#mob priest.

“...I think we lost ‘em.”

It was a sly, stupid thing to do. If there was one thing the Sicilians were good at, it was defending what was theirs. About Anne’s ship, the Irishwoman and Cipher had just completed a heist they thought wasn’t possible to pull off. Stealing several thousand tonnes of illegal drugs that had been the targeted audience of lower income communities throughout Europe was Vatican priority number one in the past year wasn’t an easy hit, but it was successful. Rome would be pleased with the acquisition. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, the priest squinting to ensure their pursuers had been lost. Signal jammers and other cloaking devices Cipher had loaned the woman seemed to be working their charm.

There was nothing that could really be said other than the songstress’ voice was nothing short of sublime. Camilla was her name, headlining the smoky jazz bar Cipher had come to like frequenting since being called to do work in the city that never slept. Other patrons seemed just as enthralled, but Cipher had come prepared: a special favor for VIP access to see the stunning woman after the show, to get to know the woman who had the Spaniard admittedly a bit smitten. 

St. Elizabeth of the Castle wasn’t your ordinary Catholic church on Japanese soil, nor would one think the young face presiding it in black trousers and the white-strip in a black-collared shirt was the sort you’d see calling themselves ‘Father.’ Father Cipher, something that had caught on among their congregation and stuck like molasses to your teeth. Not to say that they’d ever been formally ordained, for that matter, but the Vatican had some hand in it. The Fernandez family was long the banes of the world of organized crime, commissioned by the church to protect their innocent flock. And Cipher was no different in their unusual choice of vocation. St. Elizabeth’s--located within the scenic Yoyogi Park where the bustle and jive of youthful Shibuya was close by, even though many were more interested in hearing what a Spanish accent sounded like as opposed to actually receiving communion. 

Pulling on their pea coat and stuffing their hands in their pockets, the redhead certainly wasn’t looking forward to the long trip home to their apartment in Marunouchi, the business district. Yet, just as they were almost done with closing up the large chapel, a man with a panicked expression barged through the door from the starlit nightscape, watching as he cowered behind some pews. “Please, you have to help me--! Shura--!”

It had been a solid hour that their outfit had been waiting, the Italian mafiosos causing particular havoc for them in Barecelona, Catalonian country. The cityscape was disarmingly enchanting so late at night, a breeze from the Mediterranean carrying with it warm winds. A bit colder than an Andalucian like them liked, but it had to do. Stepping from the heavily modded armored van, Cipher pocketed their hands in their trench coat, watching the hunkering group go on about breaking into the harbor-side warehouse, Cipher resisting every urge under the sun to roll their eyes.

Ah, there it was. A molotov. Taking the bottle and cloth sticking from the mouth did the priest ‘borrow’ one of the men’s cigars who cursed when they did, igniting the cloth and sauntering into the street brazenly while they looked on dumbfounded, then pausing, tossing the bottle up once, catching it, then hurling it it through a window that combusted and caught aflame, burning whatever was inside. 

Blow darts weren’t the most conventional means of tranquilizing targets, but when your opponents were technologically advanced, usually the solution lay somewhere in between. And it weren’t as though anyone would miss them. Leaping from their perch in a fire escape, Cipher squatted near one, flipping the tag: unmarked, but with a cross-hatched stitching inseam in gray thread usually meant one thing: Ivanovich. Russian mob. Yet, they didn’t even notice the person standing in the alleyway, shading over the wan lamplight.

It was a quiet day in the tea shop, something Kayden was always grateful for. It gave her the chance to read and drink tea from her own stock, and time to pamper the flowers and plants in her greenhouse. Most people knew by now that her store always ran at odd hours, and called in ahead of time to make sure that she was open just in case. However, the phone store only took calls, so when the musical notification sounded from her desk, Kayden sat down and read the message.

Raising an eyebrow, she wondered what Cipher could possibly mean, and why they had chosen to text her about it. Not that she minded, simply curious, as she always was.

[ 📱 — sms ] what kind of mistake? [ 📱 — sms ] the life threatening kind or the more mundane kind? [ 📱 — sms ] like burning food

It figured Cipher would be the one to so artlessly get themselves tangled in such a situation. Shinjuku was always a hotbed of yakuza activity, what with several clans hosting a few bachelor parties between their brats to secure another generation of mob rule, some dynastic nonsense like that. From Cipher’s vantage point in a love hotel room (one of the most popular go-to’s more for privacy than racy sexual relations), binoculars ranging through narrow windows where coronas of light emanated from several pairs of headlight unloading on the venue across the street, some swanky teahouse or other. Geisha and all. 

Information. In protecting their latest client, Cipher had needed to traverse much deeper than they usually liked. But, in order to keep the status quo level, of course they had to get their feet wet. 

“Yeah, let’s try not to–” Sometimes, it was in times like these that the old Belnades ties Cipher had thought were complete bullshit actually shone through and saved their skin. Whatever these demons were seemed to be little match of Ciper’s Holy Lightning, amazed it could be cast despite how many years Cipher had been out of practice since studying under their second cousin, Yoko Belnades. The demon it strafed wheeled and screeched upon the unpredictable spell honing upon it, acidic blood fizzing on the crumbling concrete bubbling upon contact. At the ivory-haired hunter’s sudden appearance, Cipher’s eyebrow quirked, but a guy with a huge-ass sword was better than roughing it alone.