It was a day like any other, really. Conor awoke at the same time as all else in the Mission, the single eggtimer rousing the Missionaries, converts, and catechumen alike. The sun had not yet risen, yet already all were already moving in for prayer. It lasted for about half an hour after which a brief respite was allowed for water and a trip to the outhouse. With that they once more assembled for calisthenics lead by Brother Marcus. Once this was at last complete and the first of the screeching from the mutant chicken was audible did at last they break their fast.

The lad smiled to the people assembled with him, but it was mostly a mask for the uneasiness he felt beneath. Though for now the Mission in Whitlash had seen relative success, he nonetheless had a fear it would end in tragedy like every other journey he had been upon. He looked left along the semi-communal table, seeing the more junior members of the congregation, catechumens or other younger arrivals like himself. There were the most recent arrivals who’d been taken in, Roger and Carol. In both cases he felt that they were fake names, but now that they were in the flock Conor would not judge. The former had been a jet addict of some sort, having run up horrid debt and with a horrible dependency, the Mormons were the only charity as far as the poor bastard’s eyes could see.  With them he found order, peace, and some sense of meaning beyond the next high. Carol wasn’t too different, having been born into slavery. Having escaped and bearing more or less no marketable skills, the only profession available to a young woman in such a disposition bore an indignity she wasn’t willing to take and thus she decided to take her chances with religion. The both of them had been cleaned up and given a new chance, opportunity. They were fairly compensated for the admittedly menial labour they did, but they were nonetheless progressing well. The Mormons had taught them to read, write, and indeed in the case of the slave even properly count, numeracy being almost as rare among slaves. There were a few children that had come with their missionary parents there, and there were also a set of orphans that had been found lost in the woods from a slaughtered caravan. Perhaps most noteworthy was Richard, or little Dick as the New Canaanites called him, wholly oblivious to the humour others might find in this. The boy had run away from his parents that - according to the boy - had been striking and otherwise abusing him. The truth was that nobody in Whitlash was yet aware the child was with them, and Conor had a growing concern that when found out, this would become a great point of contention between the Missionaries and the rest of the community. If the parents would come for their son the Mormons would almost certainly stand their ground with arms at the ready if need be. If they came with a great many people behind them, this would not change things. Though well armed and disciplined they would certainly not hold their own against any sizeable mob. 

Looking to his right were the more senior of the congregation. The elderly brothers Matthias and Percival, and Brother Marcus just beside them. Then were arranged they that were couples, before terminating in other young folk that were nonetheless more experienced and worldly than Conor himself. He could have been further along the great table, but once more it was that strange brand of luck of his that got in the way. Of seeing all around him perish, of nobody, no community to make a future with and thus always starting anew. With the morning meal complete, the flock dispersed for their duties, with Conor having the unceremonious job of going through the inventory they had for the moment. Once done, he found there was a brief respite before it was time to help Percival make more stimpaks and thus he simply decided to go for a walk across Whitlash to clear his head from racing thought.

As the bells of the town hall rang, he supposed it was fortuitous that he was out here, for he could have a head-start on getting to the hall. Once there, he would politely stand over a seat as had become custom for most of the Mormons in Whitlash whenever such a meeting was convened: rather than taking a seat for themselves, they were reserving it for the elderly or otherwise struggling that would find it better served for them. While awaiting the arrival of such, Conor simply retrieved a Bible from his coat and resumed reading it.