1611/A Hunting We Will Go

A Hunting We Will Go
Date of Scene:	27 July 2017
Location:	A rest stop somewhere outside of NYC
Synopsis:	Mercy goes looking for Vanya to ask for help. Instead of finding the other woman she finds Ares, God of War. OOC: Some of Ares' poses were lost in the beginning.
Cast of Characters:	Ares, Mercy Thompson
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye

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Ares has posed:
    The Royal is what passes for a honky tonk outside the big city. Just a drive up North along the interstate, past enough exits that they all seem to be the same as they display the same empty nothing of GAS/FOOD/LODGING, except a few McDonald's interspersed with the occasional EXXON service station. Beyond that it's the same mix of green and grey road that turns to a blur while driving.
    It's far enough that the first hints of drowsy dullness might be preying upon the driver when the EXIT 47 rolls up. And there, just off the road and visible before it, is the glowing sign of The Royal. From afar it looks like it might be a motel of a sort that would be best passed on by. But for the adventurous who take the exit and roll the half mile down the road, they'll see it with the ubiquitous row of bikes parked out front.
    Pick up trucks and Semis make up the majority of vehicles in the parking lot. If people drove by it during the day it would look almost like it was an abandoned building with its wooden porch and the papered over window. But at night the bright lights come on, the all white Christmas lights, and the country music that's piped out on the porch and same as what's on play on the inside.
    Then when one has the courage to wander inside there's the hammer of smoke and sweat that overwhelms one's sense of scent. Next is the loud crowd noise and the laughter. People drinking, standing shoulder to shoulder, playing pool with the clack and crack of ceramic balls being racked. It all seems to fit. There's even an electric bull in one corner of the place.
    But what stands out the most is in the back, past the double swinging doors that look like they'd belong on the front of a saloon. And back there... are cobbled together bleachers and stands for a few hundred people to be able and get an eyeball on the big chicken wire and chain link fenced in cage where if you're lucky enough, two people are beating the tar out of each other.
    Tonight, it just so happens to be four men locked inside and proceeding to smack the bejeesus out of each other.
    And there, at the end of the main line of booths, is John Aaron. Settled in his seat with a bottle of brandy and a glass in hand. At times he drinks, and at times someone will come up and speak to him. Quietly, deferentially. His manner is blaise, distant. And the way people look at him at times, it's almost as if he's holding court.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The days and nights are beginning to blur for Mercy. Days of repairing cars and nights of devising devices to trip up a certain out of control soldier. It has her mind working at a furious pace; not just for the various traps she's created, but how else they can help bring this one man army down. Yes, they have allies, but against the Winter Soldier and Hydra, Mercy is worried.

And when Mercy is worried she plans and when she plans that often causes her to do odd-ball things that she normally wouldn't necessarily think of.

For this particular day and eventual night, Mercy reached out to her contacts looking for a specific bit of information. Underground fighting. She knows Vanya frequents them and while the mechanic doesn't necessarily want to bring the other shifter into this terrible mess, Mercy is going to. She sees no other choice. Not when there are so many things hanging in the balance. It took the majority of the day for the information to filter back to Mercy Thompson and then the rest of the 'work day' for her to close shop and get on the road. She neither speeds, nor goes too slow, and while the hypnotic stretch of the highway does lull her into a semblance of a trance, she doesn't quite jerk when she sees the exit. Instead, the mechanic straightens in her seat and merges into the exit lane. Down the road and further still comes a potentially odd sight as Mercy maneuvers her Volkswagen Beetle into a spot near those bikes, trucks and semis. When she exits her car the coyote will stand a moment, her gaze turned to the decrepit seeming building. A half-smile hitches a corner of her mouth upward, before she shakes her head. "This is such a bad idea." Mutters the woman, but she's here and she's not leaving. Not without speaking to Vanya. Hopefully.

Dressed casually in blue jeans, low-heeled brown boots and a black t-shirt, Mercy makes her way inside. The noise, the smell, it's enough to cause the coyote to pause after that first step inside. Several seconds go by as her nose, her ears, adapt to the noise and smells within. When they're as comfortable as they can be, Mercy moves. Her gaze is just about everywhere; pool tables, bar, mechanical bull and the people to. Her features are set in an expression of 'don't talk to me' as she moves through the room, gaze intent and searching.

Even with that expression of hers, Mercy still manages to garner a few leering looks and one very drunk man's attempt at a pick up line. Once she's disentangled herself from /that/, which thankfully wasn't too hard, the dark-haired woman hurries along in her search. That search eventually leads her back to those double-swinging doors. And while she's /probably/ not /really/ invited into that back room that doesn't seem to matter, especially when her ears prick at the faint sounds of fists slamming into flesh. Hearing that the coyote pushes the doors open just enough to slide through; striving for an unobtrusive entrance. As soon as she's inside her eyes automatically flicks around to assess the situation within.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Again, the surge of noise assaults the coyote's sensitive ears. It's enough to cause her assessment to linger a few seconds longer than absolutely necessary.

Once her ears have settled, Mercy moves. While she's uncertain of this place and the people around her, she strides with confidence. It's something you learn to do when you're raised in a wolf pack. You show weakness they snap you up, you show strength they leave you alone. Mostly, at least. Mostly.

