Scene #8728:

Owner	Pose
Father Berislav	Sterling Reporter Sep 21, 1987 CLOSE CALL ON SNAKE MEADOW HILL ROAD STERLING, CONN. Sterling resident Cherise Wan made a startling discovery driving home. Wan, who owns a laundromat in Sterling, says she was driving on Snake Meadow Hill Road on Sunday night when she saw someone run out into the road in front of her car. "I saw the side of the road. I slowed down because I thought it could be a deer but it was this naked man running across the road. The way he ran on all fours on the ground, he looked like a big white spider." When asked how she knew it wasn't an animal, Wan told reporters, "It couldn't have been a deer or dog or any kind of animal. I saw its face. It looked right at me and it was a human's face." Police say they're investigating the incident and believe it may be related to the infamous "Candy Tunnel," a drainage ditch known in the area to be a home to addicts, gangs, runaways, and the indigent... (Cont. p. 2A) FREAK SNOWSTORM SHOCKS BRIDGEPORT Berislav folds the newspaper and sets it down on the table with a tight-lipped frown. He'd sent a text to Buttercup, and with it, a tacit invitation to bring along her sisters, if she so chose, to the apartment of Father León Garcia. The building is located in Bridgeport, a post-industrial city struggling with the flight of employment opportunities to the service industry in a rapidly modernizing world. Public housing projects either languish in development or moulder and decay from neglect. Father Garcia's building is in the latter category. Graffiti in red stretches across a grey brick facade in need of a wash it will likely never get. Rising three stories into the gray winter sky, its dingy windows reflect pale imitations of the sun, with a few in one room evidently cracked and taped up. The inside isn't much better, with wooden stairs that look as if they'd creak and wobble. Unit 125 is the destination. The door's paint peels, the crown moulding hangs visibly askew from the frame, and when his guest (or guests) knocks, there is the sound of multiple locks and a deadbolt unfastened. Berislav answers in a green sweater, the crisp collar of a cream-colored button-up peeking above the sweater's neckline. His sleeves are rolled up, and his white hair tied behind him with a bow. A teakettle whistles, as, from a freshly-cleaned window, a blocky police-issue Chevrolet Caprice can be seen pulling out and departing.
Powerpuff Girls	Father Berislav - 'Padre', by the emerald Puff's nick-name, and the header for him in her phone - had called Buttercup to the apartment of a certain member of the Church. Bridgeport wasn't known to the Powerpuff Girls, but their commitment to the Watch meant being willing to move outside their comfort zone for the greater good of more people. That was, at least, the understanding - everyone was in the Watch for their own reasons, but their Answer was the same. Conneticut is home to the noble diner-deli, and so two of the three of the trio commit to a stakeout and heavy breakfast a few miles away. A sapphire blonde in letterman jacket and skirt orders a french dip and eggs over easy with twice fried browns. A ruby redhead in a red sweater and russet red trousers, orders the bagels and lox and a loaded omlette. The blonde eats with her hands and enjoys with herself. The redhead slices and steadily takes apart alternating bites of dishes with fork and knife. Both chatter about nothing, and take in the atmosphere of the city. They both, finally, listen nearby for their sister. A gust of wind, sudden and sharp, buffets the front of the affordable housing building, the air momentairly shifting a sparkling emerald that carries on before nearly any inspection is possible. Up the stairs, speeding all the way up with a sound like a tinnitus ring of a laserbeam down-tone. All the way up until across from Berislav at his door is the unmistakeable, but missable, speed-decelleration snap SKRR! With a grey-dark grey jacket muting her normal colors with a wolf-thick pile of the drooping hood's fuzz halfway down her back, Buttercup is dressed in a green shirt, black suspender-shorts, dark (torn) leggings, green socks with black stripes, and black workboots that swallow up all but the acid-green and black banded tops of her socks in a loose-laced punk style. Tipping down her sunglasses, the raven-haired girl looks up at the man at the door, still trailing a few radioactive green motes off of her dispelling motion. He doesn't say anything. For a moment, neither does Buttercup. Then, the emerald-eyed woman points inside. "So." Buttercup rumbles. "New Year's Eve?" Her eyes blink, the smirk - some kind of joke? - not quite right. She sighs, instead, and carries on. "I was wondering why you'd need my-" All of their, but she was the one he asked. "-help?" Buttercup glances over at the table, behind Berislav, and then tightens her mouth. "I'm really getting the feeling it's not something that goes in an episode of our show."
