The Regenerator Serum (Meabh)

Description: An event topic for Meabh to receive her regeneration upgrade.

Deep within the walls of Iscariot's stronghold, there exists a room that is not present on any blueprint or floor plan. A secret fortified space at the end of a long hall of pristine white tile and overhead lighting filled with all manner of medical equipment and other strange implements. The hallway leading to this secret place is foreboding in its own right, completely cut off from the outside world and having only a few benches along the sides to break up the monotonous stone leading to the final destination where Iscariot's greatest weapons were forged out of flesh and blood.

She felt too clean. She’d been scrubbed, sewn up, bandaged and wiped down until she felt as though she was too tight for her own skin. The wounds on her scarred body were taunt, pulling against fresh stitches as she walked barefoot down a corridor too sterile for its own good. The air was cool, pimpling up her skin and sending a chill up her spine that gave a shiver to her limbs.

The paper thin gown she wore didn’t help matters.

They’d taken her clothes, her weapons, which she’d been loath to part with; they were her center, and without them she felt naked, more so than simply being without clothes. There was no echo in this hallway, no sound of her footsteps falling steadily on the cold, white tiled floor, and it unnerved her for some reason; true, she made little sound when she moved, but it seemed as though there should be something more to her walk down this secluded, haunting hall.

And why was she even here to begin with? They’d “selected” her for this honour, to receive something so few ever do. She didn’t feel she’d ever done anything worth being commendable, or even outstanding in the field; she’d only ever done her job. Isn’t that what you were supposed to do? Just go to a mission and do your job and hopefully, by the Grace of God return to do the same thing on another day. The sniper had been lucky with her lot in this life, having found a partner that understood her – for the most part – and worked so well with her that they seemed almost inseparable.

What else was there to their lives? They were Iscariot, assassins, murderers, and all they had in their usually short lives was the possibility of death. Of their death, or of other’s. And their goal is to eradicate abominations from the earth; what could one possibly hope for in a life like that? A life full of adventure and hope? A world of flowers and sweet children? Well…

The children. The orphanage.

They were innocent, so innocent, and Iscariot pulled them from their innocence to land them in a life she’d chosen after knowing what was behind the curtain. They were raised to be assassins, and that notion, no matter how many times she thought it, cut through her like a demon’s claws. She would never have children, that much she knew, but to see them plucked up and enfolded into the fray felt cold to her, felt somehow not right. But it has been their way for who knows how long, and she didn’t see it changing any time soon.

She’d never been in their hold before the Paladin found her. She’d only ever been on her own; for years, she did what she thought needed to be done, unaware that there was an organization bound to the exact same fate. Priests, they devoted their lives to a part of the Church that no outsider should ever know about, and they did so with complete belief in what their mortal task was.

The Irishwoman still felt a part of her clinging to that outside world.

She’d never truly integrated into the organization, not completely. She hadn’t grown up in it, hadn’t been under its guidance from her earliest of years. The sniper was someone brought into this life from a world not entirely like this one, not steeped in devotion, and fanaticism and God’s presence. True, she’d lived in the world of dark and cold, clinging at times to all that remained: His love. She’d felt it in those moments where lead was flying through the air, set on her head, or her heart, in the moments she’d had to pull the trigger on a creature defiling that which was His to love.

In those moments when she was alone, so alone, bleeding in the dark and waiting for the black to take her.

There were many who still didn’t speak to her, didn’t look her in the eye when she walked by; there were whispers of her name at times, associated with her missions, with her kills, but they were never said with a kind tone; sometimes awe, but never with kindness. She wasn’t one of them. She never would be. Yet, she answered to only two, and for that she’d found resentment in many, some simply refusing to work with her, while others openly scorned her for not being a “true” member.

Then there were others, others like her beloved Paladin, who saw her for who she was, and they did not hate, or pity her for it.

And suddenly she was there, standing before a door, its paint white, its hinges stainless steel, all of it so sterile in appearance she frowned. This was her destination, and now she was almost afraid to enter. Was she even deserving of this? She’d done nothing, nothing that deserved recognition. The redhead had done her job and nothing more. Yet here she stood, in front of a door that would lead her to a place of change, a place that so few had ever heard of, and fewer still had seen.