As she moves, the mechanic's gaze will turn this way and that, even as she feels the stares upon her. If her coyote were like a wolf it'd be yipping at her to leave, but it's not and so all Mercy feels is the vaguest sense of unease. Invisible hackles vaguely ruffled. Mercy isn't one who enjoys the spotlight and the attention it typically garners.

As she rounds the line of booths, she'll casually look towards a few of the nearer people. Debating whether to ask after Vanya, but that possible question dies upon her lips, as something bright and vibrant suddenly appears within her peripheral vision. It's enough to stop Mercy in her tracks. It also bring her head around - oh, she's striving for casual with that movement of hers, but it's likely that her look towards John Aaron is anything but. She'll stare for a handful of seconds at the man, three to four heartbeats at the most, before she forcefully moves her gaze away. A mutter to herself is then said, "Such a bad idea."

Then she's moving again, this time around the room, but with all of her steps she makes sure to keep the man that's lit-up-like-a-small-sun in her field of vision. For those that are watching her, it's easy to tell where the coyote is headed. Her steps are taking her in a round-about-way to a bookie. In her mind they should know of the other woman is here tonight and hopefully a quick answer of yay or nay will determine whether she stays or goes.

Because again, bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Those second and third looks are ignored. Or perhaps it's better to say not met by Mercy Thompson. In fact, when that fighter tries to draw closer to her, with that grin of his, Mercy simply slides her eyes away from him. Even when his trainer continues to pull him away, Mercy will still keep her gaze away from his, though that doesn't mean she isn't aware of him and where he stands. She is. She stays completely aware of where that man and his trainer is at all times, until she can no longer see them.

She's not stupid, just cautious. There is a difference.

At the bookie, Mercy's expression turns crestfallen. She was really hoping she'd find Vanya here today. "Thanks." States the coyote, her voice automatically raising to combat those calls of bets and the money being put upon them. "I'll let her know you said hello." Though in Mercy's mind it's probably more likely Frankie will see her first, before she does. Turning away from the bookie now, the coyote casts her gaze out at the crowd again. Well, it wouldn't hurt to ask a few more people and off Mercy goes again -

It's only when she finally reaches the man that scowls that the mechanic silently admits defeat. A vague scowl twists her lips downward now, even as she casts one last look around the room. It's with that look that her gaze will meet Ares' for that brief moment. And again, her other-worldly senses are dazzled by the sight of him. While she can't say she forgot about his presence, because you just can't, she was able to push it from her mind for those minutes she was upon her hunt.

Now, well, now Mercy is moving again. Her feet take her towards that man in the corner. Sure, she could say she wants to ask him about Vanya, but that'd be a lie. Really, it's just curiosity now.

At least she's not a cat?

It's only when she's half-way over toward those seats will her progress be halted. She zagged when she should have zigged and now she's literally ran into and bounced off of a very large man. "Oomph." Is what the coyote offers, before she's catching her balance and straightening again. "Sorry -" She begins, her hands already up and before her in that 'I'm not a threat' gesture.

That doesn't seem to help as the larger and somewhat hairy man pivots upon heel to offer a low, threatening growl.

Ares has posed:
    That growl carries somehow even in this small space off to the side of things. But of the fangs bared at her now, it's not the ones from the male of the species she should worry about. Instead a severe yet handsome woman leans out of her booth to further block her way, her leather jacket worn with an emblem of an eagle. "No tourists, Pocahontas." She gestures around absently with a finger as she murmurs, "Turn back around and make your way."
    For most that's usually enough, and in the current atmosphere would anyone really take exception to another scuffle taking place outside the ring? With what's been going on chances are they'd start taking bets and throwing odds about the two women.
    But none of that is to be as the tall man lifts his voice loud enough to be heard to say two words, simply. "Fuck's sake." As if what passed annoyed him on several levels.
    But it's enough as the woman shoots one measuring glance at her, and then the tall hairy man steps back to his place leaning against the wall near one of the further on booths. It's as if nothing happened, no shared words, no harsh manner. She couldn't have become more invisible unless she had an enchanted cloak hidden on her person somewhere.
    But, whatever that all may have meant, she at the least has an open path to the last booth and its lone occupant.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Pocahontas.

As if she's never /heard/ that one before. Now tourist, that's totally acceptable, because that's truth, but again - Pocahontas.

Mercy's eyes goes from the growling man to the woman who leans out from the booth. When she offers that insult, Mercy can only allow a tightening of her mouth, before she finally says, "That's not original." It's a quip, yes, and one the dark-haired woman really shouldn't have made. In fact, she mentally kicks herself for saying it; why antagonize the situation any further? She shouldn't, but neither will she roll over and just show her belly. She's lived too much in the pack where she had to learn to stand up for herself, because no one else did. Or it was rare, at least.

Still, knowing this situation is likely going to result into some kind of chaos, the coyote shifts her balance ever so subtly, readying herself to potentially dodge out of the way. Oh, she's not as good as the majority of the fighters here, but she's quick, she's small, hopefully it'll make the difference. Though that difference isn't needed, not when suddenly the man by himself finally speaks up.

The reaction from the woman and the man are noticed and it's enough to cause the mechanic to hesitate when that path opens before her.

Again, the inner voice of her coyote would yip out at this moment. Turn back, she'd say, turn back. But Mercy isn't one to always listen to common sense and so, the woman steps forward. When she's close enough to the booth she'll offer the man a polite sounding, "Thanks."

