Confession Who: Helena and OPEN Where: All Saints Cathedral, Old Town, Gotham When: The day after this What: Helena repents, and is sorry for it a moment later
The atmosphere was solemn, somber. Mass had ended and yet Helena lingered, as she did every Sunday. When the vaulted space had emptied, she stood and strolled to the left of the altar. She picked a tinder out of a small box, lit it and used it to light two of the candles lined up in massive rows. Mother, she thought, her brother. She paused and then reminded herself, murmuring it under her breath, "Forgiveness." Father, she thought, lighting a third. She blew out her tinder and placed it aside.
Taking a deep breath, she headed toward the confessionals. Others were waiting; some saw her and moved out of her way, an old habit that still made her frown. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned," she said softly as she sat in the small booth, the cushion beneath her bum velvet, the screen to her left an ornate brass pattern.
"When was your last confession?"
"Seven days ago," she replied and raised her eyebrow when the priest responded, "Very diligent." He cleared his throat. "Tell me, my child."
She was trying to place the voice. It wasn't Father Michael, or Father Walter. Maybe that was a good thing; she had started to think that they had begun to recognize her voice. "I gave into my wrath. I hit someone who didn't deserve to be hit."
"No impure thoughts?"
Helena frowned, a crease carving it's way down the middle of her brow. "Father...," she said cautiously, suspiciously. Her muscles were tensing, unconsciously, instinctively.
"To bad, I like them impure thoughts," the voice behind the screen said, a steel muzzle appearing in the brass. "Well, I'd tell you to do ten Hail Marys and get the hell over it, but, fuck it, I've got a better cure for the soul. The Rogue's Rebellion sends its regards." The gun fired, blowing the screen away, unloading the magazine into the tight space. When the dust and plaster began to settle, a face peered through the ruined screen, frowning as the eyes glanced downward, looking for her body.
"Up here, big boy," she said huskily, her hands and foot braced against the walls of the booth, her back against the ceiling as her other foot swung down to hit the man in the face.
"Fuck, you broke my nose, you little bitch!" he said, his voice sounding thick, nasally, angry. She could hear him reloading, shoving another mag into his Sig Sauer automatic. Helena fell to the floor and pushed out of the confessional before the second blast of fire, the confused people sitting among the pews staring, uncomprehending.
"Move!" she yelled, throwing herself behind a pew as bullets ripped through the wood all around her. She heard the confessional door swing open and rolled beneath the bench, onto her stomach, watching his Gucci shoes as he calmly walked the aisles, searching for her calmly. An assassin. Mob, it had to be. Falcone? They were the only ones who would dare. This was a sanctuary, a sacred place. Forgive me, father, she thought, clenching her teeth, for I'm about to sin again.
She swept her feet out as he passed her, the man going down as she rolled herself out from under the pew and used her legs to clutch his neck, his firearm going off wildly. If he hurt anyone on her behalf.... And then she realized, she couldn't hurt anyone in church. Dammit! She kicked him in the face, listening to him howl as she crushed his already broken nose.
She scrambled to her feet, still shouting at the other worshipers to run. This was not the kind of publicity she needed right now, she thought angrily, gritting her teeth. Two more men appeared around the altar. To their surprise, she ran right toward them. "Have a little respect!" she spat out, grabbing a stone pillar and swinging herself out toward them, catching one unaware, right in the face; the other ducked and moved the moment she set down. She grabbed him by the wrist, twisted, trying to break it, as she rolled, almost as if she were putting herself into his embrace, her back to his chest, and elbowed him in the gut hard.
There were sirens approaching now as she panted, her hair now loose and sweaty, one of her best dresses ruined. People looked at her with frightened eyes as if she were the bad guy; that was okay, she was used to it, in so many ways. A man was standing, looked almost as if he wanted to help her. She spotted the gun man behind him the moment he spotted the one behind her and pointed. She ran and vaulted over the pews until she collided with the man, the two gun men shooting one another. She landed hard on top of the man who looked up at her, blinked in surprise and muttered, "Forgive me father, but I'm having some impure thoughts." Helena rolled her eyes and pushed herself up.