Scene #8711: Betrayal

Owner	Pose
Father Berislav	Unknown Number - 2:01 PM meika, this is father berislav. i wanted to reach out because i know you were upset by what you saw. if you want to talk about it, i'm watching a friend's apartment at the moment. p.s. dress for cold weather. Connecticut is pretty in the winter, in a mildly haunting sort of way. The trees, without their leaves, are pale brown skeletons set against a grey expanse and wreathed in snow. The address is in Bridgeport, a decidedly less beautiful part of the state, and arguably more haunting. Despite some parts of the city having a view of the choppy, steel-blue wintry sea, it could not be more obvious that this city is in decline. Bridgeport is a post-industrial city, in the sense that every second or third factory (and there are quite a few, in the idustrial part of town) seems to be boarded up and shut down. Meika might encounter people just clocking in for graveyard shifts, depending on when she arrives from the much more developed town of Greenwich, 20 miles up the road. Even those people don't seem happy--anxious eyes locked straight ahead, feet carrying them towards the next part of the day for the simple fact that it's the only way to be sure the day will end. 'For sale' signs are on the rise in the residential district, and public housing projects either languish in development or moulder and decay. The apartment Berislav mentioned is in one of the latter complexes. 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. On her way to 'unit 125,' Meika has to step past a man bundled in layers of ratty clothing, sitting on the front entrance, on her way in. Paint peels from the door of the unit, the crown moulding visibly hanging askew from the frame. When she knocks, Berislav evidently has to undo multiple locks and a deadbolt to let her in. His cassock hangs from a coathanger, and the sleeves of his black button-up have been rolled up. The room smells faintly of cleaning chemicals, and the peeling lilac wallpaper shows signs of recent scrubbing. "Hello, Meika," smiles the priest. His silver crucifix dangles as he swings the door wider open to let her in. It's sparsely furnished--the bare minimum to say that someone might credibly live here. A second-hand but comfortable looking loveseat, 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.' In the kitchenette, visible behind him, there's a similarly ratty little circular folding table, and two mismatched chairs. Oddly, the ground-floor apartment seems to have a basement.
Meika Kirenai	'p.s. dress for cold weather. ' By all means, Meika should not be listening to the requests of an unknown man she's heard on multiversal radios, and fought hordes of baby space-whales alongside, when that request involves travelling off world, mostly alone, to New England, of all places. But he yelled at- No, was just upset with -her, and is offering to talk more. So even if it's just to walk into another lecture, she's already made her mind up to go. Properly 'cold' weather isn't something common to Kagoshima, and as such, the only 'winter clothes' she has are old hockey jackets- and those just won't do to be brought out from their storage in her closet. Her usual letterman will have to do, with hands tucked deep into pockets, and a shiver to her step. The flurry snow that accumulates on Meika's head as she tries to parse routes and schedules quickly melts into stark-white hair when she hurries onto a semi-heated buss, farejumping, to make the twenty-mile commute in from the warpgate. Squeezing past other coat-clad riders isn't hard, with a head down and an ever-present scowl to brush off scant stares or comments. Nor is watching the picturesque dilapidation of the surroundings blend together into snow, brick, fencing, and concrete. When it's time for her to hop off, boots kicking into asphalt-greyed slush, the shock from near-warmth giving way to bitter chill brings an almost fond familiarity to her, even as she nearly stumbles against the curb when the bus pulls away. Eyes trace the graffiti as she walks past, daring to bring a hand across the icy brickwork where spray paint scrawled the garrish letters in, and her steps don't echo at all as she steps into the building's landing, and circles around the bundled man, breath held quietly. After knocking on '125', as bolt after bolt gets unlatched, Meika anxiously fidgets in coatpockets until her lighter comes out, a cigarette's dusty paper sides already gripped between knuckles and put to her mouth. She takes it out, though, as its ember is still flaring, to give a small wave to the priest when 125 finally does open. "Y-you weren't kidding about the cold." She murmurs, as a greeting, scooting inside. She stands awkwardly, both in general, with her hunch, and that she is standing instead of moving towards any of the seats. The magazine's date barely slips her mind, beyond the wondering of if Father Berislav himself hunts, a slightly scary yet fair-seeming assumption, before she recalls this is just somwhere he's housesitting. "Your friend's place is nice." She says. White lies don't hurt much, do they?