Because she knows it was his two words that stopped that potential for a different kind of brawl.

Ares has posed:
    A low grunt slips from him as he holds his glass of brandy in hand, the bottle resting on the table atop a tray that offers shelter to a quintet of shot glasses. He offers her one by uncurling his hand in its direction and cocking an eyebrow, silently asking that question. If she agrees he takes the time to pour for her and offer it to her in turn before refilling his own glass. That done one way or the other he settles back into his seat and he looks to her levelly, "My name's John Aaron."
    To most people he is just a tall man in jeans and a black t-shirt. At a glance there would seem little out of sort with the two of them sharing that booth. But if she holds to that arcane gaze, it casts the entirety of the scene in a new light, with her flying terribly close to the sun without even wax-bound wings to aid her.
    "You seem in search of something." His lip curls up slightly, even as at their meeting the Fates might be just as amused, "And it is likely I may be able to help you, for that is how such things work."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
What is he.

That question can clearly be seen in her gaze, though the coyote doesn't voice that query of hers. It would be rude. Especially without even having exchanged names.

His silent question about drinks is considered, gravely upon Mercy's part. She's weighing the inherent danger of accepting a drink from this man. If he were a normal mortal she'd not hesitate, but he's not mortal. He's also not Fae, that much Mercy can tell and because of that, she nods. Accepting the drink that's so offered.

"Thank you." She says again and before she takes that drink, the mechanic will slide in the opposite seat from the man. Once settled she'll take that shot glass of brandy in her own hands. Automatically her nostrils flare when she brings the glass close. Not that she expects poison, again an unconscious gesture upon her part. While others would toss the shot back, Mercy isn't quite like that. She'll take a drink that's neither a small sip, nor a gulp. Enough to satisfy politeness. Then she's setting the glass upon the tabletop and turn her attention fully upon John Aaron. "Mercy Thompson." She says in return, her eyebrows flicking upward in surprise with what he says next. Fate. How things work.

"Not something." Mercy will manage, even as she casts a side-eye towards the crowd around them. When the person she seeks doesn't miraculously appear, her gaze returns to John Aaron's. "Someone. Her name's Vanya. I need her help."

Ares has posed:
    "Ah, Vanya." John's features light up faintly with a warmth that the people in this establishment rarely see. So much is smoke and mirrors here, so much weight of regard is given to someone with only simple body language and the strength of rumoured stories that are hung upon them from third and fourth party witnesses. Such is perhaps why he is deferred to in such a manner. A rumour that had gotten around about him and several bikers, or there might have been the time when a woman set herself afire and burst through the ceiling one night. For if stories bound a person to a place she'd be able to perceive several tendrils coming off of him.
    "She is a good friend, I value her. And if you feel close enough to her to ask for her help, then I am pleased to have met you." He gives a small nod then downs his own drink with one pull, then sets the glass down with a resonant glassy clink, tilting the bottle on its side and allowing it to gurgle faintly as it pours a refill into his glass.
    "What would you have me convey to her, simply that you are seeking her? Knows she enough to find you with but your name?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
He knows of Vanya. That's enough to cause Mercy's expression to lighten considerably. Her worry about Fae, of what he really is, forgotten for a single minute.

"You know her." Mercy asks, that question wholly rhetorical, since he just confirmed that for her neatly enough.

To show that question isn't really that the coyote waves a hand, sweeping it aside.

As for stories and the words that bind a person to a place - while Mercy can't quite sense that much with her own arcane gaze, there's still something about him, this place and the way the people consciously and subconsciously look to him. Wait for him to speak, to move, to do something. The coyote can see that and it's familiar enough that it makes her think of Bran. The man who helped raise her. An alpha of a considerably large pack. Some even consider him the first Alpha among all the Alphas now around.

That sense is enough to cause Mercy to be careful of her words and to reassert some of her commonsense after that feeling of relief. His words of valuing the other woman earns a small smile from Mercy, "Please to make your acquaintance too." Is her prompt response, even as she nods to that last question of his. "Yes, please." Begins the dark-haired woman, even as she slants a look towards the people within this room. When nothing untoward looks to be happening, well beyond the fighting, Mercy returns her gaze to John Aaron. "She knows of my Garage in Harlem." She continues with, "If you could let her know I need to speak with her immediately, I'd appreciate it."

A quirk of a smile lifts a corner of Mercy's mouth upward now, "We didn't exactly get a chance to exchange numbers last time we spoke. She only mentioned this hobby of hers -" A third look towards the room-at-large, "- Which led me here looking for her."

Ares has posed:
    "A garage in Harlem?" Those words come from him, echoing her own. Any of the others are forgotten for now as he keys in on those as he looks upon her, head tilting to the side. His calm brown eyes find hers and it's only /now/ that she might get the feeling he is truly looking at her. Something in his regard is heavy, as if she is being placed upon one of a set of scales and a fingertip might be pressing down lightly on the other.
    He lifts a hand and waves off her concern, telling her simply. "I shall pass word to her, and she will find you." There is a finality to those words, matter settled.
    That conversational path closed he embarks on another as the grim and haggard looking man considers her. "This is the third time in as many..." He lifts his eyes up, giving thought to the passage of time before he looks back to her, "Weeks perhaps? That I have heard mention of a mechanic with a garage in Harlem, only now to have met her."
    He lifts his glass again, tilts it back and downs a second drink. The glass is set down and he refills it. "I have given oath as to your safety. High time I should know your name."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Stares are funny things. Especially for Mercy Thompson. With a wolf she'd advert her gaze, so as not to stare directly into their eyes, but with the man across her not being a wolf -

Well, she doesn't necessarily move her gaze away, but neither does she offer any type of challenge within it; only curiosity and perhaps a touch of wariness.

