It was by no fault of his own that Father Alexander Anderson, paladin of Iscariot, was on his twenty-seventh run of "Advanced Anger Management". To be perfectly honest, he would much rather have never been subjected to hear the opening lines of the course again. There were, after all, only so many times a body could attend the same group therapy session without going insane. At this point, he was sure that he could quote the entire damned class from memory.
He had passed the final examination more than enough times to ensure him a lifetime exemption from learning how to constructively channel his emotions. But attending this session was mandatory for every available member of Section XIII, following a high influx of Section II complaints after the last financial audit ended… less than spectacularly. And, since he was an Iscariot, he was stuck here for the next two hours.
Again.
Currently he had joined three of his peers at one of the rectangular classroom tables. The four of them had made an unintentional habit of sitting together for nearly every one of Section VI's pointless therapy courses. Iscariots didn't often have friends in the traditional context of the word—for them, life was too short to cultivate those types of bonds. They did, however, have colleagues, and there were some colleagues whose companionship was pleasanter over others.
These three were—at this point in his life—the only people that he considered to be his equals. Perhaps it was because they were all roughly middle-aged, at least in appearance and tastes. Of course, he was much older than he looked, but he found their company preferable to the older members of their little faction. Their temperaments were well matched and their wits sharp; both intelligence and common sense were in abundance.
Oliver Broder sat directly to his left. He was a nondescript sort of man, with mousy hair and large front teeth. Despite his plain looks he had a sanguine personality; he was an optimistic thrill-seeker with a good moral compass… something sadly lacking in many modern Iscariots.
Directly across from Oliver was Darcy. Darcy was his surname; the rare few who knew his proper name never bothered to use it. He might have been handsome in his youth, with thick hair and a dark beard. Now, with lines etched into his forehead and a jaw permanently tight with exhaustion, it was hard to tell. He hardly ever spoke, preferring to keep his ears open and thoughts secret.
Siobhan, the only female of their foursome, sat across the table from Anderson. A prettyish sort of woman, she had been with Section XIII well over ten years. Her dancing eyes were only a few shades lighter than his own, and wispy red fuzz was constantly escaping her veil. Her countenance was gentle, her presence comforting, but whenever he met her eyes or drifted too close by mistake the hair on his neck stood straight up. Even so, he couldn't find anything inhuman about her. It was a mystery he had yet to solve.
They were supposed to be doing the course exercises, writing down their answers in the provided booklet, but they'd already finished. All four of them had taken the class more than enough to know exactly what to write down, and where; their pages had been filled in the first five minutes. While the rest of the class labored the remaining hour, they were free to talk quietly amongst themselves.
"It isn't right," Oliver was complaining, a rare occurrence for him. "We're already balls deep in work as it is." The argument had already been debated between them for the past week, conversations over meals and in idle moments going around and around the group. He was only picking up the tail end of it, to start all over again.
The Pope had ordered Section XIII to branch out across Vatican controlled territory, in order to keep tabs on the annual werewolf migration. While normally not posing much of a threat to communities, later summer was mating season for the heathen beasts. They gathered in large groups, and could easily wipe out entire villages in a single night if feeling threatened.
Normally, this wasn't much of a problem. But Section XIII was short-staffed, thanks to a bewildering increase in the number of undead corpses wandering around Europe. Revenants, Draugr, Gjenganger… whatever they were called, they were showing up in large enough numbers that the local populace was taking notice. More mysteriously, there didn't seem to be any real reason for their sudden appearance.
While a weapon of God, Anderson was also only one man, and he still had other duties to perform outside of his chosen calling as a member of Iscariot. Assassins hardly live long enough to retire, if they can indeed make it to middle age; the undead scourge had thinned their ranks enough that fulfilling His Holiness's orders was next to impossible.
"It's our job," Siobhan replied, her soft lilt catching the rougher syllables. "It doesn't matter how thin we're stretched. We have been ordered."
"We should be provided with adequate resources!"
"Keep your voice down," she admonished. The instructor looked over curiously. "If we're caught arguing in Anger Management, we'll be sent to Remedial for sure. Besides," she added, "where would these resources come from?"