Father Berislav	Berislav chuckles. "If I hadn't fixed the radiator," he says, gesturing behind him with a thumb pointed at a truly ancient-looking set of (badly) painted-over coils, "I doubt the inside would be much better than out there." Just under the fake-fresh smell of cleaning chemicals, there's the smell of old dust burning up. It'd be comfy, if not for the aforementioned cleaning-stuff-smell. Your friend's place is nice. "I'm sure it was, once, at its best. Father Garcia doesn't make much, and the left hand of Mammon has done its worst here besides. There's an ashtray on the coffee table," he says. "I'm sure he won't mind if you take it into the kitchen." Father Garcia probably smokes, too. He closes the door behind her, locking only the deadbolt. The various latches and other such contrivances hang in various statues of unuse. Pushing aside a bucket of water, the priest heads into the kitchenette and takes a seat at the little folding table. The priest removes his reading glasses and tucks them by the frame against his clerical collar. Hands clasped gently and resting on the table, he begins. "It's okay, if what you saw frightened and alarmed you. Do you want to talk about how it made you feel?"
Meika Kirenai	The magical girl shrugs her coat up closer, trying to hide her own shivers. It's far too thin a jacket for real winter, being something she wears year-round. "This isn't... far north enough there's polar bears, right?" Her nose wrinkles at the chemical reek, but it's patched over by burning tobacco. "Was it messy in here? Has.... Father Garcia been away for a while?" The questions fill air more than relate to anything specific, and Meika hushes them with a drag of her cigarette. "Yeah. I'll try and remember and put it back." She half-expected some sort of chastisement, but as she steps over to pick the tray up, and bring it somewhere more convinient, the thought crosses her she's never been in a priest's home, to have any idea what they ought to be like. I thought they'd echo more. Or smell like incense. She lets out a tiny little jump, as the bolt clicks closed. Hesitant, ashtray in hand, she goes to join him in the kitchenette, setting it down with a clunk. The second Meika herself is seated across from him, though, her demeanor crashes back to that of any meeting with faculty and clergy she's familiar with- slouching, avoidant, arms close and defensive, fixating too much on hiding her jitters in practiced tense-muscle motions. "I wasn't scared, Father. I- I see scarier stuff all the time. I'm a magical girl." Used like a proper term, as if it ought explain much. "I don't get it. I don't get her. Miss Rita. She was... I noticed she was hiding something, Father. But she was trying to. People don't hide things that aren't bad, or things they want others to think about them through. So I just-" She sighs, and busies herself exhaling smoke. "'Honest'? Really?"
Father Berislav	Polar bears? Berislav chuckles gently and shakes his head. "I don't think we'll run into any, no." Was it messy in here? Has.... Father Garcia been away for a while? Although it was asked to fill the air, Berislav shifts in his seat. "No he hasn't," he answers, after a pause. "But something tells me he probably will be gone for a while, anyway. Father Garcia has decided to do something that's good, and necessary, but very difficult, very dangerous, and very, very hard for normal people to quantify." When she brings the ashtray over, Meika can see a rag, stained red, hanging from the lip of a bucket near the stairs leading to the apartment's basement. "As for whether it was messy... I think he was so focused on what he was doing that everything else seemed less important. It happens." When Meika sits down, it's hard for the priest not to notice the change in demeanor. But she was trying to. People don't hide things that aren't bad, or things they want others to think about them through. "You felt it, didn't you? The hunger, the queasy intermingling of satiation, relief and overwhelming guilt?" says the priest, "Choosing not to reveal that side of herself would have meant depriving her world of help that it badly needs. And choosing -to- reveal it, choosing to help people back home who may very well fear and revile her, meant opening herself up to the very same, from you, me, and everyone else there who didn't know that side of her." Berislav frowns softly, leaning back in his chair. "God gave us our bodies, and our minds. What we do with those gifts is our decision, and it -must- remain our decision. There will be people, your entire life, who you don't 'get.' And it's okay, if you don't. There will be people who hide things about themselves, too. Every day. In this very apartment complex, even. But none of them are lying to you, or to anyone, simply by which parts of themselves they choose to reveal." The chair creaks, as Berislav shifts one leg over the other. "...and if, and when, they do choose to reveal those parts of themselves, our reaction, our instinct, should not be to punish that, but to accept and love that person. If we don't," cautions the father, "Then the world that we build is destined to be one where no one can show who they really are, for fear of condemnation. It troubles me, deeply, that Rita contends with that kind of turmoil." "But however troubled I am, I trust that God wouldn't give her more than she could carry. What she needs--and indeed, what anyone who bares themselves needs, is our love, care, and support, whether or not we 'get' it. On the day of judgment, Christ isn't going to sort us at the left and right according to who 'got' it, or who was the cleverest, but on who knew him and who didn't."
