9295/Spying on the Enemy

Spying on the Enemy
Date of Scene:	26 December 2021
Location:	Saint Patrick's Cathedral
Synopsis:	Jon visits St. Patrick's again, and runs across Caitlin Fairchild--who's had a bit of a change recently. They have a discussion about religion, and Jon delivers a warning. Caitlin's going to pray for him, for whatever good that will do.
Cast of Characters:	Caitlin Fairchild, Jonathan Sims
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
The miraculous has become commonplace in New York. Angelic creatures have stood up in the City that Never Sleeps and the world-- accustomed to the bizarre and even profane-- seems to alternate between jaded weariness and religious awe. Some protest that the 'angels' are merely aliens, others that they are a hallucination or mass delusion. Theories have been promulgated among experts in science and physics and xenobiology.

In this rare instance, the truth of the matter seems to be in the hands of the lay people who flock to the Church to worship. And none is more vocal in her support than Caitlin Fairchild, one of the original Titans and quite well-known in the district around her church. She spoke about her visitation from Michael with such passion and certitude that she calmed the fears of many and even inspired believers of lesser certainty to join in worship.

At this moment she's in one of the transepts with Father Patrick, looking at the people taking refuge in the Church while eagerly awaiting the next miraculous 'visitation'.

"You know, I've got a Master's in Theology from Loyola," Father Patrick remarks in his reedy, croaking voice. Stubby feet rock his wheelchair back and forth with a very mild nervousness. "I'm still not sure I'm gonna get used to this." He tilts his head awkwardly to the side, his one good eye cocking up at the redhead crouched next to his wheelchair. "Miracles are supposed to be rare and unexpected. These 'visitations'... you only see these in the Old Testament and in Revelations. It's got the hair on my neck standing up a little," he admits. "Aren't you at all worried?"

Caitlin looks at the bandy-legged dwarf and smiles with earnest affection. "Not one bit," she promises him. "I told you. Michael the Archangel came to help me. -Me-. He showed up in my dreams and told me we're building a better world. Not just for Christians, but for everyone." She gestures at the people milling around in the nave. "At this point I'm trading in ten years of working on faith for a good night's rest worth of absolute proof."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    On the other hand, there are those who know precisely what the angels are and what's coming, and are working /against/ them. One such showed up for the Midnight Mass here, the one headed by the Archbishop rather than the parish priest, stayed after, lit a candle, talked to... well. Talked to an archangel, not that anyone /else/ knows that. But a very different one from Michael.

    On Sunday (Boxing Day back in his home country), Jonathan Sims comes back to the church that is going to be the site where the angels will first arrive when they show up en masse. Partly, he's thinking of gathering information, but partly he's worried. Even if there are official evacuation notices, some of these people will stay. Will the angels treat them well? Will the angels draft them to the cause? Will Michael even tell them the truth of what they'd be fighting for?

    ...And then Caitlin Fairchild, the Titan and public superhero, gets up and talks about her visitation from Saint Michael. Well, /shit/.

    That's why Jon slowly makes his way through the nave after the service, politely smiling at various parishoners and nodding and making approving noises at things like 'isn't it wonderful?!' and 'she's so blessed!' Trying to ignore the worry for the girl that's twisting in his gut. He was there for the first 'miracle,' so he knows Michael probably /did/ visit her. He doesn't like the idea of the girl being... used in this matter.

    He's wearing a black blazer and slacks, dress shoes, a button-up shirt with no tie. He left his weapons at home to come down here; no need to go carrying a gun on holy ground. So he looks relatively normal as he comes into the transept, walking toward Caitlin and Father Patrick slowly with his hands in his pockets. Making no effort not to be seen or heard; he even clears his throat.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin stands warily when Jon approaches. She's in a dress of winter-weight ivory wool, with a turtleneck cowl, puff sleeves, and a hem that stops below her knees. Low-heeled chestnut leather boots offer a sensible amount of tread to go with it. Her hair's pulled back and into a plain bun. The entire ensemble looks like a Sunday School teacher's conservative fashion.