"Phillips, maybe." Oliver slumped lower in his seat. "Thaddeus missionaries. Extras from James… Andrew…."
"None of them have the proper training to handle that type of work," Siobhan protested quietly.
"Aye," he finally chimed in. "The closest to any real help would be the Phillips, and even they're not strong enough to hold their own in a fight against a werewolf."
"And Thaddaeus are only interested in their books."
"According to them, we're nothing but psychopathic bottom-feeders," Oliver sighed. "To fight would be beneath them."
"They're putting on airs."
"Never said they weren't." He sniffed. "But anyone willing to walk into a desert or across a tundra is a bit dodgy, in my opinion."
"Watch your tongue," Anderson warned him with a growl. "They do God's work." Darcy blinked at him over his dark lenses, offering one slow nod of agreement.
"So do we," he said, putting an effective, if not temporary, end to the argument. They lapsed into silence, punctuated by the sound of Oliver's pencil tapping rhythmically against the table. Anderson watched it flicker, a secret bubbling up into his throat. Briefly he wondered if it was wrong to tell them; he'd been told himself by Maxwell in confidence. And rumors were so easily spread, if told to the wrong person. In the end he decided that their secrecy could be relied on.
"Don't say nothing to the others," he said suddenly, before he had time to overthink and regret his decision, "but Maxwell's talking of splitting teams in order to meet the coverage." This was met with expected sounds of shock and disapproval.
"Splitting teams!" Oliver's shouted whisper nearly made it to audible level. "Why!?"
"To cut overall loss." Anderson's brogue grew thicker with his own annoyance, fingers drumming the table. "Maxwell thinks that pairing veterans with younger, less experienced members will slow their mortality rate."
"It'll kill off the veterans, too." Siobhan shook her head in dismay. "Everyone knows we're only as good as our closest partners." Oliver, her partner for a decade, smiled sheepishly at the roundabout praise. "And why split now? We work on dedicated teams; this is the way it's been since Iscariot's conception."
"I know that. I was there." Anderson rolled his neck. "I advised him against it, but it's hard to say if he'll take the advice. The lad's headstrong."
"You have forty minutes left, class." The instructor looked at her watch. "If you're finished, please keep your voices down," she added, eyeing their table pointedly. For one pensive moment they obeyed, before Oliver resumed the conversation.
"Maxwell isn't thinking about team dynamics," he pointed out carelessly. "I don't suppose he has to, not when he usually deals with y—" He cut himself off, prompting a stretch of uncomfortable silence. Siobhan glared at him. "What I meant was," he corrected himself quickly, "that things won't change… as much for… solo workers."
It was considered rude enough to make ostracizing comments in general, but to point out that someone was without a partner ran dangerously close to crossing a line. Either that person's partner had recently died, which was already shaky ground, or they somehow lacked the social skills necessary to work in a group.
The rule wasn't limited to Iscariots, either; every special organization had its own pairings of workers, as neat and reliable as clockwork. It was like a child's counting book: two Andrews, three Peters, four Marks. The only ones not counted in the flock were high-ranking officials… or those like himself, stranded without a proper niche to inhabit. Anderson knew that he was an exception—this was nothing new. He was not a foot soldier, but a paladin.
Still, that didn't stop the slight, mostly irritating pang of loneliness caused by the offhand remark. Even if he didn't work directly alongside others, he could understand and sympathize with his comrades' concern. Splitting a comfortable team was akin to breaking apart a marriage simply because the partners might be better suited elsewhere. A fragmented team was no better than a set of wheels missing an axle.
Oliver's expression was still a picture of guilt; clearly he felt terrible about breaching etiquette and bringing up the sensitive subject. Wishing to ease his mind, Anderson opened his mouth to insist that there was no offense taken, and no apology necessary. Before he could speak, the class was interrupted with a polite rap at the door. It was quickly followed by the sound of no less than fifty-six bodies turning in their chairs, curiously looking to see who was brave enough to disrupt their begrudged learning.
