1671/A Herald's Help

A Herald's Help
Date of Scene:	29 July 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	Vanya joins the fight against the Winter Soldier.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Feral
Tinyplot:	Tayaniye

---

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A message was left with Ares, God of War, for Vanya, Herald of War.

It was a simple request to have Vanya meet Mercy at her garage, whenever the woman was next free.

For Mercy she hopes it'll be soon. So that she can ask an important question; even if she'd rather not.

For Mercy's Garage, it's a busy place, even in its off hours. Today is no different and as late afternoon, really early evening, rolls around the interior of the garage can still be found occupied by its owner. The segmented garage door is up allowing for the inside of the garage port to be seen and most importantly the woman within. Inside sparks are literally flying as Mercy works, though perhaps sparks isn't quite an accurate description, more like flame. A lot of flame.

A torch is in use by the mechanic as she carefully heats a second of metal. One end of the metal is secured in a vice that's attached to the side of a work bench. The other half of the strip of thick silver metal is being hit with the flame. Mostly mid-center and currently that part of the metal is bright red-orange hot.

Once that red-orange is seen Mercy shuts the torch down and sets it off to the side. Then with hands covered in heavily insulated gloves and a pair of insulated pliers, the large kind, Mercy begins to bend the straight line of metal into a sharp angle.

Even with the heat the thickness of the metal is enough to cause the mechanic to growl softly.

"Bend already. /Bend/."

On the floor sits several other pieces of metal and it's easy enough to see each bit will eventually be assembled into the framework of a box, or rectangle. Possibly man sized.

Feral has posed:
With the warm evening air blowing into the garage, the skinwalker might smell Vanya's distinctive scent before anything else. Dressed in all the finery and regalia befitting her new station, the wild-eyed woman is...

Oh who are we kidding? She's barefoot in torn up red pants and a tanktop just like every other day, though the top is a lighter shade of gray than usual. Stretching blatantly across her face from forehead down to cheek, a large runic mark brands the predator boldly if cryptically for her new station.

Approaching quietly, the werewoman smiles impishly and sneaks under the door, trusting Mercy's attention to be focused on her craft. // The Americans are coming! Lenin is rising from his grave!// she shouts suddenly in Russian.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
On other days she'd have sensed Vanya, with smell and possibly hearing, but today the sharpness of heated metal and burning fibers blinds Mercy's nose. Her attention so focused upon her project deafens her ears.

It's truly a perfect storm for Vanya to be able to sneak easily up on the coyote.

And when the other woman shouts? It only goes bad fro there. It could be blamed on how tightly wound Mercy is, what little sleep she's been getting and the overall stress that she's been feeling thanks to everything with the Winter Soldier. But, really, it from those Russian words she shouts.

If it were any other language Mercy likely wouldn't have reacted, but with it being Russian ... well -

As soon as Vanya shouts those words of hers, Mercy jerks, her shoulders hunching, but even with that hunch of hers the coyote continues to move. Her hand tightens upon those pliers as she turns, whirls really, and once the circle is completed Mercy lets that heavy tool fly. It's thrown at Vanya with all of her considerable strength, the force behind it allowing the pliers to fly far faster than what they should.

Of course, as soon as they leave her hand Mercy's gaze finally figures out just what she's seeing. Or in this case, just /who/ is within her garage. That causes the mechanic's gaze to widen and while her hand reaches out to try and take those pliers back, it's already too late.

"Vanya! Duck!"

Feral has posed:
"Woah!--" *CLANG!*

Catlike reflexes come to the Russian's aid as she ducks just enough to watch the pliers rocket over her head and slam into the raised garage door. Vanya turns back to look as the projectile tools clatter heavily to the ground and comes back to Mercy scratching the back of her head.

"Hehehe... So that doesn't just work on Russians," she concludes with an unharmed smile of mischief. "Ivan said you wanted something?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Nostrils flare when the woman expertly ducks away. Relief is there too. Also consternation too. "Vanya! Seriously! Hasn't anyone ever told you it's not nice to sneak up on people?" Her tone almost borders on being incensed, but thankfully Mercy can reel it back in. Which she does so now. Let's not ask why her hands shake slightly, then she'd have to answer that question.

Instead, Mercy busies herself with stripping her gloves off of her hands and once they're put aside Mercy will turn back to the other woman. There's a critical look at the 'tattoo' that the woman now sports upon her face and while this is the first time the coyote has seen it, Mercy doesn't seem too surprised by it.

