[ it's like the start of a bad joke: so a hitman walks into a church.
it's a small church on the edge of town, in one of the slum districts where things like hitmen walking into churches are less likely to draw attention. well-attended, too, because the people out here need religion more than the ones in high places do, and also because tseng blends in better when there are more bodies around him as camouflage. he sits in the pews toward the back and listens to the mass, and when it's done he waits for most of the parishioners to filter out the front doors again before he makes his way to the confessional.
it's empty, fortunately, although tseng can hear the soft sound of breathing from the other side of the screen. for a moment it's almost enough to freeze him in his tracks, but the guilt wins out after a moment, and he settles onto the bench and draws the door closed behind him. ]
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, [ he says, his voice lower than it needs to be, just loud enough to be audible. ] It has been—fifteen years since my last confession.
[ a long time without setting foot in a church. tseng was raised religious, back when he was being raised at all, but in the wake of all that had happened he had turned his back on the church and never looked back. well, at least not until now. he isn't sure what brought him here today, other than the accumulated weight of all his sins crushing his lungs like pounds of concrete.
he looks down at his hands. one of them is wrapped in a bandage, evidence of a fight he'd ended the night before. perhaps this too is a sin: to walk into the house of god still bearing the physical scars of transgression. ]
no subject
it's a small church on the edge of town, in one of the slum districts where things like hitmen walking into churches are less likely to draw attention. well-attended, too, because the people out here need religion more than the ones in high places do, and also because tseng blends in better when there are more bodies around him as camouflage. he sits in the pews toward the back and listens to the mass, and when it's done he waits for most of the parishioners to filter out the front doors again before he makes his way to the confessional.
it's empty, fortunately, although tseng can hear the soft sound of breathing from the other side of the screen. for a moment it's almost enough to freeze him in his tracks, but the guilt wins out after a moment, and he settles onto the bench and draws the door closed behind him. ]
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, [ he says, his voice lower than it needs to be, just loud enough to be audible. ] It has been—fifteen years since my last confession.
[ a long time without setting foot in a church. tseng was raised religious, back when he was being raised at all, but in the wake of all that had happened he had turned his back on the church and never looked back. well, at least not until now. he isn't sure what brought him here today, other than the accumulated weight of all his sins crushing his lungs like pounds of concrete.
he looks down at his hands. one of them is wrapped in a bandage, evidence of a fight he'd ended the night before. perhaps this too is a sin: to walk into the house of god still bearing the physical scars of transgression. ]