She was scared, cold, her hands were trembling.

This was His Will.

She would follow this path wherever it takes her.

Before the red headed woman, the muffled sounds of shouting could be vaguely heard, a telltale Scottish brogue warping the pronunciation of what few words could be made out to begin with. Suddenly, the white washed doors swung open to the inside and the Paladin himself stood in the doorway, blocking anything from going in and out. Behind him, a small group of doctors stood around the room in various states of frustration and fear. Father Anderson took a deep breath to steady himself and moved through the doorway, letting the doors swing closed behind him. "Tha's far enuff, Meabh. We need tae haff a talk," Alexander said, gently setting a large hand on the sharpshooter's shoulder and urging her towards one of the benches lining the hallway out of the earshot of the doddering idiots in the operation room. Moving towards the bench, the priest slipped off his cassock and passed it to her. "Put tha' on. Bloody idiots keep this place far too cold. Always haff..."

She was surprised, and it showed.

Her strange eyes widened and her body went into an instinctual fight mode, arms tensing, frame shifting slightly to meet the oncoming whatever that barreled through the doors. Upon seeing her Paladin, she exhales sharply, her entire body relaxing with visible motions. She stares at him for a moment, unable to form words as he places a hand on her shoulder and encourages her to sit.

The sniper takes the proffered coat, wrapping it around her before sitting on the far edge of a bench, wincing as stitches pulled and a bruise made itself readily known across her ribs.

"Father, I...what are you doing here?"

Obvious confusion was set on her features, a small frown touching her lips as he mind raced to discern why this man would be here of all places.

Sitting down next to her, the Sword Dancer rested the points of his elbows against his knees and interlaced his long fingers. Touching the tip of his tongue against his left canine tooth, the priest thought over her question a moment, allowing it to hang in the air between them. What was the best way to put it, he wondered. He'd always favored the direct approach in almost any aspect of life. No reason to not apply the same mindset here.

"Ah came tae try an talk some sense inta those 'specialists'," he said, spitting out the title with obvious disdain. His stubbled chin was placed against his hands as the man went over several different trains of thought to figure out just where to start. "When Ah heard aboot yer selection...Ah opposed et outright. Ye dinnae deserve tha' serum, Meabh. An those bastards are willin tae inject ye without even explainin whit yer gettin inta," Pulling his head back to rest against the wall, Alexander lightly tapped his right fist against his knee to relieve excess energy.

The sniper looks slightly taken aback by his words, though they made sense. She didn't deserve it, and no, no one had bothered to explain to her what, exactly would happen to her. She supposed it would be painful - most things are in this world - and would change her in ways she couldn't imagine. But if it made her more capable of doing her job, then she would gladly go through it.

Shifting in her seat, she stares at him for a moment before replying, her voice steadier than she imagined it would be.

"So you explain it."

She feels a sudden chill, one not caused by the cool air, and she snuggles back into the cassock, sliding it up around her neck to ward off the phantom cold.

Frowning deeply, the clergyman shook his head slightly. She'd misunderstood his intent. Then again, he couldn't really blame her considering her lack of knowledge on the serum. To keep it a closely guarded secret was one thing but to go this far? The whole business left a bad taste in his mouth. "Ye dinnae understand, lass. No one deserves tae go through tha' procedure. They cannae give ye any sedatives, or so they say. Tis like liquid fire rushing through yer veins, pressing outwards until ye think yer body will burst. An then it all pulls back in, denser than it should be," Stretching out his right hand at shoulder level, he read the words written on the back of his glove and flexed his fingers several times. "Tha' process robs ye o yer senses. It burns away tha pain an takes half yer sense o touch with it. Tha cold yer feelin nao...Ah've been sealed in tha' state fer decades. Et never goes away."

She thinks for a moment, a long moment. If what he said was true, then this would be the most painful experience of her life. But this pain...this pain was physical. It would leave. He says she will then feel so little, but certainly feel cold. Her hand stretches out to mirror his, much smaller, fingers splayed. This hand is calloused, beaten. Its knuckles are scarred and show signs of harsh wear, and as she flexes her lithe fingers, a small, sad smile ghosts over her lips.