It's that name that causes Mercy to react, a blink and an almost blank look, "Ivan?" She asks stupidly for a second, before her brain catches up with her, "Oh, yes, of course. My message I gave him." And while that answer isn't the smoothest it also isn't as terrible as it could have been. "I was hoping you could help me with something. Someone." The mechanic grimaces as she speaks, her steps moving her closer to Vanya, "I hate to ask this kind of favor of you, but we really need help with it."

Feral has posed:
The were-woman's nose twitches and her sharp eyes do glance down from Mercy's face, but Vanya's polite - or perhaps easy-going enough - not to ask right now. The offer branded predator cocks her head curiously to the side and lets her weight sink onto one leg as she listens.

"We? What do you need? And how in the world did you know to ask John in the first place?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Yes, we. Even if some people don't seem to hold the appropriate amount of concern here." That last part is muttered by the coyote, but sharp ears can definitely pick it up. Especially with Mercy being quite close to Vanya now. As for that last question of Vanya's, that earns a faint hitch of Mercy's mouth upward. "Call it a happy coincidence?" She begins, even as the coyote loops around the other woman to pick up those pliers of hers. "Or, as John put it, fate." With pliers in hand, Mercy trots back to the work bench and sets them atop it. The metal within the grip of the vice has slowly begun to dim as the heat held within the strip slowly dissipates within the air around itself.

"But, I went looking for you - which by the way, I burned through a lot of my contacts on the street to figure out where you fight - and instead of finding you I found him." John she means. "From that we figured out we both knew you and he was kind enough to offer to carry a message to you for me." Again Mercy's gaze turns to the rune marked upon Vanya's features. "Have you eaten yet? I haven't. Want to grab a bite to eat?" Though at the sight of Vanya's feet, she'll add, "Or I can order up some mean chinese food? Whatever you like. There's a ton of places that deliver."

Feral has posed:
Vanya's toes wiggle against the garage floor, showing pointy toenails the wolf-raised mechanic is probably *very* accustomed to. "Pfft, "fate" sounds like something he would say," she smirks. "Did you not just try sniffing me out? I don't hide *that* much..." And then there's the mention of food and the were-woman perks right up.

"Oooh, yes please for Chinese!" she tries to rhyme. Who says English is hard? "I'll have a family order of lo mein and another of garlic tofu... vegetables... the vegetable version of garlic chicken," Vanya manages, not quite committing her order to memory.

"And white rice."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Perhaps." Mercy says to the prospect of sniffing Vanya out, "But, I didn't want to waste any time. I figured if I go to the source I'd find you -" And the irony here is she didn't. Gotta love irony.

A nod will be given to one side of the garage, where some chairs can be found. "Grab a chair, if you like, while I order. Once the food is delivered we can go eat in the kitchen. Or living room. I'm easy with whatever."

Then it's over to a work bench where her cellphone sits. The smartphone will be picked up, unlocked, and then dialed. It seems Mercy Thompson has the phone number memorized. Which might say just how much she's been ordering out lately. The food that Vanya asked for is definitely ordered, while Mercy orders for herself. White rice and orange chicken, it seems. Spicy too. When the order is placed the coyote will hang up and turn right back around. "Twenty minutes." She says, "Though typically it's more like ten, fifteen at the most."

From the pocket of her coveralls Mercy pulls forth her wallet. It's battered thing and a couple of bills are pulled from it. "My treat too."

"So." She'll asks, as the coyote gestures to her own face, the side where Vanya's rune sits. "Obviously that's new. He mentioned you becoming his Herald." Which obviously tells just how much Mercy really knows about 'John'.

Feral has posed:
With the offer for a chair, Vanya pulls one over and spins it around to sit closer to the mechanic's work area while she idly looks around. The were-woman's ears twitch a bit while Mercy orders and she kicks her feet, looking every bit like a child that's waiting for her parent to finish some boring adult thing so she can play.

The predator smiles widely and a little crookedly at the offer to pay. "If you say so..." A hand comes up to the bridge of Vanya's nose and the brown-eyed woman laughs dryly. "Oh sure I have to get that out of him with chains and a truck... do you know how long I waited until he told me what he was?" she asks in exasperation.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
With Vanya so close and settled upon the chair, Mercy will casually lean a hip against a work bench. Idly her arms will cross over her chest as she looks to the other were-woman.

