From the private diaries of Father Xavier Perez
November 3, 2076
Nina,
I’ve crossed many borders in the past year, somehow ended up making a home in San Francisco. I have a church, a congregation. They call me Father Xavier. It felt too big a thing at first, the respect inherent in it unearned, but I’ve come to accept my place here.
I may be but a humble man from a distant mountain village—but in this big city, there are many broken souls who need solace. I attempt to provide it, even as I fight my own demons, fight my own anger.
I’m no longer surprised when I find Psy sitting in the pews. They used to leave when they saw me, as if afraid I’d turn them in for believing, but now sometimes, they stay and we talk. I was such a fool before, Nina, thinking they weren’t people but automatons. There is nothing that separates us but a twist of biology—they have psychic abilities and we don’t. That is the only difference. Beneath the skin, they are as human as you or I.
My Psy friend though, he’s as different from the parishioners as a rabbit is from a bird of prey. He is always in such control, so cold. Frigid as ice, until it would be easy to believe that he is an unfeeling robotic killer. Yet I’ve seen this man take a bullet to protect a child.
Heroes, I’ve learned, don’t always wear white.
Sometimes they come from the darkness, shadows among shadows.
Your Xavier