The Restoration Project

2.01 - Father Frankie

It used to be a church. St. Nicholas of Tolentine Cathedral, to be exact, located on the corner of Pacific and South Tennessee Ave. It still resembled a place of worship on the outside. Three archways covered three sets of double doors, all tucked beneath a series of stained glass windows. It extended back until two wings jutted out on either side and rose into towers, each topped with large bronze crosses. A red roof covered it all and, when viewed from above, the entire structure made another cross. 

On the inside, things had changed. The stained glass windows that ran along the top and sides of the church were covered in dirt and grime, giving any sunlight that penetrated a brownish hue. Any religious symbols that hung on the walls were either torn down or covered with crumpled sheets. The most glaring alteration was the removal of the altar, replaced by a wooden table that looked like it tried to belong but was too plain compared to the rest of the ornamentation. Frankie preferred it this way. The inside was more for survival than any sort of inner enlightenment. The time to do unto others as you would have them do unto you had long passed. It was an eye for an eye world now.

"What's he doin'?" Pierre asked, leaning on the railing of the balcony and pointing to the floor below. He was a round man with a protruding belly, mutton chop sideburns, and a scar that ran from his forehead to his chin, the result of an ill-advised bar fight.

Frankie followed Pierre's gaze to a man kneeling on the dirty red carpet behind a series of votive candles. The floor around the man was marked with holes where bolts used to secure rows of pews—they had been removed to create more standing space.

"That is what they used to call praying," Frankie noted. His voice was coarse and dry, like he had a terrible cough for the past fifteen years. Smoking most of his life didn't help.

Frankie sat beside Pierre, hunched over in a wicker wheel chair, his withered body curled from scoliosis. His long gray hair hung low on his head, with thin strands sprouting from his ears. His jowls quivered as he spoke, but were tight against his cheeks—whatever fat he amassed through a lifetime of fast food and empty carbs disappeared when the Searchers came along.

"He'd be better spending time out in the refinery. Might actually do something useful there," Pierre snickered.

"Maybe the refinery could do you some good, too," Frankie commented.

That wiped the smile off Pierre's face.

Frankie had put a lot of time into his town, and he didn't appreciate Pierre's criticism. The church was the pinnacle of his operations; his attempt to please those that liked the symbolism of the building without subjecting himself to its tenets. He welcomed people to explore inside and perform whatever rituals—spiritual or physical—they deemed appropriate.

The man at the votive candles turned around as their voices drifted down. "Father Frankie?" he asked, peering up at the balcony and shielding his eyes from the light shining through the windows behind Frankie.

"Yes," Frankie said.

The man shuffled in his spot, his chin lowering as he registered the exit.

"What's with this guy?" Pierre asked.

"Would you like to come up?" Father Frankie asked the man.

"Uh, uhm, OK," the man said and shuffled forward. His shoulders were slumped, his voice heavy.

Pierre wore his disapproval in a sneer, but his approval was of no concern. He knew better than to voice his objection.

The man below padded across the expanse of the main floor to a stairwell tucked in the back right corner.