Per fidem non est timendum. | With faith, be not afraid.
The church was an old, time-tested structure. One look upon the mossy, chiseled stone walls would signal to any onlookers that even before Arkadia had been brought to fruition, this building had stood and watched all that had passed. Time had not diminished the presence of the town's centerpiece, even with the rain, and the salt, and the chaotic whims of man.
So was it that Max looked upon the weathered black tiles of the roof, and the gentle green petals of vines traversing the walls. This church was a rectangular shape, with its ambulatory curving in a semicircle on the east side. Its western end was a flat wall, covered with vines much like its northern and southern counterparts, but from a few feet up the base to above where Max could reach, there was a large mosaic window, full of colors and glass artistry. There were simple, wooden porch entrances on the north and south sides that would lead into the large, open space of the nave, decorated with pews and accommodations. The south entrance was facing towards the church's small parking lot, and this was where Max and her company waited now.
The brunette had vague recollections of visiting this church when she was young, when her parents would invite their more spiritual relatives to town over a weekend. It was many a year since occasions like those, and all that attributed to these memories was the church itself.
Victoria was conversing with the head doctor in charge, along with the pastor. She ensured Max that she could handle the concerns of the elder authorities, so long as the brunette would handle the gripes of their fellow Angels.
She also told Max, very pointedly, that she was expecting to do this for the next time afterwards, as the overall leader of their unit.
Caulfield knew that the Queen was still very much at odds with the idea of what came next, in regard to the leadership of their small unit. They had agreed yesterday, after she finished prying Chase from her chokehold on Chloe, that they would make a fair split—roughly fifty percent of each their charge would be from the outsiders, and the other fifty would be the natives, their friends. Yet Max could see, as Victoria diplomatically tip-toed around the stern instruction of the doctor and the quiet pastor, that the Queen would make good on her promise to set a boundary for those outsiders, whether Max liked it or not.
She looked back to the nestled bunch of those in her care and noted the cheerful hums of conversation. It seemed her attempt to boost morale had worked, and she sighed in relief. At least she wasn't fucking up the integrity of the unit that badly.
Because even though she was recognized as the co-leader of them all, she couldn't help but feel the weight of her mistake—of offering too much too soon—and now what previous doubt she had was amplified. What would come next, if she made a mistake like that again? Is she really fit for this role of leadership, even with the support of her friends?
She remembers this little saying that Kate brought up one time, that doubt was but one of many names attributed to the devil. Perhaps it was true, or perhaps it was just her nerves.
Quit doubting yourself, Max.
Chase gave the elders her final platitudes and strode back to Caulfield, a determined gaze adorned. It was when she got close that Victoria dared to speak up, "We're setting up inside, lunch will be in the nave in a half-hour. Madsen gave them the rest of our gear, so we'll have to listen to the doctor's speech on safety before they'll give us anything."
"Alright, good to know," Max concurred. She was turning to assemble the rest of their group, when a hand clasping her arm stopped her, "Max."
She turned back, hesitantly, "Yes, Vic?"
"I know it seems like I don't trust you," the blonde started, a bit shaky, "but I…I'm serious about what I said. I trust you to do what's right, even if it's something I don't agree with," and Chase's gaze glanced over the assembly of girls chatting, smiling, completely unaware of the worried brow observing them, "I propose a compromise. You give me most of your share of the fifty, and I promise to take care of that one girl, whatever her name was."
Max didn't think Victoria was distrusting of her. If anything, Caulfield feared that the blonde was too trusting of herself and would bite off more than she could chew. Much like what she was doing now.
"I don't know about this, Vic. What if this backfires? I mean, I trust you too, but what if something really bad happens, something that neither of us can control—?"
"I overheard Juliet," the Queen interrupted, much to Max's exasperation, "she's made a couple of friends. Juliet already doesn't like me that much, and I think they're more willing to join you than me. That's about seven girls right there, then there's Price, and then Marsh, and then you. That's ten in all, and the other ten will be folded into my command," and once she noticed the concerned frown on Max's face, she quickly appeased, "Look, it will be fine. It won't be just me; I'll have Taylor and Courtney at my side. If something happens, we'll take care of it."
It was a compromise. A temporary stopgap. If it got worse, then they would correct their course, and fix it before it became a problem. It was fine. And Max looked over her sisters, and took note of their smiles, of the hopeful look in their eyes.
They will be fine.
So, she sighed and relented, "Alright."
And that was it. The girls were brought to their feet at a rallying call, and with the pastor welcoming them, the twenty Angels entered the church.
It was as Max suspected. The thing her memories had been correct on was the soft lighting within the church. Excluding the sunlight that came pouring from the doorway and the windows, the only source of interior light was from the many wax candles placed on the structure's columns, secured by ornate glass lamps. Not much had changed from what she could remember of the layout besides this and whatever little details that sprung to mind as the girls shuffled inside.
The pews, usually lined up abreast to face the altar on the far-east end inside the ambulatory, were all moved to the edges of the open nave and made space for the newest additions: hospital cots, and gurneys. These were what took up most of the space inside, though some areas were left open for freedom of movement between the church sections. Volunteers and nurses were bustling in this occupied space of cots, and so the Angels took care to stay out of their paths. The pastor was taking them to the left anyways, down the western end, where the small narthex of the church was left untouched by the medical staff.
Under most circumstances, the narthex would be another primary entrance into the church and had been so for this church's original design. However, for a reason that Max and the others could not fathom, the doors had been eventually removed, and replaced with brick-and-mortar and that large mosaic glass window. All that hinted to the existence of the previous narthex was two outcroppings inside the building, with their own doors on each side.
This, as the girls were soon informed by the pastor, were the established entry points to the lower level of the church, where one of the town's many hazard shelters had been constructed decades ago. Rarely ever did the church staff find a need to use that space below, and so it served its purpose as a space for the homeless, for those who needed a temporary place to stay.
For now, it will be their temporary home should they be needed outside of Blackwell.
Much like the shelter they had discovered at the school, this one was not without its own touches. Both entry points converged their halls at a solitary bottleneck, and this led to a single entrance, guarded by a braced steel door. As one entered from the threshold of this door, they would find a row of bunkbeds placed in the right-hand corner, the frames of steel standing at over six feet and stretching from one end of the room to the other, a total of some twenty-or-so bunks. To the left, as the pastor pointed out to them, was another door that led to the only lavatory inside the shelter.
The lights were fluorescents, bright and obnoxious. Their cool blue tinge gave this concrete crypt a sense of terrible weight, and it became apparent why the church staff found little use to this shelter. It was devoid of any heavenly light, and especially devoid of any blessed warmth.
