overtop of that, a rich green stole. The bottom of the stole, on either side, bears a simple embroidered gold cross.

     Early evening sunlight filters in through shuttered blinds and boarded windows. Rita appears to have found Waters in the midst of closing a service, but his smile only widens at the sight of her--that he's never met her in person seems not to bother him at all. "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen." A scattered chorus of 'amens' resounds from the single-digit congregation, mostly of Outcasts and one girl with green skin and prominent tusks. "That's right," he says, striding over to press a button on a modest-looking keyboard. A pre-recorded processional plays, set to a 'pipe organ' tone, as the tiny congregation chats and makes well-wishes amongst themselves.

     "Peace," says the troll girl in passing, presumably to Rita, with a lovely unguarded smile of her own in return.

     "Richard did take a nasty spill getting away from those mages in the tunnels. I've set the bone," says the priest, motioning for Rita to follow into another room, "But I think he'd really appreciate something for the pain and swelling." 'Richard' is a boy Rita's age, laid up in bed with some sort of futuristic patch stuck to his shock-white skin. Electric blue hair falls in curls about his sturdy, square face, which he's doing his best to make brave in the presence of Rita and Waters. The leg is swollen, and beneath the translucent patch, a nasty cut is being gradually pulled close and knitted together in hazy, unclear detail. The room smells faintly of ozone--and his bed seems without the usual equipment and monitors the other makeshift medical accomodations in this room have.

     "I told you I'm okay, Father," says Richard, shifting gently in bed. "You don't have to spend so much time on me."

     "Richard," Berislav gently chides, "Part of helping each other means accepting help when it's given. It's not a bad thing. We'll be out of your hair in a moment, but please let Rita here help."
Rita Ma      "Peace," Rita says, getting only the gist but knowing well enough to reciprocate. The troll's smile makes her a little looser, more comfortable.

     Though she'd greeted Berislav simply, the atmosphere of the place- humble though it is- soaks into Rita throughout the service's end, and by the time they get to Richard, she's absorbed enough of that gravitas to greet him with a little bow instead.

     "It's good to meet you, Mr. Richard. I'm so sorry to hear you've been having a hard time." Her smile becomes pained, sympathetic; as she looks for a table-height surface to put her satchel down on, she looks to Berislav questioningly. Why doesn't he have the same medical equipment? The smell of ozone is unfamiliar enough that she doesn't make the connection.

     She rummages in the bag for a pill bottle- a real glass bottle, the old kind- iodine, and ointment. "What have you given him already, Father?" she asks. Then, turning back around: "Is it okay if I touch you, Mr. Richard? This goes under your tongue. And this goes..."

     If he doesn't give his permission, she'll let him apply the ointment; otherwise, she'll do it herself, as close to the wound as she can get it without actually pouring it into the rift. The raw flesh is given only a few drops of iodine to disinfect. "That should help make the swelling go down. You'll feel it in a few minutes, okay? Thanks for being patient with us, Mr. Richard. Even if you don't need it, it helps us feel better."

     As she stows her supplies again, she looks to Berislav, signaling that that's as much as she can do. In a quieter voice: "I was wondering, Father... what's a 'confessional', exactly?"

     But if she's here in person, and not just asking over the radio, it can't just be an idle question.
Father Berislav      "Sure, that's okay, Rita," says Richard, after a defeated sigh. He accepts the ointment and the medicine, after a double-take at the glass bottle. Touching him confers a faint buzz, that sets the hairs at the nape of her neck (likely buried beneath a disguise though they may be) to standing up.

     "I just kinda feel like a burden when I get hurt this way," he eventually admits. "Since I fry any of the fancy electric gadgets we scooped from DATA. But," he says, after a soft 'none of that, now' look down-the-glasses from the priest, "I really appreciate it."

     Berislav, meanwhile, turns an ear towards Rita, then nods, gesturing for her to follow him. "Thank you, Richard. I'll check in again with you tomorrow. Get well soon!"

     Walking back into the commons area, the priest leads her to a still-intact apartment a little ways down the hall. "It's a sacrament that priests offer, where a person confesses their sins to God in private, through the priest. The priest, in turn, offers counsel, direction, and comfort," he says, closing the door of the unit behind him.

