Scene #8292: Stained Glass

Owner	Pose
Father Berislav	Sunday morning on a relatively mundane Earth. A Watch hideout, marked by graffiti that shows up if one stands at just the right street corner and looks at just the right building, is today bustling with activity. Bright morning sunlight filters into an abandoned office building that never was. Someone pays to keep lights on here, to keep electricity, but whoever it is must have forgotten about the place, or else it was one of those seemingly cursed prospects that never turned a profit. Either way, today there are people, and rather than occupy themselves with the computers, listening stations or amateur radios, they are all stood before rows of an eclectic mix of chairs. Office chairs, the type you'd find in a first floor lobby, and the folding metal kind. In front of each, there are pillows, cushions, even folded blankets. A large desk has been made into an altar, with liturgical runners, candles, and a chalice set up atop it. As an electric keyboard plays a pre-recorded processional, in imitation of a pipe organ, two laypersons light candles around the room with brass rods. "O God the Father, Creator of heaven and earth," begins Father Berislav, in a melodious tenor. He wears, over his cassock, a billowy white garment, and over that, a pristine purple stole, with a gold cross embroidered at the bottom of either end. "Have mercy upon us," sings the small congregation in response. "O God the Son, Redeemer of the world," Berislav prompts. "Have mercy upon us," answers the single-digit congregation. Some of them are reading from little booklets for this, laid out on the chairs. "O God the Holy Ghost, Sanctifier of the faithful," "Have mercy upon us." "O holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, one God," "Have mercy upon us." "Remember not, Lord Christ, our offenses, nor the offenses of our forefathers; neither reward us according to our sins. Spare us, good Lord, spare thy people, whom thou hast redeemed with thy most precious blood, and by thy mercy preserve us, for ever." "Spare us, good Lord." "From all evil and wickedness; from sin; from the crafts and assaults of the devil; and from everlasting damnation," "Good Lord, deliver us." It's at some point during this sung call-and-response that Petra probably enters.
Petra Soroka	Petra took a train to get here. She reasons that it was smart to leave the Kana behind, because a loud flying tank isn't conducive to the kind of secrecy that Watchtowers tend to require. That she wasn't comfortable bringing it anyways is something she doesn't want to think about. The conversation with Buttercup about her experience with Berislav in confessional, the fawning over her mech. It left a bad taste in Petra's mouth. It takes Petra a few tries to pinpoint the safehouse, walking around the block. Aggravated by her navigational troubles, she enters the office with a slinking step, keeping to the back and the walls, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. The singing makes her pause in her tracks, stirring splotches of memories inside her. Is it that she remembers going to church with her parents, as a kid? She couldn't possibly pick out any specific memory of it, just the vague knowledge that she did go, regularly, a long time ago. Petra couldn't even name what denomination her parents were, off the top of her head. The recognition she feels might just be cultural osmosis. Human beings are weak. They fill the mold given to them and back-justify it as a narrative of self-creation. Petra scowls at her internal monologue. It doesn't matter. She's here now, as herself. Trying to slip into the sermon room unnoticed, Petra leans against the back wall, eyeing the congregation with crossed arms. She's wearing a turtleneck sweater and her golden floral necklace, but her jeans are baggy and the dingy, oversized bomber jacket hangs down below her waist. She gives off the impression of someone who assumed you're supposed to dress up nice for church, but was too embarrassed to lean fully into it. Petra tries not to catch Berislav's eye, but it's inevitable at some point, in the small crowd. But for a while, she just waits, and watches, experiencing the sermon without participating.