Meika Kirenai	'Father Garcia has decided to do something that's good, and necessary, but very difficult, very dangerous, and very, very hard for normal people to quantify.' Meika doesn't look to the man's face as he speaks, but there is a flicker of Something- recognition, annoyance, every emotion that sparks when you can tell someone is pulling punches and treading soft on purpose. She doesn't act for clarification, but does try and eavesdrop in on what hard-to-parse task he's keeping the nature of from crossing the boundary of his mouth. I'm not in a mood for secrets. "I wish him well, then, Father. It's kind of you to keep his place this tidy." She quite literally bites her own tongue after those words, clearing bitterness with sparking pain. Then- that spark is washed over with smoke, soon to be coughed back out, ushering venom back in. Unconsiously, she stretches her arms into a half-yawning posture, holding the cuffs of her jacket sleeves in place covering her palms such that the motion won't bare them. "Why would she ask us to look? To see her as that? It's not- there's a difference, when it's need for something, and... resigning." "If it was so overwhelming, she'd try a little harder in saying what sides of her she wants seen." Meika's heavy boots tap against the kitchenette's floor. Beyond the visible motion, though, the tic is utterly silent. 'In this very apartment complex, even.' There's a small, instinctively fought-against flinch at those words. Meika coughs. "I know it's not a lie to not- not reveal things. It's... Isn't it dishonest, though, to go against what you w-want to show? Even if it's not..." She fades off into a shrug. "You're an old friend of hers, or something, right?" It's spoken as if she's insinuating something, but no jab or accusation follows it up. "Shouldn't- shouldn't you love the person they're trying to be? Or is anything but all those secrets the lie?" Phrasings, intensity of statement, and inability to make eye contact mix to dampen the girl's words enough for it to almost seem like a genuine question. 'Then the world that we build is destined to be one where no one can show who they really are, for fear of condemnation.' "Shouldn't you want to be something that won't deserve condemnation?" 'I trust that God wouldn't give her more than she could carry.' Meika slumps, a bit, at those words, and more as they continue coming. "Is doing that even carrying it?" She mumbles, and clamps teeth around the skin of her cheeks to prevent more words from falling out.
Meika Kirenai	'I don't think we'll run into any, no.' Meika has no reason to have expected polar bears in Connecticut, had she paid any attention to geography. But, as he says this, she does look a little bit dissapointed. "Oh." The cigarette gets drummed across her opposite hand's knuckles, ash sliding off the numerous plaster band-aids on her fingers.
Father Berislav	Eavesdropping... An exorcism must be difficult enough when it's successful--but three months of spiritual warfare, just to fail... I can't imagine. Now that he has, neither the Vatican nor the secular world will have him. The police and the press will start asking questions, and the dragnet will close, and if he isn't careful, the apathetic mechanisms of this world will crush him. Other than the light of the Holy Spirit, he's truly alone, now. I hope he'll be able to find Michael and save him. Why would she ask us to look? To see her as that? It's not- there's a difference, when it's need for something, and... resigning. If it was so overwhelming, she'd try a little harder in saying what sides of her she wants seen. "Only Rita and God get to cast aspersions about how hard she's trying, and God knows better. She did 'try hard,'" says Berislav. "For several years, in fact. And if I had to guess, I'd say that it hurt her, considerably, to do that. Because even though it was her right, she still felt guilty. As if the human side of her wasn't -also- her, but an affectation she put on. As if she were stealing love and care." The priest sighs. "Nothing could be farther from the truth. But hers isn't the kind of inner conflict that just goes away with a few kind words. It takes time, and love, and work on her part--and even though she has plenty of the latter two, the monsters on her world are determined to make sure she doesn't have the first." You're an old friend of hers, or something, right? Shouldn't- shouldn't you love the person they're trying to be? Or is anything but all those secrets the lie? "A friend, yes, but not an old one. I suppose I've been in the Watch a little longer, but we didn't regularly interact until after I joined her cell. As for how we ought to show love, you and I do happen to have a very useful primer for that." He pauses, smiles, and then recites a favorite piece of scripture. "'Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away.'" Berislav takes a breath, after the recitation. "We should love the Rita we have, and trust her to be the best Rita she can be." Shouldn't you want to be something that won't deserve condemnation? "Why do you think Rita deserves to be condemned?"