It might be easy to dismiss her as such until she's standing at her full 6'5", towering over Father Pat in his dwarf-sized wheelchair. "What are you doing here?" she says-- and it sounds more like demand, than question. Caitlin looks different than she did the first time they met. An unimpeachable self-confidence, and if her eyes were any greener, they'd be glowing.

"Cait," Father Pat says, and reaches up to tug her sleeve. "Be nice." She must outweigh him by a solid two hundred pounds, but the redhead looks down at Pat and is immediately chastened by his gentle rebuke. She steps back, and Pat wheels his chair forwards.

"God be with you," he wheezes, and offers a hand to Jon. Despite his obviously crippled physique, he's got a grip like a rock climber. "Father Patrick," he says, introducing himself. A lopsided grin works across his face and his lazy eye flickers around a little with a gesture at the cathedral. "No relation," he adds with a whimsical humor.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns briefly at Caitlin's reaction. Something heavy sits on his own shoulders, the weight of responsibility and the knowledge of a supposedly inescapable fate. Less confidence, perhaps, than determination. The Father's intercession defuses some of the tension, fortunately, and he leans down to shake the man's hand.

    "Dr. Jonathan Sims," he introduces himself. "I happened to come to the Midnight Christmas Mass and I thought I'd come by for... well. You don't really have Boxing Day here, but it's still the Feast of Saint Stephen, yes?" He smiles. "I couldn't find the alms box but I put in a donation. Seemed a better use for my money than some after-Christmas doorbuster special."

    He glances up to Caitlin. "I... didn't know you were part of the congregation here, Ms. Fairchild."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
A little bit of the edge in Caitlin's expression blunts itself when Jon introduces himself as a doctor. Professional courtesy, perhaps? Still there's a subtle shift in her posture once Jon piles on the British charm.

"Caitlin here is one of our finest community leaders," Father Pat tells Jon. "Sunday School, kids programs, you name it. I don't know what we'd do without her."

Caitlin mumbles something under her breath and ducks her gaze down to look at the carpet underfoot and poke it with a boot toe.

Father Pat casts his beady-eye gaze from Jon to Caitlin, and back again. "I get the sense you two are more than passing acquaintances," he rasps. "I'm gonna give you kids a minute, I see a City Councilor I need to go suck up to." It's an awkward three point turn but he gets his chair moving in the right direction.

"Don't break anything," he rasps at Caitlin, and grins with a surprisingly cheeky youthfulness before scooting his chair down the Nave.

"Father Pat's good people," Caitlin tells Jon. She hesitates, still not sure she's ready to trust him. "Why -are- you here?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon watches the man go for a moment. Sighs. "He seems so, yes." There's an odd tone in his voice, nostalgic and wistful. A man looking at things he cannot have, and reminding himself why it is so.

    He turns back to Caitlin, then, expression growing more serious. "Precisely what I said. I was here for the Midnight Mass, and I thought... given everything, the poor of this parish might soon be in need of particular help. So I thought I'd make an offering."

    He puts his hands back in his pockets and regards the Titan for a long moment. Then, quietly, "I'm worried, if I'm being honest. About... the faithful. About you, in particular. Did Michael tell you what's coming?"

    He doesn't /look/ evil. He doesn't /sound/ evil! He looks and sounds... concerned. Worn, and tired. Kind, even. But, then, evil does wear many guises meant to trick the eye.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"He showed me the Truth," Caitlin tells Jon. "I had a vision. I saw it all. Just-- just for a second," she admits. "It's all a little... much. But Michael showed me. He told me. There are wicked people in the world and the angels are here to help us. To help -us-," she says, gesturing not just at the people in the Nave but those in the city-- or the world-- beyond the walls. "Everyone. No more religious zealots. No more ... fighting. No more punishing desperate people for desperate choices."

"How can you not want that? It's what people literally pray for. Every service, every Mass, we beg for God to grant us peace. Now here are the angels themselves! How can that not be a sign from God?"

