S M [The Pageturner] - What Will Be

[Paige Turner]

Calm.

Grey skies. White clouds. Gentle breeze.

Crisp grass against her hands. Cool air against her cheek. Serenity afloat in the lake behind

Eternity lingered in that single moment. Seconds felt like minutes, then days, then years. It all blurred together, after a while. Life's little moments become drops in the bucket with time.

Up from the green, a young girl rose in time, with golden orange glow from her garbs demure stark against the back of that tranquil scene. Sat on the earth of a foreign land, a fanciful bastion of scientific showmanship scraped the sky with titanium towers as cyan shine pervaded their mirror-esque windows. A nostalgic sight, picturesque of her youth's hope of the future, and it was a brief walk away.

Glancing aside, the horizon drew close in her vision. If she drew closer in turn, perhaps she could even fall off. Crumbs of clay fell beneath her feet as she stood on the edge. Blue waters stretched on forever, miles below. Puffs of white float over a great sea, casting shadows across the waves. Islands stood far in the distance, not bound to the planet but cast into the sky. An airborne archipelago on a melancholy morning.

Dull eyes. Dull face. Dull demeanor.

She sat by the lake, and doused her hands in its cold water, feeling her hands tingle from its chill. This was nothing to worry about. A new world, with new possibilities, laid bare in front of her. New people. New places. New experiences. New rules. Everything was here. And so was she.

Thus, Paige Turner, 18 years old or so, and with all the time in the world to make a mark on this bizarre realm, took her first step toward the City of Hope. What would she do? She could only ponder the specifics. But it would be something grand, something profound. It would be a world-shattering impact to change the nature of life itself. It would be a matter of time. After all...

The book was in her hands.

 

[Paige Turner]

Paige stared at her reflection in the lake for a brief time longer, clouds passing not far overhead. She looked about the same as normal. Orange hat, black on the front and bill. Orange hoodie, denim jeans. Sneakers were the same colors as her hat. Brown hair, same short parted styling she was used to. Green eyes. No blemishes. No strong expression.
A normal start to the day, it seemed.

She turned around, staring at the city behind her, processing the seeming utopia at hand. So massive, so grand, so aesthetically pristine. The closest structure to her was a sort of glass tunnel, topped with solar panels and devoid of any residents in its walls. Windmills were scattered about in the distance and turned gently in the lazy breeze. Trees and other foliage peeked over the infrastructure standing between her and this city. And of course, who could miss the numerous silver towers which stood proud and tall? The floating skyscraper in the center rose up into the clouds like a knife- already carving out the heart, digging even deeper into the flesh. They all reminded her, oddly, of a meat tenderizer. The prickly side, specifically.

It wouldn't be a long walk before she reached the nearby tunnel and made her way into this brave new world. But before she went off, she took her bag off and checked its contents. It's not every day you get pulled into a new reality with your pack still on your back. Now was a good time to take stock of what she had, especially while no one was around to disturb her.

Her backpack was orange and black, much like her own outfit, and comprised largely of polyester and nylon. had three compartments, layered in order of decreasing size from right against her back to farther out. There were also two large sheathes on the sides; both made of leather, one thick and one thin. She could see her baseball bat jutting out of the larger sheath just fine; no need to check for that, then. That left all the other compartments; she stuck her hand into each of them, feeling around for items.

Yep. Everything was here. Most of the compartments had what they were supposed to.

Feeling a bit parched, she pulled out a can out of the middle pouch- Keeny's Peach Soda, a favorite of hers. Something about that fruit makes it taste real good in a bubbly drink. She couldn't drink too many of them though; for some reason, peach sodas in particular can make one dehydrated if you drink too many. She never bothered to look into why.

In the smallest compartment was a flip phone. Black with a ruffled casing, it was designed in the shape of a clam's shell and had a small screen to display the hour on the front. Military time, of course. This phone was unique in that it used a touchscreen interface, as well as the usual buttons. In her experience, it was particularly satisfying to use; nothing quite as gratifying as ending a call by clamming up.

The time on the screen read 7:30. Ample time in the day, it seemed.

There was one place left to check. Her backpack also had a hidden compartment, sown using ballistic nylon and encased in a layer of ethylene-vinyl acetate. It was hidden under a zippable flap of canvas. The compartment comprised the entire base of her backpack, and the zipper to open the canvas was obfuscated, deliberately, by the cloth.

Unzipping the hidden compartment, inside was a black leather tome. It had golden corners and yellowed pages which glistened on the edges like the old Bibles she'd sometimes see at her friends' church services. It featured a fanciful clockwork pattern across the cover, marked in a dark grey so as to not overpower the overall aesthetic. Most iconic of wall was the golden plate on the front, shaped in the form of an hourglass which lightly protruded forward.

She opened the book and flipped through the pages. Each page was laden, top to bottom, with her signature: Paige Turner. There must have been hundreds, if not thousands, of signatures throughout the entire thing. Eventually, she flips to the next open space, a completely blank one.

Pulling the pen out from a compartment in the book's spine, she signed her name once more, closed it back up, and put it back in the secret slot of her satchel as she walked toward the bridge before her.

 

[Paige Turner]

Sunlight streamed through the transparent ceiling of the bridge. Despite the cool morning air outside, it felt nice and toasty from the moment she'd stepped through the entrance. The bridge felt appropriately futuristic, with its white-washed walls with gentle cyan markings painted on the sides and the gentle, sea green glow of holographic advertisements posted against the windows. She slid along a travelator, those sideways escalators you'd find in airports. There wasn't a single soul in the glorified hall. It was dead silent, hopefully desolate as a vacant utopia.
It was a comfy ride, for the most part, standing in motion on an extended treadmill. Before long, the girl in mandarin made it to the end of the road: a three-way junction, with a bridge on her left and another on her right. And in the center was something curious.

She'd found herself on another island- a comfortable park with a fountain in the center. There were luscious trees and beautiful flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors, and they were all arranged in a manner which would make any gardener envious. Some nice apartment buildings were stationed on the outer edges of the island, facing inward so that whoever lived within could wake up to a gorgeous sight in the morning. It seemed that she'd found her way into a little neighborhood.

There was an old, fit man with white hair jogging around in circles. His outfit was a stark white, skin-tight long-sleeved top with basketball shorts and he wore a headband as well. As he rounded the corner about the fountain, he and the girl locked eyes with one another. Yet, he didn't say anything. Just jogged on, pretending she didn't exist. The discomfort on his face was apparent.

She made her way to the leftmost bridge. Traveling on the human conveyor belt again, she looked out the window and saw quite a sight. The ads on her right side were sparse, letting her look out the window and see a shopping district with streets and buildings hovering in the air. Skyboats and aircraft flew by at comfortable speeds. Pedestrians walking on sidewalks with guard rails on one side and walls on the other. There were bridges which would raise up and down, allowing for citizens to cross the airspace where vehicles would travel. The signage was all fanciful and old-fashioned, fading from the sunlight, and possibly done deliberately for that effect.

The stores, they were built out of chrome, yet they were oddly styled after Victorian streets. They lacked the visual detailing that came from brick and mortar, but they kept a lot of the building habits of the style- heavily ornamented with gables and eaves, a myriad of etchings in the walls, bay windows displaying merchandise, mansard roofing, the list goes on. It was a style from a different era, and yet, the introduction of a modern material transformed its atmosphere into that of a future defined by its past. It was honestly a sight to behold... the girl would have to keep it in mind for later reference.

As she walked out of the bridge, she found herself on the sidewalk of one of those very same streets.

Immediately, she ruffled some feathers; older people looked at her with a sort of despondence that you only give if you really don't like something, yet really don't want to make a scene. It was a begrudging tolerance. Even as they glanced away, though, they hadn't stopped looking. She was still always in their peripheral. And when she turned her head to look at them after they've passed her, she sees their heads jolt forward the instant they make eye contact.

