A cloud drifted in front of the early afternoon sun, casting the valley of glass and steel into gentle shadow. Wick adjusted his jacket, picking a gap to slip back into the flow of foot traffic. From what he had seen in the reflection of the shop window, there were no signs of threats around his target. This was consistent with his previous reconnaissance, but paranoia was trained in at Langley. Passing through the stream of humanity completely unregarded, he made his way across the street and turned back toward his mark, just another unremarkable man in a suit. In his line of work, it paid to look average. In New York, on a Tuesday, everyone was a thirty-something man in a suit. Wick turned off the street and into the target doorway.

The chapel was small, even by chapel standards. Such was the price of operating in down-town Manhattan. Size counted for nothing in such things however. Wick often thought of the grandeur of the church as serving only man. For did the Lord not say, in Matthew 18:20 "For where two or three have gathered together in My name, there I am in their midst.". Therefore surely it was not for the Lord's benefit that palatial cathedrals were built? Yet to think that was to question a great many Popes, the direct voices of God on Earth. He cast aside the thought.

As was the way of things in New York City, the chapel was occupied. Children come for the guidance of their most holy Father knelt, sat, or stood. Wick counted five, none armed as far as he could tell. The spook entered, genuflected, and knelt on the hassock to contemplate his sins. It was always a complex time for him. Where did lines get drawn? Could lies told in the line of duty be considered mortal or did his profession deny him complete consent? These questions often troubled his mind in the house of God. Over the next ten minutes he got his thoughts in order.

Satisfied he knew what need be said, Wick stood and moved to the confessional. He had made sure to arrive during confession hours. He would choose to take this confession anonymously. He knew the chapel had the capacity. Entering the small space Tristin closed the door gently. He knelt before the screen, taking care to not allow his weapons to bang onto the wood in front of him. Bowing his head and crossing himself, he spoke the familiar words. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It was been five days since my last confession."  He omitted the polite self introduction. Though the priest may not understand, the Lord would. If he had miscalculated, however unlikely that might be, it would jeopardise his duty to God, and the Country.

In silence, he awaited the reading of scripture.

There was a long moment of pause, followed by the muted sound of a door opening and closing gently.

"In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit, amen." The sound of an old book opening, and a bookmark being picked.

"But now apart from the law the righteousness of God has been made known, to which the Law and the Prophets testify. This righteousness is given through faith in Jesus Christ to all who believe. There is no difference between Jew and Gentile, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and all are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus."

A deep, grating voice with an unmistakable northern irish dialect read out the verses from romans 3, the sound of an old book closing drifted into the closed confession booth.

"All men are welcome in the eyes of god. May his mercy touch your heart so that you may know your sins, and have the courage to confess."

He'd seen the man enter. He knew not who he was, though he could tell that he was armed. Armed, so perhaps not a demon. He'd been sure to pass within ten feet of the man when he'd walked in. Often, their kind had some form of reaction when being near him and his holy aura. This man did not. It did not mean he was not one of them, but it meant it wasn't as likely.

Who was he? Why was he here?

A hand slowly drifted to the sawed off double barreled CZ Redhead he kept inside the door jam of the confessional booth, one of many weapons known only to the faithful in the church. He hadn't been active enough to be investigated already, had he? Had he made a mistake so soon?

He knew he'd been seen entering. He knew he had been seen in a way that might have bothered him elsewhere. Houses of God, especially the small ones, were tight knit groups. It had been inevitable. It did mean the good Father was paying attention. The routine sweep past him would have struck Wick as more odd, if he hadn't spent so long tailing the priest. Somewhere on the other side, weight was shifting, slowly. No sound of a book being put down. Possibly reaching for something, possibly just adjusting position. Impossible to tell. Wick began confession, his usually icy cold voice thawing in the presence of the Lord's mercy, into something far more reminiscent of the man he had been before Langley.

"Since my last confession I have blasphemed the name of the Lord, and cursed a fellow man with it. I did so in anger, frustrated that he had impeded my duty." Running to the aid of the devilspawn before it could be finished off. Wick had been forced to leave it, lest he be seen well enough to recognise. His frustration had led to hasty thoughtless words. He had chastised himself already, but only in confession could he find absolution for this Mortal sin.

"I did also miss Mass and work on the Sabbath. Specifically to survey the very chapel in which he stood, and the preacher to whom he spoke. Perhaps this was his worst sin, though he considered that he did it in the name of the grave duty the Lord bestowed him.

"I have lied on no less than ten occasions, though my duty demands it still I beg the Lord's forgiveness." He had this one every confession. It came with the territory. Still it was a sin in the eyes of the Lord. A venial sin, as his job compelled him to it, but a sin all the same.

"I have failed to love my neighbour as Christ commands. When Mrs Johnson knocked on my door for assistance I ignored her need to indulge my own exhaustion." Which he did honestly feel bad about. Mrs Johnson was a good woman, a Catholic herself. They attended the same Church, when Wick had the luxury of going to his regular church. He later discovered she had needed sugar for baking, which he could have provided. Instead she had been forced to go to the store. At her age and at such a time of night, her own exhaustion must have been quite a lot more than his own.