Father Berislav	Listening at the back, Petra hears another hymn before Berislav's eyes drift upwards towards her. As the congregation sings, led by Berislav, the two laypersons--a redhead girl with a bob cut and a young man with medium locs--march between the aisles, the girl carrying a large brass cross. "Bless the Lord who forgiveth all our sins," says the priest. In slightly scattered unison, the congregation answers, "His mercy endureth for ever." There is warmth in Berislav's eyes, invitation, but he seems accustomed enough to having walk-ins that he continues the service without drawing the attention of the small congregation towards her. "Here is what our Lord Jesus saith," Berislav says. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets. Let us humbly confess our sins unto Almighty God..." What follows is, in that same scattered unison, Berislav and the small congregation, including the two lay people, asking that forgiveness. There is mention of a few things--following too much the devices and desires of the heart, things left undone that should have been done, things done which shouldn't have. "The Almighty and merciful Lord grant you absolution and remission of all your sins, true repentance, amendment of life, and the grace and consolation of the Holy Spirit." Over the next few minutes, there's a lot of standing and sitting. Maybe Petra remembers it, or maybe she doesn't. There are spoken call-and-responses, which most of the single-digit congregation seems to refer to those little booklets for. Another hymnal, with Berislav's melodious tenor mingling with the voices of the congregation. It actually seems like there's a lot of ritual, before the scripture is ever read. There are 'lessons,' then--the congregation seated, Berislav with his Bible open. "A Lesson from Leviticus 19:13. You shall not defraud your neighbor, you shall not steal, and you shall not keep for yourself the wages of a laborer until morning." "The Word of the Lord," says Berislav. "Thanks be to God," answers the congregation. This continues, one more time: "A Lesson from Deuteronomy 24:19. 'When you reap in your harvest in the field, and have forgotten a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it. ... When you beat your olive trees, you shall not go over the boughs again. ... When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, you shall not glean it afterward; it shall be for the sojourner, the fatherless and the widow. You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt; therefore I command you to do this."
Petra Soroka	Petra meets Berislav's eyes with what first looks like a hostile glare, oozing the kind of petty resentment a child has when dragged to a parent-teacher conference. After a moment, though, she breaks eye contact, looking down at the ground. The line about "loving thy neighbor" has Petra visibly flinch, and growing discomfort builds up in her chest. She fidgets back and forth to try to dispel it, but when the congregation begins opening up about their sins to the room, she takes a few steps back, outside the room. Petra can't shake the feeling that she's intruding on something she shouldn't. Not in the sense that Berislav wouldn't welcome her here, but... that her presence here, lurking around the shadowy edges of people's honest feelings, somehow stains it. A tourist. Petra considers going back outside to wait it out. She considers going back outside to leave. What was she hoping to get out of this, anyways? Berislav already made very clear where his opinions on Petra lie. A stupid, helpless girl, who doesn't know what she wants, and is a risk to everyone around her unless "saved". And what does coming here mean, if not tacitly admitting she agrees? Petra can't bring herself to leave, though. Instead, she weaves her way through the office halls to get far enough that she can barely hear the hymns, slips into a conference room, and slumps into a chair by an open window, lighting up a cigarette. For a while, Petra just sits staring at the blank white wall in front of her, straining to hear the priest's words despite herself. Commie shit. Even god thinks she sucks.
Father Berislav	During those Lessons, Berislav's eyes had flicked towards Petra. Was it to make sure she was listening? To Again invite her to sit, even as she left? After another hymn, with Berislav playing at the keyboard (apparently it only has so much memory for pre-recorded songs), he addresses the congregation again. "The Holy Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ according to Luke." His voice drifts down the hall easily enough--is that because he's projecting for her? "Glory be to thee, O Lord," answers the congregation. Clearing his throat, Berislav flips through to the right chapter, then begins. She can hear the soft 'fwips' of pages turning from her spot smoking. This one is about a guy who comes to Jesus demanding that Jesus make his brother divide the inheritance between them. Jesus answers, perhaps understandably, something to the effect of 'I'm not your lawyer,' but more importantly to the story, tells everyone listening to be wary of covetousness. By way of teaching, Jesus, in this story, tells a story of his own. Jesus' story is about a rich man who finds his farm doing so well that, rather than share his abundance with others, decides to build even larger barns so that he can live the good life. But no one knows when they'll die, and whose will all of that hoarded wealth be then? "So is he who lays up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God." After a pause, he initiates another call-and-response. "The Gospel of the Lord." "Praise be to thee, O Christ," answers the congregation. Now, the actual sermon itself begins. "We have such a lovely congregation. I'm so honored to be called to service and share in Christ's love with you all." He smiles warmly. "This morning, I'd like to talk to you all today about the Parable of the Talents. Jesus did a lot of his teaching through parables, because his message was quite controversial for the culture of the day, and in many ways, still is."