Both for what this man is and what she doesn't necessarily know.

"Thank you." She says again, when his weighted gaze lessens and he allows himself to be messenger in regards to Vanya. Hearing the finality within those words, Mercy nods. She was just about to offer one last thanks and leave, but then his next words cause her to pause. Her gaze, which had dropped to the table for a second, rises upward. That touch of wariness from before increases now, as the coyote considers what to say to his words. "You've heard of me?" She asks, her voice holding an equal note of alertness now, as she considers who'd have talked about her. "If I may ask -" She says carefully, a question surely there, before that question falls short at those last words of his.

"You've given your oath to my safety?" Leaning backwards against the booth seat Mercy considers that, "I'm going to add another thank you here." The coyote says, "I appreciate that." And now she finally finishes that silenced question from a second ago, "Who told you of me? Vanya?"

Ares has posed:
    "Just those series of words. 'A garage in Harlem.'" He's still watching her as if trying to get to the center of this particular Gordian knot that has been set before him. He leans back into the seat of that booth, the seat giving a faint wooden creak of complaint as his weight shifts. For now his glass is left to itself, his arms folding over his broad chest. "Pertaining to an individual aiding others in the redress of matters against a one-armed soldier."
    His smile grows, just a touch and there is a faint hint of empathy to him as he offers to her, "Do not fear, girl. Another whom I hold in some measure of esteem has told me he protects you, and so in his so doing I have told him I would respect his wishes. So you are safe from me," There's a pause as he scritches at his chin, "Not that I make it a habit to wander around tormenting folk."
    He uncurls a hand towards her, "I did not know it was you by name, Ms. Thompson. Only by profession and those few words in that string. But in my existence I have learned that fate often enjoys tormenting me in threes. And so you..." He cants his head to the side, "You play a part in it then."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
She's just a coyote in human clothing.

In her mind nothing amazing, but her blood is partially of a god, if not one of his pantheon.

It may shine within her, but at a lesser degree. Quieter, muted, simple. Easy to overlook and under appreciate.

A series of words and her garage, that's enough to lift a corner of Mercy's mouth upward again. "Well, that's probably the easiest way to describe me. I've a garage in Harlem and yes, I do help fix things." Beyond cars, is implied there. It's only as John Aaron brings up the mention of the Winter Soldier that Mercy's expression drops from slightly amused to something more dark. Concerned. Worried.

That worry only abates slightly when John reveals who wrangled that oath from him. It's not hard for Mercy Thompson to figure out just who that was. There's only a few magical men in her life that care enough to look out for her. It's enough to cause a more natural smile to wash briefly across Mercy's expression, even as she offers a faint snort next. "Good to know you don't often torment unsuspecting souls."

Her hands at this point have knotted together of their own accord, as she listens to the rest of what he has to say. The mention of fate earns another quirk of a corner of Mercy's mouth, but instead of agreeing to that, she'll finally ask, "Are you the same as him then?"

She grimaces, not the greatest of questions there, but it's a delicate balance that must be maintained of keeping secrets and not.

Ares has posed:
    "Ah, no." The tall man's smile is offered and there is sincerity there as he replies, "Better." He takes a deep breath and looks away towards the crowd even as they surge and roil with the grace and eloquence of cattle. He cocks an eyebrow as the latest combatants rail against each other, just a few moments before their bout begins. It is a moment that for all those watching it is pregnant with potential. For him, for her. It is barely background noise.
    Turning back to the woman he tells her simply, "I once had a place with my family. But I've turned my back on them and try to live as I can here..." He waves a hand around vaguely, indicating the world as a whole. Those brown eyes meet hers and he says simply.
    He shifts to the side, now leaning against the wall with one of his boots upon the seat beside him as he looks to her, "The Nords like to throw name after name after name to theirs, applying labels constantly. One of theirs might be a representation of thunder, but oh yes he also represents weather, and war, and oak trees, and hallowing, oh and fertility... and the kitchen sink."
    "Myself. I am War." His lip curls and he adds, "Notice the capital 'W'. The nords have many many names attached to them. But almost all, lower case."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Better.

Astonishment. It's what Mercy is currently feeling. Though why she is she can't say. She's been around Loki long enough now to know how gods might act.

So, boasts about being better shouldn't necessarily be surprising to her, but it still is.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Are the first words out of her mouth, a faintly bemused look upon the coyote's features. Those next words of his likewise pull forth a faint response from the mechanic. A quiet noise that's equal parts amused and disbelieving. "Similar enough." Comes the murmur, those words not intending to interrupt the flow of conversation. And whether she means both being exiled, whether self-inflicted or forced, or their ego is hard to say. Potentially she could mean both too.

And while he may not outright name Loki, that roundabout way of describing the Trickster earns another nod from Mercy. "Stories too." She interjects briefly, silence falling when the man across from her continues to speak.

