The front seat of the Challenger was comfortable, the chassis rode low and Nate was keeping his head on a swivel as he neared the junkyard, tires kicking up dirt on the sand-strewn roads. The chip was on his dash: to most the small, subtle shift in the spade along its surface guiding him. Such a valuable chip outside a casino was a worthless thing, not that the poor-fellow soldier cared for its material worth much. The RFID wiring inside it was already scrambled something terrible, yet still its face pointed unerringly towards the growing piles of strewn vehicles and appliances, past it, towards a small but prominent tower that loomed despite its meager height.

Even so, the Templar could see more, that slight golden light behind his eyes was more than a youthful vigor or solemn wisdom. God was guiding the hand of his chosen, and Nathaniel could see plain as day that the tower was not as unassuming as the pile of junk made it seem. This was not the first time that he had found himself among the discarded things and people that clung to this yard. While he was leery of the technomancers who often called this place ‘home’ or ‘testing ground’ he knew that there may yet be something greater if he was being called here.

The woman in the seat next to him, one only he could see and hear would say simply “The hands of Man are guided by Him, and their works draw forth the Chosen.” Her voice was light, but Nathaniel could never see her face, knowing better to keep his eyes on the road. He would nod, speaking aloud to himself “Well, consider me drawn.” With a small grin. “But the Fallen too seek works to corrupt and destroy.” 

He would park outside the yard, rising from the side of his vehicle with a black combat boot emerging first from his steed. He reached into his jacket pocket, thumbing along the beads of his rosary. He did not believe this place to be compromised by the Enemy, but one could never be sure in these times. He said a short prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel as he took the chip off the dash. “Defend us in battle against the wickedness and snares of the Devil…”  and began walking plainly into the yard, knowing that God’s protection was with him.

He looked the part of someone who could be there, his bulky leather jacket over a white shirt and dark jeans kept pretty in the stylings of local bikers and gearheads who would not be out of place picking parts from the hulks of fallen vehicles. Of course, he was packing his collapsed MP9 in a shoulder holster under his arm, but such a thing would not be apparent if he didn’t raise his arms. The security guard was enjoying his blessed sleep anyways, no need to disturb him drifting in.

Seeing the Van now that he was in direct eyesight, he would be far more direct in his approach, not yet having seen the man he would speak “Hey, anyone there?” once he was about ten yards from the vehicle.