Father Berislav	"Yes," concedes the priest, "There's the surface level interpretations of why that is. The Romans didn't like all the talk of being King, the temple didn't like the talk of being the Son of God. But even they admitted that there had been people who'd done those things before--and some of them even had followers. No," clarifies Berislav, his voice drifting easily into the hall. "It was because his teachings tell us to care for one another, help each other, and hold what we have in common. In other words, that we don't need things like princes or police or landlords, if we have the love of each other. And none of those people really liked hearing those ideas very much, profiting as they did from their relationship." "So we come to the Parable of the Talents, in the Gospel of Matthew. This one is a favorite, in neoliberal ideology, because on its face, it seems like a story about someone who made a poor investment out of laziness and suffers for it. But look past the surface, if you will, and you see a much different story." "The landlord in that parable is described as a man who reaps where he hasn't sown--someone who takes without having given. He leaves the house to go gallivanting off somewhere, and tasks his servants to make him richer by investing the gold talents he gave them. The third servant knows that the landlord takes without giving, and buries the talent given to him because he's all too aware of the disparity in power between them. He reasonably decides, fearing for his own well being, that it's better to prevent a loss than to risk one." "Hence," concludes Berislav, "The third servant, explaining that much to the landlord in the presence of the other servants, is not exiled for laziness. No, he's punished for speaking the truth, unmasking the promised 'joy of the master' for what it is - the profits of exploitation squandered in wasteful excess. And because he didn't think to ask the other servants for help, the full weight of the master's abuse was upon him. The message of this parable, in truth, is that we must all act in solidarity with each other, when confronting social, political, and economic injustices, lest we find ourselves alone."
Petra Soroka	The walls deaden the sound of Berislav's voice, and the feeble bass tones of the keyboard barely manage to filter through to Petra. It's actually comforting. The quiet separation of being in this room, rather than that one; a world of her own where she can eavesdrop in to the one that others share, without them having to see her. Petra leans back in her chair, freezing as it creaks audibly loudly. Projecting any noticeable sign that she's still here feels wrong, like she's intentionally disrupting the sermon to passive-aggressively beg for attention. Economic theory goes over Petra's head, especially in conjunction with theology. Or, rather, she chooses to let it go over her head, as if it applies to people who aren't her. It's a conversation that she's not a part of. She could never spin together a coherent response as persuasive as what she knows other people are capable of doing, so why should she bother doing anything but tuning out and shrugging her shoulders? Petra assumes that the words of the sermon are being directed at her--or at least, intentionally selected with her in mind. Of course she does, she's that type of girl. So the interpreted suggestion that she needs to be more willing to ask for and receive help makes her bristle with hostility, kicking her feet up on the table in her conference room. If the sermon ends soon, that's the state Berislav will find her in, staring into the wall as if she's trying to burn a hole through it.
Father Berislav	Petra might just be right about the selections of sermons. When you read one book and interpret it for a living, you get pretty familiar with the passages. What follows next is a creed, detailing what Berislav and by extension, the congregation believe; an affirmation of what the 'Holy Trinity' is and its importance in daily life. Following this, a group prayer, for 'the whole state of Christ's Church and the world.' Then, after prompting from Berislav, the congregation stands, moving and talking amongst each other, with 'peace be with you' frequently carried down the hall in murmurs, over a pre-recorded processional on his keyboard. "Petra?" asks Berislav, having stepped out for this portion of the service. "We're about to break bread, if you'd like to join us." There is no expectation in his voice that she -has- to, only the same gentle invitation he'd given with his eyes, at the beginning of service. "If you have anything to give, you're welcome to, and if you need anything, what we have, we have to give." There is a sense, woven into the gentle tone of his voice, that his offer of aid doesn't just mean material things. "And, of course, the Blood of our Lord does give a nice little morning buzz." He's got jokes, yes. The priest isn't blind to her hostility--far from it. It's more like the air of someone willing to be patient with a cornered animal, even if it means he gets bitten. "It's quite alright, if you don't want to. I just wanted to make the offer--you're welcome here."