There's -definitely- something different with Caitlin now. Even while keeping her voice relatively low there are people turning to look at her and listen to her words. It's a subtle pull but quite perceptible to someone who is trained to sense compulsions. She doesn't seem aware she's doing it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I do want that," Jon says softly. He's keeping his own empathic aura well in check, but he glances around for a moment, frowning briefly. Noting the way people turn toward Caitlin. He sighs. "I would say that without /isfet/ there can be no /ma'at/--without chaos, order means nothing--but if there /was/ a way to just have... balance? Harmony? I would welcome that. But not..."

    He keeps his voice lowered, so as not to carry to the others in the area. "Should we not find that peace /ourselves/? Not have it... granted from on high? Is a peace imposed from an outside source true? Wouldn't it be better if we could..." He presses a hand to his chest. "It should come from within. It shouldn't be... forced upon us."

    He swallows. "I saw, too. I traveled to the Silver City, through astral projection. I saw the /army/ that is coming. How is there any /true/ peace if it comes by the sword?"

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"How well is that going so far?" Caitlin inquires with a certain irony in her tone. "We can barely keep ahead of alien superweapons, interdimensional invasions, and good old fashioned natural disasters. Then you try and stack all the ... all the human -craziness- on top of that," she tells him, hands lifting in front of her as if giving a snowglobe a flickering wrist-turn between her fingers.

"We spend all our time begging for peace, making peace, and then someone or something shows up and takes it away. Michael is promising a better world. An answer for all our prayers," she tells Jon. "Peace for those who want it, and those who don't--" one hand gestures vaguely and falls to her side. "Matthew 26, 'Put up again thy sword into his place. For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword'," she quotes. "He's giving them exactly what they want."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I thought that was the point of all of this," Jon says, gesturing about. "'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you.' John 14:27. Isn't part of the point of your faith that you're supposed to find peace through Christ, through his sacrifice, his death and resurrection?" He looks up at the ceiling, briefly. "I /do/ keep asking what the /point/ of the whole business was, if two thousand years later Saint Michael's just going to come and wipe it all out."

    He shakes his head. "Are you going to say, then, that anyone who runs in fear when the army comes should die? That anyone who doesn't trust or believe in angels should die?" His jaw shifts. "I don't want /anyone/ to die. Not you, not your people here. I don't want anyone to suffer any more than they must. You're a /Titan/. Will you really stand by while an army invades New York, whatever their provenance? Will you /help/ them?" He quirks a brow. "Will you be convincing your fellow Titans to fight with you? Somehow I don't see Nightwing condoning people's deaths, or Troia fighting alongside angels."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin's left hand curls into a fist at Jon's pointed questions and she narrows her eyes at him before her fingers unclench. "You're putting words in my mouth," she tells him. "And don't pretend you know my friends better than me. And don't pretend like you know me, either," she warns him. "One of us is on the side of angels, and the other one was talking about texting the doggone Devil. I'm starting to think that you were being a lot more literal than I thought."

She moves a step closer towards Jon. "My friends and I have gone through things you can't even imagine. We've seen civilizations *crumble* because of a lack of basic human empathy."

Caitlin looks over Jon's shoulder and points a finger at a stained-glass window on the opposite side of the Church. Michael descending to do battle with Lucifer.

"Lord Michael isn't bringing the sword. He's bringing peace," she tells Jon. Behind him are a number of murmured assents. There are suddenly a *lot* of people filling out the nave and blocking any easy exit out of the transept. Most of them sport an expression that might be divine rapture, but which Jon would most likely categorize as 'religious zeal'. Dangerous. Volatile. Caitlin seems completely unaware of it.