Meika Kirenai	Meika doesn't quite hide the shiver and chill that wash over her, after hearing what she ought not have. Names, vague terms that it's all too easy to guess at the gist of, if not specifics, the pressing weight that it truly isn't a topic she should be privy to. I wonder what records there are of his associates. 'Michael'. That's a name to take note of, yeah? She shifts how her shoulderbag rests still strapped around her, the weight of everything within (a notebook of sketches, and a handgun) cold comfort to sitting across the table from an experienced Watch asset. The nervousness is, as always with Meika, quite palpable. 'For several years, in fact.' Who doesn't try that long, and then some? Fingers drum against the table. "Sometimes hurt is worth it. Sometimes we need to pay prices, for what's important, Father. And it's-" 'As if she were stealing love and care.' Meika goes silent at that remark, for a long, heavy second. His subsequent denial of the notion seems to phase through her, as if barely heard. "Time, love, and work." Meika repeats, the three words rolling in her mouth as if she were trying not to swallow toxic mothballs. "Do enough of those really stop someone from being a monster?" 'As for how we ought to show love, you and I do happen to have a very useful primer for that.' That phrasing, like a key being pulled from ignition, is enough to make Meika nearly tune out. She still listens, it's nearly impossible not to, but Berislav wouldn't need to stress his perception to guess how in that moment he's blurring into the shape of every other figure she's sat through lectures and sermons from. "Truth. It keeps going back to truth. What's it- what's it mean, really? For this? For who you are and want to be?" She mutters, half intending to be rhetorical, or, more likely, only speaking under the unfair assumption Berislav won't bother listening or responding in the first place. 'Why do you think Rita deserves to be condemned?' That comment, though, snaps the girl back into attention. Her throat tightens up with a shame-tinged ache. "Isn't it clear that she thinks so? And wouldn't she know best?"
Father Berislav	Do enough of those really stop someone from being a monster? "Yes," says the priest, with the sort of calm and peace that only come with absolute certainty. "Early enough, often enough, yes. For some people, it's too late. I hope that you never have to see someone like that. But Rita isn't one of them, and she never will be." Truth. It keeps going back to truth. What's it- what's it mean, really? For this? For who you are and want to be? "The truest truths a person can show you," Berislav pauses thoughtfully, "Is what they do. Rita puts everyone before herself. No one is 'least,' in her eyes. When she looks onto someone else's plate, it's never to see if she's being cheated, and always to see if -they- have enough. And all of that, maintaining that spirit of kindness and solidarity, is so important to her that she continues to brave that turmoil, just for the chance to put more good into the world. Not out of guilt, or to balance some cosmic scale, but because she loves the world and the people in it more than life itself." Isn't it clear that she thinks so? And wouldn't she know best? "'She thinks so' because she's human, Meika. Her world is defined by the struggle of everyday people against the inertia of money and the slavering jaws of monsters. She chose not to serve Mammon, and she deserves praise for that. Praise, too, for prying its fingers from the throats of her people. But she couldn't choose not to be transfigured, any more than Job could choose not to be." "I don't know what or who is responsible, and I don't care," the priest says, shaking his head. "Recriminations and witch hunts don't address reality, only mortal vanity. The reality of the situation is that any compassionate person," he continues, lifting one hand, index raised, "Contending with the urges that she does, coming from the -world- that she does, would feel guilt. That doesn't make her guilty -of- anything, despite what she may think, and despite what those who 'rejoice at wrongdoing' may say." His hand falls back to the table, and he sighs. She must feel alone, too. And frightened. I hope she's alright.
