Fractures of Faith
The next morning dawned with a gray, muted light filtering through the hotels thin curtains. The storm from the night before had left the streets blanketed in a heavy layer of snow, its pristine surface already marred by early risers. Logan stirred first, his internal clock waking him before the alarm on Kurt’s nightstand had the chance to chime.
Kurt was already moving about the room, quietly preparing for the day. His tail flicked behind him as he carefully folded his matching pajama set and placed it neatly on his bed. The sight was oddly domestic, and Logan found himself lingering on it a moment too long before rolling out of bed.
“Sleep okay?” Logan asked gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Kurt turned, offering a faint smile. “Well enough. You?”
Logan shrugged, grabbing his flannel from the back of a chair. “Don’t need much.”
Kurt gave a small nod, his expression tightened ever so slightly. Logan noticed but didn’t press.
The streets were quieter than expected as they trudged through the fresh snow. Kurt, once again hidden behind his image inducer, carried a small notebook filled with his precise handwriting. Logan kept his senses sharp, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
They’d agreed to split their focus for the day—Kurt would try to gather more information from the locals, and Logan would investigate the areas where they’d noticed the most activity the day before. But first, they needed breakfast and a plan.
The same café from yesterday seemed like the best option. It was familiar now, the kind of place where a face could blend in.
It didn’t take long to realize something was different about the town today. The few people in the café spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting toward the door as though expecting someone—or something.
Kurt noticed it first. “Do you feel that?” he asked softly as they sat down with their orders.
Logan frowned, his sharp senses picking up the edge of tension in the air. “Yeah. People are spooked.”
“Purelight has them terrified,” Kurt murmured, his fingers tightening around the edge of his tea cup.
Logan watched him for a moment before leaning forward, his voice low. “We need to push harder. Whatever they’re doing here, it’s big. We’re not gonna crack this thing by tiptoeing around it.”
Kurt looked up, his eyes flickering with a rare frustration. “Logan, these people are already broken. If we push too hard, we risk losing what little trust they might have in us.”
Logan grunted, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. You keep playin’ nice. I’ll do it my way.”
They agreed to regroup at midday after working their respective angles. Kurt took the town square, speaking to shopkeepers and patrons, his polite demeanor disarming even the most skittish of townsfolk. Logan kept to the shadows, his instincts leading him to the outskirts of town where old warehouses stood abandoned but not unoccupied.
By the time they met back at the café, Logan’s expression was grim.
“They’re usin’ that big warehouse by the river,” he said, his voice low as they huddled over the table. “Guards everywhere. Saw a couple of folks bein’ dragged in, too. They didn’t look like volunteers.”
Kurt’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the edge of the table. “And the people I spoke to—they won’t say it outright, but it’s clear they’ve lost family members to Purelight. Disappearances, sudden relocations.” He hesitated. “They’re using scripture to justify it all.”
Logan’s lip curled in a sneer. “Course they are. Twistin’ words to fit their shitty agenda.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” Kurt admitted, his voice heavy. “They’re taking verses about redemption, about cleansing one’s soul, and turning them into a weapon. One man quoted Psalms to me: ‘Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.’ He said that’s what Purelight promises—to wash away the ‘sins’ of mutation.”
Logan snorted, his fists clenching on the table. “That’s sick. But no surprise. People’ll twist anythin’ if it suits ‘em.”
Kurt’s expression darkened, his usually warm demeanor clouded with anger. “Faith isn’t the problem, Logan. It’s the people who corrupt it.”
“Faith, cults—it’s a thin line sometimes,” Logan muttered, regretting the words as soon as he saw the look on Kurt’s face.
“Enough,” Kurt snapped quietly, but the steel in his voice was undeniable. “I’ve heard enough of your cynicism. Faith has saved me more times than I can count. If you cannot understand that, then at least respect it.”
Logan opened his mouth to retort but stopped himself. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I’ve seen a lot of people use faith as an excuse to hurt others.”
“And I’ve seen faith heal people who were broken,” Kurt replied, his voice softening slightly. “Including myself.”
The tension hung heavy between them, but Logan didn’t press further. He couldn’t deny the sincerity in Kurt’s words—or the weight of his own missteps.
As they left the café, the snow had stopped, leaving the world in a hushed stillness. They walked side by side through the quiet streets, the weight of the day pressing down on both of them.
Logan found his gaze drifting to Kurt again, to the way he moved with quiet purpose, his tail occasionally flicking beneath the image inducer’s illusion. He thought about the anger in Kurt’s eyes earlier, the passion behind his words. There was so much to the guy—layers that Logan couldn’t seem to stop peeling back.
It was distracting, unsettling even. And as they approached the edge of town, Logan found his thoughts racing again, filled with images he didn’t want to confront.
The warehouse loomed in the distance, its shadow stretching long against the snowy ground. The mission was about to heat up, and Logan couldn’t afford distractions.
But the soft timbre of Kurt’s voice lingered in his mind, as did the fire in his eyes. Logan clenched his fists.
Yet even as he forced his thoughts forward, they circled back to Kurt.