Maybe it was her clothes which set them off? Outed her as an outsider, perhaps?

A lot of the citizens were older, a bunch of early birds who'd gotten the worm and were now going about their days as planned. They were dressed in a rather unfashionable manner. The adults were garbed in fanciful attire- church clothes, essentially. suits, bests, ties, dresses, bonnets and bowler hats, you name it. Browns, greys, and whites were abound with their stuffy old coats. While she enjoyed the aesthetic, it was rather plain; not one trendsetter in the entire crowd. She'd seen better.

Of course, at this hour, a decent number of young adults were on the scene as well. There weren't that many, though, at this hour; perhaps they were all sleeping in? Either way, a lot of them were also in their Sunday best, but they liked to spice things up with a colorful shirt, or perhaps a fun symbol sewn to the lapel.

That was just the conformists. While infrequent, there were a few who wore clothes more befitting a postmodern civilization. Trendy blazers and skin-tight pants, titanium dyes adorned by one or two striking colors popping out of the crowd. Hair which innovated on the more boring trends of the area, yet pushed the bounds in ways that reflected, yet didn't entirely match, the sort of styling she'd seen in her lifetime. It was rebellious, albeit apparently tame. But it was enough to get them some looks.

Meanwhile, this “Paige Turner” was in a vibrant orange hoodie which stuck out like a sore thumb, no matter where she was. Drawing eyes. Drawing ire. Drawing irreverence. Just how she liked it.

She looked over the edge. There were various aircraft underneath. Skyboats were her favorite; she always liked a good flying ship. These were parked alongside multiple hovercrafts, all beside the street beneath. Far, far down, she saw a parking lot which held more diverse transportation, including what looked to be a miniature bi-plane.

She put a hand on her chin. She looked around to the stores behind her. Quite a selection to pick from, if you're boring. Lots of clothing stores, tailors, cleaning services, and whatnot. There was a grocery, far along the other side of the street. She also saw a blue ship adorned with a gold star with rounded-off points. It looked like a police vessel. She could see an officer, down there, standing over someone else who seemed to be on their knees. It didn't look pretty. Might not be so safe to walk around, as she has been.

In fact... perhaps it was a good time for a change of attire? Get these eyes off her, and all.

She walks down the street, opposite of the police car, until she runs across a large building with a relatively flat design, compared to the rest. It's a department store: "Silvia's", it was called. The outfits in the front were stylish, more so than what most people were showing off on the street. It was even, perhaps, up to her own standard. So she walked in, looking forward to giving them a try.

 

[Paige Turner]

Two things happened the moment Paige stepped into the store.

First, her nose was filled with that musty "old thrift store" smell. That musty smell reminiscent of elderly women. That smell which was derived from the lifetime accumulation, within one piece of apparel, of every type of chemical and secretion a human being was exposed to on the daily. If this store sold new clothes, this was a deliberate choice on their part. It spoke leagues about their clientele.

Second, she matched eyes with the cashier at the register. His smile, she only caught for a split second, as it faded quickly into a middling frown. As if he were preoccupied with something, he turned his head down toward his desk, looking under it to shuffle the items about. She stared at him, ominously, judging him overtly, not expecting him to confront her about it. And he didn't. Paige got to watch someone pretend to do something important to avoid interacting with her over the next five-some minutes.

Ah, a familiar welcome, she thought.

Of course, if he wasn't going to bother her, no need to be too bitchy about it. There was a whole store to explore, after all. The walls were lined front to back with clothing of various styles, all fanciful suits, dresses, and other classy affairs. She could see, by the large and elegant signs hung from the ceiling, that men's clothing was all on the left side of the store, while women's clothing was all on the right. As she passed by the numerous racks lined up in rows, she noticed there was an emphasis on Victorian-era apparel. It wasn't the only style, by far, but the conclusion was obvious: this was an old person's store for old people. It would all cost an arm and a leg, too, certainly; this wasn't a shoppe for peasants. Not a problem. It just meant she would need to carefully consider what to buy.

The men's section held frock coats and waistcoats aplenty. There were also a number of suit jackets, sports jackets, and blazers, for those seeking a more modern flair. Well, relatively modern, anyway. The color choices on these were abysmal, though. A selection of browns, blacks, and greys, of subtly distinct shades but which largely looked identical. Some might call it understated, and on a good day, she would too. But when they're the only options being offered, it rings more reserved, or perhaps repressed. It wasn't as bad as the shirts and vests, though. The white collar shirts were all white, and the articles meant to go over them were all black. They were clearly meant to compliment the staggering variety in the jackets, at the cost of nullifying the buyer's visual identity.

Now, there were more types of clothing, off to the side. None of the modern stuff, mind, but a number of polo shirts and more upper-class exercise gear. This department store knew its market, at least. But Paige stuck around in the jackets, for the most part. There was something about these suits that she couldn't help but admire, as tired as they are. It reminded her of someone she knew. Even if they were a staggeringly better dresser than the people who decided what this department store should sell.

In the ladies' section, many of the dresses had skirts which reached down to the floor. Some were thin and tight fitting. Others were wide and round as a bell. Some had shoulders which poofed up like cream puffs, while others featured a simple frill or nothing at all, and others still left the entire top of the torso exposed.

They were awful, to Paige's mind. They outright sucked. Even the less refined options were still frilly and overly delicate for her tastes. She didn't mind wearing a dress every once in a while, or something more feminine. But that was once in a while, and she had her limits. A corset, a big-ass skirt, or a pair of high heels were well beyond what she was willing to put up with for the rest of the day.

One of the high points of Silvia's, she quickly realized, was the extensive section dedicated to hats. It was sat in the middle of the store, split in half for men and women, like the rest of the merchandise. She didn't even check the women's section this time, because she knew exactly what she was looking for. She saw bowler hats, fezzes, gamblers galore, flat caps, top hats, and so many more. If she played her cards right, she might've decided to come back and pick some of these other ones up later. But it didn't take long for her eyes to be drawn to what she was interested in.

Reaching her hands up high, Paige pulled down a brown Newsboy cap from one of the higher racks. The puffy top was cute on a boy, but on a girl, made her look tough compared to all the frilly dresses going for sale. It was just the right vibe for the time. If only she had a pair of goggles, she'd be styling in no time at all.

Too bad about the price, though. Her eyes merely skimmed the tag, but she couldn't mistake the clear 300 written on it. 300 big ones, huh? Seemed like a rip off, if she was honest. But none of the other caps were cheap enough to justify swapping out, so she'd bite the bullet here. It's not like she didn't have the money.

So it went, that she took it up to the front for purchase. She was lucky, today; there was no line, even at this time of day and with a few customers in the store. The cashier gave a quick glance at her, before looking down at his desk again. He gave a quiet "Hey," as if he couldn't bear associating with someone so out-of-fashion, even when there was no one around to see them. As he scanned the cap, he didn't even say the price. He just let the register's display show her how much she owed.

Whatever, Paige thought. As long as I get my hat.

However, problems arose as soon as she pulled out three $100 bills and slapped them on the counter. The cashier just stared at them for a second, somehow confused at the sight. Eventually, he says, with a slight sting to his voice, "...Pardon me... what is this?"

Paige arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

They stood there, for a second, before he answers, "I... do not know what this is."

"What are you talking about? It's money."

"It's not any money I have ever seen."

"Come on. It's the dollar bill."

The man sighs through his nose. "I'm sorry, but the 'dollar bill'," he says in air quotes, "is not a coin-convertible currency. Silvia's Department Store only accepts Coin and Coin-convertible currencies as viable tender for sale."

"Coin? Really?"

