Premeditated Sin

“Momo,” the Metropolitan calls as Momo explodes from the bathroom stall and out the door. By the time she opens her own stall, the hinges are already creaking closed. “Huh,” she sighs, retaking her seat on the porcelain throne. Her head falls into her hand as she rubs her forehead and eyebrows. “Way to go, me. You pushed her too far,” she murmurs.

The curtains billow in the soft spring breeze, prompting her to look up at her angel’s visible form. He has no face or body, only a small cyclone swirling into the all-seeing Eye of God that stares down upon her. “Well, go ahead,” she says, resting her cheek into her fist. “I know you’ve got a whole lecture prepared, so you might as well tell me before we leave. That way, I can reflect on my actions on the way home.”

She rests her elbow on the back of the porcelain throne, eyes closed, preparing to receive the lecture like a stone on the shore.

“Her guardian, I’ve besought

That she may not weep this night

Nor shall her heart fail.”

Her angel’s words flow like the wind, despite his tone being as stern as a mountain’s foundation.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” The Metropolitan says with a wave of her hand. “I was about to request that after your lecture.”

“Your words are faulty

Devoid of true life or worth

Sway me, they shall not.”

“You know, I found the only-speaking-in-haiku thing really endearing when we first met, but now I’d really prefer plain Japanese. Please and thank you.”

“My words concern you?

Then be swayed and seek His will

Such is my duty.”

The Metropolitan sighs, pressing her fan against her forehead and murmuring, “Now I understand why Mom lived off wine and chocolate in the bath.” She remains like that for a moment, breathing deeply as she processes her thoughts and plans her next move.

"God, I’ve heard your call and know what your will is," she prays in her mind, the one place her angel will never hear. "I understand Joseph in prison and Jonah in the whale’s belly. Please, have Pharaoh send for me, or spit me onto the shores of Nineveh, so that I may—"

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER!” shouts a voice from outside. The volume and intensity make the Metropolitan shudder. She nearly jumps from her seat, only catching herself on the toilet paper dispenser.

“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR WHAT SHE DID!” the voice screams again.

“Rosary?” the Metropolitan murmurs, exiting her stall and glancing out the still-open window.

The view from outside is blurry, as if through a fogged mirror, revealing only two shadowy figures.

"Must be Rosary if he’s blocking my sight," the Metropolitan thinks, glancing at her angel. She knows anonymity is second only to righteousness for a Maiden’s identity. A Maiden’s true identity is a closely guarded secret, known only to Maidens she knows outside the Order. It is a precaution against systematic collapse should any Maiden turn traitor. To this end, each guardian blocks his charge from ever seeing any untransfigured Maiden, as well as any person or place familiar to her. Even now, the Metropolitan isn’t sure where she is. She knows she’s in Rosary’s church, but what church, or even its location, is blocked from her mind.

"So who is she having a screaming match with outside her church?" the Metropolitan wonders as she watches.

She follows even the slightest movement, the tone of Rosary’s voice, and the intensity of the blur, squeezing every ounce of information from the interaction. She’s so engrossed that she nearly falls out the window when the bathroom door suddenly slams open. Another shadowy figure bursts through, clatters to the sink, and turns the faucet on full force.

The Metropolitan watches as thick streams of blood spew from the figure’s face, making the whole bathroom look like a murder scene. For a moment, she feels compelled to tell Rosary to call an ambulance, lest this person die in front of her. But as the figure gags and spits, she notices something unusual. Though her face and body are hidden like everyone else, the Metropolitan can hear her perfectly fine, just like Rosary.

"Wait. If I can hear her but not see her, she must be a Maiden I know…" Her mind clicks. "But the only other one who should be close to Rosary is…"

“Mist,” the Metropolitan calls, remaining in the firmament lest someone else come check on her. The shadow doesn’t respond, understandable, given the amount of blood coming from her blurred face.

