Disclaimer: No characters here are mine.
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She wore a hood, unobtrusive grey, and equally dull gloves. The hood went down to become a cloak over a black long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans. Blanched white, her knuckles were the only skin visible where the gloves had worn away. Even her face had receded into the shadows, as if hiding from the light.
Like her, the church had seemingly given up on radiance. Long since broken, the lock was no longer a barrier to the inside. Stained glass littered the floor. It cracked beneath her sneakers. The entire building had the destitution that claimed its God had left it.
As if in contrast, a hole in the ceiling revealed a sky marred by turmoil. Roiling and twisting, the clouds embodied anger and pain. Perfectly fitting for what was to be done.
Slowly, tentatively, she removed the hood. The face was beautiful, long-lashed with dark Japanese eyes.
But beauty, like hope, never existed.
The dark Japanese eyes looked apathetic, the full lips chapped, a scar along a cheek that would have otherwise shamed chinaware. Moving her hands up, she paused. She had never been religious before, but currently she found herself coming to churches, passing like smoke through villages, praying to a different god every day in hopes one would help her. The lips parted enough to filter carefully selected words out.
"Dear God, my Lord, I beg of thee to help me. Let me balance the scales since tipped -", Here she paused, gathering an uncertain breath. "Bring to justice those that have shamed me, my family."
Words, rearranged, but still a thousand times said. She pulled the gloves off, unveiling two ghost-white hands. By any definition, not natural. Closer inspection would have revealed tiny microchips, information systems, wires and mechanical tracings just beneath the skin.
So long since the Reavers had left one of their own to die. So long ago had she been abandoned by her closest companions, her minions, her cohorts. It didn't matter to her anymore. She'd never had anyone to rely on in her life; this was no different.
"I pray to thee to give me a chance, even if my life must be taken in return."
She had the opportunity. Years of training and suffering would finally pay off. She could avenge her family, take the life of the man called Wolverine. The one held responsible for her pain could be brought to justice.
"Let me finish my father's work, let me die with the knowledge that my honor is upheld."
There was no answer. God was holding His respective distance away from this tainted, stained creature. Her eyes rose to the hole in the ceiling, suddenly welling with bitter tears. Not even the Almighty would spare the time to aid her. She needed Him, she needed someone. She couldn't do everything for herself.
"Amen."
There was still no acknowledgement of her plea. Placing the gloves back on her hands and the hood back over her head, she retreated to darkness again. Her mouth opened for a second, almost as if to cry out against her destitution, then closed. She had a place to be, a last request to be completed.
Whether it was her last request or her father's, she didn't know. A tear rolled over the scar on her cheek and along the line of her nose. Head down, she walked away, leaving the door swinging behind her.
.
.
.
She wore a hood, unobtrusive grey, and equally dull gloves. The hood went down to become a cloak over a black long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans. Blanched white, her knuckles were the only skin visible where the gloves had worn away. Even her face had receded into the shadows, as if hiding from the light.
Like her, the church had seemingly given up on radiance. Long since broken, the lock was no longer a barrier to the inside. Stained glass littered the floor. It cracked beneath her sneakers. The entire building had the destitution that claimed its God had left it.
As if in contrast, a hole in the ceiling revealed a sky marred by turmoil. Roiling and twisting, the clouds embodied anger and pain. Perfectly fitting for what was to be done.
Slowly, tentatively, she removed the hood. The face was beautiful, long-lashed with dark Japanese eyes.
But beauty, like hope, never existed.
The dark Japanese eyes looked apathetic, the full lips chapped, a scar along a cheek that would have otherwise shamed chinaware. Moving her hands up, she paused. She had never been religious before, but currently she found herself coming to churches, passing like smoke through villages, praying to a different god every day in hopes one would help her. The lips parted enough to filter carefully selected words out.
"Dear God, my Lord, I beg of thee to help me. Let me balance the scales since tipped -", Here she paused, gathering an uncertain breath. "Bring to justice those that have shamed me, my family."
Words, rearranged, but still a thousand times said. She pulled the gloves off, unveiling two ghost-white hands. By any definition, not natural. Closer inspection would have revealed tiny microchips, information systems, wires and mechanical tracings just beneath the skin.
So long since the Reavers had left one of their own to die. So long ago had she been abandoned by her closest companions, her minions, her cohorts. It didn't matter to her anymore. She'd never had anyone to rely on in her life; this was no different.
"I pray to thee to give me a chance, even if my life must be taken in return."
She had the opportunity. Years of training and suffering would finally pay off. She could avenge her family, take the life of the man called Wolverine. The one held responsible for her pain could be brought to justice.
"Let me finish my father's work, let me die with the knowledge that my honor is upheld."
There was no answer. God was holding His respective distance away from this tainted, stained creature. Her eyes rose to the hole in the ceiling, suddenly welling with bitter tears. Not even the Almighty would spare the time to aid her. She needed Him, she needed someone. She couldn't do everything for herself.
"Amen."
There was still no acknowledgement of her plea. Placing the gloves back on her hands and the hood back over her head, she retreated to darkness again. Her mouth opened for a second, almost as if to cry out against her destitution, then closed. She had a place to be, a last request to be completed.
Whether it was her last request or her father's, she didn't know. A tear rolled over the scar on her cheek and along the line of her nose. Head down, she walked away, leaving the door swinging behind her.