The angel makes a series of expressions within the space of a few seconds, from confused, to worried, to distraught, before nodding and putting its arms down at its sides.

After a moment of hesitation, it makes a... stitching motion? At its mouth, points at itself, and tilts its head. The stitching motion is oddly visceral, methodically tugging at the length of the lip. 

"You're allowed to talk. With your words. Promise."

It nods. Slowly.

"...Okay. That's good."

It considers, briefly, as a kind of impulse, asking whether its interlocutor has heard the good news about their lord and savior Jesus Christ, before remembering that they're in some kind of monastery.

"...You are an acolyte, yes? I sometimes make mistakes when interpreting the signs here. I hope I'm not interrupting your routine."

"Acolyte is a word for it. I'm here in service of God, yes, but also in service of Country." She pronounces the capital letters.

The angel nods sagely, and recites:

"The power flowing from the West shall prepare the earth for the coming of His Kingdom, so that one shall serve God through Country. Operations 2:3...."

And they're back where they started. The tidy clump of pottery, dirt, and mildly scuffed Kalanchoe stands beside the ceramic pot, waiting.

At least it's not on the verge of a breakdown anymore. "So, uh, I'm Electra. What's your name?"

"Angelic asset two-three-two, second squadron of the Basic Angelic Retraining section."

It glances briefly at Electra, brow tense, before crouching down to pick up the shattered pieces of the pot. Its breath makes the dirt roll away from its hands, as if it were refusing to mar the angel.

"Why Retraining, 232?”

"From the Light I am separation into a celestial shape with a particular function. By His Design that shape... descends to the earth and conforms to a more grounded earthly function. Since I am already conditioned, it is a retraining."

"I've always wanted to ask, how do they get you guys to come here and stay here? I have no idea how they communicate Designs to you, I can't imagine they're very concordant with divinity."

"..There is, ah, um. It isn't my place to dwell on it, but..."

"...I am not sure I could explain the fine points of the theurgy. Much of it I don't understand very well. I'm more of a—what's the modern term? More of a charismatic than a philosopher. By disposition. But I am called down by the great need of very devoted people praying for divine aid. And I am painted with the... the soot of the fire of the earth, so that the earth will cling to me. Like..."

It stares at the pottery.

O...kay. Probably best not to push that one too hard. "Been around here long?"

Clink, clink, clink.

"It is my two-hundred-and-seventh day on the base. I have been on the earth for longer before, but not on this visit."

"Does it hurt? To be stuck here." She imagines that the cooption was no more gentle than her own experience with AetherOps recruiting.

It blinks a few times, again, breathing deeply.

"...It isn't painful. If that's what you mean. Not all of the time. Or most of it. Being... affixed, hurt for a long time, but not anymore."

"What changed?" A hand idly creeps towards one of its wings.

The wings reflect a gleaming white, but are a little frayed at the edges. It doesn't seem to pay attention, though the wings quiver ever so slightly as the hand approaches. They feel warm and... clear, even from a distance.

"Since... since I'm still held in the Lord's grace—that is, as I'm not... Fallen, not totally one with the earth, this body doesn't scar for long. It turns unjust punishment aside. The soot has settled under my skin. They're only warm ashes when they're not acting up."