Petra Soroka	Petra startles when the priest enters, slipping her feet off the table with a clatter and snapping her phone shut with unexpected force. She glares at him accusatorily, with an undercurrent of fear, remarkably like a small animal whose den has been intruded upon. Despite the fact that she's the one who came here for Berislav, and that she's only been in this room for a few minutes, she gives off a furtive impression, like she's worried that he was trying to catch her in some immoral act. "I don't have any food to share. I didn't bring any. And it'd be stupid for me to take food when I don't need it." Her eyes slide glassily off of Berislav, staring into a corner. "I'm not drinking anything either. I don't need a buzz. I know she can only tolerate me when I'm drunk." Her words have some heat to them, but they feel hollow, like a candle under a cup, about to burn out. Petra shifts in her chair, exhaling smoke into the room, where before she was careful to direct it out the window. "Why would I be welcome? I'm not friends with any of them. I'm not really religious. I'm barely even a Watch member. They all probably do more good than me. I'm not going to barge in there and demand that they treat me like one of them." She talks flatly, still not looking at Berislav, and puts her elbow on the arm of her chair, leaning onto it, supporting her chin with her thumb. her head lolls to the side, the fingers holding her cigarette smooshing into her cheek. "...Why do you think I'm having the worst day of my life?"
Father Berislav	Berislav pulls up a chair. It'd be worse to stand. He doesn't respond, at least verbally, to her refusal to take part in the bread-breaking--but the mention of being drunk earns her a sympathetic frown. "Is that so?" he asks. Not in the pleasantry way of asking--no, this means 'is that really true?' It's rhetorical, if his tone is indication. He doesn't seem to mind the smoke, either. "Why wouldn't you be welcome?" asks the priest. "The liturgy is for everyone. Religious or not, friend or not. Did you hear that creed we spoke, after the sermon? That Christ was begotten, not made? He always existed, but was sent to the world to live as a human so that God could become like us, and we like him. This is why Jesus is also called the Son of Man--because while he is God, he is also human. And so, I firmly believe that service is both sacred and secular. That it can, and should, serve both people who are 'religious' and people who aren't." The priest shifts in his seat. If the smoke bothers him, he doesn't show it. "You know, Petra, you're not the first person to feel as though membership in the Watch is somehow something that has to be earned. That there is some metric of good which must be met, for you to be a 'real' member." "As a matter of fact, Nephra expressed a similar sentiment. The truth is, this isn't the Concord. It isn't expected that each of us is always toiling at some great work, or always throwing ourselves into the great works of our neighbors. We do what we're able, when we're able, and when we can't, we have others to call upon who can. It isn't the Paladins, either--we don't have a 'party line,' because we're accountable only to each other and to the people out there. There is no bureaucrat, out there, who will take from us for having failed to meet the expectations of a government or council." "Jenny--one of the lay people--" A backwards nod with his head, towards the ongoing service--"She's a programmer and a hacker. She's from this world, and her skillset means that she'll never miss a meal. She's very honest about this just being something fun, that excites her, even if the association with us means that she could face consequences. She simply has the energy to help where and when she can. That's enough for her, and it's enough for us, too." "So--why are you having the worst day of your life?"
