Even if I found a lot of it distasteful (to use a polite descriptor), Church history had always fascinated me. There was something truly beautiful and uniquely human in the Church—in its structure and function as a human institution. The Church was the product of generations of human beings’ sincere attempts to find an order within the chaos of the world. It was a generational quest to answer the great questions of life. That was what made the faith so powerful. It’s what made any faith powerful. The power of faith was the power of belonging.

In that respect, I was simply misfortunate. Whatever the reason—be it by temperament, happenstance, or sheer bad luck—the aspect and character of the spiritual side of my life put me at the fringes of Mother Church’s nurturing wings. Even at the zenith of my belief, I always felt like I’d been left behind, or, rather, that I wasn’t capable of moving forward with the rest of the pack. I was torn. I was always torn; torn between my worries that I wasn’t worthy of the faith, and the anger that I felt whenever I gave consideration to my rational doubts. It made me wonder if the problem really was me. As a person, perhaps I was broken in just the right way to, as the Eastern ‘Demptists would have put it, predestine me to Hell. My inability to staunch my sense discomfort; the difficulty I had in letting go of my doubts to freely drift on the waves of belonging—what if they were signs that I was destined to go to Hell?

Rale’s death hadn’t been the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was just the dot on the “i”. It gave me the tragic push I needed to make official what had been in the works for years. Mentally out, physically in, the chat forums called it. The main difference? Before Rale’s death, I didn’t partake in the sacraments, and, on those occasions where I did go to Mass, I didn’t listen to the sermons or the homilies and awkwardly sat in my seat while Pel and the other parishioners went up to receive Unction, while I blamed myself for not being able to believe and belong. After Rale’s death, I continued my non-participation, only from the comfort of home, where I could spend quality time with my deepening depression as I continued to blame myself for not being able to believe and belong.

That was why Hell was too cruel. Did the wicked deserve to be punished? Absolutely! The world deserved justice. But where was the wickedness in a person who simply didn’t feel the Godhead’s call? What if they weren’t up to it? What if they just wanted to be left to their own devices, and figure things out on their own? What if they were just… different?

Difference was inescapable and eternal. Whether by nature or nurture, some people were just different. They lived at the edges. There was no malice in that, it was just simply their nature. Did sheep deserve to be killed by wolves for eating grass instead of meat? Why was difference wicked? Why did it merit eternal punishment? Why couldn’t there be an amicable parting? Or was free will not really free at all?

I’d like to think the Angel would have understood.

The problem, I feel, was Man, not God. Most religions forbade any possibility of amicable partings; this, I feel, was their most human element of all. It was a vindictive tendency, and like most vindictive tendencies, it was born of fear and pain. Accepting a situation as beyond one’s control was a serious challenge for most human beings. It belittled us. It showed us our powers were illusory. It stripped away our security.

We were not hardwired for tolerance. It had to be learned. Our natural response to difference? Convert it—smooth it over—or destroy it utterly if we couldn’t.

And that was wrong of us.

It was a sad truth that we often needed to feel that others were worse off for not having something before we, ourselves, could truly valued what we The painful truth of human traditions were that most people really didn’t care about continuity or community. Tradition was valued only because of the punishments that came from disobeying it—the wrath, the ostracization. Without that threat, most people wouldn’t care enough to contribute to something more than themselves. That was why human beings needed to have the cursed and the damned. They were the others who gave us reasons to look beyond ourselves and lend support to the tribe.

One of the principal tenets of Lassedicy was that no one was unworthy of the faith, nor of the saving grace of the Angel’s Sacrifice—provided they accepted it. One of the bigger controversies in the early days of the Church was whether or not a priest could lead Mass and administer Unction if they had recently sinned (with or without a pursuant Divulgence to determine penance). It was only when Eadward I, 19th Lassedite, stepped into the ring that the controversy was finally settled. Eadward I proclaimed that a sinful, but duly repentant priest could administer Unction, and that doing so was a miracle that the faithful ought to praise. It showed that even the most broken of us were not unworthy of the Angel’s Light, unlike pagan faiths who adhered to superstitions about ineradicable impurity.

I wondered what Eadward I would have thought of Suisei Horosha. Much like a sinful priest, Dr. Horosha was guilty of a sin: he was a liar—just like me. I wanted to say he was repentant, but I couldn’t be sure. Yet, as I watched him go about his duties, guiding the others as best as he could, I couldn’t deny that he seemed truly genuine. As far as I could tell, he really did want to help, just like me, but he was a liar through and through, just like me.

I wanted to pull him aside and confront him with what I knew, but, intentionally or not, Suisei ended up being somewhat evasive. I couldn’t deny that his devotion to this project of his was total and genuine. Anytime something happened, he’d dash away, intent on resolving it himself. It was truly admirable. And yet—speaking as a professional who was fully licensed to give therapy the effortlessness with which Dr. Horosha concealed his inner self was disturbing, to say the least. Whatever his backstory was—and, by the Godhead, at this point, I really felt like it could be anything—whatever it was, it had forged him a tungsten will. Trauma hardly rustled his feathers. Every couple of minutes, members of Dr. Horosha’s self-help group surveyed each others’ changes in awe and disgust, but Suisei never even so much as batted an eyebrow at any of it. Even though it was just my own speculation, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been a soldier of some kind, perhaps some sort of special operations division. That would explain his resilience to trauma, as well as his iron-clad senses of duty and principle.