"How long?" Mercy asks, before she adds, "And there were other factors at play for me. Those other factors were what allowed him to admit what he was more readily to me. Or caused him too, at least." Mercy says an apology easily heard within her tone, though a faint grin is still upon her lips. "If those things weren't there I'd probably never have gotten the full story from him. Though I'd have known he was something, he shines brighter than the sun."

"Does the mark give you any special powers?" The coyote asks curiously, as her gaze dips to the rune upon Vanya's face again. "Or is it something like - hey, this is my herald, leave her alone. No touching."

Feral has posed:
Vanya says, "A week!" Vanya snaps as if it really were long. "A whole week living with him, beating him up every night, using his bath... and that was after beating up a werewolf for him," she grumbles, folding her arms smartly over the back of her chair. "But nooo, I sent him through a *tree* and he just said he was 'old and special'."

The were-woman huffs as her firecracker temper burns itself out and a wistful smile takes its place on her face. "But I did send a 'god' into a tree like an overgrown hatchet..."

"Nothing special that I know about," she admits, idly lifting a finger to trace the marks. They're still new to her. "I don't get any special voice-in-my-head and he said I'd have to know magic, do some kind of sacrifice, and then he *might* hear me back so... yay, my first tattoo.""

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"A week?" Mercy says, her expression turning much less apologetic and much more amused. "That's not /long/, Vanya. It really isn't. Not for them, at least."

Them meaning 'gods'. Truly a week must pass by in a blink of an eye for them.

And while Mercy could continue on in that light-hearted way, eventually her expression turns pensive again. Mostly when Vanya mentions the tattoo doesn't afford her any special powers. "A shame. I was hoping it'd give you some kind of boost, but congratulations for your first tattoo." She ends with, her tone lightening for a moment with those last words of hers. "I'll bring out the beer to celebrate." Adds the mechanic, even as she straightens from her casual slouch against the work bench. She'll trot over to a small fridge that's tucked away in a corner, far away from where the cars and tools can be found. From within she'll pull two bottles out, then when she's back near Vanya she'll hold one out to her. "Here. Congrats. Let me know if you ever feel like a second. I'll take you to the place I go to. They do good work there."

Then Mercy opens her own bottle of beer, offering a clink of glass if desired, before taking a sip. It's only after that sip has been swallowed that the tricky coyote finally gets back to why she asked Vanya here. "I've a ... friend who's been brainwashed. He's what you'd call a super soldier, I think. I'm hoping you'd help us bring him down. We're hoping to capture him and return him back to his normal state of mind."

Feral has posed:
"It's a long time when you live with the man," Vanya defends, having more memories come to mind than she can articulate. "Heh, but thank you," she admits, accepting the beer and cracking it open for a sip of her own. As she settles in for story time, a tiger tail pokes out from somewhere behind and swishes idly in the air.

"Super soldier, huh?" the predator muses, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful for a moment. "He's not a giant bear, is he?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The tiger tail is looked at. An expression that looks bemused settles upon Mercy's features. She's not quite used to Vanya's partial shifts just yet, soon sure, but not quite yet.

Head tilting slightly at that question from Vanya, Mercy shakes her head in the negative. "No. Not a bear, or a shifter. He has a metal arm, great with guns, and fighting in general. He does speak Russian, however."

Which might be why she jumped earlier, when Vanya shouted that Russian of her own. "The brainwashing is causing him to follow the instructions from some very terrible men. And before you accept let me just tell you that when we do take him down there's a very real possibility that we might be hurt, or worse." And this is where Mercy's expression turns grim, her voice too. "I'd understand whole-heartedly if you didn't want to accept. There'd be no hard feelings."

Feral has posed:
Vanya wrinkles her nose at the description. "Ugh, I hate metal... but it's only one arm?" The predator thinks, briefly, then grins widely enough to show off her pointed canines. "You *do* know what this mark means, right?" she asks with a dark chuckle.

Sitting up straighter and drawing her arms apart, Vanya slams a fist into her waiting hand with a feral smile. "That sounds nice. We just have to get those *guns* away from him first... then I can have fun."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When Vanya mentions that mark upon her face Mercy can't stop herself from looking at it again.

The coyote will nod. "I do." She states, even as her gaze flicks back to Vanya's own eyes. "But that doesn't mean you have to take up every fight, or battle, that's presented to you. Especially one with such terrible odds."

