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dolevalanTitle: Full of Grace
Fandom: Original. More of the exploits of Mr. Sloane.
Rating: PG-13 ish for blood.
The church was quiet. Not the hushed quiet of a holy place, a house of worship where human souls went about the business of trying to hook into something larger than themselves, or the business of trying to chase the shadows away will small flickering candles and the smell of incense.
No, the church was the quiet you found in a desert, a graveyard. A morgue. Dick made a small noise of disgust, and Arthur almost jumped. The cops who had first arrived were outside, talking with the doctors, and the coroner. Well, more the latter, really, as it was quickly apparent even to the rookie detective that there wasn’t much use for the former. At least not here.
As the two men started walking towards the altar, Arthur realized he had been wrong. It was quiet, but it was not completely still. There was a soft dripping sound, like a faucet that had been tightened almost far enough, allowing only a tiny, stubborn drop through to bore into your head. Maddening, really. He turned in the direction it was coming from, secretly relieved that he had an excuse to tear his eyes from the trio up front. A priest, an alter boy, and some third official who was neither; a trinity of sorts, left to bleed on what was most holy to them.
“Crackerjack.” Dick’s voice, though soft, resounded through the expanse of the empty sanctuary. Arthur paused without turning. “What’d you see?”
“Dunno yet. I heard something.” Arthur continued picking his way through the empty pew he had found. It was a Wednesday, and the service had been far from full. But that didn’t matter to men like O’Riley. He had wanted to get away, and he knew the cops had their eye on him every last Sunday morning, every last holiday. And though the tentative death count was about 17, the Irishman had clearly made his point regardless.
The young man suddenly stopped, staring for a moment. He had found the source of the dripping sound he heard. The woman was sprawled just in front of the confessional, as if she’d been trying to get there to hide. She’d been shot in the stomach and chest, but not in the head, and her young, girlishly pretty face was turned up, the expression pleading, as if hoping God would intervene. The blood had collected in a small pool at the bottom of the steps, dripping from where it collected at the small of her back. All Arthur could do was stare at the woman, face raised heavenwards in a last moment of supplication, and he suddenly, coldly knew something: that no matter what O’Riley and his men got for this massacre, justice would never, ever be done.
Fandom: Original. More of the exploits of Mr. Sloane.
Rating: PG-13 ish for blood.
The church was quiet. Not the hushed quiet of a holy place, a house of worship where human souls went about the business of trying to hook into something larger than themselves, or the business of trying to chase the shadows away will small flickering candles and the smell of incense.
No, the church was the quiet you found in a desert, a graveyard. A morgue. Dick made a small noise of disgust, and Arthur almost jumped. The cops who had first arrived were outside, talking with the doctors, and the coroner. Well, more the latter, really, as it was quickly apparent even to the rookie detective that there wasn’t much use for the former. At least not here.
As the two men started walking towards the altar, Arthur realized he had been wrong. It was quiet, but it was not completely still. There was a soft dripping sound, like a faucet that had been tightened almost far enough, allowing only a tiny, stubborn drop through to bore into your head. Maddening, really. He turned in the direction it was coming from, secretly relieved that he had an excuse to tear his eyes from the trio up front. A priest, an alter boy, and some third official who was neither; a trinity of sorts, left to bleed on what was most holy to them.
“Crackerjack.” Dick’s voice, though soft, resounded through the expanse of the empty sanctuary. Arthur paused without turning. “What’d you see?”
“Dunno yet. I heard something.” Arthur continued picking his way through the empty pew he had found. It was a Wednesday, and the service had been far from full. But that didn’t matter to men like O’Riley. He had wanted to get away, and he knew the cops had their eye on him every last Sunday morning, every last holiday. And though the tentative death count was about 17, the Irishman had clearly made his point regardless.
The young man suddenly stopped, staring for a moment. He had found the source of the dripping sound he heard. The woman was sprawled just in front of the confessional, as if she’d been trying to get there to hide. She’d been shot in the stomach and chest, but not in the head, and her young, girlishly pretty face was turned up, the expression pleading, as if hoping God would intervene. The blood had collected in a small pool at the bottom of the steps, dripping from where it collected at the small of her back. All Arthur could do was stare at the woman, face raised heavenwards in a last moment of supplication, and he suddenly, coldly knew something: that no matter what O’Riley and his men got for this massacre, justice would never, ever be done.