Petra Soroka	Petra's grey eyes look dull enough to be carved from rock as she levels her stare at Berislav. The hand that isn't supporting her head is gripping her flip-phone, tightly enough that tendons stand out on her arm. "...Isn't that basically Tamamo's whole thing, too? Learning to become 'like us'?" She pauses, as if that was all she had to say, completely still in her slouched posture. "There's a few different 'us'es that could mean, though." Petra shrugs, immediately dismissing the thought. She raps her knuckles on the arm of her office chair, sending ashes to the floor. "Sure. I don't know Nephra, and she seems kind of awful anyways. I don't care about her standards. And as for Jenny, she's just a... she's not the kind of person to be in our radio bands. She's not an Elite. Her helping at all is something to take note of, because most people just exist in a passive state where they're incapable of doing help or hurt." Petra leans back and crosses her arms, talking more as the priest encourages her to. "I'm not like that, though. I can't be like that. But... isn't the worse part, the more important part, that people don't consider me to be a Watch Elite in any way that matters? People in the other factions don't, they treat me like a kid who they need to fix. Grier doesn't, of course, and she's, like, the most Watch someone can be. Community membership isn't decided by yourself, or even by your actions. It's consensus, what people treat you as." When Berislav asks that last question, though, Petra bolts upright in her seat, slamming her hands onto the table, phone cracking. "We're not doing this. I asked you a question, about what you said about me last night, to her. That wasn't an invitation for you to start grilling me to keep, digging for evidence to prove yourself right."
Father Berislav	"It is Tamamo's thing, yes," says Berislav with a small smile. "For a different reason, at least." Petra slams her hands on the table. Berislav does not startle, or even sigh. The service seems to be proceeding fine without him. There is only a momentary glance towards her cracked phone. He allows the silence to stew, for a moment. "...Even Liza would say that being 'Watch,' as if it were a political affiliation, isn't a thing someone can be. Is Chase 'Watch?' The robot aiding and abetting others who seek dominion over humanity? What about Charlotte, the girl thrust into a world far wider than she ever imagined, with more questions than answers, forced to sharpen her view of the world as she goes? Will we eject her if she chooses 'wrong,' in the process of learning? Tohru Adachi was a policeman, fired for saying the quiet part out loud. More than that, I believe he enjoyed the opportunities the job gave him to sow misery." The priest frowns, hands folded neatly in his lap. "He neither shares Liza's ideology nor meets most people's definition of a good person. The twins from Karlan--one is a saint, and the other is a venture capitalist who arguably profits from a widespread illness." "You're right that community membership is decided by the community. But this community has no ideological purity. To have it would hurt us, because the very point of the Watch is that it takes all comers--that the ends are more important than the means. Having multiple someones who can help is, for us, more important than having all of them in lockstep." "Now," he says, one leg crossed over the other. "Your day. It really doesn't matter whether I'm right or not, Petra. What matters, to me, is that you have better days. Days where you don't hurt yourself by running at a sprint towards things that will hurt you. If you want my opinion--whether that conversation was about you, yes, I think it was." He removes his reading glasses, setting them on the table before him. "It isn't a sin to have emotions. You aren't a child. You're a human being, with a wealth of emotional range, and there are times when you will encounter someone or something that plays upon them. Other people are the same way. Which means that it isn't fair for you to talk about boundaries, without respecting them yourself. You don't have to answer me--but even if you don't, I would like you to ask yourself, and be honest in your answer." "What is it that you're demanding of Lilian, which would injure her to give? And why do you feel like you're not obligated to give care, in response to that injury?"
Petra Soroka	Petra grips the edge of the table for a moment, arms tensing up as if she's about to flip it, or throw a punch, or exert force in some other way. Instead, she abruptly doubles over coughing, the fit lasting long enough to be uncomfortable, throat audibly becoming more ragged as it goes on. When it subsides, she angrily pushes herself away from the table, and starts pacing around the room. "You couldn't have picked worse examples, really. I barely know Chase, I only hear about Adachi as a warning case of what not to be. Newman I know, and she's kind of a pathetic bitch who never says or does anything worth paying attention to. I'm on her team because we're both pieces of shit who are out of our depth, not because I think she's a model Elite. And even she doesn't fucking like me." Petra pauses her frenzied stalking to stare at the whiteboard on the wall, directly in front of her. She seems to intently study an old, smudged drawing of a stick figure, then wipes it away with her thumb. "Priests are bound by confidentiality, right? Like lawyers, and doctors. And... therapists. Would you really be confidential about any of this?" Doodles of stick figures dot the whiteboard, and she slowly paces down the length of it, rubbing each one away. "My therapist--I used to have one, actually. Grier doesn't believe me. She used to always tell me that if she got worried that I would hurt myself or someone else, she'd have to tell them. As if it was out of her hands, that she'd have to tell them. And she seemed to hate every thing I felt so much that it all registered as violence to her, so I could never tell her anything. I don't think I'd trust you even if you said you'd keep it private. You're already on her side. I'm the one that needs fixing."
