Journey's End

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, hiding away from the altered reality just beyond her door. 

 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 department.)

 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, 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 prior:

 Mother Superior was furious again. Her jaw trembled so violently that Era half-expected it to unhinge entirely.

Frankly, it was putting her off her supper.

 For someone sworn to a life of worship, Mother Superior—Sister Maria—seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time bowing to the father of contention rather than God the Father. Her face was aflame, her usually pallid complexion now glowing with an uncharacteristically healthy pink hue—a paradoxical gift of her anger. Not that Era would dare point it out, lest she find her own head detached and hurtling towards her, fangs bared, like the legendary Nukekubi demon.

 That image would haunt her for the rest of her days.

 Still, Era had no intention of inviting the wrath of Mother Superior. Best to keep her head down, turn the other cheek, and let the storm blow over. She would finish her soup in peace, slip away to the sanctuary of her bedroom, and leave the mess for someone else to clean up.

 That was the plan—until she realised just who had found themselves in the crosshairs.

 It was Sister Michaels. Dear, hapless Dorene, with her unholy weakness for biscuits.

 The poor woman must have devoured the last of the chocolate digestives again. A grievous sin, considering it was Mother Superior's most cherished evening indulgence. Worse yet, this was a Sunday—when the supermarkets were closed, leaving no hope for replacements.

 Blasphemy, Era thought dryly.

 Sister Michaels, overcome with guilt, was practically grovelling. Her wide, twitching eye—always a dead giveaway in moments of stress—only made things worse. It was common knowledge that the more anxious Dorene became, the more erratic her winking grew.

 Mother Superior was not amused.

 The boiling point was near. Era could feel it simmering, ready to explode. When it did, there would be no escaping the fallout. She had to intervene. Whisk Dorene away, smooth things over, and procure an overpriced pack of McVitie's from the 24-hour corner shop. It was a simple enough task, yet it carried the weight of the world—or at least the weight of the impending week, which would otherwise be filled with collective punishment.

 How far she had fallen.

 Six months ago, Era had been a field operative, chasing criminals across the globe, dismantling crime syndicates, and thwarting terrorist plots. It had been a life of silent, karmic justice. Now, here she was—reduced to the mundane martyrdom of biscuit diplomacy.

 It hadn't always been like this. Era had envisioned a retirement worthy of a spy-turned-penitent: sipping God's blood at a serene Italian monastery, basking in the sun, and reconciling her sins in peace. A picturesque life of quiet faith.

 Instead, she'd been reassigned to the damp, bone-chilling English countryside, a fate thrust upon her with all the enthusiasm of a death sentence.

 Her days were now filled with prayer, sweeping, and enduring Mother Superior's broadband tyranny, which allowed precisely one hour of internet access each evening. That hour was Era's one solace, her chance to escape into the world of her favourite TV show. And now, thanks to Dorene's sticky fingers, it would be squandered trudging along uneven cobblestones in search of overpriced biscuits.

 Dorene really ought to have learned her lesson by now, Era thought sourly.

 But as Era considered the situation further, a wicked little whisper crept into her thoughts: Perhaps it was time Dorene faced the consequences of her actions. Perhaps this was a lesson best learned the hard way.

 Era recognised the sinister whispers of the Devil encouraging her to abandon her comrade.

 She listened.

 After all, Era was still a novice at this whole penitence thing. Surely her transgressions would be forgiven.

 Decision made, she quietly slipped away from the dining hall, ignoring the searing gaze she could feel burning into the back of her head—no doubt Dorene's silent plea for salvation. Era made her way to the common room, settled into her favourite chair, and turned on her show. For a while, she revelled in the escape. But after thirty minutes, guilt crept in like an unwelcome shadow.

 She had abandoned her sister in Christ.

 Sighing, she made her way to the chapel, Dorene was probably there licking her wounds. At the very least, Era should apologise. As she approached the chapel, the air grew heavier, colder somehow, and her footsteps on the worn stone floor felt unnaturally loud. She slowed, her ears catching something unusual—a low hum of voices.

 It wasn't the familiar murmur of prayer. This was different—sharper, urgent. Words like "shipment" and "package" floated through the crack in the door, each one colder than the last.

 A chill ran down her spine.

 Instinct screamed at her to walk away, to let this be someone else's problem. But curiosity—or perhaps the stubborn defiance that had served her well in her former life—kept her rooted in place. Her fingers brushed the wood of the door, and she leaned closer, straining to hear.

 The faint, acrid smell of chemicals drifted out, hitting her like a blow to the gut. It was familiar in a way that twisted her stomach into knots. She hesitated. She should leave. Whatever was happening here wasn't her concern—not anymore. And yet, before her rational mind could intervene, she pushed the doors open.

 The scene inside froze her in place.

 Nuns lined the pews, their hands moving in a mechanical rhythm as they wrapped packages of brown paper and tape. The altar, once a sacred space, was now littered with open bricks of fine white powder.

And there, hovering two meters above the ground, was a body—pale, lifeless, and utterly still.

 Era's mind blanked. The world dissolved.

 "Oh, shit."

--------------------

The moment Era stepped into the chapel, she knew she'd made a mistake. Not the kind of mistake you could laugh off later, like setting your toast on fire or forgetting to feed the convent cat (though that particular feline had a way of making its displeasure known).

 No, this was the sort of mistake that ended with your limbs stuffed into separate black bin bags and dumped into a canal—or worse, floating two meters off the ground, pale and lifeless, while a cadre of nuns packed cocaine on the altar below.