"Finally for this confession, I did not assist one of the faithful to drive out the devil. Though he succeeded, and your holy blessings robbed the devil his power, still I feel I must confess I watched on and did not act. Remaining hidden has become an act of habit Lord, I pray forgiveness." Was it sacrilegious to use confession in such a way? It did not dishonour the sacrament, surely, to strive to further the Lord's plan during it. He felt safe, for he confessed in good faith. If the father was who Wick had deduced, which was likely, he should recognise the hint he was provided. This might bring two of God's chosen together. If this was not the Chosen of God Wick had seen, then he had not revealed so much that it would raise concern.

"I am sorry for all these sins, and the sins of my past life."

Was he imagining the tense atmosphere in the air as the man began to confess. Odd, he'd heard many confessions in his time. This one had a strange feeling to it. Like... he was letting out a tension he didn't often do. One thing for sure, he was definitely catholic.

He listened quietly as the man listed his sins. The first, standard, taking the lords name in vain was indeed a sin. It was good that he remembered it, and took it with him to confession; the father would have done the same. His hands eased away from the weapon. A brief prayer would suffice for penance.

He worked on the Sabbath. His last confession was thursday, so he'd missed his sunday service after. He could tell it pained the man to miss a service... He would have to speak to the lord from his heart to find forgiveness within himself.

He lied... though his duty demanded it. Perhaps he was a lawyer. An armed lawyer. Not likely, lawyers were cowards, and cowards didn't hide their weapons so well. A coward wanted you to know he was armed, even if he didn't know it. No, this man was something else.

He'd failed his neighbor's need. He would need to seek penance with her.

His ear tilted toward the grate as the man spoke his last confession. His fist slowly released from the weapon, and he leaned his back against the wall of the small booth. He sat silent for a moment.

His voice replied in a calm, even tone.

"All is forgiven, my child. I give thee absolution of thine sins, for the greater of god's work is yet to be done." There was a light click...

And then the sound of a pen on paper. A small scrap torn from a notepad fell through the grate of the confessional.

Written on it was a time, and a location, with no context. It was a small shipping outlet on the docks in a worse for wear slum area.

"Go with gods will, my son." A light peeked through the grate as the door opened, and shut once more.

Dockside shipping outlet, at night. Corners, alleys, containers, and elevated positions all around. Immediate access to waterways and international ships to take bodies away. The exact sort of location he would send a fool to die. Unfortunately, it was also a place where one was unlikely to be interrupted, and thus did make quite a good meeting point. Were he interested in such things, Wick might also appreciate it as a classic. As it was, he did not care for the drama and cinema of it. He cared what happened while he was there. Truly he lived a cynical life.

Wick had been on site well ahead of schedule, and was reasonably confident he was not being tailed. He would not allow himself to die through a lack of preparation or observation. An HVAC technician had cleared nearby rooftops and cranes, planting small cameras to monitor the accesses. Encrypted data sent to his phone. A curious urban photographer had made sure to study and mentally map the ways in and out. As the less savoury elements of society came out to haunt street corners and regular meeting points, an impatient businessman stood within a few short strides of a motorcycle, holding a briefcase. It contained an HK53 carbine, in case things got truly out of hand. In place of his old dart gun, under his jacket and strapped to his side, an integrally suppressed MP5. Ever since the rift had closed, Wick had been operating under the assumption he was in hostile territory. He was always ready.

The suited man checked his phone once more, then scanned the brightly moonlit 'street' again for whoever he was meeting. His rooftops were still clear, there was no suspicious activity on the street. He huffed a frustrated breath that misted before him in the cold air. A few beanie wearing dock-workers observed him as they passed, laughed, shrugged, and kept going. This was not a new sight to them, they knew all sorts of people did all sorts of business at all sorts of hours. Wick studied them surreptitiously. and listened to make sure they truly were leaving.

Patient prep. Careful footwork. Hours. Simply Hours of using and abusing connections, aquiring equipment. Placing ones self perfectly.

In stark juxtaposition, the priest watched the clock after his youth group, made a short call to Sister Martina, and then walked out to meet a summoned ride share to the general area.After picking up coffee on the way he was a few minutes late. The catholic priest, burns and all, walked down the street, occasionally waving at people he knew by name.

"Chris. Evenin. Stay warm out here! Always in a T. Insanity." He made it past the construction area, nodding at the two beanied men who walked past. "Evan, Joseph." He stopped to talk for a moment, laughed a few times, and then patted one on the shoulder, saying his goodbyes, and walking up to the meeting location.

"Terribly sorry, my son. Got caught up in a few too many good conversations on the way. Seems to happen to me. Maybe it's the clothing choice?" He gestured to the priest regalia on his form. "I take it you came prepared to work. Well rested? Gloves?" He gave him a once over.