"Frankly, sir, if you need to ask a question such as that, this is not the place for you."

Time seemed to stop, for a moment.

"Who are you calling sir?"

"Pardon?”

Paige gritted her teeth. "I'm a woman, sirrah."

The cashier looked shocked, first in a remorseful way, and then aggressive. It didn't take long to regain his thin veil of composure, as he said with a haughty smirk, "My apologies. I couldn't tell from your... fascinating attire."

The two of them stood there, as Paige's cold gaze shot daggers at him from under the bill of her cap.

However, she didn't retaliate, instead waving a hand in dismissal as she walked back into the store. She groaned, "Alright, I get the hint."

"The door is that way, madam."

Paige gave him a cheeky grin. "Ah, but I need to put this hat away, you see. I'm not a thief, you know."

"That's quite alright. You can just hand it to me, I'll put it back for you."

"No. No, I think I'm good."

With that, she walked back into the store as the man watched in disbelief. Out the corner of her eye, she saw him just go back to manning the register. As well as he might be paid for working at a ritzy place like this, she felt safe assuming that he still wasn't paid enough to deal with asshole customers.

She walked back to the hat section, about to put the newsboy cap away. She didn't have coin, after all, so she wouldn't be able to buy it. In fact, she couldn't buy anything here at all. No money, no clo'es.

But... well...

Paige looked to the ceiling. There were security cameras positioned in ways such that they got a good look of the entire store. She looked around, and noticed there were five, maybe six customers sifting through items at the moment. But they were focused on the clothing, and the racks they were hung on were densely packed enough that they were effectively opaque. It was just sparse enough that a devious plan began to form in her mind

When life gives you lemons, as they say.

The men's section had what she needed. She grabbed a few articles of clothing, large ones in particular. Once she found what she needed, she stood beside one of the clothing racks, trying to semi-hide from the customers who had entered recently. As soon as the coast was clear, she pulled her hair up into her ball cap, leaned forward to hide her chest size under the folds of her baggy hoodie, and rushed toward the men's dressing room posthaste.


…



In some ten minutes or so, a man stepped out of the dressing room. He donned a bowler hat, what complimented his chiseled cheekbones and darkened eyes. He wore a long tie with his bulky tan sports jacket, black vest, and white collar shirt. His dark dress pants worked well with the top half of his attire, and the suede shoes on his feet were nothing but exquisite. Not a single tag was to be found on his person; it seems he'd walked into the store with such fine clothing. All he had with him was a large backpack, orange and black in design.

He walked through the store casually, scanning over the apparel on tap. He couldn't but notice, as he stopped before a straight line of blazers, jackets, and coats, how the men's section had such an exquisite selection. Why, it must have cost some several thousands dollars, tens of thousands even- let alone its cost in coinage. Yes, yes, such a fine feature for the store. It'd be such a shame, were it to go up in flame.

The man reached into the pack, and pulled out a Swiss army knife.

Of course, there's no reason anyone would burn these clothes, surely? It's an honest store, with honest folk roaming the sales floor. Who would be so cruel as to bring them through the wringer so? Why, none less than a moral charlatan, of course.

He glances about the store idly as he flicks out its largest blade, some 4 centimeters in length. Someone behind him. No one in front.

The problem, one could see, is that it was an eye for an eye world. One pedantic wisenheimer was naught but a drop in the bucket. But it doesn't take much to see an entire ocean shimmering red under the midday sun. Someone, somewhere had done wrong. Someone with power. Someone with influence. And wrongs must be put to right.

The blade scored the thread of the suits as he drug it against the line of new suits. Their white entrails puffed out of their newfound wounds, one by one. He kept a casual pace, arm out in front, as his hand slid across thin, hardy, yet ever tender fabric.

The man stepped back. One long, continuous line ran across the entire row of merchandise.

With a curt nod, he stepped about the aisles, and placed the multi-tool back in his pack the moment he was properly obscured by the clothing racks between him and all the other customers.

He stepped back toward the entrance. And as he did so, he noticed another employee, first walking, then running toward the line of merchandise. He didn't acknowledge this humble servant of Silvia's bidding. He merely walked on toward the entrance, and only exit.

Before he left, a certain someone grabbed his attention for just a moment.

"You have a good day, sir!" Spake the cashier, with a jovial tone of voice.

"Yes, you do the same, ma'am.

As the gentleman went to leave again, the cashier protested, "Ah, sorry to correct you, sir, but I'm actually a sir, myself."

"Oho!" The man in the bowler hat stared back at the cashier with a surprised look on his face, before scanning him down, from head to toe. "Apologies, my good man. You see, your jaw just looked so... feminine, why, I was simply thrown for a loop!"

Just a glimpse was caught of the cashier awkwardly feeling his jawline, shamed and humiliated, as the man stepped out of the store and walked down the street. He didn't get too far, before he could hear that same cashier's voice ring out

"Wait, they're all ruined?!"

Paige chuckled with a coy smirk as she tossed the bowler hat she was wearing over the side of the street, reached into her bag, and put on the 300 Coin newsboy cap that she'd just gotten for absolutely nothing.

 

[Paige Turner]

It was noon, and a jacket had just flown down from the hovering earth, down into the grand ocean. Before long, a vest followed suit. Then a shirt. A tie. Some dressy pants. A pair of suede shoes. They all fell into the sea below. And, as Paige wiped the contouring make-up right off her face, she tossed the rag down with all the rest. Off came the newsboy cap, this one stuffed in her backpack, and after she fixed her hair, she donned her ball cap once more.

Paige got up off the cliff face and walked back toward the island behind her. She'd made it a fair distance from the store, all the way to a medium-sized public park that was further into the city. As she passed onto the marble-white stone walkway, every step rang out with the clear, crisp ring of a wind chime. The grass was a vivid green, and the trees were plentiful and as healthy as could be. The thickest ones were sat by a small waterfall on the north side of the isle, and they were even bearing a sort of apple-like fruit. The lot of them were not too far from the bridge which led toward the center of town.

It was such a peaceful scene. Before long, Paige made her way to a park bench, sat down, then laid back and got comfy.

Birds chirped their sweet little songs high above, and the gentle static sound of the waterfall's flow filled the area with a nice ambiance. A thin layer of clouds passed overhead; even at this altitude, there was room for a sky of white and blue. The air had grown lukewarm as the day got on. By now, it felt rather comfortable just to be.

Paige lowered her ball cap over her eyes, not fully covering them, but so that the light from the sun only came through at the bottom of her vision.

Yeah, this is comfy. I think I'll lay here for a while.



...



"Excuse me."

As Paige's eyes sluggishly drew open, the light streaming under the bill of her hat seemed a bit dimmer than it was before. Tipping it up revealed a thin old woman, perhaps in her sixties or so, standing beside her. She wore large, circular spectacles, as well as a brown round-bottom dress that made her look like an acorn. Her purse was adorned with a floral pattern, much like the wallpapers and couch fabrics Paige would have seen back in her grandmother's house. Her hair was pulled up in an arrogant sort of style, befitting of the forced grin on her mug. Clearly, someone wasn't happy.

Yet, with a smile, Paige tipped her cap and just said "Morning."

The lady put her hands behind her back, and spoke in a calm voice. "I hate to be a burden, but I couldn't help but notice your outfit."

Ah, manners. The dialect of those too afraid to speak their minds, possibly because doing so would get them shamed, slapped, or shot. In all fairness, they had their use, but their mere existence marred a disinterest in honesty, compassion, and trust. As much a tool for survival as they were a tool for mockery, as they were a tool for covert messaging, as they were a tool for signaling devastation.

But she wasn't that subtle. Not in her body language, or the slight quirks of her vocal tone. It was hard to believe that someone old could be polite in this city. What was it, that she had really said?