Father Berislav	Berislav nods. He'll be confidential. He goes so far as to give Petra a 'one moment' finger, procuring a piece of paper from a nearby filing cabinet. 'Please Use Other Door' is written upon it in pen. With some scotch tape, it's pinned to the door he'd taken to get here--and that door is locked, for good measure. At once, he's guaranteed privacy and given the rest of his time to her, for this. Back in his seat, he looks over the whiteboard. "I'm on God's side," he says simply. "Which means that everyone receives care from me, no matter what they believe, and yes, consequently, that it's possible for multiple people to need care. I want, very much, to see you smiling and laughing, Petra. You deserve to have good things in your life, and be surrounded by warmth, the same as anyone else." "The problem with therapists, and with priests, is that they can't write you a prescription or counsel you into a new socioeconomic system," he says plainly, hands resting gently on the table. "And so many of them feel as though the system that does exist will be enough to help, when it so often isn't. When it is, so often, designed to do the opposite of that. Exactly as you said, the moment their charges really, truly reach out, those people want to wash their hands of it." "Well," he says, as another hymn is very faintly heard through the closed and locked door, "I don't have that luxury, because I don't believe in that system. It's sink or swim, and I don't want you to sink, even if it means learning to swim hurts you, or me, or the people around you. That's what this means to me," he says, running an index along his collar. "If you don't trust that I won't tell anyone, then trust instead that there is no one for me to tell. What would that do, except hurt more? Except make you feel even more, that there is a 'me' and a 'them?' It's unconscionable."
Petra Soroka	Petra scoffs, still looking at the board. She lightly runs her black-smudged thumb across her left shoulder. "I don't need a new socioeconomic system. The current one served me fine. That's a little bit of the problem, isn't it? Pretty much every system worked for me, but not theirs. What am I supposed to do, except throw my efforts in with the ones that worked." The cracked phone is still in her hands, and her fist tightens around it again, splitting the plastic further. Petra turns away from the whiteboard, flabbergasted, struck still and tense. "You're telling me, that if I stood here and described a detailed plan to hurt or k-ki--to hurt Lilian, and I didn't show any remorse, or regret, or hesitation, or anything, you wouldn't tell her? I don't believe that, yeah. I think it would have a pretty obvious benefit for you to tell her. There is a 'me' and a 'them'." Crack. Sharp plastic digs into her hand, pricking hard enough to draw blood with its ragged edge.
Father Berislav	Berislav is chillingly calm, through this. "That is exactly what I'm telling you," he says. "Do you know why?" "There are two reasons. First, because after an act like that, you would have to live with the consequences of creating 'me' and 'them.' It's not so easy a rubicon to cross as you may think, and doubly so for walking back the way you came," he says, reaching beneath his chasuble to put some sort of futuristic autosuture patch on the table, "I would try and stop you," he admits. "Perhaps even by force, if I felt it were necessary. And not for the reasons you think. But even if it came to that, and even if you cursed me for it, I would never speak a word of it to anyone else, nor would I abandon you. Because telling someone would betray your trust, which is anything but a benefit, if my goal is to help you be better." He pauses. "Unseal it," he says. "Hold it to your palm for five seconds. It will sting for a moment. You can remove it when the pain is gone, and the nanites will keep working."