Father Berislav	"Hello, Buttercup," the priest smiles warmly. He welcomes her in, with a step aside and a soft sweep of the hand, gently closing the door after her. He enters into the apartment's little kitchenette and takes the kettle from the stove. "Would you like some tea?" he calls, briefly visible as he briskly retrieves a pair of mugs. Outside, the cops pulling away might be overheard, by superpowered ears. "What do you think?" asks the younger of the two, a stout, broad-faced man. "I think that friend of Garcia's is awful tidy," says the elder, a rotund fellow with a mustache like a greying broom. "Better to stop by after he takes off." I'm really getting the feeling it's not something that goes in an episode of our show. Berislav's tea is poured in the kitchenette, and he takes a seat at a ratty, circular folding table, in one of two mismatched chairs. Father Garcia's place is sparsely furnished--the bare minimum to say that someone might credibly live here. The living area, in full view of Buttercup upon her initial entry, is host to a second-hand but comfortable looking loveseat and a scratched-up coffee table with a bad leg supported by old magazines. One of them, a special interest publication for hunters, looks new, listing the date as 'September 1987.' "Maybe it would, but I doubt the particulars will make you feel any better," says Berislav. "I believe," he continues, lifting to savor the soft, floral aroma of his tea, "That we've spoken before, particularly on the matter of the devil in Christianity. About how the word 'satan' was a noun before a proper noun, and its meaning--'accuser, adversary.'" "And," he says, after a sip, "On the nature of the Holy Spirit--or 'Paraclete--' meaning 'advocate.' Father Garcia told me, over the crackling hiss of a public phone, that he believed the Heavenly court of this world was in session. Given what happened to the boy he was charged to exorcise, I believe that here, that court is not strictly allegorical." "In his hurry to leave, Father Garcia left a few photographs of Michael's condition, and an unsent letter to the Vatican." His hand dips through a bright, burning orange wound in space, and upon exiting, carries the photographs--and the letter, folded neatly around the former. The photographs show a boy--maybe a junior or senior in high school--with a bright smile, and a mop of curly hair. '1 day,' it reads. '2 weeks,' reads the second. Michael's hair is thinning, his teeth sharpening, his demeanor sluggish and noticeably 'off.' His eyes are blood red--and not because of the usual photo red-eye. Garcia's letter, addressed to a Cardinal Gifford, urgently requests that he be allowed to keep Michael to continue attempting an exorcism: With all due respect, you cannot grasp the importance of the work I am doing for young Michael without being present here. Michael needs my help now more than ever. In the past few weeks I have made great progress with Michael's affliction. Nevertheless, whatever darkness is inside of him fights back with increasing ferocity. We must not let up the fight against the Enemy at such a critical time. There is another reason why I dare not return Michael to his family nor let them see him. The darkness inside him afflicts his soul, but it also causes a terrible strain on his body. So that there may be no mistaking what I mean, I have enclosed a photograph of young Michael during one of our sessions.
Powerpuff Girls	"Tea's great. Thanks." Buttercup mumbles as she steps inside, carried with politeness that had been drilled in when it had been found wanting. Blossom had seen to that from within the family for so long that it spilled out even in tense situations reflexively. Ducking as she steps in, the punk Puff's shoulders set as she moseys her booted feet in. Following Berislav into the kitchenette, Buttercup finds herself distracted with the sounds outside. Her eyes wander, across worn linoleum and old paint. She's present, and elsewhere. Practiced in being present and selecting threads of conversation out of the howl of every sound and need, the punk Puff rests wrists on the edge of the table and waits for her offered tea. "They don't like you here, either, huh." Buttercup states - not questions. "I know your book has all sorts of words about living among the people and giving your stuff away, but..." Buttercup rasps lightly, drawling as her emerald eyes refocus on the weaponized padre at the kettle. "Are you housesitting? It's awful nice of you. I wonder who you're housesitting for? It's not Mr. Garcia, is it?" Buttercup is offered photos instead, and her expression changes, olive fingers touching the polaroid surface as if sensing the colors through tactile brush. Her inspection lingers on the red-eyed photo. Emerald greens lift to gaze dispassionately empty, yet expressively, radioactively contemplative. She cares, as mildly annoyed as it makes her, tightening at the corner of her mouth. "I'm guessing he's not some Blossom fan-boy. Red-eyed and fanged... Do you have actual vampires around here, or is it some . . . vampires-but-we're-not-calling-it-that situation?"