"When you saved me, I thought I had finally found a place to never be alone. Someone would always have my back, and all that. I wouldn't have to worry about dying for nothing."

She drops her hand, her eyes finding his.

"But I'm cold, Father. Always. For years I've known it, felt it. Something has died inside me; it died a long time ago. I'm broken without a way to be put back together, and I've come to realize it makes me better at what I do. I am not afraid to die. And I am not living, not with the dead part of me still being carried around. So where does that leave me?"

She lowers her gaze to her hands.

"So tell me, Father. Friend. What would you have me do?"

Pulling his arm back and crossing both his toned limbs over his chest, Father Anderson listened carefully to the red head's response. He'd known as much up until now. The damage that had been done to this poor girl even before she encountered Alucard in Rome was what had first urged him to induct her into Iscariot. Despite never even knowing of their existence, this girl had been broken in the same manner that so many of their number had been. It was a painful sacrifice, the willing self-mutilation of the soul and body in service of a greater good. Many argued that their pain and suffering was atonement on Earth for the sins they had to commit to continue their quest. It was a persuasive argument but not one that Anderson fully believed in. The sins they committed were excused by the Almighty. Murder was fine so long as it was restricted to heathens and monsters.

However, even with that conviction the path of Iscariot was difficult. Though he warned the girl before him against prospect of losing some of her human senses, deep down he longed for a way to separate himself from the rest of his. The regenerator serum had given him power to carry out his crusade but failed to relieve him of the emotions that held him back from ever truly completing it to perfection. The cold ache in the center of his chest was cruel carrot dangled in front of a charging dog, the end goal always just out of reach.

"So long as yer soul remains, lass, tha path tae redemption an healin remains. Dinnae simply write yer state off an rush inta this becuz ye haff nothin left," He reached up and adjusted his round spectacles just so. "Ah came ere tae tell ye naht tae walk tha same path tha' Ah did. Boot et's been clear froom tha start tha' ye already are." Rising from his seated position, he shifted to take a knee in front of her, his massive height putting him at her eye level as he laid his hand upon her shoulder again. "Yew need a proper reason fer this, Meabh. A cause tae hold onto as tha serum devours ye froom tha inside. If ye dinnae haff tha', then tha pain an tha' never-ending numbness are naht werth et. Tis a senseless sacrifice an tha' is sumthin tha' Ah will naht stand for."

There was a piece of her that wanted to flee, to run away from this "gift" and not look back. But another part, a larger, darker part whispered words of encouragement to her, told her to take the pain and the cold and come out with new tools to carry on fighting with. Because what else was she, in the end? She was nothing more than a weapon, one that fought for God and the man next to her, a weapon that was used and discarded when it was no longer of use.

The sniper watches with a stare that said so much about her inner war, a gaze that this man had seen before, and one she rarely let anyone else see. He is begging her now, begging her not to take part in this, to walk away and stay who she was: human. Is that something she would lose? Being human? Did it really matter at this point? She was already a cold thing, a practically dead thing that survived this long by sheer dumb luck and a bit of talent. Then again, she couldn't say much about that; she knew for a fact her partner was human, even though he was more machine than any could consider proper for a man.

She stares at the priest, the Father, the weapon of righteousness before her, and one hand reaches out to do something she'd never done before: she touches him. One finger lightly traces down the scar as it leaves a crack in his skin, following it to his chin, where she cups her fingers.

"I know who I am. I know what I am." An almost gentle smile touches her lips. "I am walking death. I bring nothingness to those who deserve it. But I also have hope" She drops her hand. "I have hope that one day, this will be over. And I pray I will have been a part of that glorious day."