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And then, by some magic stroke of luck, Suisei Horosha stopped moving for more than a blink. He even took out his PortaCon, checking it just like an ordinary human being.

Ignoring the clouds of numbness drifting through my legs, I got up and walked over, looking him in the eyes.

“I’ve been watching you.”

Suisei looked up from the glow of his console screen. “Have you liked what you have seen?” he asked, smirking wryly.

I pursed my lips. “You’re quite the enigma, Suisei Horosha. Understanding people is part of my job description. I’ve been doing it for decades. But you? I just can’t figure you out. Everything’s hidden. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw you walk across wet sand without leaving even a single footprint.”

His smirk persisted. “Is that a dare?”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

That got a rise out of him—an eyebrow rise. “Oh?”

“I know you’re lying,” I whispered.

If Suisei had reacted to my words, I couldn’t tell, though I didn’t let that stop me from continuing.

I kept my voice low.

“I can see that snow-globe of stuff you’ve wrapped around yourself.” I pointed at the veil of white motes that, even now, were swirling around him. “I don’t know what it does, but I know it’s not something transformees can do.”

His eyebrows went up again. “Oh?”

“I can see everyone’s plexuses. Transformees can only make one kind of plexus: metallic-looking blue and gold filaments. But you…” I nodded. “I’ve seen you make plexuses unlike any of us can make.”

From behind the visor of his PPE, the teensiest grin cracked onto Suisei’s lips. “The plot thickens,” he muttered.

Dr. Horosha motioned his head to the side and then stepped away. I followed him.

We went off down a side corridor of a side corridor.

“Plexus,” he said, almost mechanically. “From the verb to pleat; an anatomical term which refers to a network of nerves or vessels in the body. That is a silly word to choose, all things considered.”

“What else would you call them?” I asked.

“Weaves.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m a doctor. I spent years learning medical terminology. What’s the point if I don’t use it?”

Suisei pleated his fingers and smirked. “I am rarely surprised, Dr. Howle,” he said. “In my line of work, a surprise is usually death.”

“So you admit it!” I hissed. I glared at him.

“Yes?”

He was playing coy with me.

“You’re not a transformee,” I said, “and you’ve been perfectly content to let everyone here believe otherwise.”

As I’d expect given his personality, Dr. Horosha wasn’t the least bit fazed by my accusation.

No.

Much to my surprise—he seemed… excited. Relieved, even.

“Yes.” Suisei nodded. “I have been letting them come to their own conclusions about me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you kept your discovery under wraps.” Closing his eyes, he sighed, breath condensing on the inner surface of his visor. “It would devastate them.” He spoke gravely.

His concern was genuine. Emotional displays from Suisei’s personality type were rare, so, when they happened—as they did here—they were always in earnest. I saw it in his eyes, and his furtive glance. He really was concerned for the others’ well-being.

“Why are you doing this, really?” I asked.

Dr. Horosha placed his hand on his heart. His smile flickered.

“I have been nothing but honest with you. I detest lying, It is an awful habit, and a self-perpetuating one, at that. I do not need my faith to recognize trouble.” He glanced off to the side, averting my gaze. “My mother was an Oatsman, as was her mother before her. She raised me in the faith, though there was never any pressure to conform. I chose to pursue the faith of my own volition when I came of age. Most believers give little more than lip service to the Bond, if that. As Brother Peter Lardabe said, speech without action is a temple ever-darkened.” He exhaled. “It is a difficult ideal to follow, but…” he paused, “it has kept me in one piece.”

“Aren’t Oatsmen supposed to be pacifists?” I asked. “The jury’s still out on whether or not asphyxiating people with magic powers counts as a breach of pacifism, but… I really feel like it should be.”

Suisei smiled sadly, softly chuckling. “As I said, the ideals of my faith are difficult for me to follow.” Whipping his head up, he looked me in the eye. “If I may ask a question…?”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you consider trusting me?”

Now it was my turn to stare. “And I would do that because…?”

“Three reasons.” He cracked his neck. “First: I am not responsible for the plague. I want to understand it as best I can. We cannot stop it if we do not understand it.”

I agreed with that.

“Second,” he continued, “there is nothing stopping me from reveal your transformee status to Dr. Marteneiss and the others. I imagine you would resent that.”

“You imagine correctly.”

He nodded. “Third,” his expression flattened, “I am living on borrowed time. I can only hold the fungus at bay for so long. If I continue, I will eventually collapse from the strain. Infection will be inevitable, and, in all likelihood, I will face a horrid death.”

My ongoing effort to scrutinize every syllable that came out of that man’s mouth got thrown for a whirl when that third reason of his hit me with all the force of a bullet train.

“You can keep the fungus at bay?”

“Shh.”

He shushed me!

Andalon clearly shared my astonishment, because she scampered over to my side with her hands clenched into fists, hopping up and down as she shouted. “Andalon wants to know! Mr. Sushi has secrets!” She clapped her hands at me. “C’mon Mr. Genneth! Use your skills! Get him! Get his secrets!”

Gladly.

He nodded. “Yes, I can.”