While she's only 'just' a mechanic, Mercy also has a degree in history and so, when he offers that description of himself there's only one god that pops to mind. Well, two, but she goes with her first thought. "I see." States the woman, as she loosens her fingers and moves one hand back to her own drink. "Starts with an A ends with an S?" Hazards the woman, a small flash of humor in her voice - her words, however, are far softer than all her others. The noise, the fights, it may be a sufficient level to cover her normally uttered words, but why take a chance.

Her attention is fully on him when she says that last of hers, looking for some kind of confirmation or denial from the man.

Ares has posed:
    For him, there is nothing else of interest here. There wasn't when he walked in, and until she wandered in it would have been an empty time spent observing this particular slice of humanity. Yet he does find himself here at times, perhaps indulging in the darker aspects of the world if only to remind himself that they exist and to turn away. Most of the time.
    A small tilt of his head is given as he flares a hand to the side, as if letting that question slip to the side and left to be forgotten. He looks over her shoulder for a moment, gaze distancing, but then he snaps back to meet her eyes with his own. "Ares, Mars. Orion at times. The only one that holds weight for me now is John Aaron."
    He leans forwards and takes up his drink again, "But I am not the person of the hour, Ms. Thompson. I would have your story. It's rare I value something so I would ask what you would have in trade for it." John's smile is amused, pleased, for most likely the pleasant event of finding something of such consequence in a location that has rarely borne fruit."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The other names he's known by are known by Mercy Thompson. Intellectually, at least.

That doesn't stop the woman from wondering what brought another god out of the fold of their family. Could it be that the enlightened individuals and families aren't so different from mortals? That thought has drifted through her mind more than once. And while she'd like to ask that, she doesn't. Family matters are always delicate and it only seems even more of a dance with higher entities.

"John Aaron." She repeats, even as she adds with a soft snort at the mention of being the person of hour. "Mercy, please. I'm hardly Ms. Thompson."

Then his offer of a boon for her story is considered. Most would likely jump at the offer, but Mercy doesn't. No, she's thinking through exactly what any favor might bring from a god. Finally, however, when she's tried to look at it through every angle the woman says, "All right. Though I think you'll find my story somewhat boring." There's self-deprecating humor there from the coyote, "As for a trade -" She frowns, "- Can that be put on loan for later? I promise it won't be anything crazy - no taking over the world, enslaving a sentient species, causing mass destruction. It'll probably just be for help with something." Or most likely help with a certain one armed soldier.

Whether he offers an affirmative to her request or not, Mercy still offers her story. Her gaze moves off of Ares' now, eyes losing some of their focus. "It's the typical thing, mostly. Young love in a time of upheaval. The love between my mother and father didn't last long, however. Death has a way of severing those bonds, but it was long enough for a baby to be conceived." Her head tilts slightly at that, a sudden thought occurring to her and while it causes her mouth to thin slightly in some form of anger, it's not spoken aloud. Instead, the coyote continues with, "Pregnancy was typical for my mother. It was only after I was born that she found out how different I was. Imagine, a first time mother going to her baby's bassinet and finding a coyote. Surprise doesn't adequately cover it."

"Thankfully." Which is said with a particular dark bend to her voice, "My mother had family that was part of a wolf pack. She sent me up there to live. To learn what I could from the wolves, even though I wasn't necessarily the same thing." By the end of that statement her voice turned a touch lighter, "So, I learned. Then when I was old enough I left. And while I finished school and earned a degree, I found the life of a mechanic far more satisfying. The end."

Of course there's more to her life than just that, but the rest is simply left to the wayside for now.

Ares has posed:
    A fingertip is lifted from the side of his glass, pointing towards her. "A boon is acceptable, however I should warn you that I would not be able to indulge in such a thing should it infringe upon another oath or obligation." He lifts his glass to his lips and takes a nice long swallow, setting the now empty glass down again with a faint clink. "And if you are seeking aid with the Soldier, then I will not be able to assist you for that very reason."
    He shifts to the side slightly, resting an arm on the tabletop, looking at her steadily. "Though very well. Mercy. You may call me John." He offers that to her as he settles in, his other arm against the back of the booth seat, supporting the side of his head as he watches her.
    At his ease he'll listen to her words, at a point there's a small smile, at another there's an understanding nod. Then he draws his boot up on the bench seat turning to face her more directly as his brow furrows. "Your words and feelings are genuine, Mercy. But you leave much unsaid." He rubs a fingertip at the stubble along his jawline, scritching quietly though the sound is lost in the ambiance of the room even as he watches her. "You emphasize your birth as perhaps being the only moment worthy of remark. Why would you think so of yourself?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The mention of oath and obligations is nodded at. Mercy except such things. It's only natural.

The mention of not being able to help with the Winter Soldier, however, earns a look of deep disappointment. Understanding, yes, but still disappointment.

Not that her disappointment stays long on her face. Not when he offers her the use of his first name and not when she begins that story of hers.