Holding the woman's gaze as she proclaimed her perceived role in life, the Bayonet Priest slowly reached up and took hold of her hand trailing his scar. Sliding it downward, he removed it from his face but held onto it for a moment. It caught him flat footed just how similar her wish was to his own. For years he'd longed to be nothing but a bayonet. A guillotine blade from on high or some great and terrible storm devoid of human attachment and pain. That longing had turned him into the fearsome slayer of monsters that he was today. It was at that moment that Father Anderson became dead sure of the fact that Meabh was on the path to self-destruction. Her devotion would be her undoing, a one way ticket into an even deeper blood ocean of her own creation. Despite that knowledge, there was almost nothing he could do to stop her. Even if there was, would he even want to?

Lowering his face, Alexander shook his had slightly, the ghost of a sad smile on his lips. "Yer a damn fool, lass. A foolish little zealot after mah own heart," the Iscariot said. In it's own way, calling her a fool was a compliment that only a few could truly appreciate. Iscariot was a breeding ground for fools. Hopeless idiots that jumped headlong into Hell for the glory and well-being of others. Every last one of them knew it was ridiculous and each one took the leap anyway with hearts full of joy. Rising to his feet, he pulled up on Meabh's hand to help her to her feet and moved towards those cursed white doors alongside her. Pushing open on of them to let her pass, Father Anderson nodded once to his red haired protege. "Yew'll need tae face et alone froom ere. Boot Ah'll be ere until tha deed is done watchin over ye."

She rose with him, gathering the cassock around her as she proceeded to the dreaded, sterile doors. When he opens them, all she can see is white and stainless steel, nothing more. Even the men milling about the room were covered in white coats, the scrubs underneath white. Everything was so painfully clean.

Her hands clutch at the warm fabric around her for only a moment, but it was a moment that proved her fear. It was a moment that passed as quickly as it came, however, as her face suddenly set in an almost peaceful look, one that told her Father she was ready for whatever was going to come. And if she wasn’t...well, she would face that, too.

Sliding out of the cassock, she hands it over to him with only a smile, a smile that said so many things at once, but was meant for only the man who’d saved her more than once. And in more ways than just her body. Her soul, tired and broken as it was, would always struggle to life when her was near, her devotion to the cause bolstered by his presence, and her mind calmed by the knowledge that he would always be standing between the darkness and the light, even if it meant his own life was forfeit.

Always.

It seemed like such a silly word now.

Childish.

The chill in the air no longer matters, and she steps into the room, hearing the doors lock behind her as a swarm of men dressed as “specialists” descended upon her with the efficiency of those not accustomed to being kept waiting. For anything. They guided her to a table, cross-like in shape - how terribly ironic - before stripping her out of the thin gown that had been the last thing left of her humility.

One doctor urges her onto the table, while others began strapping her down once she did as ordered. Hands and feet bound, and then chest and hips, finally head; she’d seen situations like this one, and nothing ever good came from them. Nothing good came from being restricted in every possible way, giving evidence that this procedure wasn’t going to be pretty.

Then the equipment was brought out: trays of tools and needles filled with a strange pearlescent liquid that almost glowed, even in the harsh light. The doctors bantered back in forth in a medical language that she was somewhat familiar with, and none of the words she caught made her feel any more comfortable. But that wasn’t why she was here, was it? To be comfortable. She was taking a step few ever had the chance to take, though it would take some last part of her away, a part that she doesn’t think even exists anymore.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in her forearm, with caused her to take in a quick breath. Then another came in her other arm, then another in her chest. Soon, there were pricks of pain all over her body, a strange sort of tickling that faded as time went on.

Then there was pain.

There was no describing it. It wanted to eat her from the inside out, devour her until there was nothing left of her. Her body felt hot and cold, too tight for her skin and condensing into a hard core, pain, oh God so much pain.

So she screams.

She screams and screams and screams until her throat is raw, and yet she still manages to force out the sound of pure agony. There was fire burning her from the inside, lapping at her soul, eating away bit of her she’d never known to exist, that part of her she didn’t know even existed still. It was a part of her that remembered her father, how he felt when she could embrace him after a long time away. It was a part of her that remembered her mother reading to her in bed.

It was the part of her that remembered life.

And then the nightmares came.

They weren’t being taken.