Indeed, it was exceptionally cold inside this place. The girls felt their skin bloom to goosebumps as the cold, heavy air had settled in this insulated chamber. The pastor noted to them a single vent, off in the farthest left corner, that vented air from the surface down into the shelter, and this vent could be closed by cranking a lever beside the slot. He advised them not to regardless, as the only flow of air besides this vent was through the entry door, and it wasn't like they were keen to leave it open for anyone to wander down. He also instructed that there were pens and blank cards for them to claim which bed they choose.
So, with a last reminder to them that afternoon mass would be starting soon after lunch, the kind old cleric made his way back up to the ground floor, and the Angels situated themselves in their bunks.
"I got dibs on top!" a single soul made a dash for one of the bunks, and Max chuckled in amusement when she noticed the prideful look Stella sported, assuming the high ground over everyone else. The rest of the girls were moving quickly down the line of bunks, each vying for their own spaces.
"Jokes on you Stell', I wanted the bottom bunk," Brooke snipped up at the cheeky brunette, and was met with snickers in return, "What was that, B'? I can't hear you over the sound of you admitting that you're a bottom—"
There was a sudden flurry, as Brooke attempted to smack the cheeky hyena sitting above her with a pen, and Max chuckled when Stella miscalculated her dodge, and bonked her head against the ceiling as she pulled up and away from the flying ball-point pen, earning a hearty laugh from the Filipina below her, followed by concern.
"Yo, Maximus!" and Caulfield looked over to Chloe, who waved at her from another empty bunk by the corner, "c'mon, nobody wants this one!"
The co-leader made for the bunk and scribbled her name quickly on the card at the bed's end. There was a single sheet on the mattresses, and nothing else. They would have to scrounge for pillows or choose to sleep without them. It also sucked not having any heavy blankets or comforters to fight the chill, but that was just an inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. Far more concerned was Caulfield about surviving the next few weeks than being comfortable while doing so.
Not only that, but Victoria was taking her sweet time in choosing her moment. Chase had picked a bunk a couple rows down from theirs, separated by her two aides along with Kate and Emilia, the latter of whom was clambering up to her spot to set her bag on the barren mattress. Everyone else was too busy situating themselves to notice them in this little corner.
She figured it would be a good time as any.
"What's up?" Chloe asked, dropping down from her perched spot on the top bunk.
"I'm hoping Vic and I can talk about finalizing the formations. I just wish she'd hurry up and get it over with," Max muttered, eyes darting to the pixie blonde and the rest of their charge, "She's really taking her time with this."
"How are we forming up, anyways?"
Ah, right. She forgot Chloe was out of the loop about the changes to the plan.
"I'll be leading with you and Kate, and we'll be supported by Juliet and her group. The rest are going to be led by Victoria."
"Wait, I thought we were doing fifty-fifty?" and Chloe leaned in closer, so nobody could hear her concern, "The fuck's going on with that, was that your call, or…?"
"It was Victoria's. I don't like it either, but considering what Juliet and the others probably think of her, it'd be best if they were with us. I just hope Victoria can handle all the other girls, otherwise nothing good will come from this."
Only now did Chase decide to quit talking with her bunkmate and trek over to Max. The mousy brunette stood up from her mattress with Chloe hovering beside her, awaiting the blonde with steady anticipation.
"So, how do you want to do this?" Chase asked, standing tall with her arms crossed, "I already thought of one idea, if you'll let me."
"Sure," Max obliged.
"We have a lot of smaller groups within our established groups of ten," Victoria explained, "Like how you have Price and Kate, and how I have Taylor and Court', so do the others have their own leaders. We'll give the news to those specific sub-commanders of these groups, and they'll pass it on to the rest."
"That…sounds a lot more complicated than I imagined," Chloe doubted. Max had a dumb look about her, visibly confused.
"Max and I get the orders, and then tell specific people in our two units, who then tell it to their groups of friends," Chase simplified, "it should ease the problems of communication between everyone. It also sets the point that we are the ones who call the final shots, when it all goes down," and Chase glanced to the rest of the girls, talking amongst themselves, "I'll be the one to do it if you want, Max."
Caulfield pondered the idea, then, "Let me tell Juliet, it's only fair. You worry about your group first, Vic."
"Alright then," the leader nodded in respect and then made her way down the bunks, searching for the sub-commanders in her unit. Max searched for Juliet and spotted the reporter gazing up at the vent in the corner, along with Dana and Alyssa. They saw something interesting in the vent and its mechanism, it seemed.
"Juliet!" Max called, making her way over to her. Watson glanced back, smiled, but went back to observing the vent, curious. It was once Max and Chloe stood beside her that she responded, "Hey, Max, you ever wonder just how old this stuff really is? I mean, look at this thing," and the bronze-brunette pointed to the lever, with its rusted metal handle, and the cracked layers of paint, layered in a half-polished attempt to keep it pristine, "They say the shelters were built in the fifties, during the height of the Red Scare. Sixty years of the cold, and it still stands."
"Yeah, huh," Max concurred, then turned to back to her again, "Seriously though, I have to tell you something."
"What's up?" and all of them turned this time, attentive.
"Victoria and I have decided who will be leading the squads—" and once they settled down from a sudden spur of excitement, Max confirmed, "Since there's twenty of us, I'll be in charge of ten, along with Victoria. We both thought you all would prefer me over her, so I'll be the one you can rely on."
"Let's go, Max is with us!" Dana hyped, and Alyssa gave their leader a gratuitous pat on the back, praising her. Flustered as she was, it was her that had led them through the fires of Blackwell, and they found no better substitute for command.
"What about them?" and Juliet nodded to two girls relaxing at one of the bunks, a curly-brunette and a short-haired blonde, "I can vouch for them, if you'll let them in. They're good people."
"Yeah, them too. It'll be me, Chloe, and Kate; then you guys, and those two over there," Max clarified, "what are their names, again?"
"The brunette's named Olivia, met her a few days ago. The blonde girl on the bed beneath her is Grace."
"Olivia and Grace, got it," so Max smiled, relieved, "then that settles it. I'm not going to boss you guys around but keep close if you can. Whatever we have ahead of us, we'll handle as a team."
"We hear you, Maximus," and what caught Caulfield off-guard was hearing this not from Chloe, but from Dana, who stood beside Watson with a proud smile, "We got your back, like you got ours."