Father Berislav	Red-eyed and fanged... Do you have actual vampires around here, or is it some . . . vampires-but-we're-not-calling-it-that situation? "I almost wish that it were," says Berislav. "If only because that would mean less were at stake. No," the priest shakes his head. "It's demonic possession, and not an insignificant one." Berislav cradles his mug in both hands, the murky surface briefly reflected in his reading glasses before the next sip. "Under the influence of this entity, this servant of the accuser, Michael broke free of his restraints, escaped this apartment, and violently killed a bystander in the hallway outside." He pauses. "It took me hours to clean the symbols on the wall, the Spanish and the Greek." The concerned frown says it all--and Buttercup could probably guess, either way, that Michael would normally speak neither of those languages. "...If Father Garcia is right, then Michael is only the beginning." Tapping the newspaper on the table--in particular, the article about an incident in Sterling (a full hour away by car, if Buttercup knows her geography). "And if he's right, then the world desperately needs people with his skills--unhindered by the police or the Church."
Powerpuff Girls	Buttercup scoffs in shared... not-quite-misery, but understanding. When it was demons it was always bad, and this didn't sound or feel or smell like the simple, punchable kind of evil. There wasn't a neat fable or moral she could hear lingering at the edges, a neat tale for children. "You almost wish it was the kind of vampires you find in grainy photos in highly populated areas but far enough away from a big city's resources to fix?" Buttercup asks, a leading question from the table, and shrugs her jacketed shoulders, emerald eyes glancing up. "Yeah that sounds bad. I just couldn't figure out why you'd ask us for help..." 'unhindered by the police or the Church' "... Until you'd rather have the nasty kind of vampire. Okay, but you know we're not --" The rough Puff scoffs, rough, and dips her eyes down and away, scanning close to her lap and the floor-line towards the window and teakettle. "-- I'm not an exorcist. I punch bad guys and throw tornados and block cars with an open palm, I don't recite scripture. And you've plenty proved you don't need that much extra help throwing punches and blocking cars." Buttercup pushes back forward the pictures over the newspaper. "Aren't we going to complicate things for you, padre?"
Father Berislav	Aren't we going to complicate things for you, padre? "I'm not an exorcist, either, Buttercup," says Berislav. "I was never trained as one, no special talent for it was observed by any of my elders. I think it will hardly surprise you to know that I can't call upon the Episcopal Church for help in this matter, any more than Father Garcia can call upon his Vatican." Throwing punches and blocking cars is one thing, after all--but the particular punches he throws, the way they're aimed, can't be very popular. It's hard to imagine that his Church even wants anything to do with him, given what she knows and what the priest himself has admitted. "I've seen your show, in bits and pieces. Visiting family, before I was as I am now." He smiles fondly, thinking of a distant cousin--their parents were close, and visits were frequent, back then. "I know that it's not exactly a documentary--but everything I know about your talents tells me that you'd be very useful in helping track down Michael." Berislav pauses, as a distant siren sounds. It takes his mind off of spiritual warfare, long enough for his thoughts to drift towards the uncharitable, with regards to the local police. She can see it, in the agitated twitch of his mouth at the corner--he doesn't trust or like them in the best of circumstances, much less in this place where their role as enforcers is even more plain. Thunk. The sound is heavy and wooden. Berislav quietly gets up, heads over to the stairs leading to the apartment's basement--odd that it even has one, given the size of it--and hangs the crucifix back on the door. He mutters a quick prayer, genuflects, and heads back up the stairs with renewed purpose. Taking his seat back at the table. "Things are already complicated," he says, shaking his head. "But you can help us, even so. 'For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them,'" he says, reciting a well-loved passage by heart.