What in the world are you wearing?

How delightful. Criticizing her outfit through the code of false hospitality. Well, so much for taking a nap. Clearly, someone didn't want to leave her alone. People like these were a dime a dozen, no matter where she went. But usually, they had enough sense to keep to themselves unless provoked. The cashier knew his place, and knew to cut the bullshit too. Usually, it was best to walk away, and leave these withering minds to their deluded sense of prowess.

But, no, perhaps it was better to stay. Paige had a strong stomach for bitchery. And there was always fun to be had, in cheating at the social game.

"It's a hoodie and jeans, ma'am. Available for your viewing pleasure."
What do you think I'm wearing, grandma? Put your glasses to use.

"I see," the woman said, her expression shifting into discomfort. "Your clothes are certainly unique. Did you get them from your mother?"
Well don't you have spunk? Your clothes are truly terrible. Hasn't your mother taught you any decorum?

"No ma'am, I'm afraid my mother has other things on her mind."
My mom has better things to do than waste time policing my wardrobe.

"Oh my, I'm sure she means well."
She has better to do than waste time with you.

"I'm sure she does, ma'am."
You wish, you old raisin.

"Tell me, though: are you well, dear?"
By the looks of things, she hasn't raised you well.

"I'm doing pretty great, honestly."
She's raised me just fine.

"That's good to hear. You were just resting on the park bench, so I just wanted to check on you."
What a pity. You must really poor, then, sleeping on public property like you're homeless.

Paige smirks at her unwanted visitor. "I was just taking a nap, and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, is all. Do I truly look so down on my luck, ma'am?"
I was doing just fine, until you came along and ruined the mood. It's not my fault you can't tell a tourist from a tramp, you shrimpish scamp.

"You're a tourist!" The old woman chuckles. "You just seemed quite burdened, I didn't notice. Bless your heart, young one."
A lower class foreigner still has better fashion than you. It speaks volumes of your own misery. Oh, how I pity your ignorance, you little girl.

At the mention of "Bless your heart, young one", Paige gave out a loud keeeeee noise, spraying spit onto the woman as she burst out into uproarious laughter. Her fists pound against the cool metal of the bench, and she leans backward into the fun.

The old hag scoffed, her seeming light humor having dissolved, "What are you laughing about?" She inquired.

As if confirming her thoughts, the lady had dropped the act, and pushed Paige even further into her humorous delirium. After a time, her laughs grew almost silent, as her lungs ran dry and she gave out as much oxygen as she took in with each "hah" that broke through her lips.

"HAHA, hah, ahhh, you would like to know, wouldn't you?" Paige said, barely containing her self enough to speak.

"T- that's no way to speak to your elders!"

"Hypocrisy is a sin, don't you know?"

The conversation, having taken a turn for the worse, was really getting to the aged inquisitor. Her voice was raised, shrill, as she scolded at a crescendo.

"Hypocrisy? What do you mean, hypocrisy?! What do you even know of hypocrisy, accusing it of me, you... you... you ragamuffin child!"

Suddenly, as if on cue, a large mass of blue appeared in Paige's peripheral.

"Is something the matter, miss?"

Paige turned her head, and found herself confronted by a cop. He wore a cerulean uniform adorned with diagonal stripes of white and gold that ran across the chest. It was obvious, from how the cloth wrapped around his form, that he had some sort of gear underneath. It was so bulky, it seemed downright militaristic. Paige wasn't certain what it could have been but it meant he was probably a tough customer.

His head was turned directly toward the woman. He was completely ignoring Paige. But that wouldn't stop her from speaking up.

"Not at all, officer," Paige interjected. "This kind lady was just giving me directions, is all. I'm new to the area, you see."

The officer gave her the side eye, as he replied, "Is that so?"

At the sound of that, grandma's head darted back and forth between the cop and Paige, bewildered. The look of disbelief on her face was priceless.

"No," she whined, "she was harassing me! I was going about my morning stroll, when she pulled me over to the side and mocked me! Called me a hypocrite!"

It was nothing at all, yet enough for the officer's brow to furrow as if trying to pierce Paige's soul with his glare. It didn't work, but it did send a message of hostility.

"I suggest you move along. Do not harass our citizens again. Am I clear?

"Of course, officer." Paige said, before standing up and giving a half-bow to the woman. "Thank you for your help, miss. I have my directions, so we have nothing more to discuss. I shall take my leave."

Without a word, Paige walks off, putting the lady between her and the cop. She steps on the pavement, clomping about. Before long, she's made it all the way to the trees closest to the bridge.

She turns her head, looking back at the scene that woman had caused. By now, the officer was walking off, while the woman was rummaging through her purse. She started calm, then grew anxious and began sifting through items with haste. She could faintly hear her say "Officer! Officer!" and chase the man down to get his attention. She says something to him, and they both look at Paige with the rage of the law in their faces.

Paige turned her head to face away from them before she gave a cheeky grin to herself.

There was no time to lose. Paige walked on, now keeping a brisk pace. She "looked around", pretending to eye the scenery while keeping the cop in the edge of her vision. Meanwhile, we was keeping pace as well, as if willing to break into a sprint at any second.

She gets about halfway to the north bridge, before skirting off to her left, off into the trees.

"Hold it right there!" The Officer commands.

Ignoring his order, Paige continues to walk deeper into the trees, bobbing left and right to throw him off guard. Of course, being a public park, it wasn't exactly a dense forest; her orange hoodie made her a target of more than mere mockery. She wasn't surprised when she saw the lawman wrap around the trees to catch up with her, gaining traction at an increasing rate.

So then, she just had to switch it up.

The officer got right up to the tree, only to find no one behind it. Paige could see him do a double take, as she made her way behind him. He fell for the oldest trick in the book- pretend to go one way, then turn back around while their line of sight is blocked by, say, a tree.

Didn't fool him for long, though, and now he was getting sick of her games. The officer ran toward her, shouting "Stop, in the name of the law!"

As he drew close, she walked around to the other side of the largest tree, one right beside the waterfall, and followed her behind it once more.

"...Huh?"

She wasn't there.

The officer paced about the trunk of the tree, trying to find her, but she was out of sight. Without any leads, he ran off to the other side of the woods.

"You can't run forever! The City of Hope's Police Department will root you out eventually!"

And like that, she'd dodged the police again.

There was a rustling in the trees, after the officer was well out of sight, and soon Paige fell out of the canopy with a piece of fruit in her palm, and her orange hoodie and hat bunched up in her arms.

Clearly, that man was a fool to expect her to pull the same stunt twice in a row. But the area was still a danger zone. She'd pulled off her hoodie and hat, to give a bit of visual distinction that could help her get away. Right at that time, the coast was clear, so she made a b-line right toward the bridge.

...

She made it. Simple as that. She got away.

This bridge was the same as the others, same sterile corridor with the same sideways escalators and the same techy advertisement holograms. She stepped onto the travelator and pulled something out of her hoodie pocket.

It was a wallet. A large one, too big to fit in a pocket. The type that would fit in a woman's purse. It had a floral rose pattern on its exterior, and a little magnetic latch on the front. She popped it open to find a picture of the old lady, named Gertrude, depicted on the driver's license. It had a myriad of membership cards, a few insurance policy cards, and something bulky in the cash pocket. Paige sat down on the travelator, legs crossed, and dumped out the contents into her lap.

Coins. Not quarters or dimes, or any sort of coinage she was familiar with, but paper slips like the greenbacks she was used to. These were all colored in gold, and labeled "Opealon Coin" alongside some image of an old white guy with a long beard and a suit. There were three ¢500, three ¢100, and four ¢50.

She also rummaged a little more, and found what looked to be a credit card, labeled "Opealon Credit Debit Card".

So that's what that prick meant by "coin and coin-convertable currencies."