"Hell yeah! All for Maximus, gladiator of Blackhell!" Chloe cheered then, and Max became embarrassed at the ovations amongst her sisters-in-arms, who placed their trust in her, and in this confidence did she crush the doubt still within her heart. For she had no better calling then, than to uphold this trust, and guide her sisters to that worthy cause.
Almost by cue, the rest of the Angels began a cheering of their own, as Victoria was showered with jubilations about her position. The Queen of Blackwell was taken aback by the sudden praise, but embraced it, nevertheless.
The Angels beheld the creation of their formal structure, and the two squads-worth of girls that made up this volunteer force set forth, to an awaiting lecture, and then lunch hour.
It was an atmosphere that she could not find herself comfortable in, no matter how hard she tried.
The mess hall was set up in what open space allowed for it, with some pews being shifted to accommodate the crowd of hungry mouths. Each of the girls were given a chance to fill their canteens, prepare their mess kits, and be directed to a line of awaiting cooks. A couple of these cooks wore the uniforms of the Two Whales Diner, the native girls spoke of it with excited tongues. They held high regard to these chefs and their culinary skills, and so did she as well. She trusted them that much, at least.
Sara Wilson noticed that the church had lighting beyond the candles lining the columns at eye-level. Above, the chandeliers bathed the interior with their candlelight.
Jenny Thompson was sat to her left, scarfing down on her lunch of eggs and bacon. Thompson always set herself to Sara's left, as this was her ordained place in their trio. And on Sara's right side sat Jasmin Carter, silently nibbling at her portion of hash-browns. Carter's long black hair done in that high ponytail of hers swayed as she ate, and that silent stare of hers was ever present. These two were always by Sara's side. Never did they stray. Sara liked having her friends here, having them depend on her, having them know they could rely on her to solve their problems. Sara held herself to a high esteem in this category of friendship.
The mother hen, she was. Always doting, always chiding, always guiding the path.
Sara's inclinations to be protector of her friends brought her to demand some measure by which she could ensure this security. It was only natural even more so, that she found herself in the midst of this beautiful mess and reveled in it.
The mousy one, whoever it was that led the squad of Blackwell students, had shown herself to be what Sara hoped for. Those timid eyes and nervous posture had given away the first time Sara laid eyes on her. A pushover. A doubtful little fool, incapable of pulling herself together.
Wilson would not stand for someone not having the backbone to keep her and her friends out of danger, even if they didn't necessarily have the jurisdiction to boss her around. Still, that brunette's close relation to Sara's squad-lead, the pixie blonde, was sure to make things worse off. Sara was not one to tolerate a feeble good-for-nothing telling her what to do, and how to do it. Call it natural human spite, but Wilson would rather speak for herself than let others speak for her. She had no tolerance to any authority outside herself, and while unspoken in word, her actions would spell that out soon enough.
It's why she gave that previously mentioned pixie-blonde a smiling, standing ovation, as the native Arkadian girls celebrated their own coward of a leader. She could not let it be this way, she could not let that mousy brunette's word be truth, not while there was time to change circumstances in her favor.
The Reds would arrive soon enough. She had hoped that the caravan would have made itself useful in getting her down to California, where her family and relatives are. Her phone had burnt itself out not a few hours into the trip, so she was on her own in that case. It was just her luck that they were trapped in this pocket, and now had only one means of escape.
She thought about it, at the time. Raising her hand. Walking away from the rest of these girls and getting on the first boat out of this doomed town.
The air had been tense, and the silence amongst their ranks had kept her still. She found herself surprised about the aura of determination within the lot of them, these people here from this shantytown. They clung to this land and its woes like their lives would depend on it, ignorant of their luck. They believe their faith will carry them to a resounding victory over assured destruction.
Sara knew better.
She made a mistake, listening to the words of that pompous leader of the Arkadian Militia instead of those parents. It seems right enough for there to be a natural counter to this authority that now rules over this town. So suddenly was this accepted by the Arkadian natives however, that Wilson found herself questioning the autonomy of these townsfolk. They obviously didn't have the backbone nor the means to challenge the Bear's authority, especially now with the assistance of the caravan's own militia force combined with the Arkadian militiamen.
She could not stay here, not for any longer than necessary. To flee from the Reds was a better choice than to fight them, and if she could convince others that their lives were not worth the inevitable slaughter then this was what must be done.
She was to rectify her mistake. Time would be needed, the cards would be dealt, but her moment would come.
A part of her was actually sick with the obvious favoritism blooming amongst their ranks. She and the other girls from outside this little run-down place were already being treated like secondaries. It became clear enough, what with that two-faced brunette leading one of the squads, giving all of her heart and soul to whomever she chose and leaving the rest to fend for themselves.
But Sara smiled to herself, as she finished the last of her pancakes. Her sharp eyes flickered and settled on the source of her elation.
Emilia. Twin sister to Jacob Greenock.
The fluffy-haired hermit was taking a hefty bite from a hamburger and engaged with some idle conversation. The blonde girl with the obnoxious spartan-crop of hair on her head and even more obnoxious cross at her collar sat beside Greenock, along with some faux-punk wannabe.
Emilia had proven to be exactly what Sara was looking for. Someone with no prospects, no friends to call her own. Someone with troubles in her heart. A friend, an opportunity, in more ways than one. It became necessary to befriend the hermit, if the secret was to be kept. It would not do to let chance decide for her-Sara had to seize this opportunity without hesitation.
With this, all she had to do was remove the barriers in her way. A glance over to another pew introduced the source of her problems.
That little weasel, River Schwartz, was destined to stand against Sara. The guilt card could only be played so many times before it lost its value, Wilson knew this to be inevitable. But she could not let River get in the way of her plans to leave, and to leave with as many of her friends as possible.
Wilson blinked. Schwartz was staring at her. A very hollow stare, but it conveyed itself all the same. She smiled back innocently and made the pony-tailed blonde duck her head in shame.
Sara let that fake smile go, and thought of this tantalizing idea; of her hands crushing that little pest's windpipe, or jabbing the utensil knife she held through the blonde's eye, and watching her beg and squirm—
Inhale. Two, three, four. Exhale.
Wilson knew in this present moment, that so long as River breathed, trouble would follow. Emilia was a prize—a friend—worth fighting for, but Schwartz's attempts to keep her out of reach would not be easily abated.
A lot of the subtlety could be brushed aside if Sara had the power and influence to make it so. It was certain, her position as an unimportant member in her squad would not be enough. She would need to go farther than that, especially if the plan to leave this doomed town and its zealous population was to be carried out.