     Hands folded before him, he gestures to an old, but comfortable-looking couch. It was probably dragged in from outside. Berislav himself takes a folding chair. "You look like you have something on your mind, Rita, so I guess I'll make the formal offer." He smiles peacefully at her, one hand upon the chair. "The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips, that you may truly and humbly confess your sins:" His right hand makes a fourfold gesture, up, down, right-left across the shoulders. "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." Taking a seat, he waits and listens.
Rita Ma      Rita looks away for just a moment when the word 'burden' drops, under the pretense of rearranging her satchel's contents. When she looks back at Richard, her smile is 'brave', which means it's half sincere and half forced.

     "You can't force other people to care for you, Mr. Richard," she reprimands him gently. "If they're caring for you, it's only because they want to. Try to think of it like... you're doing them a favor by being brave enough to let them help."

     She can't believe that. But she hopes he will.

     Following a little ways behind Berislav, Rita casts her gaze off to the side and chews her lip- there's no point hiding that she's a little bewildered and dazed by all these new terms. But she makes sense of the context she has: "Counsel and direction sound nice, Father Berislav." And it doesn't take a genius to know what to do with a couch.

     At first she lays herself upon it in very proper fashion, in a way that doesn't fit her (seemingly) sun-bleached and hard-worn clothes: head tilted back to regard the ceiling, hands folded neatly over her abdomen, legs straight. That lasts for about four or five seconds of thought before she rolls onto her side to look at Berislav, one arm dangling off and the other propping up her head.

     "I feel sorry for something," she says. She's hesitant at first, like she might get a bad grade at confession: foreign contexts have rules like battlefields have mines. "But I'm not sure what. I've done a lot of things, I think, that I'm almost sure I'm not sorry for. Can 'almost' add up? If I'm still a little bit sorry for a lot of things, then how do I say that?"

     Rita's eyes slide off to the side while she braces for something. She can't look him in the face for this part. "Father Berislav, you said necromancy is a sin. Does that have anything to do with 'final death' happening on the 'day of judgement'?"
Father Berislav >Can 'almost' add up? If I'm still a little bit sorry for a lot of things, then how do I say that?

     The priest nods sagely, removing his reading glasses to hang them by the temple upon the 'collar' of his white overgarment. "It certainly adds up inside," he says. "Even if it's not a sin, there are things that we feel guilt for. Things that, perhaps, we might've done better, or sooner, or even transgressions against us that we might have forgiven more readily," he says, hands resting palms-down in his lap. "Everyone struggles with almosts. In the eyes of God, either you've sinned, or you haven't, but we're hardly as circumspect as the Lord. It's natural to feel sorry for a lot of little things, or a little sorry for a lot of things." His smile fades, slightly, but not out of disapproval--it seems as though there's an understanding, of sorts, in his eyes, when they meet hers.

     "That second part is the kicker, isn't it?" he asks. "It's the... purview, I guess you could say, of people who are called to serve like you and I. My denomination believes God has three coequal aspects--that's the Father, Son and Holy Ghost or Holy Spirit I mentioned earlier. Of the three, the Holy Spirit is the least understood by most people."

     Berislav lifts a hand to tap a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "You could think of him as your advocate in the material world. A... kind of spiritual manifestation of your conscience, who affirms you when you see something you know is wrong, and feel driven to fix that wrong, and who also encourages you to make right those who you've wronged yourself."

     "Being a little sorry for a lot of things," he continues, "For people like us, usually means that you regret they were necessary, moreso than having done them. Have I struck a chord, Rita?" He asks, tilting his head inquisitively. "If you feel comfortable, we can discuss specifics--nothing leaves this room."
Rita Ma      Rita's face scrunches up in uncomfortable thought. Being a total naïf to the terminology, it's a bit much to muddle through, but she does her best. "The Father... so you're named after him, Father Berislav?"

     She holds his gaze, and that understanding, for a moment or two. Then she has to look away. Finally sitting up, she draws her legs in against her chest defensively and rests her chin atop her knees. Her eyes are fixed on the couch cushions.

     "Some of them were necessary," she says. "Some of them I know weren't. And some of the ones that weren't necessary, I don't know if they were avoidable. That's different, isn't it?"

     Rita's eyes cloud over with a faraway look. Her cheek twitches in the start of some dry emotion that never comes to blossom. "I've hurt a lot of people who I think you'd call 'idolaters', Father Berislav. I try not to regret it, but it's natural to feel a little bit, isn't it? They were human beings, after all. Even if they made themselves monsters too."