His mention of leaving so much unsaid earns a nod from the woman, and even a hint of a crooked smile from her. "I do." It's, however, that last question of his that causes a slight flare of nostrils from Mercy Thompson. A gesture to pull forth the scents surrounding the two, mostly for his, to see what emotions might be found within. Though with the press of bodies within this small space everything is jumbled enough that her sense of smell might be too overwhelmed to pick out any nuances from Ares. Still, that doesn't stop her from saying, "My birth isn't the only moment of note for me, no, but I didn't think you'd really want to hear the angst of my teenage years. So, I judiciously edited." And while what she says might be construed as a deflection, it's not. Well the words aren't necessarily a deflection. Her tone of voice, the forced lightness held within, is. And while she could have left it at that, she doesn't. Instead the coyote will lean forward slightly, "I could tell other parts of my story, sure, but some of them are unhappy things. Why dwell on the negative." She ends with, her glass finally being rescued from its idleness and taking another drink. Setting it down with a quiet thunk of glass to tabletop, Mercy moves to shift the question right back to Ares. "And you? What's a remarkable moment for you? One that isn't in our 'history' books." That last bit is said with a touch of a wry tone within her voice, as she understands the world's history books aren't necessarily accurate.

And while that question of hers is definitely deflection from Mercy, so she can be done with her story, there's still real curiosity from the mechanic. She does want to know.

Ares has posed:
    In the crush and the hub bub of the room it is easy for scents to be compromised, particulates flowing upon the brush of wind from the wheezing and over-taxed air conditioner and its vents high above. But she is a being sensitive to such and the man she considers but two... three feet away at most. Yet she can build her picture as he speaks to her, head tilting to the side. "Ah you see," He points at her from the side of his drink, leaning forth as if he had caught her in the act. "You cannot put one over on such a man as I." His lip curls as the warmth of the drink affects him, albeit for not very long. "Get the old man speaking of himself, distract him with his own ego and he'll prattle on for hours."
    There's a pause as he tilts back his drink again, lifting it to his lips and swallowing, then setting it down with a clink. "And you'd be right."
    To him, he is aware on some level to the sensations here, the scents alive with the press of bodies and sweat in the air, the hum and rumble of the crowd, and what unique aspects of such she carries with her. But to her, she assuredly could paint a picture with what she perceives.
    For around her the room has that heady tang of long hours of many many people spending time in the place and perspiring. The piquant touch of dark alcohol. The tang of blood. But from him she would get much the same, though aspects of it seem older, as if sweat and blood and steel clung to him from such a time that it blends with an energy she can almost taste as if ozone upon her lips. None of this does he perceive, nor does he know she can sense. For him, he is content to tell her,
    "A remarkable moment for me is when I find a mortal in the crowd that stands out for one reason or another. Surprise, curiousity. That is the coin that immortals trade in." He gestures to the side, as if dismissing aught else. "Money and property are secondary save in matters of honor. But someone intriguing..."
    His lip twists as he adds, "Which is why it was fated we would speak, likely."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When he 'nicely' calls her out on her diversionary tactic, the coyote can't help the slight hand raise she offers.

It's definitely a 'yes, you caught me' sort of gesture and beneath that is a sense of amusement from her too. She expected him to be able to see through her words for what they truly were. He is the God of War, after all, and a being who's lived a very long time. Both afford a wealth of knowledge and understanding, along with more otherworldly senses that often give them insights.

As for what her nose tells her all of that is shelved away for later consideration. The aged blood, the steel, the charge about him. Perhaps, later, she'll consider whether her sense of smell is the best way to detect a god or goddess. Their scents are always so different than the typical mortal. Or a mystical mortal also.

For his story Mercy listens, her head tilted attentively towards him. When he's finished speaking, the mechanic nods. "It always seems to come back to curiosity, doesn't it." She states, rather than asks, "Whether mortal or not." She adds, "But others -" Likely meaning Loki, "- seem to have the same thoughts as you do. Something that surprises them, or peaks their interest, something that garners a second look."

"Fate." She then says, "I'm not quite sure I believe in fate." And while she had intended to leave it at that, she doesn't, as she raises a hand to add something, "Wait, let me rephrase that. I should say, I no longer believe fate is so absolute or unchanging." Those words of hers bring a nod from her; that's a better way for her to phrase it, yes.

"Thank you for the drink and being so willing to carry my message to Vanya." Her expression turns thoughtful, perhaps slightly worried, "You should know, I'm going to ask her for help with the Winter Soldier. I'd rather not bring her into it, but we need all the help we can get."

Ares has posed:
    "Well you should, as I have met them." The Fates, of course. John follows her eyes with his, his lip curling a bit. "And no, you should not believe it so. For Clotho did pass some time ago, perhaps that has affected life for us." He lifts a hand to scritch along the curve of his jaw thoughtfully as he lets that thought wander, brow lifting. "Perhaps that could explain in part some of the changes to the world." But he dismisses the thought as easily as it came.
    "Vanya's path is her own in part, though she and I are linked." Those calm brown eyes meet her gaze, as he watches the young woman's expression. "She bears my sign, performs the duties of my herald, though I doubt she'd be able to name one useful thing she does on my behalf if you asked her."
    A smirk again as he straightens, "Now bide, Mercy." He lifts a hand to stay her. "I have promised another I would not interfere for their plans are delicate and such as I am, I tend to be a direct individual. But I would aid if so needed in some other way, albeit possibly more roundabout. Vanya is free to offer her help, and to take up the gauntlet if she will fit into such plans. I simply will not raise hand against Soldier directly, for he and I have a shared past."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The Fates. Several months ago Mercy would likely have boggled at Ares' casual speak of the three Fates and Clotho's death.

And while it earns a sharp look of curiosity, it doesn't quite silence the woman, or cause her to give Ares the crazy side-eye. No, now she's somewhat used to it. Somewhat, at least.