Blood, and death. Men shot from a mile away, never knowing their lives had been sold for so little, men stabbed for the price of a meal. Being left behind so many times, being cold and broken and without anyone to care. Being left to die. Left with shrapnel in her heart and blood in her lungs and watching as her men walked away, as her mentor simply turned from her, never once looking back.

She’d killed.

She’d felt no remorse.

These things, they were not being taken by the pain. The suffering they brought was a reminder of who she was, who she had been. She was not the happy child whose parents loved her. She was a walking plague to the undead, a tool to be used for the righteousness of the Lord until she could no longer function, no longer carry her cross to bear.

The agony was cleansing her.

She screamed.

Time didn’t matter anymore. There was just the white hot, freezing pain that lanced through her, causing her body to writhe against the restraints, pulling and thrashing until her wrists bled and her ankles ran red. She didn’t see any of this, couldn’t see any of this, but there was a feeling now that began to take over, began to whitewash the suffering with a cold hand, one that was sweeping the pain to a corner of her mind and barring it away with a lock of pure will.

Her eyes open.

The room is too bright, the men around her too pale, and for a moment she loses herself in the blinding brilliant light flooding the room. She can finally feel the familiar tug of normal pain, the kind that comes from bodily harm and not that of a soul being pulled to pieces.

And not being put back together.

Her gold-rimmed eyes find her arms, then her wrists, and with complete shock, near awe, she witnesses the true extent of her body’s change: they were healing. As she watched, the skin began to knit back together until there was no sign of injury, no remnant of scars. The men around her began to unstrap her from the table, and she quickly scrambled to get off the horrid thing. That is, until her legs went out from her. She falls, hands and knees, and the room begins to spin. One of the men attempts to help her up, but she can’t help fighting him away, not wanting him to touch any part of her.

And then she gave up what little she’d had to eat that day.

Her body shook with the effort to expel whatever was left in her stomach, leaving her shivering, naked on the white tile. Now, she allows the man to help her, to guide her back to her feet. She sags against him for a moment, finding her balance, before a rush of pure, unadulterated energy courses through her.

She shoves the man away, and he stumbles into a table, sending trays flying off in every direction. Their clatter brought the attention of everyone in the room; so did the man’s grunts of pain. Had she done that? Had she hurt him just with a push? This…this was wrong. She didn’t mean it. She hadn’t meant to harm him. She was just so confused, and the room was spinning again.

A couple more “doctors” edge up to her, attempting to placate her with words, but she didn’t seem to understand. She wanted out, wanted to be rid of this too-white room and its too-white company. The rdoor seemed so far away, but she veins filled with an vigor she’d never felt; it was though her body wanted to fly everywhere at once. It was so strong. So full of a dead sort of life, a life that spurred her on, but reminded her that she was now something less than she was. And something more.

She falls against the door, turning the handle even as the specialists clamored to reach her, to stop her from leaving. But she doesn’t care anymore. She wants to be away from all the suffering this room had caused. But then again, hadn’t she done this to herself?

The door swings open, and she nearly falls as it does, scrambling to keep her feet as she staggers to her Father, falling to his feet as she reaches for him.

Her voice is ragged, raw, hoarse and there was pain there still, one not of the body.

”This…there is too much. Too much! You were…right…you were right, Father, oh God, you were right. No one should have…should have this. It is wrong, so wrong.”

As Meabh entered the blinding white of the operating room, Alexander took a seat on the bench directly outside the nostalgic white doors. Rubbing his hands as he waited for the screaming to begin, his mind raced back to his own experiences in that room. The first time, he'd strutted down this hallway with his head held high, eager to prove his devotion and throw himself deeper into his crusade. The second time, was much like Meabh's own experience. The fear of all that pain filling him again and his own inhibitions as to what he would become slowed his advance but he entered none the less. His mind shut down during the procedure and he did not wake for two days. The third time he'd stopped caring. What more could they do to him he'd asked? What more could they take that he did not already wish to throw away? He'd bitten off his own tongue that time but there were no more screams, never again.