Worry can be heard in Mercy's voice, seen within her expression, the way she holds herself. She's not taking this upcoming battle lightly. "And agreed, the guns will definitely be a problem. As will the people he's bringing with him. Not sure if you've ever heard of Hydra, but we believe they'll be his back-up in this fight." A casual gesture to the work benches behind her, where that bit of metal sits cooling will be given by Mercy now, as she continues, "I've been working on some surprises for both him and whoever he brings with him. Hopefully it'll be enough." And while more could be said there's the sound of a car pulling up and then a door being slammed. It only takes a few seconds for the delivery person to approach the open doorway. "Hello?" The young man calls out, his voice hesitant as he sees the two women inside. "Order for Mercy Thompson?"

With money in hand Mercy steps over to the young man and the bag he holds. "Here you go, keep the change." She says, then with plastic bag in hand the coyote trots back inside.

Feral has posed:
"He has friends with him? That's annoying," Vanya grumbles, lashing her tail. "If they're unarmed I'll beat through as many as they can send but I hate guns," she confides in the coyote. "I've been shot - it otsasyvayet bolshiye oslinyye chasti. Still--" the second were-woman's head turns as the car approaches and the two animals wordlessly pause their conversation for the interruption.

An especially long tongue sweeps itself across the Russian's lips as Mercy returns. "Still I'm not some intelligentsia that got this mark as a job. I *like* a good fight, that's why Ivan likes me. That and maybe he likes hairy women," she jokes, considering the shapeshifting coyote with an easy grin for a few moments before shrugging.

"Besides that sounds like a new kind of challenge. Maybe one-on-one ring fights are making me soft..."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
On a clean work bench, because Mercy keeps them clean, the bag of food will be set gently down.

It's only after she's rescued the various cartoons and tupperware containers from within the bag that she'll roll back around to their conversation. "I'm not a fan of guns either." She admits, her words heavy, even as she puzzles over the Russian phrase Vanya stated. "But, Hydra has many guns. Hate to break that news to you."

"Let me grab some plates -" And this she actually has in the garage as the woman heads over to one of the locked cabinets. Opening the cabinet she'll pull a few paper plates out, along with plastic spoons, knives and forks. With her bounty in hand Mercy returns to the work bench the two are around.

"Yes, I do get you like fights." Mercy says, even as she pushes a few containers toward Vanya, "I just want to be clear on what we're walking into." Her words are still grave, though they do lighten at the mention of hairy women. That's enough to earn an amused snort from the coyote, even as she pulls the plastic lid off of her orange chicken. The small container of rice will be pulled towards her and opened, before half the container is dumped into the orange chicken. Clearly, Mercy doesn't mind her food mixing.

Her amusement flees a bit, however, when Vanya returns to the topic of fights. "It's going to be a challenge." She agrees, even as she slants a look towards Vanya, "And I hardly think you've gone soft from ring-fighting. I saw the lot you hang out there with, I can't say /any/ of them looked soft."

Feral has posed:
Showing the same upbeat and unruffled ease she walked into the shop with, Vanya opens her own plastic and Styrofoam bowl and sniffs up its steam with cheery gusto before pouring food onto her plate. Her rice gets mixed too but some of it stays white, like the snowcapped Urals in miniature.

"Some are softer than others," the predator grants, turning just slightly as she glances back at Mercy to present a better profile of her hard-fought and hard-fighting figure as she reaches for silverware. Yes, all the teeth and claws of half the animal kingdom... and she eats with a plastic fork.

"You're making this sound less like a fight and more like a small war. And I'm supposed to believe Ivan doesn't want to be the first one in?" she asks skeptically.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
At least Vanya is a polite predator, yes?

That's all Mercy can ask for, having lived with so many predators all her life.

Another snort of amusement can be heard from the coyote, when Vanya offers the mention that /some/ of those fighters are soft. Her fork will be pointed at the woman, "Perhaps in /your/ mind's eye they're soft, but to me? All muscle. All ready to pounce." All ready to kill, which is left unsaid.

The mention of war strikes a discordant note within the mechanic. That's the same word Claire Temple used not so long ago. Before this 'war' started. When it was only a possibility. Her plastic fork will be pushed through her food now, the furrow of her eyebrows deepening, "It is war." Comes her admission, even as her gaze flicks away from her food and back to Vanya. "That's why I was hesitant to bring you in -" She shakes her head, but moves on. Vanya has made her decision, that's clear enough. "Your 'boss' swore an oath not to directly interfere against the Soldier. He's helping in other ways."