     "But..." A pause. Without looking up, she bites her lip. "I've hurt other people too, sometimes. Or still hurt the people I meant to, but worse than I should have. I used to say I wasn't in control of myself. But that's never really true, is it, Father? If I'd maybe tried a little harder..."

     Her hands squeeze her legs. She stops when they start to blanch the skin.

     "... Well, if you fall short of something, it's hard to know by how much. How bad should I feel about that? I don't know."
Father Berislav >So you're named after him?

     "That is a subject of *huge* debate amongst Christians, and I'm proud of you for having unearthed it so soon after exposure to clergy. Historically speaking," he grins, "It comes from the old forms of address, in Greek, 'elder,' in latin, 'seniore,' and over time, eventually we came to 'father.' I could talk all day about history, but... later," he says, with a little wave of his hand.

>I don't know if they were avoidable. That's different, isn't it?

     He nods. It's different, he seems to think. "You've grasped something that many people don't," says Berislav, nodding. "When a business refers to people as 'human resources,' that decision, as dehumanizing as it is, came from a person, with thoughts and feelings. Who came from the same clay we did, who received the same breath of life. 'He who saves a sinner saves his soul from death,' and when they won't turn from sin, it's only natural for us to feel sad--even if their sin was great, even if there were more teeth than we could count, beneath that monster was a person."

>How bad should I feel about that? I don't know.

     Berislav rises from the seat, walking calmly over to the cupboard, and procures a box of tea packets--light on the packets. A few still rattle inside. He himself commits the sin of microwave tea, then brings it over and sets it on the coffee table before Rita. A comfort, disguised as courtesy.

     "I think that the... idea that sin is a meter, like in a video game, has been one of the most disastrous things any of the denominations ever allowed to enter into the common understanding of the faith. God loves you--and His capacity for forgiveness is boundless, so long as you ask and accept His grace. But that's the easy part. And it's the part that everyone uses as carte blanche to be awful, indulgent, and neglectful in their time on this material plane. The politician whose policies comfort himself first may think he has a seat in his Father's kingdom, if only he makes a few token efforts here and there for the needy. 'Means testing,' as it were," he says distastefully. "Take heart in this, Rita: some of the most known names in the Bible did things many people would come to a priest for. Let's use Peter as an example, because he hurt someone, too. I've heard a little about you, Rita, and I think you live a godly life, believe it or not," he smiles.
Father Berislav      "You're kind, generous with yourself and your time, you're a fierce advocate for the needy and the weak, and still, you try to be better. Jesus had a number of disciples or 'apostles' in his day. And like you, they made some very powerful people upset for spreading practices and messages that helped the needy. After all, one man being rich means another has to be poor, right?" He frowns, helping himself to a cup of tea once Rita has taken him up or abstained.

     "One day, things looked pretty bad. Jesus told one of his followers, a man named Peter, 'Before the rooster crows today, you will deny me three times.' Being the Son of God, Jesus obviously knew some things that Peter didn't--and Peter was very disturbed by that omen."

     Berislav sips chastely at his tea. "But, the authorities of the day found Peter, seized him, and brought him before a high priest who had it in for Christ and his disciples. Out of fear for his own life, Peter denied knowing Jesus, before three different witnesses. He remembered that omen, and he went out into the street and wept. It's awful, when we hurt someone we didn't mean to," says Berislav consolingly. "We call *that* incident the Repentance of Peter--because he knew that he'd hurt someone he cared about, and the fact that he was moved to tears showed that he wanted to make it right, however he could. You see, Rita, asking for forgiveness means that you're willing to do and be better. Whether it's divine forgiveness, or the forgiveness of your neighbor, that's how it always has to work. If you feel bad about it, you always have the choice to do and be better. Even if it's only a little. Jesus was convicted, crucified and killed--but he rose from the dead, three days later. He spoke to Peter, asking him if he loved him, and giving him the chance to show it--by embodying his teachings on Earth."

     Another sip. "God is infinitely forgiving--but the same isn't always true of people, whether it's other people or ourselves. If you believe in Him, you can ask forgiveness, and receive it, in a spiritual sense. For the people you've hurt, all you can do is let your actions show you're sorry, and let the passage of time do what it will. Here," he says, standing up and setting the cup down, with a serene smile. "I can handle the first part for you, at least."