A couple of ideas came to mind, but nothing too definite. She'd need some time to get a feel for the situation, to see how far the power vacuum had made itself known. She also needed to ensure her friends will be there for her when the plan did come to fruition. Nothing a little pull of the strings couldn't solve.
Wilson stood up and made her way to the single wash station in the church. It was set up for the sake of the doctors and nurses, yet no one forbade them from washing their trays and silverware once they finished with their lunch. Jenny was a step behind her and cleaned her empty tray and fixins as well. The two girls moved quickly for the paper towels and stood on one side of the nave, there where the interior columns stood to support the upper terrace.
"So, what's the plan now?" the blonde asked. Jenny was anxious for the same outcome, however much she smiled.
"I'm not really seeing any opportunities for us at this moment," Sara replied, scanning the rows of girls enjoying their lunch, "though, I'm not as worried about our chances, as I am of you."
The blonde laughed nervously as she turned to her leader and spoke with a confused smirk, "Wait, what? 'Bout me?"
"I want to be open with you, I want to know you'll be there by my side when I need you," Wilson emphasized. Her smooth voice was palpable with inclination, digging deep into figurative skin, "There's still a chance to make things right, to get out of here together. But whatever the three of us plan to do, we have to trust each other first," Sara's hand began to snake around Thompson's shoulder, and Jenny suddenly found herself reeled in like a fish, frozen under the now callous glare of her superior, "Didn't you once tell me, that trust is a two-way street, Jen'?"
Thompson gulped, nodding the slightest. She heard that little voice in her head telling her to comply, and so she nodded.
"Then let's keep it that way. We wouldn't want to ruin something good, now, would we?" and when Wilson was sure that Jenny got the point, she let her go. Thompson shrunk, that smile having been wiped off her normally cheerful face, and the berated blonde settled beside Sara, looking off at something else.
Sara pitied the girl more than anything. It wasn't Thompson's fault that she tried to be happy as often as she did, tried to be friendly and cooperative with those she was close to. Jenny had to find some measure of coping, if to avoid the fear of being right in her assumptions.
Sara had heard of this story when the caravan had stopped in some resting place along their journey south, when Thompson was among the few others gathered by this small makeshift campfire, conjured by some twigs and paper. When the two of them were the only ones left in the comfort of the flames, Jenny had opened up to her about a terrible accident involving her relatives, her grandfather and grandmother, once the terror had started and the Reds came springing like rotten weeds from the underworks. Jenny's family were navigating the streets of an unspecified city—she never told Sara which—and like many others, a car was speeding to escape via the highway, and ran a red light. Either the bastard didn't notice or had no sympathy and had smashed into the crowd of crossing pedestrians like a bowling ball, Jenny's grandparents being among the several hit.
They were frail, and old. Even if Jenny had called for an ambulance, the chances of it reaching her dying elders was minimal in that chaos. Sara had seen the hollow look in the girl's eyes when she said there was no chance for them, of having to hold them close and whisper gentle nothings to them. It was obvious then as it was still obvious now, that Jenny believed it to be her fault for her grandparents' deaths.
Not that Sara was going to tell her it wasn't. It was like she said, there was no need to ruin something good for her—for them.
The small section at the other end of the church was coming alive, having been spared the renovations, and now many nameless faces were preparing for that midday mass the old priest was muttering about. Many Arkadian natives were filing into the church and were escorted to the ambulatory on the east side, taking their seats to offer praise to their false God. At least, Sara knew that it was foolish to place one's trust in a deity as perfect as the Lord, there was no justification for evil's presence if a God as omnipotent as claimed did exist. It was not her job to educate these fools any more than it was her job to save them.
Jasmin was coming towards them. She was done with her lunch as well, and once she finished with cleaning her mess kit, she fell into her spot at Sara's right-hand side. Some other Blackwell Angels were subsequently done with their own meals but would head back to their respective seats, close together with their friends. The volunteers for the medical staff were forming in lines now, their scheduled lunchtime now beginning.
An assistant priest, a respectfully tall man with a noticeable cleft in his chin, requested of the Angels to accommodate for the many starving volunteers due for their lunch hour. The cowardly brunette took his request in stride and ordered her squad to head outside, and Sara noted with distaste as the pixie-blonde did the same. They'd all have to go out now and accomplish whatever was expected of them.
"C'mon, let's go girls," she beckoned to them. Jenny followed in good fashion, but something had caught Jasmin's eye, for she hadn't moved when Sara looked back, confused.
"Jasmin, what are you waiting for?"
The right-hand silently pointed to a very suspicious sight happening across the nave. There, next to the opposite row of interior columns, was Emilia, along with that mousy brunette! They were speaking privately, and Sara's eyes squinted, unsure of what was developing. She needed ears in on that conversation, now.
"Jenny~" she whispered, in a sing-song voice, "I'll need your help on this one."
And similar to a puppy, Thompson's demeanor snapped to anticipation, "Yeah, what is it?"
"Find out what's being said between them," and she gestured to the columns, making sure Jenny knew, "don't get too close, I don't want them knowing."
With a smile and a confirmation Jenny whisked herself into the crowd, lost in the sea of moving people. Sara would not wait for her though, and with Jasmin by her side did they walk outside into the afternoon chill.
The Angels were gathered on the edge of the parking lot where a row of trees provided shelter from the bitter winds. The rest of their gear had been given to them before lunch hour after a very bland speech made by the head doctor, Doc Neumann, and this gear was left outside for them to take. Sara hadn't listened to the head doctor's lamenting much, being far too occupied with hunger to care about what was said. She grabbed her kit, a very bare-bone combat vest with empty pouches and began walking closer to their company.
The pixie blonde SL, or squad leader, was speaking to River Schwartz. River had a nasty look to her as she was spoken to, and it seemed the verbal lashing was ready to burst into a scuffle, as many of the other Angels were looking on with bated breath. As Sara approached, words became discernable.
"What the hell do you mean we?!" River snapped, brows furrowed in apprehension, "I sure as hell didn't agree to this!"
"Well, I hate to burst your little bubble, but this decision of ours is not up for discussion anymore," came the snide reply, and the Queen of Blackwell held her head high, looking down the bridge of her nose at the pony-tailed blonde, "If you want, I'd be more than happy to inform the upper command structure of your lack of consent, and let them decide if the town's immediate needs could be put on hold for your sake."
Sara raised her brows and huffed in amusement. This was going to be splendid entertainment.
"I volunteered to help people, I volunteered to fight the Reds, not to be bossed around by you two-faced assholes!" Schwartz barked, then pointed an accusing finger at the haughty blonde opposite of her, "If you think I'm going to listen to the likes of you, then think again!"