However, at the mention of Vanya being is herald, that earns an actual owlish blink from Mercy Thompson. "She's your herald?" She'll ask, his words echoed back as a rather rhetorical question. "I hadn't realized." Now her eyebrows furrow slightly, "Was this recent? When I last spoke to her she didn't seem - " And at this point Mercy will raise her hand and gesture towards Ares, "- Magical? I guess that's the word I'm looking for. Looking at you is like looking at a very bright sun. I'd have thought a herald would carry a small piece of that with them. Or an echo of it. Something."

And while she was indeed getting ready to potentially leave and offer farewells, his lifted hand and words cause her to pause. With that pause Mercy will finish the last of her drink too, the slow-drinker that she is. "I'd prefer direct." She manages between one of his sentences and the next, "Pretty sure the Winter Soldier /needs/ direct." Quieting again, Mercy turns her attention away from such dark thoughts and back to Ares. The mention of roundabout ways earns an ah-ha sort of look from the woman. The light-bulb is clearly going off as Mercy realizes what he's saying. "A loophole." She says, her expression brightening with that one word and now her expression turns towards furious consideration. How can he help without directly fighting Bucky. It doesn't take long for her to think of something, as the mechanic says, "He's taken two of our people, Sam Winchester and Claire Temple. Can you help us get them back? We need them.

"One - so we can get them away from whatever Hydra and he are doing to them." Because Mercy is quite sure Hydra isn't just letting them feed, sleep and be merry there. "And two - so they can't be used against us." Like human shields, bringing their fight to a standstill. She can totally see the Winter Soldier doing that. He's no longer that wild, skittish wolf, now he's just a rabid, mad wolf. At the mention of Vanya following her own path Mercy nods. That doesn't stop her expression from turning worried, however. She has to wonder how many of them will return unscathed. That bleak thought turns worse, how many will survive even ... It could have went on, but those last words of Ares' allow Mercy's almost spiraling thoughts to pause. Her gaze sharpens again, away from that internal concern and to something else. "Shared 'good' past or shared 'bad' past?" Is what she asks the God.

Ares has posed:
    "Somewhat recent," Is his reply as he lifts his head and considers, "A handful of weeks ago. Time..." He begins but then mmurmurs, "Can be perceived differently for someone like myself." His lip twists up a little but then leans forwards to refill his drink, tilting the bottle on its side and letting it gurgle further until it empties.
    And as if on cue, a new one is brought on the tray of a waitress who nimbly negotiates the path down that aisle of booths, wending her way around between the small group of bikers that are taking their ease nearby. He lifts a smile to her, thanks her, then accepts the bottle and sets it down. For now his glass will do.
    "Directly, would be troublesome. For in some ways at the core is this battle of his two natures. One given to him, one his own. I would balk at the thought of judging which has more right to exist." But then he waves his hand as if that was unimportant, for really it is ultimately.
    At her request about helping find the others, he tilts his head towards her, "I believe I may be tasked already to aid with that, by the Agent May. Once something is found about the Winchester's location, I am to aid in that regard. I know nothing of a Claire Temple."
    That said he listens to her speak further, then answers. "I would not place such qualifiers on it." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing a touch. "We prevented an attack upon the Olympics in '84, perpetrated by elements of the CIA and KGB. So depending on your perspective it could be either."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When the waitress appears with that new bottle of booze Mercy automatically smiles at her.

It's what she does. Polite as always.

Then it's back to the conversation at hand. His mention of time allows for a nod of understanding. Again, she's heard that before. For her, however, time is always there. Always present. Though, when she finally realizes she won't age as those regular mortals around her ... Won't that be a wake up call.

For now, she's quite clueless of her own longevity.

While Ares might wave aside what personality has more of a right to live, Mercy isn't quite so easily swayed. Again, she'll interject with a quiet, "The original person has the whole right. Not whatever they did to him to make him the way he currently is." But, the conversation moves on and so does Mercy, "Agent May, I don't think I've met them." And at the mention of his promise to already help with Sam Winchester, Mercy looks relieved. Surely, between Loki, Ares and all of them they can do this, yes? That's the hopeful look in her eyes right now. "Claire Temple was helping him before he turned, changed, whatever you want to call it. She was one of the first people he took. I'm going to assume because she knows more about him than most of us do. Though that's just a guess." Her shoulders roll forward with her shrug, then, "And I'd qualify stopping terrorists at the Olympics as a good past, not bad. However, if he was still under Hydra's control I would have to say that's bad then, for him at least."

Ares has posed:
    "Ah," John looks to Mercy as she speaks, still holding his drink at arm's length for now though swirling it a little now and again as if enjoying the faint haze of light through it and casting a pattern upon the table. "As to that," He holds up a hand as she presses on about other matters, instead he chooses to focus on the first she broached. "The original person has the whole right. It is as simple as that is it?"
    John again swirls the liquor, letting the shadows shift a bit before he looks up at her. "I am very old, Mercy. And at a certain point in my existence matters changed my nature. Perhaps in part my own will, perhaps in another part it was something else. But the person I used to be... you would not enjoy. He would have little time for you save perhaps to bed you, to the underworld with the consequences and been on his way uncaring. Perhaps a bevy of corpses would be left in his wake."
    He looks at her levelly, gaze calm as he watches her reaction. "I was an individual who cared for little beyond death, inflicting it, perfecting it, and taking what I wanted. But I feel I have changed. Yet considering that, do I have a right to exist as I do? Do I have a right to this difference in my character now? Is it simply that my current self is more tolerable from a social stand point? Less likely to murder? This earlier persona is the first, is it not? Clearly it has full right."
    At that he tilts his glass back and takes a long swallow, then sets it down with a clink. The new bottle is turned on its side. "Whatever the case, however. I will aid this endeavour if only to remove the external influence on the man. And if given a voice in matters I will state he should be asked which he prefers. Only the question should be asked of the man entire, not of whichever facet holds sway now."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy listens to all of what Ares has to say.