"Excellent. Are you ready to do god's work, then?" He turned and started walking down the street. "Hope you don't mind, I wanted to start a bit out of the way. Talk for a bit." He assumed the man was following. He seemed eager, after all.

The priest, McCallan, was late. Given what Wick knew of him through observation, this was not unexpected. The man was highly social, often stopping to converse with those he knew and some he did not. It was hard to know if it was an act or not, but given what Wick had read, and his brutality with mutants it was plausible that the preacher was a well presenting psychopath. Time would tell. Wick was inclined to believe the best of any man of the cloth, but he also recognised his inherent bias on the matter.

When he did arrive, he was alone. A good start. His cordiality did not seem forced, nor did Wick get the impression he was agitated. "Good evening Father. I thought nothing of it, the work of holy men does not always obey our earthly timelines." Wick's voice was as disaffected as ever, the cool edge though dulled was still present. "I am prepared." Wick offered in response to the question that followed. He did in fact have gloves with him, however wearing them tended to draw suspicion.

The preacher started moving. The Agent was of course suspicious of being asked to move to a new location, but if he was being lured to a trap he was being lured by an expert. That was not a comforting thought, but Wick knew better than to make his suspicions known. He fell in step just a touch behind McCallan, scanning his environment as best he could while being subtle. "Not at all Father. What do you wish to discuss?" Wick also had issue with going to "work" with so little proper preparation. He had not surveyed their target, did not know its demonic abilities, had not ensured it was somewhere he could easily kill it and dispose of it without attracting attention. The Lord's plan did not always allow for such luxuries.

The father smiled a bit, tilting his burnt features to the side a bit in response to the pardoning of his lateness, and his statement. "Please, you do me too much credit. I simply lost track of time." He was prepared. "Splendid, it can be messy business, this, but it's for the good of man." He nodded as the began their journey.

"I want to know more about you, my child. Where are you from? What drives you to do god's work?" He wasn't delving into specifics. He watched the man closely; his presentation was stoic, but the signs of emotional reactions where there, just muted. He was an interesting man, already, and the father hadn't even been able to glean much more than observation had told him.

Here was a consummate professional; an awkward man with a presentation and mental frame work as hard as stone, and a strong belief in the lord.

The perfect servant to god's will.

Or, an excellent actor. He'd met his fair share back when he'd been assembling bombs to put in English tea shops for the IRA.

He took a left at the closest cross street, and started walking. "Just a few blocks away. I hope that you are good with your hands."

Wick nodded again. A few blocks was within running distance of the bike, and he still had exit strategies that far away. He lacked surveillance, it would have been impossible to place without arousing suspicion, but that was simply the way these things went. He had been in that situation with more assured threats. Here at least the possibility of back-up existed, no matter how slim.

While he thought, and observed, Wick got to answering the questions. They were light probing, but he knew the methods and would not be fooled by them. "I am from New York City. I serve God because that is the task He has set for me. He has made His plan for me known, and I shall do His will. As Christ said, "Blessed are those who hear the word of God and obey it"." Wick kept his answers vague but truthful. Obviously he thought he knew this man was one to trust, but caution was called for until proof was provided. Not to mention they were in public, and for all his training and gifts Wick had not yet learned to peer through walls and see around corners. One never knew who was listening.

Wick aught to know. Often, it was him.

The burnt priest nodded solemnly at the man's statement. "And you came to me because you believe that is the best way to do god's will? I too, have faith that this is true." He rounded a corner, and casually stepped into an alley way, looking back at wick and smiling softly.

He placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked him directly in the eye. "faith and devotion are all a man needs to find direction. I respect you for seeking me out. Know, though, that if you seek to devote yourself to the lord, truly, you must show that devotions in things both great..." He stepped to the wall next to an old metal door as he talked, pulling a key ring, and unlocking it.

"And small." He finished the statement and he opened the door, revealing a busy kitchen tied to a warm atmosphere filled to the brim with faith.

As he stepped in he was greeted with calls from across the kitchen, and he replied in kind. "Joseph! Great to see you! Arnold, third time you're here this week! I hope you're keeping to your studies as well. Alina! Great to see you feeling better. Ah! Sister Martina! Just who I wanted to see! This is he, the gentleman I spoke to you about earlier. He assures me he's brought his own gloves and he's good with his hands!" The portly woman looked Wick up and down, smiling and looking to the priest. "I see the father roped you in. It's always a challenge to find volunteers on this side of town. We appreciate your help mister..." The father didn't fill the introductory glance, instead smiling and staring intently at Wick as he was prompted to introduce himself.

The woman spoke up again after introductions were completed, and pointed to an empty station. "We'll have you two cutting up the veggies to start. The boys will pass you peeled potatoes and peppers, The father can guide you on how big to cut them. We serve at least 600, so please, quantity over perfection."

The father was already waving Wick over, reaching into his pockets to pull out a pair of gloves and pull them on before washing them at the nearby wash station.

"Once a week at least I give my time to Sister Martina's soup kitchen." He spoke as he scrubbed. "I trust you don't mind helping out."