9537/Some Good Catholic Guilt

Some Good Catholic Guilt
Date of Scene:	08 January 2022
Location:	Saint Patrick's Cathedral
Synopsis:	Terry comes to St. Patrick's to try and dissuade Caitlin from the path of righteous fury.
Cast of Characters:	Caitlin Fairchild, Terry O'Neil
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

---

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin's taken over a good part of the Cathedral grounds on some personal task. A garden tent normally used for church picnics has been set up in the parking lot to give Caitlin room to work. More and more adherents have already been raptured and the population pressure on the Cathedral has diminshed noticeably.

Her battered Amazon armor is on a mannequin, and a great number of wires and electrodes are attached to the components on it and scattered on the table nearby. Caitlin's in a severe looking black dress with a hastily mended seam on near her left leg; it looks like something a nun must have left behind, though even with Caitlin's sewing skills it is not exactly a comfortable fit.

The redhead activates a charged safety barrier of some kind and stands behind it. She primes a device in her hands connected to a complex emitter she's set up. The emitter pulses briefly with a disorienting rhythm and spurts rough spheres of unapproachable blackness the size of a baseball. They fly at the armor and are interdicted by a flashing crackle of blue electrical discharge. Th globules dissipate, presumably harmlessly, and Caitlin makes a satisfied sound and removes her safety goggles so she can make some notes on the laptop next to her.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The tent flap moves briefly, a movement that could be easily attributed to the wind. But there is no breeze that is blowing, right now, rare though that may be for New York in the winter.

"Isn't it a little early in the year for the Happy Harbor science fair?"

As soon as the voice speaks, the Cheshire Cat appears. In his customary theatrical manner, it starts with his grin, and then tail, his stripes and the rest fill in afterwards.

Glancing at the mannequin, the armor and the wires, he raises an eyebrow in a gesture of amusement, "It looks like you're busy. And here I was bringing you some takeout Shawarma..." he raises a hand, the takeout bag spreading the absolutely succuluent aromas.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin startles at the voice, but it's familiar enough that she doesn't shriek in a panic. Once she spots the spreading grin hovering in midair, she takes a calming breath and forces her palms flat on the table.

"Golly, what -is- it with people and sneaking into here?" she demands of the trickster. The offering of the takeout bag earns him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion-- but Caitlin accepts it quickly and examines the contents.

"Okay, I guess I can forgive you for spooking me," she tells Vorpal, and smiles sunnily up at him.

'Sunny' might normally be a metaphorical description; in this case, Caitlin literally is radiating an aura of subtle spiritual light that takes her candid expression and spreads that simple joy of seeing a friend to everyone around her. She seems unaware of it, though, and gestures at a chair politely. "Siddown, get comfy," she requests. "I'm a little busy, but do you want some tea, or some cocoa? The coffee here is terrible," she admits.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Oh, no, I had one of Gino's hot dogs. My entire digestive system will be spending the next four hours trying to survive that," he says. "Church coffee would finish me."

The aura is very perceptible, and the Cheshire cat is thankful for the amulet nestled against his breast, under his costume. It isn't visible, though, because he has decided to add a leather jacket to his ensemble, zipped, and with his Cheshire grin logo across the broad back. A concession to the winter, but also a good way to hide his protection against holy influences.

"And I will not be held responsible for other people copying my style. I'm a cat. I sneak. It's what I do. So..." he gestures to the mannequin, "What's all this? " he takes the offered chair, making sure to grab his tail to avoid sitting on it. Most chairs are not engineered to accomodate tailed people. At least, not outside of M-Town, "It looks like you're going full Jules Verne on something."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin holds up a finger, already four mouthfuls into her shawarma. Chew, chew, chew, swallow, and she takes a quick sip of cold tea from the cup at her elbow.