An hour had already passed since the sniper entered the room, Alexander had fought hard to keep from rushing in when the screams started, even harder when they finally stopped. Right on time, the red haired woman emerged from her ordeal, haggard and falling. The Paladin was on her before she hit the ground, wrapping his cassock around her once more. He had no response for her at first. He'd known this would happen alright. Everyone went through it, none ever wanted to speak of it after the fact. Hugging her close, the Sword Dancer simply stroked her back as he would a frantic child. "Ah know, Meabh. Ah know. Breath deep, nice an slow, an yew'll settle into et in a bit. Tha hard part's over," he said in a soothing tone, lying through his teeth. The transformation was horrible yes, quickly replaced by an apparent invincibility and sense of purpose. But for those that lived through that second stage, the glint and glamour eventually faded into nothingness as the chill deepened. For a woman like her, Meabh wouldn't get to the hardest part for years but that would be of no benefit to the damaged woman in his arms now.

The heavy cloth was laid over her once more, and it smelled like him. That smell, it brought back a memory, or at least, she thinks it’s a memory; things are confused, muddled, she doesn’t understand why she can’t remember. It should be easy to recall the good things, but they are hazy right now, hard to reach. She needed them to ground her, but they are just out of reach.

As The Paldin holds her, he attempts to soothe her, and for that, she is comforted. Even if he was lying to her without even a moment of hesitation. Soshe clings to him as her world becomes right again, and the haze clears, and a horrible sort of reasoning returns to her. She had done this thing, this horrible, wrong thing, and now there was no turning away from it. It was inside her, and it was cold, furious, and all consuming. But there was a part of her that calmed her, that told her to block away the cold and let it reside in that dark part of her she’d so long carried.

She shudders out a long breath, fingers clutching him tightly.

”You are terrible at lying.”

The sniper finally looks to him, her odd gray eyes clearing, and though they were just to the brink of falling, no tears had been shed in this entire ordeal. She was too proud for that.

He allowed her to sit there in her silence and hurt for a short while, aware that any words he said would only dimly reach her if at all. While the serum may have taken a piece of her senses, it heightened almost everything else. Beyond just the physical disorientation as a new regenerator struggled to adjust to their new body, there was the emotional augmentation to consider. In his own case, his rage had been his undoing. Of course he'd been a loyal zealot prior to the injections but following his transformation that drive had been forced into mania. The reaction was different in every person, sometimes hardly noticeable at all in those more mentally stable than himself or those who had lived long enough to suppress it accordingly.

Looking down to meet her pained gaze, the Paladin smiled warmly. "Tha's hardly tha worst o mah sins," he responded, lightly patting her back. It was best to get her out of this damn hallway. The chances were good that it would already be darkening her thoughts for some time, no reason to dwell in the physical space any longer than necessary. Slowly easing his way to his feet, Anderson helped the younger woman to her feet and began to lead her down the hallway away from that white room of pain.

She smiled at his words, truly smiled, though it was tinged with a bit of sorrow; this was he new life, and she could neer go back to her old. But here she was now, more capable of doing her job, andthat had been the entire point of the exercise. Not to be given some gift out of charity that would simply denote her as special among her men. No, this was a burden she'd willingly taken up, and though time would tell if she was truly worthy of it, for now she would make the most of what it had to offer.

Standing, she clutches the cassock around her new body, reveling slightly in the difference of texture she felt compared to before the transformation. Padding alongside the priest for a silent moment, she thinks about her next move, where she should go from here. Clearing her throat slightly, she doesn't look to her Father, paying attention regardless.

"What do you recommend for the first few days? Should I stress this new form of mine, or wait out the passing effects?"

She was hoping for the "stress" answer; no matter how she felt, a good, heavy workout - with a partner, a heavy bag, a dummy - cleared her head and pumped life back into her cool heart. The exertion made her work for the air she breathed, and it filled her with a strange sense of purpose, as though she wasn't just practicing to practice the moves.