So this world is called "Opealon?" Certainly no nation Paige had ever heard of, but it had its charms despite the bigotry.

It was a bit frustrating to see bills marked as coin. Based on the name, you'd expect it to be represented as such. Perhaps it was one of those historical quirks, where they kept the name long after a transition into paper currency? They did have "credits" here, likely one of the coin-convertible currencies they mentioned. Given the woman's age, she might have just had paper money on hand out of habit. How curious.

Of course, it wasn't really worth thinking about too much. So, rather than ponder further, she pocketed the coin bills, put her cap and hoodie back on, and began to walk with the travelator to make her trip to the end just that little bit shorter.

 

[Paige Turner]

Every minute that passed, she passed another advertisement as the conveyor belt beneath her pushed her along the tunnel.

Every second that passed, someone passed her on the other side of the hall, a second line traveling back toward the way she came in.

Every moment that passed, the hum of the electronics buzzed in her ears and made her want to clean the wax out of them, as if that would make the bothersome noise go away.

Earlier in the day, it was eerily quiet. But by this time, the hallway was positively chaotic with motion. Rebellious youth took photos with their holographic phones, showing off their jackets and vests that stood out from the crowd. Their more 'civilized' peers wore suits and dresses, and stood in more reserved poses as they looked out the window, out toward the world they will likely recreate. Businessfolk walked down the travelators for that extra bit of speed while they talked on the phone with investors, clients, or higher-ups. Elderly women bunched together and asked each other how their days were going before gossiping about recent goings-on, their husbands doing the same but for completely different topics.

That obnoxious hum was audible throughout all of it, and it was really starting to grate on her nerves. The city's futuristic aesthetic was neat, but couldn't they have found a way to make navigating it less bothersome? Maybe the reason they get away with it is because half the folks that live here are too old to hear it with their withered eardrums. If she knew how, she'd fix it herself. But with technology this advanced, it was probably beyond her means, at least with a piddly little multitool for pedestrian works.

Time passed, as it was want to do, and before long, it was the break of dusk. She came out the other end of the tunnel to be greeted by something truly marvelous, something that made her stop in place and gaze about with wandering eyes.

Neoclassical buildings towered overhead, built from bricks of clay and stone, and adorned by edges which jutted in and out like zipper teeth. The windows were tall, very tall, and often rounded at the top with blue shutters that complimented the colors of the materials. They had balconies, they had box-gable roofs, and the tallest of them all had a little arch of sorts with a big brass bell in the center.

This entire area was comprised of a set of large, separate islands, and connected by a series of bridges that were see-through, and made of a flowing substance- as if made out of light itself. The islands were as big as all the others she'd been on before, and were made yet larger through various extensions grafted onto the earth. All the buildings sat upon them faced inward into this public square like a family sat at the dinner table. In the center, atop an artificial platform levitating by some unknown means, was a statue of a debonair old man.

And at the end of the tunnel she'd came from, one of four in the square, there was an arch. An ornate welcome gate, with fanciful patterns carved into solid stone and filled in with gold. It had a sign.

"Welcome to the Central Hub."

Paige stepped out onto one of the translucent bridges, no hesitation... and found that she still stood tall, just as if it were a solid surface. The substance pinged with an almost divine chime, the instant her foot came into contact, and it rippled beneath her like water. Despite its appearance, she felt as secure as she would by standing on stone, or hardwood.

A brief smirk crossed her lips, before fading as she glanced up. Fluttering on high were flags aplenty, glorious golds and regal reds filling the space between her and the bright blue sky. There were several of one kind- a sort of national flag, perhaps? Their crimson backings were adorned by a sort of circuitry pattern, filled and empty circles connected by bridges in much the same way the islands were. The rest were simple, handwoven things. She could see the stitching in them, all separated on a grid like pixels on a screen.

"FROM THE SEA
HOPE ARISES"

"THROUGH INVENTION
HOPE IS BORN"

"IN PURITY
HOPE PERSISTS"

"TO THE HOPEFUL
HOPE BELONGS"

There were posters along the walls, as well, which she observed as she made her way to the central island. They were... strange, in a way that made Paige's head turn like a confused and curious cat. They depicted some man with a long white beard and a well groomed haircut that gave him a 'distinguished' appearance. The man's image was backed by the same red flag which fluttered in the overhead breeze. He fit the locale, for sure, seeing as his style was pulled from another era. What caught her eye about it, though, was that it was clearly some sort of political poster, except it referred to him not by his name, but as "The Prophet."

In time, she arrived to the center of the square, and found herself facing a large statue. It was that man again, that "prophet", with his beard etched meticulously so it appeared to flow in the wind, as with the cape that adorned his back. His right hand swung a blade out, pointing toward the distance. His left, he held out in front, as if beckoning for her to come with him to a new world. And there, on the base, was something that could pass as a name.

Cornstock? What kinda bullshit name is that?

Having had her fill of the scenery, Paige looked around once more for something else to do, somewhere else to go. There was surely some reason for this place's miserable state, after all, and that seemed fun enough to investigate.

Then, she saw it: a drone, a small one that hovered not too far out of sight. It was too far away to get a good glimpse of its details. But given what she'd witnessed before, it wasn't a great sign.

It was time to leave... but where was she to go?

Sure enough, she found a suitable hiding spot. A church, exquisitely adorned by stained glass murals of that damn guy again, and more of those forsaken flags. It had its architectural features and all, or whatever- but this was no time to see the sights. Focused more on the destination than the journey, she crossed the ethereal bridge once more, opened their pearly doors, and made her way inside.

 

[Paige Turner]

Sunlight streaking through the glass fell onto the floor in radiant rainbow beams. The interior of the church, a cathedral most grand, began as a large hallway adorned by a burgundy carpet spread down its full length. On either side was a hollow chamber filled with mahogany booths, isolated spaces for prayer, and silver candle stands whose flames kept the inside lit in the coming dusk. These spaces were separated from the main corridor by a chain of ornate pillars connected by marble arches striped in gold. A small current of water ran at their bases, wrapping around each alabaster beam and flowing from the entrance to the far end of the chapel like rivers drawing her further inward.

Sat in the booths and alcoves were patrons of the saints, likely here at the end of a workday to find solace in their worship. Beseeching their divine for the days to come, they spoke in myriad languages, some of which unique to this bizarre land. Chattering to each other about the days at hand, their floral dialects gossiped, gawked and guffawed at the latest happenings in town. Lamenting their losses since the days long past, there were a handful here or there who consoled one another in their misery, giving condolences, giving advice, giving thanks.

High above, painted upon the ceiling, was a powerful mural of a man pointing toward the heavens from atop a boat. A halo, perfectly circular and glaringly bright, rested behind his head as a faceless crowd of painted onlookers gazed in awe at their new leader. The sky, it was yellow like the sun. The sea, it was such a bold indigo. And the clouds above, and the city what sat amongst them, how its whites and silvers and greys seemed to shimmer like a treasure up above, tempting the land dwellers to come up and claim their prize.

And far, far in the back, against the wall, was the centerpiece of the entire room. Water gathered in a pool at its base, churning about atop the pebbles and stones in its base as the mellow flow of the twin rivers fed into it. Soapstone rose from the waters, flared out, and formed into a bust of the man in the mural. He was a man who kept his hair well. A man who bore the pride of a champion. A dapper man. A gentleman. A prophet.

In light of this pulchritude, Paige, in her baggy orange hoodie, looked down at her hand and picked at a little scab she'd gotten a few days ago. She probably got it by scraping it against a sharp corner of some desk, or something.