“Mist!” the Metropolitan calls again, all but stepping out of the firmament. When she still gets no response, she turns to her angel, eyes pleading for confirmation. “Just tell me if she’s Mist or not! If she is, have her angel stop the bleeding. If not, let me know so I can have Rosary get help.”

For a moment, her angel remains motionless, his Eye shifting between the Metropolitan and the shadowy figure without a word. Finally, his gaze returns to the Metropolitan.

“She is, as you say

Intervention is at hand

Sin is paid by blood.”

His words are cold, contemptuous, almost. The Metropolitan cocks her head in confusion, and then notices something: her angel seems to be avoiding her, as if she’s radioactive.

"It couldn’t be…" she thinks, reaching out a hand toward Mist.

The Metropolitan intends to touch Mist’s shoulder, but even as she approaches, she feels a tingling sensation in her fingertips. As her fingers draw closer, the tingle turns to pins and needles.

“Ah!” she yips, finally making contact, only for it to feel like a cactus. It is like shoving her hand into a pile of thorns, and she feels power being sucked out of her like a vacuum. She jerks her hand back as blood trickles from her fingernails.

"What’s going on with her?" the Metropolitan thinks as she sucks on her bleeding nail. "To be carrying this much sin within her is…"

Her mind scrambles for the word. Concerning, troublesome, even alarming, don’t convey the threat. If she can draw blood with a mere touch, it may go beyond dangerous and into treasonous.

"What did you do, Mist?" the Metropolitan wonders.

Mist’s bleeding finally subsides. No doubt the Metropolitan absorbs some of Mist’s sin by touching her, finally allowing Mist’s angel to regain control of the situation.

“There’s holy water here, right?” the Metropolitan asks, turning to her angel. “Lead me to it once she’s finished. In the meantime, gather all the details you can from her angel. If she’s this disconnected from God, then as her Metropolitan I have not just the right to know, but a duty to investigate.”

She watches as Mist stops her own bleeding and cleans up the sink. She continues watching as Mist wipes up the blood outside the bathroom. The whole time, the Metropolitan never stops gripping her finger, applying pressure to slow the oozing blood.

As she watches Mist, she keeps glancing at her angel, waiting for him to share the details of his interrogation.

Finally, as Mist exits the church, the Metropolitan receives a folded piece of paper from her angel. She unfolds it, nearly tearing it in the process. As she reads, a slight smile forms across her lips as the gears in her brain turn.

“This is…” she murmurs, eyes gliding across the page. “This is…”

"Useful," she thinks, then crumples the paper and hands it back to her angel. "No. No. No. No. NO!" she screams in her mind.

"No. I will not stoop to that. I’m better than that," she murmurs to herself, berating herself for even thinking something so insidious.

"Use Mist’s decrepit state to weaken my competition, then galvanize Rosary to action. How absurd," she thinks, pacing toward the holy water.

"Mist’s sin must’ve rubbed off on me. That’s it," she murmurs, staring down into the pool in the entryway.

"There’s no way I’d ever come up with an idea so blasphemous. It’s unbecoming… ruthlessly efficient… cunning… practical…"

She stares down into the basin of holy water. In her transfigured state, there is no reflection to see; even if there were, she would douse it immediately. The Metropolitan dips her finger into the basin. The tingling sensation fades at once as she stirs the water, disturbed by the thought.

“No need to share your opinion,” she says, avoiding eye contact with her angel. “I already know what I should do, so there’s no need to waste your words.”

“At Patroclus’s death

Beholden to you no more

Achilles rages.”

“Yeah, yeah. If Jesus wouldn’t do it, then I shouldn’t either, I know—wait.” She stills, actually hearing him this time. “Achilles and Patroclus… why mention them unless…” The pieces click in the Metropolitan’s mind. She pulls her finger from the holy water basin. “Forgive me, Father, for I shall sin,” she says, making the sign of the cross. Her arm feels sluggish, and the holy water stings her skin. Still, she once again grasps the report; gears turning in her mind as she reads.