Wilson was curious of this now, for what had struck the nerve? What had the leader of the Angels said, to make River so angry?
"It's an absolute shame then, that life has decided to bring such an unfortunate situation to you," the Queen scoffed, emerald eyes sharp and jagged in their glare, "But this is the terrible thing about life: it screws over everyone, somehow, someway. So go ahead, let it out, cry all you want. The sooner you get over yourself, the better," and then the pixie blonde turned, and raised her voice for the rest to clearly hear, "Is there anyone else who wants to complain like Schwartz here? Anyone else!?"
No one spoke. The native Arkadian girls were unfazed by this display, but the rest were truly spooked; these few outsiders all looked away, either out of sympathy or shame.
"Those of you who think that my friends and I have been unfair, know this: our decisions were made under the direction of David Madsen, commander of all militia forces in this town," a pause, then, "If you have a problem with how we have organized ourselves, then I will direct you to Madsen, and he will most definitely give you the same answer that I give now; Your complaints mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, and will serve no convenience to you or the others around you."
That last part was aimed at Schwartz, who took a step back at the Queen's powerful inflection. River may not have backed down entirely to the venomous tirade but resigned was she all the same.
"Of course, you could always desert, you could always turn tail and run away. I hear that they will be evacuating the women and children first, once the fishermen and their boats are ready," and there came a twinge in that haughty voice, goading her, daring her to, "if you want, Schwartz, you can hand over your kit, and walk away. Right now. Nothing is holding you back."
But there was something that kept River from leaving, then and there. The pony-tailed blonde was looking to the church, and Sara turned to observe it once more. There, three girls were making their way over to them from the porch.
How cute, Sara realized. River really was desperate to keep her from her prize.
It was that mousy brunette again, and at her side was Emilia, who had a sadness to her gait. She was flanked by the ragged blonde with that obnoxious cross, who also seemed troubled. Whatever was said between them, it promised a serious change, perhaps a chance that Sara was looking for. Jenny was nowhere to be seen, but this was to Sara's relief; Thompson must still be in hiding, waiting for the right moment to show.
"Victoria," the brunette called out, earning everyone's attention, "Let it be. We got thirty minutes to be at Blackwell, we should get going."
Ah, so that's their squad-leader's name. Sara had been wondering what it was.
"Understood," Victoria replied, and raised her voice to address them, "We're up, form up to a single column at the double!"
Covered by the sudden commotion, Jenny came slithering up to Sara's side, a giddy look on her face. At first, when one noticed the franticness of Thompson adorning her rucksack and vest, they would believe it to be nervousness, but no—Sara was well acquainted to this jittery show. Jenny was excited, for the figurative tea was piping hot with expectation.
"Go on now, spill," Sara commanded, and the words spilled forth, "Oh man, this is fuckin' juicy—Emilia's being transferred to our squad! They were talking about keeping her with the Arkadians, but that squad-leader of ours is against that. It's why Rivy's so upset about it, I bet she wanted them to put Emilia on the other squad, but that ain't happening~!"
Wilson did a doubletake when the bombshell dropped, and when she looked back again to see River standing stiff as a board, shivering with dread, it felt so…so sweet.
A smile bloomed. Today was a good day.
They arrived at Blackwell five minutes late. Despite his glowering features, Madsen did not give them anything more than a stern word and ordered them to assemble on the field. Afternoon was well underway, and they were to begin the next part of their preparations; a very unusual obstacle course had been set up along the length of this grass field, divided into sections of about ten feet. They would practice maneuvering the stretchers from obstacle-to-obstacle, with and without the practice weights. It was a test of strength, a test of speed and flexibility. The girls waited, huddled on one end of this field, where the end-zone would be.
"I'm so sorry about this, Steph."
A lighthearted huff, and a wave of the hand dissuaded the apology, "Don't worry about it, Chloe—if anything, we'll be able to keep an eye on Victoria, in case she goes a little overboard."
The thought of Chase stomping out unintelligible orders in a tantrum to others made them chuckle. A mighty exterior the Queen had; it only made the interior more fun to theorize about.
"Yeah, what was up with that? She was really laying into that one girl over there," Samantha gestured to the pony-tailed blonde a ways over, who was sitting by herself, "was it something she did, or was that just Victoria being Victoria?"
"Beats me, Sam," Steph replied, "I wouldn't be surprised if it was just one of those things that Victoria likes to do, you know how she can be."
"Yeah, two whole years and she hasn't changed that much," Price concurred. She spotted this pixie blonde hovering beside Max, going over some itinerary given to them by Old Madsen himself. Chloe snickered, for she finally found a nickname for him that could be said with absolute impunity, and still piss him off to no end.
"What is it?" Steph asked her, curious.
"Nothin'. Just thinking about Old Madsen and his ever-present attempts to be a hardass."
Steph knew well of the true dynamic between the Head of the Militia and his punk stepdaughter, having been told many years ago. Before Max, before Vic, before Prescott's tyranny. During a time that Price thinks of too often, far too much for her own good.
"How is he nowadays, if you don't mind me asking?"
Chloe trusted the both of them enough to not blab about this, and spoke freely, "Still the same asshat that he was when you guys were around. Not much has changed…"
Gingrich looked up at the pause, at the faraway look in Chloe's eyes.
"Not much?" she prompted, and Price shook herself back, "Um, yeah, not much. I think Max might have gotten to him, though. She and Kate did something—or said something, I don't know—but he's been…slightly less of an asshat, I guess."
"Hey, that's good!" Steph touted, "if he's not getting on your case anymore, I'd consider that a win."
"Isn't Kate the blonde one over there?" and Sam pointed to the field-goal post, and the lone girl sitting at the base of this post. That ragged blonde was reading a small book, a hand-held bible if Chloe dared to guess.
"Yeah, that's Kate alright," she remarked, "Max is good friends with her, so she's cool with me."
Steph seemed sketched, though, "Well, is she your friend, Chloe? I mean, I'm not one to pry, but…"
It didn't take a fool to put two-and-two together. Chloe didn't blame her longtime friend for being unsure. It would have been the case, had Max not come back, had they crossed paths with no knowledge, no context behind their own struggles. Perhaps, she'd be stupid enough to consider Kate her mortal enemy, and vice versa.
"Yes. She is my friend," the punk resolutely answered, and spoke this piece with a solemn tone, "She saved my life, and Max's life, and damn-near everyone's lives. I don't care what she might believe, if that doesn't make her a friend, then I don't know what else will."