"Heaven itself is coming to help the peaceful fend off the bad guys. I am -really- tired of bad guys getting a free pass. That's a no brainer for me. If you really can't wrap your head around that then you're either dumber than you look, or you're in deep-- and on the *wrong* side."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Michael took my friend and gave her 'peace.' She nailed herself to a cross and then stuck my shoulder with the last spike." Jon reaches up to press at his left shoulder, frowning. "She's suffering, now. She thought of /killing/ herself to get back to that. And he did it just to get at me. How is that right? How is that... just? Jesus came not to call the righteous, but the sinner to /repentance/. Not retribution, not death and torture. Michael took a good woman, who was trying to repent for her sins, and he /nailed her to a cross/. That is /wrong/ even by the stated standards of Christianity."

    He draws in a slow breath. Lets it out. "People are going to die," he says quietly. "When Michael's army gets here, people are going to die. I swore an oath, to protect and defend /all/ life. Regardless of their sins, regardless of their faults, regardless of their beliefs. I'm not going to turn to Hell for aid, that is..." He laughs, bitterly. "That's a fool's errand, clearly. But I'm not going to let anyone or anything raze my home to the ground for any reason, and I don't care in whose name they come."

    He glances around, then looks to Caitlin. "Michael's army will be coming here. There will be a battle. The government's already been warned about the impending invasion--I told Chief Carter of SHIELD, and she's taking care of warning the appropriate authorities." Another glance around. "I highly suggest you get your people out of the way--or at least the young, the elderly, the sick. Whether you like it or not, people are going to resist this invasion, and people are going to /die/." There are tears in his eyes. "Just... just do what you can to see that it's as few as possible. Don't let people stay here out of some hope their faith will save them. /Please/."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin grimaces at the pleading and looks away. Not unmoved... but then again, far from swayed by his words. "I'm not here to question Lord Michael, and neither should you," she tells Jon with a flat tone, and loks back at him. "And yeah. People may die. People who fight against the side of righteousness. Against peace. But it won't be at my hand. I've never killed anyone and I intend to keep it that way."

"So you tell who you want," she tells Jon. "Call the White House if you like. We'll see how far that gets you. You're either a liar or deluded, and I could put up with that but you're scaring these people. You're telling them to abandon their /faith/," she says, somehow both scolding and in earnest. "How does that not stop you? Are you so far over the edge that you can't even see what you're doing anymore?"

She steps closer, then reaches across them with her right hand and puts surprisingly gentle fingertips on Jon's shoulder, atop the clavicle spur, and makes eye contact with him. Despite her utter certitude there is still an impossibly deep spring of true empathy on her face. "You do what you have to do. When you decide you need to make amends, the doors are open to anyone who seeks God's wisdom. No one here will stop you."

Her hand drops. "I'll pray for you, Doctor Sims. I honestly will. I hope you can see the truth before you lose your way completely."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    For a moment, just a moment, when Caitlin looks into Jon's eyes, she can see his own empathy reflecting hers. His worry, his terror--for himself, yes, but to a far lesser degree than for all the people who are going to suffer and die because of this. His worry for /her/. "You're so /young/," he says softly. "You shouldn't have to be doing this. None of you should. Maybe it /would/ be better, a world where children never have to suffer." It would be tempting for him to give into that idea. Maybe if that's how Michael led, it might have worked on him.

    That was before the angel tortured Cael Becker, though. A line got crossed, somewhere in all of that, and there's no going back now.

    Jon pulls his gaze away, sighs and shakes his head. "I'm not telling anyone to do anything. Not you, not them. I just..." He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Flexes his hands for a moment.

    He opens his eyes. "I mean what I say. Michael's army has chosen this place, this church, as their arrival point." He smiles, sadly. "Consider it a blessing, perhaps. The angels will come at the Epiphany, to reward the faithful." He looks at the people around him, at the zealotry on their faces. "I think you'll all be fine, so far as that goes."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"You're about ten years too late for 'kids in trouble'," Caitlin says, and smiles wryly. "I've been doing 'what we have to' my entire adult life. I'm not going to pretend to be perfect. But that's why God sent His angels to us. To show us the way."

She looks at the crowd behind him and lifts her chin. "Let him leave," she tells them. They part with a murmur and no sound of protest or argument.

"God's peace be with you, Dr. Sims."