Meika Kirenai	'But Rita isn't one of them, and she never will be.' Meika blows air out of her nose, as some archaic fossil of a laugh. "I got it, Father. You already said she's got two out of three." A bitter tone seeps into her speech. "What's the cutoff? When is too late?" Meika's hand rests on her opposite forearm, squeezing white-knuckle tight. "Everything is what you do. That's- that's not an answer, Father. That's the same as saying 'anything' could be the truth of someone." Her fingers squeeze tighter the more accolades Berislav lays upon Rita, the more Meika wants to sink through the table, chair, and floor, to fall into whatever lays in the unit's basement. "I d-don't just mean for her." She mutters, nearly beneath her breath. ''She thinks so' because she's human, Meika.' "If you mean to say she's wrong, just say that's what you think. You're human too, right? So maybe you're wrong. Everyone- everyone has struggles, Father. I've- I've seen her world. And I know what monsters are like." The girl lets her arm up only to put the burning-out cigarette back to her lips again. "Y-yeah. Such a hero. She did choose to- to gloat in giving up, even if she didn't choose to be... 'like' that. That's truth, right? It's something she did?" "You don't have to baby me, Father. I- I don't think she doesn't feel guilty. That's silly. But it's..." Meika falters for a moment, airing a sound closer to a mechanical whine than words. Distant, outside, the sound of thunder, or thunked-against trash bins, or a small car's impact with a guardrail filters in through the walls for just a brief moment, while she regains her focus. "It's- if you feel guilty, it's... because you know what you should be, doing or acting like or being, right? And you aren't. It doesn't come from nowhere. Nobody is rejoicing." Meika shrugs, feigning informality, and flexes sore fingers. "...What urges?" "Can't she have given up on what she feels, without doing something you think is wrong? Isn't that still a betrayal? And who are you to say it's not?" Meika tries to sit up straighter, any posture she lands in feeling uncomfortable, like her skin is crawling and bones are creaking. You pity her, because she's scared and alone? Is giving up like that all it takes to be loved, held in high regard, forgiven? Is being a monster? That's not fair.
Father Berislav	What's the cutoff? When is too late? "All of what you saw on your way here is someone's fault. Find those people, if you want to know what 'too late' looks like. See how many of them care, genuinely, about the people left in the wake of their plundering. See how easily they make the consequences of their own actions out to be as arbitrary and uncontrollable as the weather." "See if you can even penetrate to something -living,- beneath their glassy-eyed stares, much less -human.- See if they recognize -you- as human. Some of them--too many--are so inured by sin that goodness is alien and frightening to them. 'Solidarity' is disruptive. 'Kindness' is childish and unrealistic. From the window of Father Garcia's living room," says Berislav, "You can see an unused dirt lot. It sits unused, because the the development company won't spend money on doing anything with the land--but they will spend time to call the police on an old man who thought to make a community garden there. That's when 'too late' is." And I hope you never have to see it--because looking at the invisible apparatus of abuse poured into the hollowed-out shape of a person is harrowing. "Rita is so far from that wretched existence that she may as well be on another planet." It doesn't come from nowhere. Nobody is rejoicing. Berislav sighs. "I'll discuss the theological aspect of it--the Paraclete--if you'd like, some other time. For now, you're old enough to grasp the true meaning of that verse. There is a certain type of person who does do exactly that, inside, when they perceive a wrong is done. Not because they're... some sort of mustache-twirling cartoon character, but because it presents them the opportunity to leverage socially acceptable harm. I love people, Meika. But as much as I wish it weren't the case, there's very likely at least one person--and probably many more--on her world who sees her very existence as wrongdoing, and is eager to hurt her." ...What urges? "You felt them when the whale died," says Berislav, evenly. "Do you think that kind of intense, queasy relief could come from anything other than the most dire, ache-inducing hunger?" Can't she have given up on what she feels, without doing something you think is wrong? Isn't that still a betrayal? And who are you to say it's not? I see. "Meika..." Leaning back in his chair, he takes a breath, reaching up with one hand to run a palm briefly over his face. Not out of exasperation, or anger, or anything so negative, but the simple knowledge that This is about much more than just Rita. "You asked me not to baby you, so I won't. What you're doing--the line of thought that you're indulging--is very harmful, whether we're talking about Rita or anyone else. Maintaining a secret to keep yourself and your loved ones safe is a lifeline for very many people in the world. So, too, is keeping a secret for a measure of comfort in a harsh and difficult world. Rita's was a bit of both, I think." "Sometimes, even if it hurts, even if it reveals parts of yourself you don't want anyone to see, you have to drop that secret." "It isn't 'giving up.' It isn't 'betraying' everyone else who has to keep those kinds of secrets. It's seeing the water rising, and deciding there if you'll swim, or let it drown you. God is not keeping score of who keeps theirs the best, and neither should you. Sharing that secret was probably the most difficult thing that Rita has ever done--and so, to call it 'giving up' is both cruel and ignorant. One day, you might be forced to share the one that you're keeping. I hope that the people around you react more kindly than you did towards Rita."