"You're talking about that…incident, that happened here a couple days ago?" Steph reminded her, and Chloe cursed herself for holding out on them for this long, "Yeah, that incident."
The three of them looked to Blackwell.
It was likely enough, that the scores of holes of the second-floor masonry would not be repaired. The tile floors could be removed, the glass windows and their frames replaced, the interior doors and walls would be switched out, and patched. But nothing would brush away the stains of battle from those red bricks. Even from the football field they sat on, Chloe could still see them.
"We—Max, Kate and I—found out that Prescott had sympathies with the Reds, and that he'd taken the whole school hostage. We snuck in before anyone noticed and tried to rescue as many people as we could. We had to duck through the rooms to keep out of sight," and she paused, thinking back on it, "there was this weird-ass stairwell in Wells's office, led down to this underground shelter like what they got in the church. There were…there was just shitloads of stuff, guns, helmets, ammo—the whole nine yards."
Sam noticed Price's dominant left hand, shivering.
"We had a choice, then: either we run, and be caught with our pants down, or take the fight to 'em when they least expect it."
The two beside Price said nothing. They just stared at their once-proud school, riddled with the scars of battle.
"It got pretty bad. We managed to get outside before that rat-fucker had us surrounded, our backs to the trees. Only thing that kept us alive were the guns we had. There were just too many of them, though. Luckily, fighting the hounds bought us time for Old Madsen and his police pals to arrive. There was a standoff, some of the hounds gave up under pressure, and then all hell broke loose. David, he—Madsen shot one of the hounds still fighting, but he couldn't stop Prescott from lining up on him. It seemed like he was gonna kill him, right then and there, but…"
Sam and Steph noted the sober look Chloe had, as she spoke finally, "Kate shot him. She got Prescott right in the heart, and that was it."
And they looked to Marsh again, to her sad hazel-grey eyes, to her gentle hands holding that small bible, and could not believe it. Though she was adorned in her kit, they could not believe someone like Kate would do such a thing.
"Hey, Chloe?" Steph asked.
"Hm?"
"How…how many were, uhm…"
Chloe knew what Steph was asking, "I don't know. The news people said it was twenty-nine, but I…I can't remember how many. To be honest, I don't want to."
Gingrich hummed in understanding. A slight breeze fell on them. Cold air bit at their hands and ears.
"Is that why Old Madsen was going on so much about not putting us in the fight? 'Cause of what happened?" Sam asked.
"Yeah. He won't say it out loud, but…yeah."
"Chlo'!"
Max was beckoning her over. Price leapt to her feet, and quickly promised to talk to them later. Sam and Steph were left alone.
And once she did, Sam set her gaze back to Marsh and her little bible clutched in hand. Gingrich adjusted the beanie atop her head and noticed the rather grim look Sam was giving that ragged blonde.
"What, what's wrong?"
"We shouldn't trust her, Steph."
"Chloe?" Gingrich blurted, and was met with an equally blunt shake of the head, "No, not Chloe. I'm talking about that girl over there."
"You mean Kate?" and the beanie-brunette raised her eyebrows, stupefied.
"I don't…I'm getting some seriously bad vibes from her. Chloe can say what she wants, but I'm just—I'm not taking that risk."
"I don't see why you're that worried about Kate of all people—heh, you know what, I bet you're even taller than her by a few inches or so."
"That's got nothing to do with it," Sam hissed, mindful of their volume.
Except Steph was not serious in her tone, "Ah, but it does. I heard many strangers claim that the shorter someone is, the closer they are to the depths of the underworld below," and she chuckled at Myers rolling her eyes at the cheeky explanation, "so that's gotta be it; you think the Devil's got her by the heartstrings."
"No. Not even close."
"It's okay to admit these things, Sam."
"That's not what I'm—"
"There's no shame in it, y'know," and Steph fell into a fit of laughter as the other brunette bopped her on the shoulder.
"I'm being serious about this, Steph!" Sam whined, "She's…if what Chloe says is true, then she's a cold-blooded killer! There's no telling then if she'll go for one of us, or even Chloe and the others."
"If you're that worried about it, I'd hate to know what you'd say if we were a part of her squad," Gingrich teased, and adjusted herself in her spot, "Look, we'll be keeping an eye on Victoria, and Chloe's gonna keep an eye on Kate. The more we worry, the more we get ahead of ourselves," and that cheeky smile was gone, replaced with a solemn assuredness, "I know you can't help with getting antsy at times, but I need you to trust me on this. Kate's not gonna do anything to us, we'll be fine."
And Sam wanted to believe that. That it would be fine. But even now, she couldn't bother Steph with the finer details. Curiosity plagued her now, for if she dared to spring a question about Nathan's true whereabouts—no, it will not do. She would need to hear it from the source directly. At some point, she would have to confront the alleged killer herself, and decide on his behalf.
"Gather round me, Second Squad!" Victoria called to her Angels, "We're up first on the obstacle course, so follow my lead and we'll be through this soon enough!"
Conflict was inevitable, Sam realized. There was going to be a bloody, costly war ahead of them. Myers thought it true as she stood up with Gingrich and made to join her comrades at the obstacle course.
All she could think of from here on out, is whether or not she would make it to the other side.
"And then Ryan looks me dead in the eyes without any hint of emotion, knowing full well that I just went through an hour-long customer request for a sorority get-together, and he says, 'Bitches be like, bitches-be-like, but they be the bitches that be like.' I'm gonna be honest with you, I lost my shit; it was just so damn perfect! Like, how do you say that with such a straight face? If it was me saying that, I would've gotten maybe a word out before I'd start laughing my ass off."
A moment passed, where the other occupant in the car turned to look at Gingrich, driving at the wheel. The hum of the engine punctuated the silence.
"Steph, just," Samantha finally spoke, "what the hell are you talking about? Who's Ryan?"
"He's a friend of mine, met him one time during a road trip through Colorado," Steph chuckled, "But seriously, think about it: what is a better sentence to explain the totality of what we perceive as human interaction, than bitches be like? To experience the death of legitimate conversation, morphing into this…this figurative pit, of nothings and somethings—"
"That is so crazy," the sarcastic interruption came, "but I don't remember asking about that."
"Hey, I'm just saying!" Gingrich laughed away, taking the time to make a turn at an empty intersection, "You'd be feeling the same way listening to people for hours at a time. When you get a job, 'cause I know you will, chances are you'll be dealing with all kinds of people saying all kinds of dumb shit. So whenever you're feeling overwhelmed, whenever it feels like you're talking to a brick wall, you just gotta remember; bitches be like. You gotta know these things to understand them, to appreciate the subtle humor they give. You gotta appreciate the humor in it."