"Wheew. That's how in the zone I am, I didn't realize I was hungry," she admits. Caitlin leans forward, poking at the setup with a spare thermal probe so she can illustrate joints and wiring. "Well so there I was, and that Sims guy shot me. And holy moly, it -hurt-," she confesses to Terry. "I'd never gotten hit with something like that before. It felt like I was... like I was dying," she admits. "I've taken plasma blasts that weren't that bad."

"St. Michael told me, it was entropic energy," she says. "Which I know, it's a contradiction in terms, he said that he didn't have the time and I didn't have the math skills to actually explain it all to me. But it reminded me a lot of the um, the Negative Zone ray-thingie that Superman used on Zod. So I'm trying to figure out a way to destabilize anyone from hitting me with it again. Got it?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Oh, /that/ kind of energy? Yes, I know of it. They use it in Wonderland instead of microwaves," the Cheshire says, elbows on the table and chin in his hands, "But nobody over there is crazy enough to actually use it on anything else. I remember what it's like, to feel like you're dying. I had a big hole in my stomach, remember?"

His facial expression doesn' change at the mention of Sims and Michael, but he raises an eyebrow, "The Wonderland waves are still happening. Last night, we were in Little Italy and got attacked by Italian Christmas decorations. There were enormous puppets of the three wise men breaking windows asking for food, and over several dozen paper witches flying and grabbing people. And not to mention the toy soldiers..." he leans back on the chair, "The area is spreading."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin presses her lips into an apologetic grimace. "I'm-- I'm sorry, Terry, I really am," she frets. "But that's not something I'm really equipped to deal with. I mean what am I supposed to do against something that sees a left hook as a funny pun?" she asks, rhetorically.

"But this is something I -can- deal with," she says, gesturing at the suit of armor-- and the Cathedral, and the angels periodically flying in and out of the area. "It's ... I hate to say it, but this has got to be destiny. Providence," she amends. "All this time, I thought I was always meant just to be someone's ... scrap project, some broken weapon that got pitched to the side because I came out of the tube half-baked."

"And now I've got a purpose. I'm here to help the angels." She smiles, the expression one of sincere bliss. "And they're here to help everyone. I just wish people could see that."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
~We are one united family Black and White~


The Cheshire cat is easily underestimated. In many cases, this is by design: it's easy to be carefree and light-hearted, a hedonist and seemingly not someone with a great deal of forethought. It is an excellent guise for when he needs to /not/ be that.

Wonderland operates like a card game, but he did spend his fair share of years venturing into Looking Glass Land, which moves like a game of chess.

Terry is playing Chess right now.

~The game our one true guiding light~

There are two pieces that could be taken- the Queen of the angels, or the pawn of the other topic, Caitlin's past. Donning his figurative Bishop's mitre, he moves diagonally and takes the pawn instead, to better situate himself.

~Sweeping through the darkest corners to express~

He frowns, "Why are you being so mean?" he asks quietly, "Scrap project. Broken weapon. Half-baked. I take great exception to you talking like that. That's my friend you are talking about."

~Countries, classes, creeds as one in love of chess~

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
"Would-- can you please not do the two voices thing?" Caitlin asks Terry, minor distress in her request. "That really trips me out and it gives me a headache," she admits.

Caitlin pokes at her work after the admonition, clearly weighing Terry's words and trying to think of how to respond to them.

"You remember I told you about my brother, when we were stuck in that mini-universe-thing?" she asks him, and flicks her green eyes at his face. "He's my adopted brother. I mean, him and his dad, they adopted me," she clarifies. "I, uh... I'm a test-tube kid. Clone. My dad-- I guess my genetic donor-- he was a soldier. They-- the people who made me, they wanted a fighting machine. He had some metagene enhancements and they wanted to see what a force-grown clone could do with those genetic manipulations in place in utero."