Father Berislav	He pushes back from his seat, and stands up. He gives her an appraising glance, and thinks on what she'd said, a moment ago. "The police will be here, soon, asking questions about Father Garcia, and the Vatican won't speak up for him. I need to finish cleaning the basement. Do you need any help getting home? Something to eat or drink for the road?"
Meika Kirenai	'But they will spend time to call the police on an old man who thought to make a community garden there.' "...Okay." Meika mumbles. It's not clear how much she's listening to the Father's explanation. She taps the nearly-spent cigarette against the ashtray, exhaling, and rolling her gaze around the apartment's kitchen. Why would you bring it up if you don't want me to see? "Father? Is that old man the same one who lived here?" Her pupils wander closer towards him again, as if looking through him. "With the garden? Did he get in any real trouble for it?" The girl's rubber boot tread squeaks against the tile- that it makes noise at all, despite the usual hush of her fidgets and movement, is intentional. 'Not because they're... some sort of mustache-twirling cartoon character, but because it presents them the opportunity to leverage socially acceptable harm.' "It's- it's not acceptable, though. To want that. To hurt people." Meika pauses, and crumples up the last bit of her cigarette into the tray's ash, leaving it there. Her voice gets quieter, near to a whisper. "But that doesn't- Some things are wrongdoings, Father." {I see.} Meika twitches, slightly, as Berislav's thoughts shift. Don't do it. She inhales. Just listen to what I'm saying. Don't make this about anything else. I didn't ask you to. You don't have to. "Right. Harmful. Yeah." He's losing her. Meika's fingers drum across the table, silent. Her breathing grows purposefully shallow, hidden by her hunched-in jacket. As he continues, she mumbles out a few bits of reply, back to not even pretending to look his way. "So she chose to drown? If- if it's easier not to, then why would she..." 'One day, you might be forced to-' Meika's chair squeaks, shrill and quickly silenced as she stands up and pushes it back in a single motion. As her change in posture shifts her messenger bag, she's reminded yet again of what's sitting inside it. But- Meika's hands, tense to quell any shaking, move only to brush off her skirt. "Thank you for your time, Father. But if you'll be putting words into my mouth, or trying to come up with something-" Her words falter for a second, the pause causing her to nearly wince. "That's not fair of you. To argue and posture against some idea of me that's just in your head. I don't want to hear it." Her hand slips into her messenger bag, as if casually going for a phone, or a cigarette pack. But there's no question Berislav can recognize the sound of a hand being placed on a handgun's grip, even still inside a dense canvas bag. Once again, that she makes sound at all, is evidently intentional. "You're doing it again, you know. Babying. Not quite saying what you mean to, for whatever reason. I don't want food from a- a suspect's house, or something," Meika posits, as a scowl crosses her face, "And I don't want to be involved in whatever stunt it was, asking- asking me to come here, when you're..." Her hand comes out of the bag, empty again, to make an exasperated gesture. "I'm going home. Just yell at me next time, if you want to feel like you're doing anything. And do it somewhere that has polar bears." With that, turning on her heels, she heads to the door- only swaying her focus for a moment, to sweep the ashtray off the tabletop and shatter it against the wall, letting her stomping trudges mix with clattering pottery and dust as she storms out. Quite the mess.
Father Berislav	Father? Is that old man the same one who lived here? "No. He lives on the second floor. As for 'trouble,' yes. The fine took almost the entirety of his social security payment. Father Garcia started a collection to help him make rent this month, before the exorcism went awry." I don't want to hear it. He who has ears, let him hear. "I know you don't." The priest sighs and rises from the table. "What would I know, right? How could I possibly?" He turns to the cupboard and retrieves a kettle, running water in the sink to fill it. "I was a man before I was a priest, and a boy, before a man. There is much more that I know than just the scripture." Just yell at me next time, if you want to feel like you're doing anything. "I don't yell at people like you, but I'll see what I can do about the polar bears. Go with God, Meika," says Berislav, calmly turning on the stove as Meika storms out.