Powerpuff Girls	Buttercup's scoff is confirmatory, a single puff of breath, the roll of the shoulders and lift of her offered tea to her lips with her hand arched over the top of the cup and fingers gripping round the edge. Steam curling around her palm and through olive fingers, unbothered by the simple temperature, Buttercup sits back and takes a considering moment of refreshment and shutters emerald eyes. "When I leave they'll be coming after you." Buttercup's eyes re-open, heavy, morose. "And when they do, you won't go easy on them. You barely went easy on me--" Her loose hand tucks behind her neck to rub sorely. The radioactive green girl still remembers the scorching sting of missiles loaded for holy war. "They might already be doing something else more useful than sitting around with their donuts in hand. And it's not going to be any more related to exorcism than what either of us normally do, too." Buttercup pauses, curious at first but unpreturbed by a bump when her danger sense wasn't going off and thinking the call was purely social. "You get earthquakes around here?" Buttercup questions, wondering how something could topple a wooden cross on a peg but not any of the cups or kettle. Sparse as it was, appointed as simply as a padre's neck, there was still a whole lot of nothing else that toppled over - not even the filters in the cupboard. "I hope this isn't a sleepover." Buttercup drawls raspingly. "I'm pretty familiar with the magic of two and three but you're gonna need some more folks because I've got, you know, stuff to do?"
Father Berislav	Berislav chuckles, despite the tension. "No. They don't get earthquakes up here." He is silent, finishing his tea with a level expression. "What moved that cross is no force of this earth, but the force of the Accuser. Not allegorical, but an actor, like HIM." The priest sets his empty mug aside. "It's not a stakeout, if that's what you mean. I've put out calls to a few others, by this point. The demon is powerful--but so is our resolve. I'm treating this with the same level of forethought as any other operation--you and I will deal with the more... omerous physical threats. I have an exorcist on her way, as well. We have a fair few psychics. Rita can help us with more... persistent enemies. That just leaves our tracker--" He says, gently inclining his head towards her. "Between all of us," continues the priest, lightly steepling his fingers, "We should more than be able to hold our own, but I'd rather be safe than sorry, with unfamiliar territory." "As for the police... no, I wouldn't. And I've probably exhausted my 'welcome,' so to speak. However," he says, "As just as it is, it doesn't do anything to help Michael, or Father Garcia." His silver eyes are alit with that same calm, determined zeal she's seen before. They soften, as he gets up to put his cup into the sink, gently washing it off with a little yellow-green sponge. "So?" he asks. "May I count on your assistance, Buttercup?"
Powerpuff Girls	The house isn't just haunted but unexorcised and decidedly occupied with the sort of nastiness that frustrated both the Euchrist and the Vatican. Conneticut, indeed, was a truly cursed place. Thus, the going through it girl was called! Using her ultra-super guilt, she fights a wince - and the force of giving in. Buttercup kind of wants to bail. Berislav invoking HIM on a bad day was bad enough - there was very real cause to believe him between the things that went bump in the midday and the falling of crosses. "So you want me to hit things and pay attention. That's asking a lot of a girl." Buttercup answers slowly, while Beislav puts away his teacup. The 'So?' gets a longer moment, Buttercup not sure about picking this one up. But, It was a problem right in front of her, and it was probably a fight, and they needed someone who could hear and sense over an incredibly long distance. Of course, it was a problem requiring her to be spooked. "But I don't like scary movies, actually? Can I get out of this?" She can't. Sighing, her shoulders droop. "Sure. Fine. I can help. If you've got an exorcist coming."
Father Berislav	A good-natured chuckle arises from the priest, despite the air of unease that now permeates the tiny apartment. "What makes you think I like them?" he asks, of scary movies, toweling and setting the mug up to dry in the cupboard. He jokes--but Berislav isn't exactly looking forward to it either. "We'll get through it. Tamamo comes highly recommended." "Now--I think it'd be best if both of us took our leave of this place. I'll text you with a meeting place soon." Berislav offers her a hand to shake, and makes to leave. Not knowing they'd come along to check in on him at all, he adds, closing up after Buttercup with a crisp turn of a key: "Oh, and tell your sisters I said hello." Out the front door, onto the sidewalk. The towering silver frame of Isaiah emerges from burning orange subspace, its hand already lowering to lift the priest. The fall air is unseasonably cold even for this part of the country--but his sweater holds fast, for his brief journey to the pilot's seat. His cheery wave disappears behind the closing black ribs of the gleaming giant. One bounding leap carries it several blocks down, one gentle landing tuck-and-roll barely so much as cracks the asphalt. Inside the apartment, after Berislav and Buttercup have left, all three girls can hear something that sounds like a leak--followed by the sound of peeling wallpaper. Whether any choose to investigate it, or to share what they see when they do--is up to them. PÀO ÀTHELÀ MOU