"It's a whole big long story and too much to get into right now, but the point is that I didn't come into this world with like, a family," she rushes. "Billy and his dad love me, I know, but they took me in because I was in danger otherwise. I don't have a mom and my daddy's dead. I only ever saw him outside my dreams once, when we were in Erebos," she admits. "So... you know, the whole purpose I came into this world for was to be a weapon, and as much as I hate that idea, the truth is still that I'm a square peg in a round hole. This--" she gestures again at the tent. "This is the first time in a real long time that I felt like my purpose had put me right where I was *destined* to be."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
A headache. The Cheshire cat makes a mental note and keeps it in his heart, like Mary. Another red herring, another queen putting herself deliberately in a clear line of capture. That's how you tempt amateurs into making mistakes, sacrificing their valuable pieces.

Not today, Satan. Another slanting step, another pawn taken instead. "Destiny. A lot of ink has been spilled on that word, you know. Words are so powerful up here, when they really are just a collection of sounds that try to anchor a concept into reality, desperately nailed to a page in the hopes they'll stay. We are always so eager to believe that someone else has figured everything out for ourselves, aren't we?"

A rabbit hole later, he has a bottle of water in his hand, from his apartment. He takes a sip. "Believing in it is very dangerous. A lot of lives have been wrecked when people thought there was a blueprint. Life is never that straightforward. But I don't need to tell you that... your knowledge of biology alone should tell you how complex even the most seemingly simple solution is." He purses his lips. "I hate what you said, Caitlin. That somehow because of the circumstances of your birth, you were /meant/ for one thing or another. There's no meaning except what you decide with yourself. Look at Harley, for crying out loud. How terrible her childhood was. And then the Joker. But look at her now. There was no destiny involved, only someone who opened their arms to her in compassion."

"Is the Shawarma good? It better be, it's supposed to be the best in Metropolis."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin looks down at the shredded remains of the wrap. "Yeah, it was... pretty good," she admits.

"Terry I don't mean... 'destiny' in the sense of someone happening to look in the right direction at the right moment," she tells him. "I mean in that I'm fulfilling a role that Michael says was set down in the time before humanity had -language-. Before we were apes, even."

"This isn't-- I know everyone thinks this is 'The Church', that I'm some religious kook," Caitlin says with frustration in her voice. "But you know how hard this is for me. Being Catholic. Having /faith/ in something more than yourself, sometimes in the face of people who are more interested in the rulebook than the right thing to do. Michael asked me to help him save the souls of humanity. Not the Catholics, not the heteros. The people who want to embrace God's will, and who will be reborn in a world without-- without all those people who overwhelm the goodness of Church with all their -badness-."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Tricky. Caitlin is Castling. There's a Rook right across him now, so he moves back, taking an unwary Knight.

"You know what I find interesting?" the Cheshire cat says, his tone of voice perfectly calm, "Time. Time is one of the most fascinating concepts on Earth. In Wonderland, he's a person, you know," he takes a sip out of his bottle. "Time makes so much of a difference. Three years ago, one would have looked at Harley Quinn and considered her someone who was full of nothing but badness." He peers at Caitlin, taing a slow sip. "And all it took was time. Three years ago, she would have fallen squarely in the badness category. Woosh." A dramatic hand gesture. Glitter falls. Fortunately, it's his magical brand, and he knows enough to disintegrate it before it hits the table. Or maybe that was part of his point. "Gone forever. Erased. But Time is the tool of Mercy."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin sighs wearily. "Terry, I'm sorry, I love you-- but I don't have time for this right now," she tells him. "You keep bringing Harley up, but you keep forgetting that I was her pen pal when she -was- full of badness. She was locked up in Arkham and doing daily anger management classes on top of domestic violence counseling. We talked about a lot of stuff. She's why I got my BS in Criminal Psychology. She helped me learn a bit about how criminals think. It's not like lying is something that I can do well," she mutters.

Caitlin gets to her feet and moves back to the work area. "I've got a lot to do, Terry, and I don't know how much time I've got to do it. Michael says that Lady Death could heal really quickly, and I need to have this shield ready in case they use that evil death ray thing on me again. Or worse, some bystander."