Feral has posed:
"So I'm his proxy?" Vanya blurts in annoyance. "That's not fair, just because I punch things doesn't mean he can get off on it." The predator blinks and lets her fork tap against her plate. "Then again..." And now true, deep thought takes over the impulsive woman for... about three seconds before she shrugs and gives up.

"That makes sense. So... lots of guns. Big ones? Any other toys to know about?" she asks while sipping her beer to wash down the thinking and start on her meal(s).

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Proxy? That's enough to earn a quick hand raise from Mercy, "No, not at /all/. I asked for your help before I even /knew/ you were his herald. Shoot -" Because Mercy doesn't swear, "- Before I even knew he was God of War."

She'd run a hand through her hair, but with her locks bound up in two braids it'd only end up with knotted and snarled strands. So, instead, Mercy will just rub a hand across her face. Thankfully, for Mercy at least, the other woman doesn't really take /too/ much offense at her remark. A sigh is swallowed by the coyote, before her attention swings back to Vanya. Her food is still only being pushed around. Obviously talk of war doesn't sit well with the woman's appetite, unlike Vanya.

That last question causes Mercy to pause, her own expression taking on a thinking look. "Definitely guns and likely other tricks too. We just don't have the best intel right now. I'm sorry." And truly Mercy is. Her tone holds a note of apology within it, even as she adds, "It's why we're trying to pull together as many weapons and tricks of our own. I hope it's enough."

Finally a few bites of food will be taken. "Still in?" She asks again; allowing the other feral woman a chance to bow out should she want it. Not that Mercy expects her too, but her honor demands she ask.

Feral has posed:
Vanya looks across the workbench with something other than disinterest or an eager appetite for violence and ego-stoking. Her wild-touched eyes, dark human browns on the edges fading to yellow at their inner rings, hold a note of compassion for the big-hearted coyote - as well as a little fond amusement that she'd even ask. They've done their staring contest, the alpha predator knows where they stand without bothering to read scents.

"Of course," she dismisses between bites without so much as a pause to properly swallow her food first. "That just means we'll all get to be surprised. I hope they have a few animals of their own..." and the playful, hungry glint is back again. At least now it's aimed at her broccoli.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Big-hearted. Yes.

It's how she gets into these crazy messes.

Not that Mercy would change anything at this point. Well, all right, she would, but that mainly has to do with the brainwashing of a certain Soldier, but that's neither here nor there.

That compassion is noted by Mercy, as is the amusement, and all the coyote can do for a second is offer a true smile to the other woman. And a nod of her head. She can read between the silent lines there, both with sight and with scent. "Thank you." Is what she she'll say to the elder woman.

The mention of animals earns a faint sound of amusement from Mercy. "You sound so much like the wolves that raised me." She says, even as she continues with, "Always so eager for the fight. Even when the odds are likely stacked against us. You'd fit in with them quite easily, I think." A certain fondness enters her voice now, even if not all her memories of her 'family' are all that great. "But speaking of such things, I'm going to call my pack and see if they can send a couple of sharpshooters up. If that fails, well, they can always join the battle as wolves."

Feral has posed:
"Blame the wolf in me," Vanya offers easily. "Or the bear, or the tiger..." She smiles toothily as striped fur runs halfway up her forearm in a largely aesthetic show of tiger genes and the predator pops out a set of needlelike claws before allowing them and the genes they formed from to recede. "Tiger might be my favorite so far," she confesses.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Ha. Wolf." Mercy says, tucking into her food a bit more now.

The pattern of stripes and orange fur is looked at, even as a corner of her mouth quirks upward. "Nice trick. Almost makes me wish I could do something similar." But she can't and she's not going to lament about it for long. Or feel too much jealousy; because there's definitely a pang of it.

But, her coyote form has rarely ever failed her when it mattered, so she can't ask much more. At least, not right now.

Either way, Mercy will keep a steady flow of chatter as the two eat. Touching upon subjects that are mostly light. The heaviness of the earlier talk is (for this moment) let go, though hardly forgotten. And maybe, just maybe, after both are done eating Mercy will ever-so-politely ask Vanya for help bending the stubborn bit of metal that sits clamped in the jaws of the vice. She's seen the woman's strength, it can definitely help her with her metal-work.