"Come in," the mentor called, clearly annoyed at the interruption. She shook back her gray sleeve and frowned at her watch. However, any scolding words died on her tongue the minute the door opened, revealing white blonde curls and pastels. "M-Mi-Miss Angela!" she squeaked, snapping to attention with a click of her heels. Spots of pink graced her cheekbones.
Startled at their instructor's abrupt change in attitude, the Iscariots whispered furtively amongst the tables. Anderson knew that his peers had no clue who this newcomer was, but even the lowest on the totem pole could recognize authority. The light suit and stylized headgear signified a high-ranking member of Section VI.
"Good afternoon, Miss Bianchi," Miss Angela greeted, the picture of professionalism. She eyed the class, scrutinizing each table before a broad smile pulled at her lips. "Good afternoon, everyone!" she chirped, beaming as though a proper classroom of bright-eyed, eager students gazed back at her. "I apologize for interrupting your class," she continued, stepping into the room.
"N-not at all, ma'am!" the mentor cried, gesturing for her to join them. "We were just about to go over the answers to our Anger Management exercise."
"Oh, lovely! Well, I don't intend to intrude for long," she promised, clapping her hands together. She looked around the room again, drawing out the moment for some unknown reason. Dramatic effect, probably, thought Anderson. Knowing her. He'd been unfortunate enough to sit for several "sessions" with the woman, and in his opinion even a single session was one too many.
Miss Angela was the sort of person that flourished in the upper echelons of the Vatican. A ruthless and calculating woman hid behind the friendly mask; she kept a smile on her face and a knife in her hand, using both to ensure that her will was law. It was her pride and pleasure to keep everyone on the straight and narrow, enforcing her own suggestion of propriety and using every sadistic tool in her arsenal to keep it that way. Not many dared to stand against her, and that was the way she liked it.
The god-damned bitch.
"Mr. Anderson." His head jerked up, shocked at being singled out. He'd had his head down, willing his bulky frame to be unnoticeable. But had he spoken that last thought aloud? Or, even worse, had she read it on his face? Even if she had, he grumbled to himself, what does it matter? She knows I don't like her. He'd told her so on more than one occasion, and sensed that she relished his opinion of her with delight.
"Aye?" he managed.
"I need to have a private word with you. In my office, if you please." Ah, Jesus. What on earth had he done now, for it to be bad enough that they called her in to speak with him? Had he forgotten to turn in his paperwork again? It wouldn't have been the first time; he was notoriously forgetful, his mind being preoccupied with other, more important matters. His mind raced, trying to recall anything that might prompt this sort of interruption: notes from his secretary, a misread email, a forgotten memo crumpled on his desk. He came up blank.
All eyes were on him as he stood, his chair squealing across the tile. Every table was silent as their paladin weaved between them on his way to the front of the room; Miss Angela smiled, somehow not noticing that she was the only one still breathing. His abandoned groupmates stared at the table, feigning interest in their finished booklets.
There would be rumors, he didn't have to guess at that. Whatever this harpy had in store for him would be nothing compared to squashing the whispers from his own associates. By this time tomorrow, everyone from Section I to XIII would know that he, Paladin Anderson, had been called out of a mandatory class session for a private chat with a top Peter.
"If you would, Miss Bianchi, give Mr. Anderson full credit for today's session. He won't be returning." The instructor was stone, barely managing the smallest of nods in answer. "Grazie!" She turned her eyes on her newest victim. "Well… no time to dilly-dally. This way, come on."
He brushed past her coldly, already annoyed by her sickly-sweet manner. It was easier to give way to anger than to acknowledge the flicker of trepidation in his gut. Section VI was full of ridiculous notions, but they were nothing if not meticulous. A class wouldn't be interrupted unless it was absolutely necessary, and yet? Why was he the one singled out? There was either a grievous error on his part, or….
He refused to even consider the implications of or.
As he followed her toward the life, he felt that somewhere, a death knell must be ringing for him. He could feel its resonation in his very marrow. There was a familiar, deep-set churning in his stomach, the same nausea that preceded a scolding from his superiors. It was part nerves, part adrenaline—as though his body was preparing for a fight. There would be a fight; of that he was certain. Talking with her was never smooth sailing, and he was already seasick.
