It all began with one of those moments—the kind where the mind blanks, the world seems to dissolve, and all you can think is: oh, shit.
The kind of moment where there's no coming back from whatever was just done, seen, or heard. Such moments usually sent Era running for cover—straight into a dark room where she could lose herself in a show or a game, anything to distract from the altered reality just beyond her bedroom door. Eventually, though, there was always the inevitable need to emerge and face the music.
The technical term, according to her last therapist, was an avoidant coping mechanism - advice she'd received during her mandatory post-mission therapy sessions ( courtesy of the departement.)
Supposedly, it was meant to help with "de-stressing." Era thought it was all rubbish. Nothing stressed her more than that therapist's lumpy couch.
Still, perhaps if she'd taken the advice seriously, she wouldn't have ran away and ended up in a run-down convent in rural North Yorkshire where it all began- or I suppose, ended.
One year ago:
Mother Superior was furious again. Her jaw trembling so violently, it seemed liable to unhinge from the joint entirely.
For someone devoted to worship, she spent an impressive amount of time bowing before the father of contention rather than God the Father Era noted.
Her face was aflame, her greyish complexion now, momentarily lit with the healthy pink glow of life—a paradoxical benefit to her anger. Not, that Era would risk to point out, at fear her head would detach clean off and come hurdling towards Era, fangs bared, like the Nukekubi demon.
That image would haunt her forever.
Besides, Era had no intention of shifting Mother Superior's rage onto herself. She would turn her cheek ( using her own interpretation of the holy verse ) and look away, respectfully protecting her own peace. That was before she realised just who was under the firing line.
It was Sister Michaels—dear, stupid Dorene, and her unfortunate weakness for biscuits. The poor woman had devoured the last of the chocolate digestives, leaving Mother Superior bereft of her beloved evening treat. On a Sunday, no less, when the supermarkets were long closed.
Sinful.
Sister Michaels was guilt-stricken beyond comprehension, displaying all the sorry and self-loathing of an addict, which unfortunately for her only made it all the worse. It was a well known fact, that the more stressed Dorene became, the more uncontrolable her twitching eye became. She was winking almost every ten seconds now, fueling Mother Superior's rage even further.
The boiling point was imminent, and when it arrived, Era knew what she had to do: step in, whisk Dorene away, and sort out the mess. That meant a trip to the 24-hour shop for an overpriced pack of McVitie's—a task that weighed more heavily on her shoulders than it had any right to.
Not long ago, she had been a field operative, traveling the globe to save lives and restore balance. It was a life of quiet, karmic justice—hardly the mundane martyrdom of biscuit retrieval. But the life had caught up with her, and Era had sought refuge in faith.
Inspired by the greats, the likes of Johnny English and Ace Ventura, she'd envisioned a new beginning in a picturesque Italian monastery, basking in the sun and sampling God's blood via fine wines from their private winery.
All for the sake of divine repentance, of course. A trully honest, pure-intended sacrifce.
That dream had lasted precisely three months before she was rellocated to the damp English countryside without so much as a say in the matter.
Dorene really ought to have learned her lesson by now, Era thought. She couldn't remember a time her evenings had been free of errand. Something always seemed to come up. Perhaps her trips were coddling them all, preventing them from truly learning from their mistakes?
Era recgonised the evil whispers of the devil to abandon her comrades.
She listened.
She was still a newbie to all this after all, surely her transgressions would be forgiven.
The biscuits can wait. It was time for Dorene to learn a lesson—one that might curb her penchant for confectionary theft, while coincedently freeing her of an uphill battle against the torturous English weather along pesky cobblestone pavements which haboured every intention of breaking her ankles.
Era shut her door, blocking out the screeches and wails, and had a nice nap instead.
When she awoke, Era felt ashamed. She had abandomed her sister before Christ. To repent for her sins, she decided to seek forgiveness before God in the chapel, which was coincidentally a perfect hideaway from the others and doubled down as an excuse to make up for her absence.
Skipping down the corridor, Era neared the chapel. As she approached, a hum of voices reached her ears. Strange. It was usually empty. ( the irony did pass her by.)
Curiosity prickled at her instincts, an instinct of her former life. She dismissed the unease, reasoning it was probably a group of nuns escaping Mother Superior's wrath, much like herself. But as she crept closer, the atmosphere seemed heavier, charged with something heavy.
Her steps lightened automatically, her years of training stirring despite herself. Pressing her ear to the door, she caught snippets of words: "package," "hurry."
None of it sounded remotely prayer-like. Not that she had commited herself to learning many.
This was preposterous.
She was in the most boring convent in the world, all her colleagues were over 60 with metal knees or hips. She could probably push them over with a breath, so why was she so nervous? Why was her skin covered in goosebumps, her heart pounding and her imagination running wild?
It's pertinent to intervene at this moment and mention, one should always trust one's instinct.
Era didn't, before doubt could hold her back, she flung the doors open.
The scene inside froze her in place.
Her mind blanked. The world melted away.
The chapel was packed, nuns lined along the pews in what could only be described as an assembly line. But their clapsed hands weren't folded in prayer; no, they were busy, wrapping packages of brown paper and tape. Some were already open, spilling fine white powder over the alter.
It probably would have taken her aback- I mean anyone would be shocked by the sight of nuns packaging bricks of cocaine, if not for the body-
Hovering, two metres from the ground.
"Oh, Shit."