All of it.

Her expression runs a gambit of emotions; it shifts from worry, to a grimace, and even to something close to frustration, even anger, with all of what he tells her. If he was expecting shock there's not much of that. She's read enough tales about the God of War to know what he was like then. So, she'll hold her tongue for what he has to say, which is really hard for Mercy to do, while he speaks. Only after he's finished does she take a breath -

Now it's her turn or logic. Or, at least, Mercy's brand of logic.

"I understand what you're saying." She begins, her gaze meeting Ares' now, "I do, but what you speak of is different. /Different/." The coyote stresses, "We all start out as who we are, yes. Then our lives change us whether for the better or the worse. In your case you were a not-so-nice God." She'll pause a second to offer a faint apologetic smile, "And then circumstances /changed/ you, right? Whether happy or terrible, they changed your personality. For the Soldier -" She shakes her head, "- I don't believe it was that way. I've seen what they've done to him. Or some of it, at least. They forced electrical currents through his brain. When he woke up he was like a zombie." And just in case Ares' doesn't necessarily understand that reference, Mercy adds, "Hypnotized, if you will. His self, his true personality, his soul, was all but wiped clean. How is that fair to say both personalities should be considered?"

And now she circles back to Ares' earlier words, "Change is allowed. Your character can change, because something made you change, right? Made you want to be different? It was a decision that you were able to make for yourself. Something that made you say - 'no, I'm not going to do that anymore'. Can the same be said for him? My gut says no."

And here is where Mercy stops, her voice quieting, her expression so earnest now.

Ares has posed:
    Shifting in his chair to the side, he watches her, listens to her, and for him... his expression remains the same throughout for the most part. He's smiling and enjoying the turn of her words if not entirely agreeing with them. But once she's done he'll lift a fingertip and point towards her as he murmurs, "I think at the core we can agree, however, is that ultimately he should have something of a choice. We disagree with these beings affecting a change on the other against his will."
    There's a pause as he perhaps awaits a moment of agreement or some sign of tacit acceptance before he offers the next leg for his argument to stand on. "I am just thinking that if methods are used to force him back another way, basically doing to him again in some way what was done to him before, it is but more harm inflicted."
    He straightens, "Undoing their work, I accept. But forcing over their work perhaps to try and inflict the changes we want to see? I would object to."
    Then he gets a wry smile as he spreads his hands, "And see, there. Agreement. And we didn't even have to punch each other."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy will allow a vague tilt of her head to his first words.

There is agreement on Mercy's behalf. Though not a hundred percent obviously. Still, it's enough to allow the conversation turn to other matters. How to fix this crazy situation. Or rather, how to fix Bucky and his other self.

"Agreed. Completely. I've said much the same thing, we cannot do to him what Hydra has already done. That would break him." She states, her words quite firm. "He's like a wolf driven to madness from physical abuse. You can't bring them back to sanity by continuing that cycle, but -" And here's where Mercy hesitates, because this information is not necessarily hers to say. To speak? To give? To something, but she'll still say it.

"I believe we have some ideas to help heal his mental fractures without drugs, or more electricity. I'd say more, but it's not my information to necessarily share." She spreads her hands outward from herself, an apology in that gesture of hers. "But it won't be by force, I can promise you that. I think we're all on agreement, even those not here with us, that clobbering him over the head more wouldn't be the right way to fix it."

And while the conversation is quite heavy, terribly so, that last line of Ares' earns an actual laugh from Mercy. Her countenance brightens briefly with that sound of mirth, "I'm glad, because i'm /pretty/ sure I'd have lost that fight. Now a race, a race I might be able to win against you. Coyotes are fast."

Ares has posed:
    "Then I believe we have a course of action," John meets her gaze calmly and offers a nod. "Once he's freed and the work undone upon him, perhaps a brief moment to ask him what his thoughts are on the matter." He flares his hands as if dismissing his own argument, "And chances are he'll rail at us for even bringing it up, what madness for him to consider remaining as the other."
    But as he says that he places his hands upon the tabletop, pushing himself to his feet smoothly and rising to his full height as he slides out of the booth. "As for now, I am going to be terribly rude and abandon you, but I am sure we will see each other again. If you wish to find me, well they have my name and number listed at various places. I am sure a woman of your talents will be able to find me."
    That said he gives her a small respectful nod, "Until another time, Mercy. Til then." He turns and begins to walk away down the aisle, the bikers parting to give him some wide berth...
    Only for him to grasp the jacket of the tall man that had growled at her and he says, "Her safety, while here, is your charge. You fail at your own detriment." And with a casual gesture shoves the man into the booth with his friends, leaving them to flail and protest but not to voice their annoyance at the man departing.