Neither of them said a word until they were inside her office, the door firmly shut. Her office was yet another one of the many reasons he despised the woman. It was larger than his own office, filled with more paperwork thanks to her higher status, and yet it remained as immaculate as the woman herself. Everything from the color-coded books on the shelves to the neatly stacked outgoing mail tray grated on his nerves.
Miss Angela removed her gloves, pink polish glinting in the dim light of scalloped wall sconces. She pointed him in the direction of her desk, singling out a mahogany leather chair he was all too familiar with. He sat, attempting to gather his wits as the heady fragrance of lavender incense filled his head. She joined him, placing her gloves on the desk before removing her hat with a sigh. The sight of her without her headgear alarmed him more than it should have; thankfully, his poker face was already firmly in place.
Their eyes met and the tension stretched for what seemed like an eternity, though could only have been a minute at the most. Her fingers laced, head tilting as she stared him down; a smaller, more secretive smile played at the corners of her lips. Unable to stand it any longer, he bowed down and took the bait.
"Are you planning to tell me why I'm here?" Miss Angela didn't answer immediately, her eyes sweeping over him with a detached air. Knowing that she was cataloguing every movement, watching for a single moment of weakness, made his skin crawl.
"Why do you think? Any guesses?" Another grating habit of hers, answering his question with one of her own and expecting a quick rejoinder. He was already growing agitated, but it wouldn't do to let it show. He set his jaw, breaking eye contact and choosing to bore himself with the ceiling tiles.
"I assume that I've forgotten something important, and you're going to hand me another one of those blank planners." He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, wishing that he had room to stretch out his legs. Most chairs were too small for his frame, and his knees ached when he was forced to sit properly. "But you know what they say about assuming."
"I do," she chuckled. Her smile never wavered. "But is that really the most obvious answer?"
"Aye, in my opinion." Her fingers twitched, and she squeezed them together tightly enough that her knuckles grew white. He noticed the tic, wondering if she itched to hold her golden fountain pen. He was surprised she wasn't already taking notes on his behavior. "I will admit the possibility," he added with a hint of cynicism, "that the scientists may have found a suitable successor for me. While that would be a welcome miracle, I highly doubt it."
"Maladaptive behavior, Mr. Anderson." She shook her head, curls bouncing. He had the urge to yank one out by the roots. "Sarcasm is not a healthy coping mechanism. Neither is avoidance. We've discussed this before."
"The last thing I expected was a therapy session, especially from an Angel." He enunciated her proper title, driving his point home. "Last I checked you were a case worker, not a psychologist. If I wanted counseling, I'd get it from—"
"Father Renaldo is, you remember, under my jurisdiction." One ringlet twisted around and around her index finger. "I've read his reports. Your past is rife with escapism, isn't it, Mr. Anderson? I must warn you: exchanging physical tactics for emotional ones simply won't do." She learned forward, resting her weight on one elbow. "You seem anxious. Is something wrong?"
"No." He avoided her gaze, but it was nearly impossible to look away from the desk. "Just what did you call me in here for?" he demanded gruffly, wanting nothing more than to storm out of the room. The drudgery of Anger Management was paradise on earth compared to the hellish feeling of being cornered by a woman half his size.
"We found a match." His heart skipped a beat before freezing.
"What?" he hissed, breath catching in his throat.
"We found one. Strand R-dominant." It was the news his superiors were waiting for—what he had been waiting for, in his own way. To hear it was a relief, yet at the same time he dreaded the implications. His entire life, everything he'd known for decades, upended by three small words….
Miss Angela opened a drawer, taking out a small spiral notebook and her pen. She opened it to a blank page before turning to a container of manila folders beside her computer. She took one from the middle, pushing her chair away from the desk and opening it in her lap. Barely glancing at the contents, she grabbed the pen and began to write.
"This morning," she said, speaking as her neat shorthand filled the page, "we received a new patient for a routine psychoanalytic assessment. We ran the usual diagnostics, of course, and to our surprise her blood was a perfect match. In fact, the technician was so taken aback that they ran three tests, just to be absolutely sure of the results. All three read positive."