Petra Soroka	Petra shakes her head mutely at the nanite patch, just by reflex. She stands stock still across the table, petrified except for the shaking of her shoulders. Her voice is scratchy and rough, dehydrated sounding. "Why?" She coughs and sucks in a rattling breath, the long pause making it increasingly unclear what she was questioning. "Why is my trust more important than her safety? I want her to be worse. I want to make her worse. It's in there, and I can see it, and if I claw a deep enough gouge into her it leaks out and then so many things fall apart. There is no amount of better you could make me, that would counterbalance how much worse I could make her. She's just more impactful. More important. More good. She's more." The energy rapidly draining out of her body, she stumbles over to the chair and slumps into it, throwing the broken phone out of her hand as she does so. It goes skittering across the table, thudding lightly on the carpet. The way her fist is balled up, her nails are still digging into the cut parts of her palm. "There's no net good to be gained from caring for me. If everyone matters, some people still matter more." Slouching in the office chair, she uncurls her fist and studies the smears of blood on her nails as if it were nail polish. "It's fair for some people to complain about boundaries after violating them, and not fair for others. Don't say it isn't true."
Father Berislav	"Because you and she both are different from those people in there," says Berislav, with a slow gesture towards the closed and locked door. There's no more service going on, and no one has tried the door. Very faintly, Petra can hear people filtering out the long way around. Half-heard conversations drift gradually further from earshot. "You can hurt her, or kill her, but the same is true of her with you. You both have ways of expressing and defending yourselves that those people don't. So, my choices are between helping someone who receives plenty of care, and someone who doesn't." "I choose you. You're important to me, because you've come to me, and asked for my help. You have greater need. You see, Lilian can protect herself, and even if she can't, she has people to protect her. But there are precious few people in the world that you trust, and I would like to change that, starting with myself. I want to see you receive care from the people around you, and to know the joy of giving it. It's something that you deserve, and your capacity to theoretically harm someone else doesn't change that." "Now," says the priest, gently approaching the topic, still sat upright as Petra slouches. "You may think that there's no net good from caring for you, but all of us, every day, affect the people and places around us, with everything that we do, say, and are. I think a happy Petra, who feels loved, and loves herself, is a very good thing to want. If you can't accept that it would be good for you, personally, then accept that there truly would be a net good." "Could we start by talking about which boundaries Lilian crossed?"
Petra Soroka	I choose you. The floodgates, already paper thin, collapse. Shatter. A shudder wracks Petra's body, and a loud, wet hiccup accompanies the sudden flood of tears. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her bomber, then, probably because the texture is uncomfortable for that, clumsily pulls it off, fumbling with how urgent it seems to be to her. Turning away from Berislav to face into the back of her chair, Petra presses the soft fabric of her sweater into her eyes, trying and failing to choke back noises. "Y-you don't know what you're saying. She has all of those people around her because she's earned them. And she needs them, too. I've been fine without that, I'm fine." She pulls her legs up onto the seat, curled into the corner of the chair like she's trying to look as small as possible. And she looks so, so small. Face hidden in her knees, twisted away towards the back of the chair, whole body trembling, it's impossible to think of her as an Elite. Blonde hair scatters, loose strands sticking to her wet cheeks. She doesn't even look like an adult, much less a threat. "It's too little, too late. I'm already doing this. I don't want to be happy, I want to shatter so completely that the "me" that exists stops existing. You can't change that. A happy, loved Petra is one that's different than what I am now. She's not me, and I need to get rid of me, first."
Father Berislav	"Petra," says Berislav, standing from his seat to pull it closer to hers. His hand, callused--no stranger to hard work--takes hers, and squeezes gently. His voice is a soft balm, and his silver eyes just so, if she dares to look past her scattered blonde strands. "You aren't fine. You're crying, because despite everything you tell yourself about how unworthy you are, someone still wants to show care. We--all of us--need care. Some more than others, that much is true. But no one can or should live without it." "What is this," he asks, his hand gently drifting from hers to rest on her shoulder, "If not shattering? It can be changed. 'Too late' is something for people far, far worse than you. You haven't dedicated your life to misery. You're not a monster who makes war on people for the sake of anguish. Those things are mine to fight, so trust me when I say I know them when I see them." "No... the Petra you want to get rid of can be gone starting now. One piece at a time, we'll pick them up and put them away. And one piece at a time, we can put a better Petra together." "I promise," he says, still warm and gentle in tone, "That one day, you'll see the depth of your own soul, marvel at the bright, shifting multitude of colors it holds, and wonder how you ever doubted. But the answer is simple: the acorn is not the tree."