The glares were inevitable. Turning her head, as she stood there at the base of the statue, she caught a few of the churchgoers turning their heads away. If she was shown no mercy when shopping for clo'es, or resting in a public park, wherefore would she find it in a holy place? Were everyone in this city a religious sort, the pious were cruel by default, and she would hold no interest in them. But nay, she was trapped here, for the drone outside what followed her from the sky was a sign most foul. It was best to hide away in this holy place, this sanctuary. Even as it filled her with dread. And yet, despite her disdain she still felt an odd impulse to speak in purple prose, as she always liked to do in churches.

"Excuse me, young one."

A deep, resonant voice rang out into her left ear, and Paige turned her head back toward the statue. A white, middle-aged man approached from its right side. His short-cut grey hair was receding at the hairline, only now beginning to lose its original color. The glow of the candlelight caught in his chiseled face such that all his new wrinkles came into view. He wore a set of porcelain white robes, accented in cardinal red around the cuffs. Draped around his neck was a tippet, that long stretch of fabric like a lightweight scarf, which was ornamented by golden thread in the appearance of circuitry. He bore the attire of an archdeacon- a senior position in the church, above the clergy yet below the bishopry. In truth, he seemed rather young for his position, yet in this sanctum he took an authoritative, almost wise appearance among all others.

"Are you new to Notre Prophète?" he queried, with a flat mouth teetering on the edge of both grin and grimace.

A brief glance away, as she took in his inquiry, and then she faced him in full. "I suppose I am."

"Well, we are glad to have you. I welcome you to the City of Hope, and of greater Opealon."

"Oh-peel-on?"

"Yes, Opealon...?"

As Paige stared idly at him with a single brow raised, so to were the man's own brows knitting as he processed her confusion.

He continued. "The planet on which you presently stand?”

They stood there awkwardly, awaiting the other's next words, until she found herself staring deep into the water in the pool. Bathed in the glow of the stained glass windows, where the shadows fell, it seemed as black as oil, and where the light was cast, it gleamed like liquid gold.

"Hmm. Is that what they're calling Earth now? ...I guess global warming kicked it up a notch."

"Earth?"

In a second, the archdeacon chuckled, as if a light bulb clicked on in his mind. "Ah, of course. Another new arrival."

"New arrival?" Paige turned back to face him. "What do you mean by that?"

"You aren't the first one this has happened to. Many find their ways here, for one reason or another."

"To the church, or the city?"

"To the Crossroads."

Her head bobbed up and down, turning away toward the window. A sort of calm washed over her face, an emotionless standoffishness to match the way she kept her arms pressed against her sides. Stoic. Reserved. Enigmatic.

"If you would like, I would be glad to tell you about where you are."

"Alright. Tell me a bit about this... 'Crossroads'."

"Very well. The Crossroads consist of eight planets, each vastly different from one another. No one has ever been able to leave, though many are known to enter. It is our own miniature universe." As he went on, the archdeacon raised his hands high in the air, and Paige drew her gaze into the sky in turn. "We are governed by the Arbiters, divine beings who created the eight worlds and watch over us from on high. One such arbiter- the Devil himself, Darkseid- seeks to dissolve this small universe of ours into chaos and disarray.

"Is he tough?" Paige massaged the back of her neck with her right hand, taking in the new information.

"He has already stolen one world from us, I'm afraid."

"Daaang, a whole planet?" She said, her eyes popping open in mild shock and faux interest.

"Indeed. He is a force to be reckoned with. The arbiters seek to pull the strings, and bring forth our victory, in the war against this sinful being. However, his army of monsters, magicians, and miscontents threaten our very livelihood to this day."

"Wow. May God have mercy on our souls, as they say."

Something flickered in the man's face, as Paige spoke. He took one step toward her, as if reanalyzing who she was. "Pardon me... did you say 'God'?"

"Er... yeah?"

"As in, the Christian God?"

"Yep."

In that moment, he placed his palm upon his forehead and gazed about bewildered at the churchgoers. The way he laughed out loud, it was filled with such mirth that it was fairly refreshing after her prior encounters with the townsfolk.

"Why, a fellow Christian! I never thought I'd see the day. And you come from Earth, as well? Oh, you must have been brought here for a reason, no doubt!"

"Wait, is being Christian... not the norm here?"

"No, certainly not! The Crossroads contain many lost souls, and those who are trapped in their worship of false deities. Our cathedral is open to all, and accepts all souls, no matter how depraved, so long as its patrons follow the law and accept the teachings of the Prophet into their lives."

"The Prophet..."

"Father Comstock. You see his image, there, in the statue? He has led us to salvation, and raised us up into the sky through his guiding light. So long as one accepts the prophet's teachings, they are permitted to use Notre Prophète for their worship. This includes the wicked bearers of magickal arts, worshipers of Darkseidic forces, and the various faiths which conflict so heavily with my own. So many lost souls... You are but the second I have met who worships God, I fear."

"I hate to burst your bubble," she countered, " but I'm not personally Christian? It's just the... or, it was the leading religion on Earth, so I know about it. But I don't practice it."

"Ah... I see." In an instant, his enthusiasm faded away like a flame put out by the wind. His passions cooling, the man walked another step closer to her. "Still, God works in mysterious ways, my child. If you found your way to this holy place, perhaps He saw fit to lead you here. Perhaps you may have a home here, here in Notre Prophète."

"Uhhh..."

Paige took a step back, hands waving in front of her as if warding him off.

"Look," she said, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not looking for a spiritual awakening today. I just got here, after all."

Besides, if he's real, he ain't gonna be how some book written by humans assumes he is, she wanted to say, but kept to herself.

"Are you certain? You may be saved yet."

"My dude- your grace- I don't even know your name."

"Oh... yes, you're right, my apologies." With that, the archdeacon took a step back, and gave a short bow. "My name is Claude Frollo. I am the archdeacon of this cathedral. And yours?"

"Paige Turner. A pleasure, your grace."

"The pleasure is mine, young Paige. You're correct; perhaps you need more time to acclimate to your surroundings. If you ever change your mind, I am always eager to assist in bringing God into your life."

"Sure, I'll keep it in mind," she lied.

"While you are here, is there anything else I may help you with? Perhaps in giving you shelter? Or food, or supplies if you seek to travel?”

"No, I think I'm good. Actually, I think I should get going." She pointed a sole finger toward the windows, which grew ever dimmer with each passing second. "It was nice to visit, though."

"Certainly. You are always welcome here, my child."

"I appreciate it. Well, have a good eve-."

Mid-sentence, Paige pivoted toward the door, about to make her leave. Yet, as she did so, something clicked in her mind. It wasn't the threat of the police state bearing down on her, in case that drone sold her out. It was something else.

Then, there was a feeling. A feeling wrapping over her, like the dawn sky scrolling across the world. Something... something loomed overhead, filling her with an emotion she hadn't known for a while. Towering above her, the visage of the Prophet drew her eyes to his own. His gaze, so confident, smug perhaps, yet belying a potency which the people of this cathedral flocked to like flies to a lantern. His well groomed hair... the specific way the wrinkles lined his face... his jawline, his eyes, his nose and mouth shapes... she didn't recognize them at all. He was a foreign entity to her. Not a single person ever looked like he did before, to her mind. Not that he was inhuman, or otherwise deformed, of course. He looked just fine. Just, he was unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar. She wasn't used to him. That acknowledgment, that feeling of novelty was itself unfamiliar.

Her eyes swept across the ocean of faces behind her, the churchgoers turning away once more, fewer now that she'd spoken with the head of their church. And she understood.

Look at them. All these unfamiliar faces, sitting in unfamiliar booths and benches and alcoves. Worshiping an unfamiliar man, as they lived in an unfamiliar city consisting of unfamiliar technology. A myriad of unfamiliar religions swimming together in an unfamiliar populace. Even the one she knew was unfamiliar, its prominence undercut and subordinate to generalized worship. The planet was unfamiliar, and so were its land and seas. And it was but unfamiliar piece of an unfamiliar world, in an unfamiliar alternative reality. Everything was unfamiliar.