"Seems more like coping to me."
"Well, that's part of it, but you'll find out soon enough," and Steph's attention flickered to something down the street from them, and she smiled in sweet anticipation, "There it is, the ol' diner-away-from-home."
Sam looked out the windshield to see the Two Whale's diner, still open in the early evening despite their theme for morning hours. Barely anyone took solace inside the diner's ambient lights, and this elated the two girls. A trip down memory lane was done best when it was experienced without the bustle of crowds.
They parked and went inside the diner. The everlasting aroma of freshly cooked eggs and pancake batter clicked them into gear, and their stomachs rumbled as they settled in a booth.
"Good to be back," Steph idly commented, poring over the menu, "They really upgraded since the last time I went here—wait hold on, they serve burgers now?"
"Since when?" Sam sputtered, looking for the burger options. And behold, a section in the menu, small but still glimmering with opportunity. Hamburgers and cheeseburgers and BLT's—it was not to say it was euphoric, but the idea of having something other than McDonald's or In-n-Out was tempting in its offer, more so when the nostalgia card comes into play.
"You had the right idea to come here Sam, these burgers lookin' kinda juicy~"
"Stop, you're making it weird," the brunette's tone was off put, but the barely contained smile said otherwise.
"I dunno Sam, that BLT with extra bacon looking kinda cute," and Sam tried her damnedest not to laugh, as Steph tested her from the opposite side of the table, "Just sayin', this burger boutta make me act up, make me do something I'm going to regret—"
The diner's entrance gave way, and the two girls spared a glance to see who it was. Their eyes widened with recognition, for they saw him, and ducked back to their menus.
"It's him."
"I know."
"It's him, Steph!" Sam hissed.
"I know, I can see him with my own two eyes!" Gingrich snipped back. She was fortunate enough to have a menu on hand, so that she may peer over its edge to observe his movements.
The current Head of the Arkadian Militia, David Madsen, was visiting the Two Whales for something to tide him over for the evening. He was still adorned in his security uniform, the cap on his head was tucked away to reveal his sharp eyes and steady frown. He stood at the counter and was speaking to one of the waitresses.
Steph and Sam had heard stories from Chloe about the kind of person Madsen was. Many a tale was told of the mundane things he did in his free time, the odd things he took comfort in, and the sadistic things he did because he was as psychotic as he was back in his time with the Armed Forces.
At least, that's what Chloe had told them. While Steph trusted Price's judgement of character, she wanted to see for herself. And what a wonderful opportunity this was, to finally meet the man she'd heard so much of.
Sam seemed excited about the possibility too, if her fidgeting was anything to judge. They had to take this chance, their only chance.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Sam thought, and replied, "No, not here. I'd rather we talk to him alone, without anyone seeing."
"I thought the whole point is to not let that happen, just in case Chloe's right about him," Gingrich retorted, "besides, what's got you so interested in talking with him alone?"
"I need to know."
"…need to know what—?"
"I need to know," Sam doubled down, and kept her gaze steady with Steph's, "I just need to know, and he's the one who has the answer."
Steph sighed, glancing back to Madsen. Whatever Sam was looking for, better be worth the trouble. So once the waitress came around to take their orders, they asked for to-go, and were served and sent packing within fifteen minutes.
It was quick enough to head back to Steph's car, drop their food off, and then wait for Madsen to show himself. The two waited until it was obvious he would be leaving the diner and confronted him as he began making his way down the street.
He was cautious of them as they approached, and asserted himself in greeting, "May I help you two?"
"My name is Steph, and this is Samantha. We're former students of Blackwell," Steph replied, unperturbed by his glare, "and we're friends with Chloe."
It was like a flip of the switch, the way he lifted his brow in surprise, and softened his posture, "Ah, I see. Well, it's nice to meet you two then."
"Pleasure's ours," Steph smiled, "Chloe's told us a lot about you, sir."
He tensed up again, "...has she?"
Sam was looking to Gingrich nervously as she replied, "Yeah, she has. I've heard a lot about your time overseas, sir."
He was ready for it. The nervous twitch of the eye, the clenched fists. To think a man in his forties could look this troubled spoke volumes on his part. Yet, Steph felt it to be a hollow judgement, for how had he come to be this way, if not by her words?
"I'd like to thank you for your time, sir."
Madsen's mood appeared the same, yet he asked her, "I beg your pardon?"
"My father served as well," Gingrich clarified, "He doesn't talk much about it since he came back, but he served in the Army. So, thank you for your service."
The shoulders relaxed in totality, and he was sincere as he replied, "Well, uhm, thank you for the kind words, miss."
He seemed standoffish, that much Chloe was right about. But she could not get a good reading on his true self. There was something about Madsen that she could not grasp, some figurative essence surrounding him, shielding him. Perhaps it was just the way he was, perhaps she wasn't perceiving him right. Steph wasn't going to lose sleep over this in either case.
Madsen took the initiative, "Well, it was nice meeting you two, but I—"
"Were you there, sir?" Sam blurted suddenly, "Were you really there when the shooting happened, at Blackwell?"
At that sudden question, Madsen returned his frown, and spoke cautiously, "The incident at Blackwell has been over for a while now. You should not need to worry about it anymore."
"We'll leave you be sir, but we just want to know," Steph assuaged, and Sam took her cue, "Did…is Nathan Prescott still alive?"
Steph had not seen this question coming just as much as Madsen, and they both stood stunned as Myers tried again, "I'm only asking because he was someone I talked to when I was at Blackwell. He was…he was a friend of mine at the time, and I—"
Madsen held a hand up, letting her know he understood.
"I was there, yes. It was…stressful, to say the least. I'm sorry to tell you this missy, but Nathan Prescott is dead."
It was one thing to hear Chloe say it, knowing the resentment she held for the Prescotts and their deeds. It was another to hear such telling news from the Head of Security, who by his very nature had to ensure the safety of the Blackwell students, despite his own prejudice.
It made Sam clam up, and she offered no more words other than a slight nod of recognition. He took that as his cue, and bid them farewell, walking his way down the Main and out of sight.
And it was silent between the two girls until they got back to Steph's car. Gingrich dared to ask, as the seconds ticked by and the sun's golden rays grew dimmer on the horizon, "You knew Prescott, from back then?"
A sigh, "Yeah. He was one of the first people to make me feel like he cared. Before I met you, and Chloe, and everyone else…it was just him. He was there for me, and I was there for him."