Leading the newly minted regenerator down the hallway towards the small room where they had stored her effects, Father Anderson kept an arm around Meabh's shoulders to guard against any sudden falls. She seemed to have calmed down a bit, a good sign, but her eagerness to get back in the field needed to be handled with some proper care. Rounding a corner, Alexander opened the door to the small hole in the wall changing room where Meabh's clothing and equipment awaited her. "Yew'll need some tahm tae adjust tae yer new senses boot a bit o trainin needs tae happen," Finally releasing his hold so that the red haired woman could redress uninhibited, Alexander turned his back to the room and preserve what little sense of modesty may have survived this far. "However, if yer ginta spar it'll be against only enhanced members o Iscariot, understand?" In his own introductory period, Anderson's handler had made the mistake of setting him up against a human training partner immediately after the injections. It did not end well.

She was grateful that the Paladin hadn’t left her side this entire time, and from his presence, she was growing more surefooted on her own. When they enter the tiny space, one barely large enough for her, let alone them both, she smiles slightly as the much larger Father steps aside and turns his back to her. Modest, gentlemanly.

Decent.

She slides out of the warmth of his cassock, and hands it back to him by placing it into his fingers. When he has hold of it, she quickly gets dressed, fumbling a bit with her new found strength, and surprising deftness, nearly tearing the fresh shirt set aside for her. She manages to dress herself without much incident, but decides against her weaponry; something didn’t feel right about having them on her person at the moment.

But the Father’s reply struck a nerve with her; she hadn’t realized that she’d be limited to sparring partners now, or at least until she took control of this new body of hers. Not that she often sparred with many other operatives – though she did teach quite a few on the fundamentals of knife work and sniping – but the thought of only having one or two to work with cut her deep.

Until she thought of her partner.

She could keep up with him now.

That thought brought another smile to her lips, and she cleared her throat to announce she was fully decent and ready to move on. That strange sort of shifting that was happening beneath her skin was dissipating, leaving her energized yet chilled. Quietly, and feeling more like herself, she runs a hand through her wild red locks and gives her mentor and savior her trademarked half-smile.

”Thank you, Father. “

She wasn’t thanking him for just this moment alone; it was a thank you for every moment she hadn’t been allowed to express the sentiment, for every time he had been there, in body or spirit, to further her long trek down a dark road.

Reclaiming his cassock, the clergyman shrugged into the heavy coat and adjusted his sleeves before finally turning around at her signal that she was fully dressed once more.  Looking her over for signs of instability, the Paladin nodded his approval.  She seemed much more stable now, centered in her own skin once again.  He knew quite well that her awkward transition period was far from over but she was at least making progress.  Her smile and gratitude said quite a lot, it's full meaning not lost on the Scottish priest.  He didn't respond to it verbally, there was no need.  He simply set his hands on her shoulders, patting them lightly as a warm smile appeared on his tan features.  With a nod of his head he removed his gloved hands and took a step back out of the doorway to allow her free passage towards the exit.  

"Ah heard aboot tha' assignment in tha Alps so Ah suppose yew'll be wantin tae check in on Michel as soon as ye can," he said in his characteristic brogue while checking the watch on his wrist.  "Knowin him, e's on is feet already an eager tae check in on ye.  Let's naht keep tha boy waitin," Father Anderson exclaimed, proceeding up the staircase that led back up to the day to day facilities.  Father Michel Miles was an interesting case from the perspective of the Killing Judge.  Raised in the orphanage, Alexander had loved the boy like all the rest but his transformation had taken much from the young man, robbed him of his emotion and passion.  He was sure that Meabh had been steadily working on reawakening the man within the machine that Father Anderson had raised and for that he was eternally grateful.  However, seeing Meabh now, he'd begun to wonder just how true the reverse was in that relationship.

Passing by him, she frowns a bit at the mention of Father Miles. He had taken the brunt of the damage for herself and Father Diem, something she hoped could be avoided now that she could hold her own. It irked her at times to be the one needing protection; she couldn't count the number of times her partner had saved her skin.

Now, she could save him.

Taking hold of the one last door that separated this hellish place from the rest of the Vatican, she pauses for only a moment, a small smile on her lips.

"He is such a child at times. But far more human than most I've ever met."

With that, she opens the door, and strides out into a hallway that seemed both familiar and completely new. She takes a steadying breath, and exits the white corridor, her Paladin by her side.


---------------> Hallways

===>Hallways