It was, for once... interesting. At least a little bit, anyway.

And that excitement, itself, was so, so unfamiliar.

This man, this "Claude Frollo", was an enigma to her as well, even if he was just a typical human. His appearance, his speech, his mannerisms, they were reminiscent of many of the people she'd met before, yet still distinctly his own. So were the cashier and the old woman, in a sense, but in a genuine conversation, it became more apparent than before. What would he do next? What would he say? Where was his mind at, right now? How did he feel about her, really? She had no way of knowing. And it made her deeply curious. She wanted that feeling of insecurity to last.

"On second thought..."

"Yes, young Paige?"

She looked him dead in the eye, and said, "I changed my mind. I have to leave soon, but I want you to show me the way of God before I do."

Frollo gave a ginger smile. "Certainly. Come with me, to the depths of this holy place."

The two of them walked toward a large pair of doors by the right side of the statue of Comstock. She took a quick glance through a stained window on the side wall, and tried to get a good look outside. She could barely make out an airship flying in the distance, with a large star on its side. It looked like the sort of design a sheriff's car would have, though she wasn't sure if she was just seeing things. She stood there for a second, mouth drawn to the side as she thought to herself.

"Come along, now." The archdeacon motioned Paige to follow, and so she did. It was a short trip through a hallway of the cathedral. Doors upon doors lined up in rows, spaced out between ornate torches that lit the halls with a comfortable orange air. The path was winding, and turned at right angles frequently. But in time, they made their way to the end, and arrived at an open exit that opened into a room most splendid.

Five stone angels stood against the back wall of this new room, carrying pots of diorite which spewed forth water. With their waterfalls, they filled another shallow pool, this one with a base of pearly sand and a border of amber brick. The entire space was dim, save for a few lit sconces along the stone walls. There was a line of bricks across the entire border, sat at about chest height, with intricate carvings of religious scenes from a number of different religions. Many of them looked like nothing she'd seen on Earth, piquing her interest further. They were so detailed, these miniature murals, that she could pick many of their scenes out from several meters away.

The murals, they led her vision across the entire perimeter of the room, until she saw, along the wall they just came in from, a full body sculpture of Father Comstock. It was carved and assembled out of multiple types of rock- bright marble skin, accented by a red granite suit and grey granite hair. He stood straight up, tall and proud, and held a hand up by his head as if swearing by the name of God. He was surrounded by a sort of staircase structure populated by a mass of unlit candles, capturing all the colors of the rainbow in their waxy forms.

"We shall do it here."

The archdeacon spoke to her, with his back turned away. He stared out at the angels as she spoke to her.

"Today, we are going to perform a suscitation. Are you familiar with baptisms, Paige?"

"I am, yes."

"Then this should seem familiar to you. The suscitation is a sacred ceremony, practiced in this cathedral and many smaller churches in the City of Hope, to glorify and sanctify the life of the Prophet, our Father, Zachary Comstock. It is typically adjusted to the religious beliefs of the individual, I am loath to admit... but this evening, we shall perform it properly, in the name of the Lord, our God."

Frollo turned to face the girl.

"Now, bear yourself before Him."

Paige's eyes popped open for a second, and she exhaled as if she'd just gotten punched in the gut.

"Oh damn," she exclaimed. Remembering the church's restricted use of language, she gave a short cough and said, "Er, pardon my language, your grace. But that seems a little forward, doesn't it?"

"It may seem bizarre, to the uninitiated. However, it is standard practice for these sorts of rituals. The naked form symbolizes purity, innocence, and a willingness to show yourself to God and the Prophet unrestrained."

Paige glanced to the side for a moment, her eyes flitting about as she pondered something or other, before she gave a sly little smirk to the archdeacon.

"Okay, gimme a sec."

With that, Paige took off her backpack and gently placed it toward the back pool. With nothing in her hoodie pocket, she took it off without worrying about anything falling out. Brown hair, short and parted with two thick strands on either side of her head, complimented her emerald green eyes which looked so dull in the candle light. Her figure was far more pronounced than her top cover would have one believe; she had fairly wide set shoulders and was moderately tall. Tucked into a pair of blue jeans that hugged her waist, her black tank top clung to her skin tightly, and accentuated her large breasts as they fell when the hoodie slipped over them. Once it was off, she tossed it to the side.

"Gah!" Frollo shielded his eyes, as if he'd stared directly into the sun.

"What?"

"Y-you're a woman?!"

"Yeah?" She rested her hands on her hips as she swayed them to the side, attitude written in her movement and her face. "Couldn't you tell by my voice?"

"I, I, uh..."

"What's the matter?"

The poor guy was blushing so hard, she was sure he could feel it in his cheeks. He was turned away, eyes still covered by his hand as if his redundant attempts to look away would make her disappear. It was adorable, really, given his age and status.

"M-my apologies, if I ha-had known that you were a woman, I'd have sent in a-a-a deaconess..."

"It's alright, your grace."

She couldn't blame him. If not for her womanly wiles, it was fairly easy to mistake her for a boy. Her body was tough-built, and her voice, though bright in that feminine way, was deep and resonant compared to her peers. Whenever she'd put the hoodie and ball cap on, it was a coin flip if she'd get gendered correctly or not. It's no wonder the cashier was confused earlier.

It occasionally pissed her off whenever it happened, but she didn't mind in the long run. That was half the fun, after all.

She walked up close to him, slowly, without sound to her steps. She walked around him. Walked in front of him. Pulled his hands off his face, revealing a stunned glare simultaneously entranced and repulsed. Lifted his head by the chin, so he could gaze upon her face.

"Nudity represents purity, innocence, and openness, no?"

He said nothing, only gazing at her.

She put her hands on his cheeks, cool yet comforting they were. A smile, so sweet yet so devious, crawled across her face. Taunting him. Teasing him. For a brief moment, she could see him gaze down, down toward her figure. A gentle embrace tingled around her waist. She knew he felt the temptation. She could see it in his eyes. She could feel it too.

She spoke, in a soft whisper. "You can look. Just don't touch."

Then, as if yanked by divine hands, he jerked away in exasperated, exaggerated distress, so fast she nearly fell backwards into the pool.

"Stop this at once!"

"Come now, Claudey," she teased, "don't be like that."

"That is 'your grace', to you! You dare come into this holy place and tempt me?!"

"Iunno, you got weird the moment you realized I wasn't a boy."

"I am not to blame when you imitate a man, and trick me as you did! Nor am I held to account for your... scandalous behavior. You are a crossdresser, a temptress, and a sinner thus!"

"I dress like this cause it's comfy."

"I see no comfort in your shameful flirtation."

"That's funny," she snickered, "thinking that God would build us with pleasure receptors in our bodies, and then make it a sin to use them as he designed."

"And what know you, of God's word and will? Do you pray every day and night? Do you practice the ten commandments?"

"No, not really."

"Precisely. Of course you wouldn't." Frollo waved a hand in dismissal. "I should have known you were beyond saving, from the second you admitted to knowing of God yet rejecting his aid."

"You passed the test."

Frollo faced her once more, his face crossed by indignation and bewilderment.

"What was that?"

"Just what I said. I was testing you. And you passed."

"You were... testing me?"

"Do unto others, as you wish others do unto you," Paige explained. "The golden rule. Would you not wish me to tempt you? I would wish that you not tempt me. I hope you'll forgive this one-off sin, but I felt it necessary to check your integrity before we began."

"I wasn't planning on..." he contested, before shifting focus. He quickly cleared his throat, and spake thus. "Well... I do dedicate myself to the precepts daily. I can resist such temptation."