"It really…." She trailed off, tapping the pen to her lips. "Changed our outlook on things." The pen nib scratched on the paper. He swallowed hard, feeling a thick lump at the base of his throat. "If it matters, she passed the assessment with flying colors. She has her own… issues, of course. But not a hint of insanity to be found."
"And we're… compatible." A desperate part of him hoped that she would say no. If they weren't well-suited as partners, perhaps his life could go on as it had before. After all, must everything be done by the book? No matter what the blood said— No, that was false hope. Science would not be allowed to overtake nature until time for the Regeneration process. It was foolish to assume that God—and his Church—would settle for less.
"Would I bother telling you if you weren't? Honestly, Mr. Anderson!" Miss Angela laughed. "No, I think there's a very good chance you two will get on well together… if certain matters are approved, that is."
"Matters? What matters?" He didn't understand. As head of the department, she held the power to approve all matches. He knew this not from his own experiences, but those of his colleagues. While it was more common for marriages in the Special Forces to be arranged, that wasn't the only course of action. It was not unheard of for two people to form a bond on their own and appeal for an unscheduled compatibility assessment, which then had to be approved by a head of Section VI.
"Oh, just some odds and ends. But I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you. I've already submitted the findings, and the lab work, to my direct superior." He summoned a mental visual of the Vatican chain of command, trying to work out who her superior even was. No one came immediately to mind.
He knew, vaguely, that above the color-coded department heads sat bishops, cardinals, and other ranking figures. They were the ones who had the ultimate say in how their organizations were run. Maxwell was one of the rare few who preferred to handle things himself, rather than delegate to what would have otherwise been faceless authorities in black suits.
"In any case— as I'm sure you can imagine, your life has become quite the discussion topic. His Holiness has even called a papal consistory; they'll be meeting…" she checked her watch, "right now, actually. As your direct superior, Bishop Maxwell was invited to argue your case." She smirked around her pen. "I wouldn't be surprised to find him blue in the face afterwards from sheer lack of breath."
"Argue?" he parroted, baffled. "Why would M—Bishop Maxwell have reason to argue against the council?" Anderson was aware of the proper procedures, and knew that Maxwell was as well. After failing to produce another Regenerator years ago, the Council of Cardinal Advisers had elected to implement a set of rules to ensure the continuation of their project. Why bother to debate it now?
"It has to do with the patient's identity," Miss Angela explained. "Quite a to-do."
"She's not an Iscariot." He knew that almost instinctively, unable to imagine himself matched with any of his associates. Then again, he also couldn't imagine himself matched with anyone outside the organization either.
"You're right; she's not."
"A… Phillip?" he guessed, trying to choose an organization he might at least have something in common with. She shook her head, curls bouncing. "Mark?" he winced. No. "Thomas."
"It's not someone from an organization." He was taken aback by this news, but her smile revealed nothing. If not from an organization, then….
"An official?" Even if they were matched, he didn't want to deal with anyone in a seat of authority. "Or a missionary lead? A scientist?" He lapsed into silence, unable to imagine any other possibility.
"No, no… and no." She leaned forward. "Besides, Mr. Anderson: why would Bishop Maxwell find fault in them?" She didn't seem to realize that Maxwell would find fault in anyone taking a portion of his paladin's time—time that, in his opinion, would be better spent at work. But saying that would cast doubt on his superior, and so he kept his mouth shut.
"Who, then?" he asked instead. She took the folder from her lap, closing it neatly and sliding it over the desk to him. He opened it, skimming the neatly typed pages over the rims of his glasses. Curious at first, he skipped over the lab work and found the assessment analysis. And then—he froze.
There was no other word for it. He could feel the blood slow in his veins, stomach and chest both reduced to a chunk of ice. His mind was blank—the calm before the storm—and then several emotions crowded to the forefront at once: confusion, disbelief, revulsion, loathing, skepticism. Horror slid down his spine, through his body, raising the hair on his neck and renewing the churning in his gut.