     Berislav makes that sign before Rita again--four movements of his right hand. "Our Lord Jesus Christ, who offered himself to be sacrificed for us to the Father, and who conferred power on his Church to forgive sins, absolve you through my ministry by the grace of the Holy Spirit, and restore you in the perfect peace of the Church. Amen. The Lord has put away your sins."

     Berislav bows his head to Rita, palms pressed together, before taking the teacups, spent or not, and washing them in the sink.

     "Remember, Rita: the things that you're fighting for are for *you* to enjoy, too," counsels Berislav, before he opens the door. "Love, community, justice. Go in peace, and pray for me, a sinner."
Rita Ma      Rita's eyes, when they turn to regard the tea, aren't any less crowded. But she pushes a grateful look onto her face and seems to take a sip; gratitude turns to simple joy as she savors the aroma. When he collects the mugs later, he'll find she hasn't actually drunk a drop, but it's the thought that counts.

     "... even if their sin was great, even if there were more teeth than we could count, beneath that monster was a person."
     Rita smiles weakly over her tea.

     "I've heard a little about you, Rita, and I think you live a godly life, believe it or not."
     A sequence of emotions play across her face: surprise, flinching fear, strained belief. Someone 'hearing about her' seems to evoke bad things.

     She listens to the parable, totally engrossed- having to make sense of all these unfamiliar terms is a convenient distraction from thinking about her own feelings- and at least by the end, seems to have a little grasp on it.

     "So..." Her face scrunches up in deep, tenuous thought. "It's a metaphor, isn't it, Mister- Father Berislav? Saying 'God forgives us' is a way of saying..." Her finger taps on the rim of her mug. Her eyes fall to the ripples in the liquid. "... that once people forgive us, and we've really changed, bad things don't stick to us forever. Is that right?"

     She turns sideways to finally sit upright and proper on the couch, hands folded in her lap. Her feet don't quite reach the floor, so they dangle restlessly; her eyes stay magnetized to her tea. "A lot of the people I've hurt, I might never get to see them again. Or definitely never will. I don't know how they'd forgive me, then. But I can try my best to change, I think."

     Rita clumsily imitates the four-part motion- that's what one does, right?- and then more adeptly imitates the bow, after standing up. "Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Berislav." That time she's too preoccupied to catch herself, but a little smile decorates her face. "I do feel a little better. I think I get why people like this."

     By the time his last sentiment drops, her back is turned to Berislav. He's not privy to her expression, but he can see her lock up and freeze mid-stride, her whole body tense. It takes her a second or three to gather her voice enough to answer.

     "Thanks, Father Berislav. It's really nice of you to say so. But I've enjoyed those things too much already. And I didn't fight for them enough. This is just catching up."

     Her voice is even. But the doorframe is a little cracked where she caught herself on it.
Father Berislav >Saying 'God forgives us' is a way of saying... that once people forgive us, and we've really changed, bad things don't stick to us forever. Is that right?

    Berislav smiles serenely at Rita, and nods his head. There is a sense that, if he weren't waiting to hear more, he'd praise her, as a teacher would a bright student.

>A lot of the people I've hurt, I might never get to see them again. Or definitely never will. I don't know how they'd forgive me, then. But I can try my best to change, I think.

    He nods his head once more, as if this were 'the other shoe falling.' Satisfied that she understands the meaning behind the surface of his counsel, he allows her to exit first.

>Thanks, Father Berislav. It's really nice of you to say so. But I've enjoyed those things too much already. And I didn't fight for them enough. This is just catching up.

    "And you will," says the priest, with warm, quiet certainty. If he'd seen the damage to the doorframe, his peaceful mien certainly doesn't show it. He closes the door behind the both of them. "One day," he says, laying a hand gently upon her shoulder, "The sun will rise for you, and you'll look back on everything you've done, you'll know, in that moment, that your work isn't done, but that feeling of being 'behind' will be gone, like an old ache conspicuous in its absence."

    "You," he continues, gesturing to the broader hallway, supported with beams of nevermelting ice, "And your friends, and the people you love, will have built something, together, equally. You may not even notice it, until it's finished. But what you will notice, in the days that follow, is how that thing you have all built, together, withstands the worst of what the world can throw at you. If you just continue this fight, that's what awaits you--and I hope I live to see the day you reach it."

     His hand departs from her shoulder, though the warmth of his smile still beams her way. "I should put everything away, but feel free to come visit me again some time."