"Yeah. You'll suffice, I don't need a deaconess. You're too 'restrained', in a sense, to give into 'shameful flirtation,' as you just stated."

"I see... Yes, yes, of course, I was appointed archdeacon for a reason." Frollo adjusted his robes, as if fixing them, even though they were free flowing and wouldn't really get messed up by much of anything. "You are forgiven. Do not attempt such trickery again, however."

"Duly noted. Now, can we get started?"

For a second, the middle-aged man stood there, orange glow casting a shadow over his face, the gears whirring in his head. Then, he said,

"We shall. Bare yourself before God and the Prophet, my child."

And lo, as her mind ran wild with the dialect of the holy scriptures, the girl bore herself before God, and stood in the flesh, and only in the flesh, among the glow of the angels of Notre Prophète. How her rosy breasts fell without the support of her brassière for sport, how the cool atmosphere caressed her skin and sent a faint chill throughout her body, she felt as if she were to bathe, to cleanse herself of physical filth. Tonight, instead she would be cleansed of spiritual filth. Of vice. Of sin.

And the archdeacon Frollo stood over her, his eyes scanning over her, though not a move did he make in succumbing to whatever curiosity he felt. And he placed one hand on her shoulder, temptation in check, and he commanded:

"Come with me to the statue."

To the statue the archdeacon strode, and to the statue the girl followed, the statue of the Prophet, Father Comstock. And she did see the candles, and she did see the many colors strewn about the feet of the Father.

"Pick one, and take it from the crowd."

So she did. From the crowd, she took up a single candle. Her candle. One in a hundred, one in a thousand. In reaching for it, she toppled the candle with a finger tap as light as a feather, and she scrambled to take it in hand. It was mostly worn out, and its base was rounded at the edges. There is the saying, 'one's passion burns brightest near the end of life.' The girl was one for poetry, and felt this resonate in her soul as she held this small candle with the shaky foundation in hand. That, and it was orange.

"Show it to me," demanded her suscitator.

So she did. In his hand was a candle holder, a small silver pedestal with a ring for its bearer to carry it in but a finger. He took her hand, slotted it slowly into her index finger, and he took the candle from her and placed it in its holster.

"Now, head into the pool, and sit in its center."

So she did. The water, cooler than the air, chilled her skin and gave her goose pimples. Such a cool world, inviting and yet distant. Like a friend who tolerates you. Like a mother who never asked to have you, yet will put on a brave face for your sake. Like a father who abandons you. There she sat, candle in hand, unlit and standing on its throne, lightly tilted to the side. A metallic island where she sat askew.

"Now..."

The archdeacon, he stood at the statue still, and he reached down by the feet of the Prophet and pulled out a paper crate. Inside the crate, one would find a number of matches.

"In the name of the Prophet, Father Zachary Comstock, we pray."

The girl closed her eyes, and the archdeacon preached in Latin tongue such that she could not parse his words. As he finished, he spake again.

"Open your eyes."

So she did. And he prayed thusly.

"Father Comstock, I pray that you bless this sacred ritual we hold here tonight. Bless the young Paige with your wisdom and guiding light, so that she may raise us up higher into the heavens."

From it, he pulled a match, and he approached the pool, removed his shoes and climbed inside to be where the girl was. And he did strike the match against the box and set it aflame. And he bent over, holding his robes so they wouldn't grow soggy. And he did hold that match, and he did hold it against the wick in the wax, and he did set it alight. He dropped the match. It fell into the water, and its smoke rose up and into the top of the chamber.

In a tranquil whisper, he spake, "Now raise it over your head."

So she did. Or so she tried. But the candle fell, and its fire died, as she raised it up to her chest's height. She sat there, seemingly perturbed, truthfully annoyed.

"Oh dear," muttered Frollo. He spared the candle from the pool, and took his robes and dried it off. It was but covered in water, after all, and better to sully his attire to keep the ritual going than start it over again. He pulled out another match, and he did strike it against the box, and he did hold it against the wick in the wax, and he did set it alight.

Yet, the girl's candle fell into the water once again.

"Come now, child, take this seriously," the archdeacon scolded.

"I am," Paige replied in earnest, "it's just got a rounded base, so it's a bit loose."

In a grunt, the archdeacon pulled the candle from the water, and dried it once more, and set it in the stand and lit it again with another match.

This time, the girl tried to be wary. Her motions, they were so slow, as to challenge eternity itself. But nay, the candle fell out once again, and brought forth discontent from the girl and the archdeacon alike.

"How bothersome," Frollo lamented. "At this rate, we will have to start again."

"Why don't we just use a different candle?"

"Of course not!" Frollo's eyes, they were indignant. "The shorter candle is the one you chose! We cannot just use another candle."

"We might have to."

The girl held the candle in front of her mentor's face. He saw, then, that it was short- growing shorter with each attempt. Of all the candles by the statue, she had chosen the shortest of them all, and there was only enough wax left for a handful more attempts.

"...Very well."

And so, the archdeacon walked back to the statue, and he reached toward the feet of the Prophet and opened a little compartment in the stone. From it, he grabbed a candle- a brand new one with a flat base, brown in hue like the bark of a tree- and brought it with him back to the pool where the girl sat. With yet another match, he set it alight, and nearly placed it in her candle holder- only to stand and place it on the side.

"No, no... let's finish with the candle you chose."

Without contest, she let him try again, and they did try again, and they did try again, and they did try again. In time, it was becoming nearly comical, this man's devotion to the process of a single ritual.

But Paige knew where he was coming from. This was a spiritual ritual, and religion has always been deeply invested in symbolism. It was easy to perceive the actual ritual itself as self-contained, but everything around it was symbolic in itself. That, really, was the best sign of his devotion. Not everyone can lead, but as far as leaders go, not all of them can pay attention to the details, or the big picture. It's no wonder he was an archbishop.

Of course, there was reason to reject such heavy devotion from the outset. Perhaps he was even prolonging the suscitation for less than virtuous purposes. But she had tools to protect herself, so she'd be safe if worse came to be.

There was nothing to fear, really. After all, the book was in her hands.

And so they tried, over and over again. Each time, the girl insisted they accept this orange candle’s fate, and rely upon the new one instead. And each time, he refused, insisting on tradition over function. It was after many attempts- too many to be counted- before Frollo threw his hands into the air in indignation at this laughable display.

"Enough! We shall settle for the other candle. Time grows short, and I have other matters to attend."

By now, the new candle had been partially melted, and was a fair bit shorter, yet it still had a long life ahead of it. Frollo handed it to Paige, who took it in hand and placed it in the candle holder.

"Father Comstock, I pray that you bless this sacred ritual we hold here tonight. Bless the young Paige with your wisdom and guiding light, so that she may raise us up higher into the heavens."

With the candle already lit, Paige took it and raised it up, up to her chest, up to her head, and above, up toward the sky.

"Now stand."

Up to the sky, she rose. Bringing herself to her feet, and gently raising upward. In time, she raised fully upward, and held the candle as high as she could above her head, careful to keep it level so it wouldn't fall out. But this candle, it didn't fall out. Unlike the other, this one had a sturdy foundation.

The sun had long since set, and a giant's moon had taken its place and engulfed the sky in its silver brilliance. Its blue glow shone through the windows behind them and marked her and the candle in its embrace. The stone angels, what stood behind her, towered over them and blessed them from on high, water spilling from the basins in their hands. She could see Father Comstock, off toward the other side of the room. She saw him, standing there, with his hand held up in the name of God, gazing upon the two of them in holy ritual.

"Gift unto her a moral compass aligned with yours, so that she may defend herself from sin and villainy. Bring her prosperity, should she follow your precepts and follow the path of virtue. In the Lord and Prophet's names we pray, amen."

"Amen."