( content warning: compulsion powers )

[ she wakes up to hammers and vacuums, each sound hitting her brainpan like nails. there is a sour taste in her mouth; there's an ache behind her eyes that can't decide whether it wants to be a headache or something worse. strange, though — the sheets smell nice. expensive fabric conditioner, but the scent is a bit dated; it reminds her of knock-off victoria's secret, back when overpoweringly fruity colognes were their trademark right along the angels marching down a televised runway.

not home, then. not one of clemments' safehouses, either — she knows each one, memorised them all like the fine print of a king james bible. she'd remember if they had floor-to-ceiling curtain hooks installed.

good news is she's dressed, and better news is that she can still feel the thrum of angels under her skin. quieter, far quieter than she's used to, but that might be where the headache comes in. drugs, perhaps? some kind of divine curse blocking the thread? she calls to one of the cleaning girls, colouring her voice with compulsion; there is some struggle, but the girl tries to break her finger like johnny had asked.

you can stop now, she commands softly, releasing the girl from her hold and waving her out. it's time to get dressed and see what's outside. she finds her clothes folded neatly by the bedside, even her leggings; something about the smooth creases tickle her just the bit. they've cleaned her boots, too. she'll have to thank the host for the service.

freshly showered and dressed, johnny follows the noises leads to a bright outdoors. the harsh morning light pinches at her senses as she sights odd groups of people sitting together on the grass — is that a picnic breakfast? with wine? what kind of place is this?

she turns to the first person she meets and stage-whispers; ]

Are we in a cult? Blink twice if it's a yes.

( content warning: blasphemy )

[ there is a chapel. it's shiny and brand-new and empty, or empty of the angels that she knows. she can't hear them. she stands before the chapel with its painted doors and windows, and as she reaches out to call to god and his holy cohort, she gets nothing back at all. not a peep. not a whimper. not a single soul.

she could cry from relief. from anger. ]

Cold shoulder, then? [ she says to no one at all. talking to no one out loud — hasn't she cut this habit from her body years ago? god doesn't answer when she calls. that's how it's always been, and how it always will be. ] You leave me in a den of iniquity and turn away from me, when I have always been so faithful.

[ she doesn't cross the threshold. she needs—— what, an invitation? is she a vampire now? but there is a difference between being unwelcome and not being invited, and this place is not hallowed ground that knows her. (jesus looks down on her and she thinks, fuck you too.)

someone crosses her periphery and johnny comes alert, turns to the stranger and calls out. ]

They hold noon service here, do you know? Or just the morning ones? I'd like to speak with the priest, if that's all right.