"A joke," he croaked, once he found his voice. This was her idea of a prank, a way of throwing him for a loop. Would the real sheet be behind this obviously fake one? Quickly he flipped through the papers, looking for another name. To his growing despair, it was one continuous file. "You're joking."
"I'm entirely serious." The words set his blood boiling; he couldn't help it. While before the emotions had flown quickly through his head, now rage had taken first chair. He leapt to his feet, tossing the file back at her as though it were hot to the touch before slamming one fist on her desk. It rattled, wood creaking ominously as it bore the brunt of his strength, but he was beyond caring. Let it break.
"Compatible!?" he roared. She held a finger to her lips disapprovingly, brows furrowed. What did it matter, now? He'd set the entire compound on high alert if it would get her attention. "How the hell am I compatible with that—that—whore?!"
"Language, language! What a fuss!" Miss Angela pressed her fingers to her temples, tsking. "What an absolutely pointless fuss. You're expected to act your age while in my office, Mr. Anderson. Please take your seat so that we might discuss this as adults."
He obeyed, barely able to put his weight on the edge of the seat. His foot began to drum the floor, face burning with the heat of his anger. Maxwell, you better pull through for me! He thought, knowing all the while that the decision rested with authority higher than that of a bishop. Surely the council would see reason. Surely…!
"There is no way in hell or on earth," he said slowly, trying to control his tone so that she'd understand his accent, "that anyone would agree to this."
"Perhaps not," she agreed, nodding. Her fingers were laced again. "Then again, perhaps. I will advise you that my superiors are in high support of this match."
"What?! Why?!" He couldn't believe his ears. That bitch was the last thing he needed in his life. Did the council really expect someone like her to drop everything and willingly bow to Catholic control? He didn't have to be matched with her to know that she'd die first… and he was willing to see it happen.
"Think about it practically. You can't afford to wait another thirty years." His heart stuttered and he looked up to see her watching him closely. "The scientists have guaranteed you what… fifty, at the most?"
"Sixty," he corrected. "If I'm lucky." The thought of his end, looming just over the horizon, sobered him. Sixty years was nothing, a single raindrop in a monsoon. It would be here and gone before he had time to notice.
"And should the search take another three decades…. What will you do then, Mr. Anderson? Regeneration cannot begin until age eighteen, and that's at the earliest—I don't need to tell you this." She shuffled her papers. "Father Renaldo has told me of the pains the previous Regenerator had to take with you, pains that were years in solving. You need a buffer period, time for unseen circumstances."
"I know that."
"So does the council. It's one of the many things they're taking into consideration right now." She smiled hopefully. "Aren't you the least bit willing to try?"
"No." That was too blunt. "And she won't be, either."
"Believe it or not, your situations are surprisingly similar." Miss Angela tutted, the sound both pitying and cheerful. "She's also a slave to both time and tradition. Women only have so long, you know, and she's not getting any younger."
"I don't—" He didn't want to think of her as a mother. Or as anything, for that matter. It was better to ignore her, and her damned organization, until they started stepping where they shouldn't. Even if he hated the whole lot, there were international treaties in place. "They can't force either of us." One eyebrow rose, pink lips curling.
"If His Holiness says that you must, then you must."
"I'd like to hear him say that." The minute the words left his mouth, he knew they were wrong. He'd just blasphemed, not only before God but before an official. There was a long pause, and then to his amazement her expression softened to something that could have been mistaken for friendly.
"You're in a state of emotional turmoil, so I'll ignore that." He blinked in surprise. Now that was unlike her. He'd fully expected his loyalty to be called into doubt. That sort of careless slip, spoken in anger, could have easily cost him his career. There was always the chance that she'd use it against him at a later date, but he could see no recording equipment and, for some unknown reason, had faith that she meant what she said… this time at least.
"Based on your own experience," he began, "What do you think the outcome will be?" She tapped some papers together and stapled them, thinking hard; he could see the gears turning behind her eyes.
"His Holiness will do what is best for the Church." She nodded firmly, pleased with her own answer. "What is best for the Church is best for everyone. We will trust in His judgement. After all, he does the will of Our Lord."
"Amen." For the first time since his distant youth, he felt no conviction behind the holy word.