Eyes On You

"So how's it looking?" 6156 (though they've been calling him Dent due to a mishap that happened during their own training days) asks, looking down at a datapad. 733 (Al) cringes. "They've basically just started but I'm not optimistic enough to believe a few years can fix…. that."

Dent snorts "Aw come on it's not like we were the best of the best when we-" he looks up in time to see Rick in action. "What's that word you use?" He glances at Al "Osik." The shapeshifter- ahem the Chiss, provides. "Osik. Future Janitorial Staff?"

Al shrugs. "He's got spirit. I was thinking Door Technician spesifically." Dent enters that into the datapad without question. "Miracles can happen but I'm taking note of it, because it's going to have to be one hell of a miracle." Al nods in agreement.

It's for the best. Besides, it's a good job and they needed more of those anyway. It's not like Rick is an absolute moron, his non combat scores are excellent which is more than he can say for several of his peers.

This Sunday was no different. Braam sat at the very back near one of the doors, eyes trailing around as he wished he brought a fidget toy. The sermon itself had ended, they already sang the last song even, so now it was time for a short meeting with what felt like a captive audience. Most of the people were elderly, a few younger people, maybe three sets of young parents and a handful of kids strewn in between. His eyes catch on the chipping paint, moving up to one of the lights that has been dead for almost a month now, moving down to a broken stain glass window, then finally on the lady sitting a little ways away in front of him. He thinks she has… he's not sure what it's called but every now and again her head twitches to the side and back a bit. It occurs to him that he doesn't know the names of 99% of the people here.

He makes the mistake to tune back in to what was being said. "If you don't know what to do with yourselves next week you can come help us here-" something something, followed by comments relating to wanting MORE money. How much money do they think these people have? What do they use it for? Food donations? No, the churchgoers provided that. Maintaining the building? Highly unlikely. Helping people? Didn't seem so. Helping their community and/or churchgoers? Also not likely. So the best guess: it all goes to the head honcho, the pastor.

Braam tries to keep his face neutral as he leans back into his seat, crossing his arms. Come on already, he wants to leave. At this rate he may as well stay home and read the Bible in his own language at home.

Finally the last words and possible reprimands were spoken and the captive audience is permitted to leave. Braam of course would wait for most of the people to funnel out the door before standing up himself, digging out whatever money he happened to have on him and trying NOT to have the pastor's voice in the back of his head. He can go back to his apartment and call either his mom or Terrance to rant, probably feel like shit afterwards because who was he to judge and talk right? But right now the annoyance was still recent enough for his blood to still be simmering. He pretends not to be slightly put off by old people smell, doing his best to smile and greet everyone with a nod of acknowledgement. He wasn't even lucky enough to have sunlight or fresh air upon reaching freedom the smell of a light cigarette immediately hitting him. He groans and dodges the crowd, spotting his car in the distance. He mentally throws up a prayer of gratitude that he can LEAVE.