"Just... be careful, over there? In Metropolis?" she asks of him, over her shoulder. "I've got faith that you guys can carry it off."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"We are not done, Caitlin," Terry says quietly, looking unperturbed still. "I want you to look at me in the eye and tell me you are perfectly fine with the total obliteration of my soul. Of my complete erasure from all existence."

He stands up to facilitate the line of sight, because goodness knows he is not exactly tall compared to her. "Because I have something to say about that, and I'll be gone. But I first want to hear you say it."

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin slams her tool down and turns to walk towards Terry, stopping within arm's reach. Frustration, irritation-- sorrow, uncertainty-- it all works across her face.

"Why is everyone asking me like I KNOW ALL THE ANSWERS?!" she demands of him. "I don't have St. Michael on speed dial! He tells me what he thinks I need to know! This isn't-- there's no rulebook here, Terry! And don't pretend like you know either," she warns him. "Playing the martyr at me to try and shame me is a really rotten thing to do. You -aren't- just the Cheshire Cat, you-- knob! You're -Terry O'Neill-. You have a mom and a job. You have places you can go. You can take her, if you want. Take the Titans! Go visit Wonderland or Alice or wherever you want to go," she orders him. "For all the time we spent talking about Faith, I'm pretty doggone hurt that you're standing here admitting that you've got none in Michael-- and none in me," she grates.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
And the Bishop moves.

"I used to know a woman of faith. Someone who told me that the torment and torture I experienced growing up, the cruelty and disdain at the hands of the nuns- being made to feel worthless and unworthy... that that wasn't the way. That there was a loving, merciful path, and that those voices of cruelty belonged to those who didn't understand it."

The Cheshire cat has the still poise that only felines have, where they might as well be the millennary sphynx, asking riddles of the sky themselves. "Where is Caitlin? I don't see her. Not in someone who would be so cavalier at the thought of erasing billions of people from existence just like that. Not the Caitlin who tried her hardest not to use lethal force unless she could stop it. After all..." he crosses his arms.

"Thou Shalt Not Kill. But it seems that the governing principle here is Do As I Say, Not As I Do. That's what the nuns did, too, you know."

And then he says very quietly, "From the moment I was born, I was not human. My soul does not belong to anyone but Wonderland, so I will be erased. But it is you that is hurt? But that's okay. I will decidedly never accept any god that is capable of such monstrousness. That is capable of turning a loving person into..."

He raises his eyebrows, "A zealot speaking of the erasure of souls just like that. Flying planes into buildings, bombing churches, or sending an army to end the universe and depriving people of free will- there is no difference between any of those acts, Caitlin."

He starts making his way to the tent flap and looks over his shoulder, "You know, goodness is not good if there isn't a choice to do evil. It is absolutely nothing at all."

Nothing at all, like what is left of him as he slowly begins to fade into invisiblity once more.

Caitlin Fairchild has posed:
Caitlin just shakes her head and focuses on the work at hand. It's safe. It's distracting and it's safe. It's a task she knows how to do, a puzzle she can solve. Not rampant speculation, or facing the cold fear that Terry knows something she doesn't.

Because that would mean Michael knows something he isn't divulging.

Terry's only gone for less than a minute before Caitlin's aplomb finally snaps and she turns and hurls her teacup against the stone wall of the clergyhouse. It shatters with a fair amount of force and splatters cold, bitter tea everywhere.

"Miss Caitlin!" A young brunette peeks into the door, face alarmed. "I heard a crash, are you okay?"

Caitlin stands with hands akimbo, staring at her feet, and focuses on the woman after the few beats it takes her to realize she's being addressed. "What? Yes. I'm fine," she says, curtly. "Just... no more visitors, today. Please," she adds.

The redhead moves back to the armor stand, puts her welding goggles on, and sets arcing blue sparks walking back and forth across the metal as she bonds steel to steel.