There is no justice. There's just me.

who: lenore
where: the ghetto/a church in the ghetto. lots of ghetto.
when: dawn

Head bowed, her dark hair falling softly forwards, Lenore spoke to God. Even though her face was bleeding and her hands were stained with the remains of the girl she had just stuck with a knife not 20 minutes ago, she still knelt before the Alter and clasped those stained hands and let God into her heart, to take away her sins and to fill her with her purpose.
Let me be your instrument, she felt the prayer flow through her like silk, her Rosary beads clutched in between strawberry coloured fingers, Let me walk as your oblivion on Earth. This was her sacred space. Her moments to be with the Lord before her day continued, before she went home, washed off the grime, and went about the rest of her business. "Normal" business.

It was a quiet little church, in the slums they always were, and Mass was not for a good 2 hours yet. Just Lenore and the peace of Holy ground. Lenore and her God. Her knees pressed into the plush of carpet, Lenore considered what had been the previous part of her morning. It wasn't a sin, that part - other things she had done were sinful but never the Death. The dying? They were her calling.

earlier...

It was a job that really could've been done without the use of an assassin. There were complexities, though, due to the girl's boyfriend being a heavyset drug dealer with a lot of friends - there was only had a small window of time to get to her without having to get into a big noisy gunfight. The silence was the point of it. The fear it would put into the others. The uncertainty. Lenore didn't so much think about the reasoning though. She tried not to delve too deep into the complex nastiness. She just liked to focus on the act itself.

Glad that the rain had slowed to a mere drizzle, even if it was only momentarily, she flipped her collar against the chill of the early morning air and the slight zing of rain and continued her brisk walk towards her job. For all her talk of loving thunder she really didn't enjoy turning up to appointments looking damp and dishevelled. Her grey coat was lined with red satin and wrapped tight against her frame, her stockings were thick and woollen, too, because it was a ridiculously cold morning and she liked to be insulated well. She was calm. Calmer than her brisk pace and set jaw would reveal. She had pleasant thoughts in her mind, thoughts of Angelo who she would meet much later tonight, and the strange connection she felt they had forged at the bar. The artist and the nurse. The storyteller and the death bringer.

Thoughts too, of the place she was going. It had been a long time since she'd had a job of this kind - nearly a month. And she had missed it. Working the wards brought Death, too, and souls who needed her hand to guide them through the hallways of their time of dying. But it was not the same. She liked to be the instrument, not just the witness. She enjoyed the tingle it sent down her spine.

It was a long walk from her apartment, but as she had got home late last night the freshness of the air during sunrise was nice. Awakening. She walked for a good 40 minutes before she was sure she had found the place. Dirty mesh windows and peeling blue paint. She double checked the address she had been given and sharply rapped her knuckles against the door. An action which was not warranted, for with the first strike the door swung open. Lenore stepped quite confidently into the dank little apartment and peered through the gloom at the figure sat at the kitchen table. A figure staring at her, trembling slightly, and now pulling herself to her feet. She took a few steps towards Lenore looking aghast.

Lenore smiled curtly at the gaunt little whore before her and she too, stepped into the shabby room and faced her client with a brazen sort of confidence, considering she was quite obviously not welcome.
"Hello, dear. You're Michaela, aren't you? Michaela Bronson?"

Lenore spoke softly, kindly, her smile never leaving her face. The girl she was addressing nodded. Must've been a girl. No way you could say such an underfed, bleary eyed blonde was a woman. Not even close. And she was crying, disguising it badly behind grime and gritted teeth, but crying none the less.
"Yeah, how'd you know? What you want? The fuck are you?" The girl sounded panicked, and was obviously putting on a harder edge than she really possessed. Her knuckles were clenched too tight for her to be anything other than petrified.

"You've been stealing money, sweetheart," said Lenore, firm and straight to the point, "You've got some boyfriend who you probably think is going to save you from all the horror, and you've been giving him huge cuts of your employers profits, and they've found out, and they can't forgive you, even though you're meaningless, a cog in their big scary machine, not worth even the price I charge - an example must be made," Lenore was not being aggressive or cruel in the way she spoke. She was stating facts, and she was trying to soothe the poor girl with her tone and the gentleness of her face. Lenore hated to watch the lamb cry, "But you're not meaningless to me. You mustn't be scared. There's nothing you can do now. It's all such a horrible shame, but here it is, your time."

The girl's face - Michaela, Lenore liked to keep the name fresh in her mind, the names were important - was pale and streaky. And then it flashed, contorted in pain and fear. She shrieked and slapped Lenore. Hard. Lenore's head whipped to the side with the force of it and she felt the sting of nails underneath her right eye. An act of fury and panic which she would not begrudge the girl. Rage was one of the steps of bereavement, after all, and it was good in a way - to feel that shock of life fighting back in the face of death. The girl stepped back from Lenore looking horrified, her fingers curled by her gaping mouth, shaking with terror, what she had just done seemed to be sinking in as a very foolish move.

"Oh God. I'm sorry, please just don't hurt me. They sent you to do me in? Oh please. I'll get Ray to pay it all back, I promise, him and his mates will all be back soon, Please...."
Lenore sighed, and shook her head slowly. "Quiet now, dear-heart. It's time to be quiet."
And that was when Lenore slipped the blade from her sleeve, and plunged it through the girl's chest, through the ribcage, and into the heart. Too quickly and smoothly for there to be any real attempt at avoidance - she was a professional, after all. Michaela gasped and pulled away as best she could, but Lenore's grip was strong - she made 'hushing' noises and kept the girl close, cradling her - although being careful not to get splattered with blood. Still smiling, still with gentle, sad eyes.
"There now, my poor angel. You don't have to worry about it any more."

The girl coughed a wet spray of blood in an attempt to sob, her ribcage heaving and rattling in Lenore's arms, and then the spark was simply gone. The life had flooded out of the girl just as was meant to have happened. Lenore could feel the peace, the maudlin serenity. She breathed it deeply in the air, and then Lenore smoothed Michaela's ratty blonde hair away from her face, closed her eyelids, and left the lightest of kisses on her left cheek. And then just as swiftly as Lenore had arrived she was gone.

She stalked away from the house, head high, back straight, pace swift. Using a black rag to wipe the blood from the blade (which she pocketed) and her hands, she sighed, wishing she had a bigger time window to savour the corpse. But boyfriend and co would be back soon. She then pocketed the rag. Never leave a trace behind. She found a payphone fairly quickly (she'd sighted it before, casing the neighbourhood a few days ago) and rang her employer. Three rings. Hang up. Call again. Two rings. Hang up. Wipe down the handset for prints, leave. The whole process took maybe a minute.

And now, there was church to attend.