 Not that Era was floating just yet. But give it time.

 Every head in the room snapped toward her as the heavy chapel door creaked shut behind her. The nuns froze mid-motion, their hands clutching brown paper. They looked like they'd been caught doing something they really shouldn't have been doing.

 Which, to be fair, they had.

But Era could easily forgive the narcotics, it was the body that was the real problem. It was a man's corpse, pale and slack, hanging in mid-air like some kind of macabre party decoration. His skin had a faint blue tint, and his head lolled at an angle that suggested his final moments had been anything but peaceful.

 Era's brain, ever helpful in moments of crisis, offered a single coherent thought: He's seen better days.

"I'll... just let you get back to it," she stammered, her voice cracking as she took a shaky step backward. She was aiming for a casual delivery but it came out as the trembling squeak of a mouse auditioning for a horror movie.

 "Stop right there, Sister," a voice boomed from the shadows. Her stomach sank. That voice.

 Vicar Peter stepped forward, his presence swallowing the room like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. His broad shoulders cast long, jagged shadows across the stone floor, and his sharp, assessing eyes pinned her in place.

 "I think you should stay," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

 What on earth. Were they all in on this? Is this where they all were when she was normally engrossed in Game of Thrones?

 Era's mouth, never one to consult her brain in moments of crisis, blurted, "Uh, that's okay. I really need to use the bathroom."

Vicar Peter's eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, his polished shoes clicking against the stone floor.

 Era's pulse quickened. She glanced around the room, searching for an ally, but the nuns only stared at her with cold, accusing eyes.

 Traitors, she thought bitterly. I bought them biscuits.

 The floating body chose that moment to rotate slowly in the air, its lifeless eyes locking onto hers. Era's stomach lurched. She clenched her jaw, fighting back the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

"So, this is the one you mentioned, Mother Superior?" Vicar Peter said, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

 "Yes," Mother Superior replied, her voice as cold and sharp as the frost creeping into Era's bones. "She transferred here a month ago. Our contacts said she wasn't H.V.N., but now I'm not so sure."

 H.V.N.? Era's thoughts raced. A rival organisation? A cult? She didn't have time to ponder. Vicar Peter was closing in, and every instinct she had screamed at her to move.

 Her hand drifted to the knife strapped to her thigh, fingers brushing the familiar weight. It had been an age since she last used it or needed it, but she was grateful her old habits had remained. Then, the body above began to glow, faint blue light leaking from its pores like ghostly fire. Era's breath hitched as a gelatinous substance began to ooze from its skin. 

That wasn't normal....

"It's happening," Mother Superior whispered, awe and fear warring in her voice. "Quickly! To your positions!"

 The nuns moved as one, scrambling into formation with military precision. Holding up glass conical flasks like chalices, they collected the dripping slime as If it was holy water. The corpse shrivelled as it drained, flesh collapsing inward, its glow fading with each drop until it was nothing more than a brittle husk.

 Era's pulse thundered in her ears. This wasn't some bizarre ritual—it was coordinated. Controlled. Practised.

 What nightmare has she stumbled upon? 

Her legs trembled, threatening to buckle beneath her. She had to get out—now. Forget this ever happened. Go find a therapist. Or maybe an exorcist. Preferably both.

 She took a cautious step toward the door.

"Leaving so soon?" Mother Superior's voice slithered through the chaos, cold and sharp as broken glass.

Era froze.

A sickening weight settled in her stomach as she turned. Mother Superior stood motionless, her head tilting—no, snapping—to one side with an audible crack. Too far. Farther than any human neck should bend.

Her lips peeled back into a grin, stretched too wide, revealing teeth that looked too many, too sharp. Her eyes, black pits glistening in the dim light, locked onto Era's. And then, slowly, she took a step forward—her movements jerky, unnatural, as if something inside her was struggling to control the body it wore.

 OH FUCK NO, Era thought.

Before she could even gasp, an unseen force seized her throat and wrenched her off the ground, as Mother Superior lifted her hand. The air was torn from her lungs in a strangled choke as her feet kicked uselessly beneath her. Fingers clawed at nothing, desperate for something—anything—to fight against, but there was only emptiness.

Her vision swam, darkness creeping in at the edges. A crushing pressure coiled tighter around her neck, an iron grip squeezing the life from her. Her body screamed for air, instincts howling in panic, all the while, Sister Maria stared up at her, her glee erupting from her expression. 

This is the worst sight to die to, Era decided. 

It would be greatly improved if she could sink her weapon into that crazy, psycho bitch's face. 

Her instincts roared to life. With the last of her strength, Era fumbled for her knife. Her fingers found the hilt, slippery with sweat, and she yanked it free. She hurled the blade, desperation lending her aim a precision she couldn't have managed otherwise.

 The blade whistled through the air.

And, missed.

Just her luck.

 Mother Superior was infuriatingly free of injury, but the blade had hit someone.

 A waterfall of crimson poured from Vicar Peter's neck. His fingers rushed to contain the wound, but it was pointless. In a moment, he was on his knees, his gurgling rambles replaced by eery silence.

 Eh, I'll take it, Era reasoned.

Her end was near. 

What a way to go. 

At least her life hadn't flashed before her eyes like in the movies- it had been a pretty shitty existence. 

Perhaps God would grant her a redo. Maybe she'd come back as a hero, someone noble and strong. No, she decided, a weak, bitter smile curling her lips. A life of quiet, of solitude—that was what she truly wanted.

Fate had other plans.

The ceiling exploded.