Petra Soroka	Petra's breath hitches in her throat when Berislav touches her, strangling with a wet sound. She clutches at his hand with painful force, nails digging into his calluses in a barely restrained urge to rip them off. She refuses to let go of it, her breathing picking up into unstable hyperventilation, each breath tripping over the next in its haste to get into her lungs. "Too--too late. Maybe not, in the g-grand scheme of things. But for now?" Her free hand wraps around his stole, clenching it inside her fist, hard enough that pain shoots through the cuts on her palm. "I-I set my own path. And mine fucking sucks. I don't know why people would ever want to dedicate their lives to misery. I don't want that at all, the things they get in return are... worthless. It's alien to me, or I'm alien to it. Sometimes I forget which I am." Her hand tightens around the stole, pulling it taut like a leash. "But that means, that promise you made, can't be taken back. Because right now, I have to so--sow misery. Every time someone else has tried to make a new Petra, they wanted to change me to suit themselves. So only I can be trusted to do it." From listening to her voice, it sounds like she's stopped crying. Her face is visible now, though, and tears still silently stream down it. "Shouldn't you know? Glass is only beautiful when stained. When carefully, meticulously shattered, so that those colors dance inside it rather than passing right through. Being broken is the point." Petra slips into a monotonous, hurried chant, barely above a whisper, rasping in the back of her throat. "I know what normal looks like. I can take that shape, it's natural to me, no matter how badly it strains my frame. All of your... prodding, you don't understand it, no matter what words you say." "She's not the only one who can pick and choose what's real." Petra pulls on the stole at the same time that she lifts her head, twisting Berislav down towards her. She lifts her face up to meet his, in a clumsy, tear-stained kiss--probably her first. Without another word, she shoves him away, staggers out of her chair, and flees the room, limping on the leg that shouldn't be wounded anymore. Outside, she runs down the street for a long way, past her bus stop, putting distance between herself and the Watchtower, until she finds some private place where she can collapse.
Father Berislav	The priest's skin is tougher than it ought to be, as if something were woven inside of it--there's give, but only enough to feel where it stops. The hand on his stole isn't addressed with the urgency that perhaps it should be, either. He listens, without interjecting, until that clumsy, awkward kiss. A soft, lightly perplexed 'mm?' escapes him, as if to ask, 'what in the world was that meant to be?' He doesn't have his answer, because she steals off into the morning, running as if he, or some ill-defined force, were breathing down her neck the whole way. He looks down at the purple stole, the smear of her blood upon it, and upon the chasuble beneath, and heaves a sigh. "There is simply no way that girl likes boys," he mutters to himself. The stole and chasuble are both removed, brought into the restroom and run under the sink with soap. "I saw water proceeding out of the temple; from the right side it flowed, and all those to whom that water came shall be saved, and shall say, alleluia." He is at it for a while--blood doesn't easily come out of white cloth. And all the while, he recites a psalm. It's about the love of God, his power over mortal enemies, the refuge people may take in him. It continues, as he holds them under a hand dryer, an absurd ritual caused by an awful virgin. "The Lord has chastened me severely, but he has not given me over to death. Open for me the gates of the righteous; I will enter and give thanks to the Lord. This is the gate of the Lord through which the righteous may enter. I will give you thanks, for you answered me," he says, over the loud drone of the dryer. "You have become my salvation." The psalm continues, the garments turned over and over in the restroom. Berislav manages a smile for a Watch sympathizer who comes in and looks at this display in puzzlement. "Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever. Excuse me, Ken, but may I have a light?" "Uh... sure, Father." A broadly built man in his fifties with a dignified gray streak in his black curls holds out a light... for a censer. "Thank you," Berislav beams at Ken, waving the censer one-handed over the garments. "I declare this stole restored to the use for which it has been dedicated and consecrated. I declare this chasuble restored to the use for which it has been dedicated and consecrated." Ken blinks. "Was it that bad?" "You know I'm not at liberty to say, Ken," says Berislav. "Okay... I'm gonna go."