// CELESTIAL OPERATIONS CENTER //
// TRANSCRIPT: DOGMATIST DEPLOYMENT DETECTED //
"He's suiting up," Raziel announced, displaying Father Dominic's email and a live feed of him polishing his glasses. "He is, as they say, 'on a mission from God.' Our probability of exposure just ticked up."
Azrael's probability cloud swirled grey. "The 'Efficient Kindness' meme attracted the immune system of orthodoxy. He is the antibody. Heading straight for the virus."
On the main viewer, feeds split: Father Dominic praying, Isabella asleep at her desk, J. in the Garcia kitchen facing a new kind of test.
Miguel massaged his temples. "The Observer is unprepared for direct doctrinal engagement. Her knowledge of Pelagianism is a Wikipedia skim."
"Then she will fail," Azrael stated. "And the Subject, when confronted, will respond. Not with a miracle. With a debate. A perfect, logical, devastatingly gentle debate that will reveal everything."
Gabriel watched. "The buffer must hold. She must become a translator. A diplomat between the incarnate Word and the written words that try to contain Him."
"I'll send her the dossier," Miguel said. "And a warning."
"A warning is a data point," Azrael droned. "It does not change her skill set. She is a blogger, not a theologian."
"She's a noticer," Miguel corrected. "And right now, she's all we've got."
---
In the Garcia kitchen, the first test was not theological. It was mechanical.
Mr. Garcia had laid a disassembled antique clock on the table. Springs, gears, and a brass casing gleamed under the morning light.
"Joshua, mijo," Mr. Garcia said, his eyes alight with friendly challenge. "The escapement is jammed. I've been trying to fix it for weeks. I was wondering… would you look at it? Use your… method?"
J. froze, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. Isabella, who had come over on the pretext of a shared project, watched from the doorway.
Mrs. Garcia clicked her tongue. "Hector, let the boy eat."
"It's just a puzzle,amor. I'm curious about his process."
J. set the toast down. He approached the table, his eyes scanning the pieces. Isabella could see the conflict—the divine knowledge of how every piece should fit, the human constraint screaming to not reveal it, and the genuine desire to help this kind, curious man.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the mainspring. For a second, they trembled. He could have fixed it with a touch, a thought.
Instead, he picked up a small gear, turned it over, and deliberately placed it slightly out of alignment. He fumbled with the mainspring housing, making a show of struggling. After a full minute of awkward, human fumbling, the mechanism remained jammed.
He looked up, his face a mask of apologetic failure. "I'm sorry, Mr. Garcia. I think… I think it's beyond me. You'd need a special tool. Or more patience than I have this morning."
Mr. Garcia's eager expression dimmed. He patted J.'s shoulder. "That's alright, son. It was a long shot." But the light of discovery in his eyes had gone out. He began to gather the pieces, his movements slower.
J. looked down at his toast, his appetite gone. He had chosen to be ordinary. The cost was the disappointment on a good man's face.
---
The library during last period was J.'s sanctuary. The far corner by the periodicals, where sunlight pooled in dusty gold rectangles.
He'd noticed Lena because she was the quietest thing in the quiet room. She re-shelved books with a fluid, purposeful grace. They didn't speak much. He'd helped rearrange her cart to save her injured wrist. She'd accepted his help as a quiet fact.
Today, he was sanding a small piece of maple in the woodshop, his focus absolute. It wasn't for a class. It was curved, sanded to a satin finish.
Isabella found him there. "What's that for?"
"A support,"he said, not looking up. "For a wrist. The shelving still strains it."
"For Lena."
He nodded,a faint blush creeping up his neck. It was the most teenage thing she'd ever seen him do.
Observation #6: Subject engages in practical, non-verbal courtship. Expression of care through material problem-solving.
Later, in the library corner at sunset, he finished the brace. He held it out to Lena. "This is for you. To make the dancing, and the shelving, not hurt."
She took it, her fingers tracing the smooth wood. "J… you made this?"
"I am learning to work with what is given."He took a breath, the most humanly nervous breath Isabella had ever heard. "Lena, would you… accompany me to the stellar social gathering?"
The library was silent. Lena stared at the brace, then at his earnest face. A spark of joy, bright and unguarded, transformed her.
"You're asking me to the dance?"
"Yes."
A slow smile bloomed."Yes. I'll go with you."
He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for two thousand years, and smiled the sunrise.
Private Journal, Entry #3:
He asked her. With a hand-carved wrist brace. She said yes. He wasn't a teacher or a healer in that moment. He was just a boy, terrified a girl would say no. For the first time, I didn't see the constraint. I just saw him.
---
// CELESTIAL OPERATIONS CENTER //
The angels watched the library scene. The line between J. and Lena on the social web diagram glowed a steady gold.
"Affection reciprocated," Gadreel whispered.
"Volatility confirmed,"Azrael sighed, his cloud flashing with pink lightning.
"No,"Miguel said, a soft smile on his lips. "That's the anchor." He pointed to the wooden brace. "He's not just going to a dance to complete a mission. He's going with a date. He has a reason to want everything to be normal. He has something to lose."
Gabriel nodded. "The best motivation for a constrained divinity isn't a rule. It's a reason. A human reason."
The countdown to the Starfall Semi-Formal now had a heartbeat. And its name was Lena.