With hesitancy, Gingrich asked, "And you transferred despite being with him?"
"No! No—I wasn't with him, I just…he and I were just on good terms, and I was still focusing on myself. So, I left, and…" then the brunette rested a hand upon her cheek and sighed. However the others think about Prescott, it became clear to Gingrich that he was nothing but a friend to Sam, regardless of what he'd done. His death was a shock to Myers no matter the case.
It reminded Steph of the time she had heard of one of her relatives passing away. That while she had heard it, had visualized it in her mind—imagining a heavy casket lowered into a deep hole, speckled by rain—she still could not believe it. Only until she saw it did the idea of what death meant strike her heart and send her reeling from its blow.
And now her closest friend sat in the passenger's seat, stuck between grief and a sad place. Sam was resigned to the terrible notion that someone she knew was gone.
So Gingrich reached out, and held her hand atop Sam's own, and gave her palm a gentle squeeze.
"Know that I'm right here, if you ever need to talk it out."
Sam nodded, and Steph let go. She turned the car's engine over and shifted the gears.
It was time to go back to Blackwell.
There was something beautiful about how the mosaic shined in the early evening light. Even beyond the scope of the holy ambience that surrounded her, Max found it tantalizing to snap a quick picture of this majestic scene.
She'd earned an earful from the old-timey pastor, though kind as he was, about not using cameras inside the church. She understood his sympathies and had reassured him of her exclusive use of non-flash photos, to which he reluctantly agreed. At least he was not outright denying her the privilege to capture moments of beauty like this.
So she checked once more that the flash was off, and framed the mosaic at a low angle.
click
Secondary instincts brought her to gently shake the photo and place it into her messenger bag. She still held her camera in her hands and studied it under the dimming golden light.
The thought of the red oblivion still haunted her. It was faint in most instances, a subtle feeling of bitter cold down her back, or a slight rush of adrenaline. It was a blissful comfort to know the monster was not roaming the earth any longer, that it could only dwell in the baseless nothing of nightmares. A shame it was then, that these horrid dreams were just as persistent as they were random.
Here, the cold reality shielded her from the illusions of the unconscious world, her camera with all its weight kept her grounded against the intangible trauma. For this was hers to cherish, for it was Max and her friends that had triumphed against evil.
Yet, it doesn't feel like we've truly won…
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Max turned her gaze up from her camera to see Kate take quiet steps toward her, and stand by her side, "You should see it in the early morning, it's even better than this."
Caulfield smiled, "I'll take your word for it, though I don't know if I can get up that early."
They chuckled at that. They both knew there existed no chance to sleep to their heart's content anymore. Already the news of coming toil had been passed down to them, and they would meet the next day before the sun would rise.
Yet they stood here, admiring the glass artwork. Behind them, the candles bathed the interior columns with warm light, and past these columns and upon the altar, a choir prepared themselves for the evening congregation. Many of the nurses and volunteers were sat in the pews, some resting, some awaiting the choir's procession.
"How are you holding up?" the brunette asked.
A sigh, then, "As best as I can be."
A hum in agreement. Silence reigned again.
Then a melody stirred. The small choir across the way had begun chanting the hymns, slow and steady. Max turned back then, to see the harmonic tune of the men and women adorned in their formal robes. She recognized them, for they were the people she would pass by whenever she'd go out, they were the strangers that came from this very home of hers.
Names and faces rung true in her head, and she knew: these were the Arkadian folk. These people were hers to cherish. That despite the coming hardships, these people of hers found the time to sing grace, to give light to a dimming world.
"My parents once told me to love the world as if it was my own," Caufield looked back to Kate as she spoke; Marsh was observing the blessed choir as well, "I had thought for the longest time, that they had meant the entire world. That God's creation extended beyond the stretches of the seas. But that's not what they meant—for my world is what I know, and what I know is this place. My world is my home. My family are these people, for they are us, and I am them."
"And it is this truth that I use to live another day," Marsh concluded, "and the day afterwards, and unto the ages of ages."
"Amen," Max giggled, and even the Christian blonde smiled at the lighthearted quip.
"Are you a believer, Max?" she asked.
With a hand rubbing the back of her neck, Max muttered bashfully, "No, not really. I mean, no offense to you—"
"It's fine," Kate reassured.
"—right. I just…I don't know how to feel about there being a higher power. All I know, is that they—He—must exist, somehow."
"How so?" the blonde inquired, curious.
"Because how else could anything explain how we're still here, how we're still alive? After all that's happened, all the things that you and I have been through," then Caulfield paused, because the thought of it all dwarfed her comprehension. What could be said of their plight, other than they had surmounted the odds stacked against them? From tyrants to mortal terrors, they still persevered, they still drew breath.
"It has to be a higher power," Max resumed, "I can't believe that we were just that lucky. I mean, we went through hell, and still came back."
And they began to laugh, for who was to say that the red oblivion was not hell on earth? What ignorant fool dare raise their hand in objection, who could take away the pain they had felt, down in that silent place? Never mind the Battle of Blackwell, whose scars had yet to fade, never mind their hardships from before it all began.
Yet, how much would they harken to this thought, knowing the world was not done with them?
So their laughter died as quickly as it came, and the somber melody of the choir was all that could be heard.
"Are we blessed, then?" and when Kate raised a brow at her, Max asked again, "Are we really blessed by Fate—by God—so that we may find an end to all of this?"
Marsh took her time to answer this, but answer she did, "We might never know the exact way that God works. Sometimes he praises us for our good deeds, sometimes he humbles us when we grow too prideful. But I believe it right to say we are blessed, and that there is a way. There are those who say that faith is one step away from foolery, for it is made out as a blind following of something we cannot fully understand. Yet, this is not faith that is spoken of, for our faith is not just in God, but in his works, in ourselves."
"If we are blessed, then all we have done and all that shall be done by us, be done in good faith. Because it is one thing to be human and to sin, but it is another thing to persist in sin, even despite its dangers. So is it for faith; that so long as you believe in your faith, and all that makes this faith true—by believing in yourself—then you will live. But to not have faith in yourself, in anything at all...that is no better than to die every day."
The choir rose to a gentle crescendo. The sunlight was fading away, and candlelight flickered in its lamps. The mosaic was still as beautiful, even despite the encroaching darkness.
"You don't have to believe in what I say, Max," Kate reminded her, "But if you know it to be true, then look no further than to what you know now. Believe in your faith, and it shall guide you to the answers you seek."
A glance back up to the glass mosaic. A glimpse into the eyes of the Lord.
Have faith in your world.