1708/A Pack of Strays

A Pack of Strays
Date of Scene:	01 August 2017
Location:	West Harlem - Mercy's Garage
Synopsis:	In-between building bombs Mercy finds a newly awakened shifter.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Okhotnik

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
It's late afternoon, early evening, and while many businesses are closing early on this Friday, Mercy's Garage is still open for business.

While the front door of Mercy's Garage is quite unlocked, it's the side entrance that shows movement. The segmented garage door for the side entrance is up and open, allowing for the interior of the garage port to be seen. That's where one Mercy Thompson can be found. A car sits inside the actual garage and the mechanic is just slamming the hood of said car shut. Then she's straightening with a careful stretch, as the coyote eases cramped back muscles from the awkward angle she was standing at.

Once straight, the mechanic will turn to look outside, her gaze flicking this way and that, as she takes stock of the early evening. Her steps will take her to the edge of the garage and while she doesn't quite step outside into the parking lot that surrounds her business, it's still easy enough to see her within that garage doorway. She's dressed simply enough in mechanic coveralls, with her hair bound in two braids. Idly she holds a wrench within her hand as she takes a five minute break from the job.

Okhotnik has posed:
The streets are the streets. But here in Harlem is a good bit away from the depths of Mutant Town as city streets and their populations consider things. It is for that reason that Diya - the woman known in her past life as Okhotnik, the Hunter - is here now. She needed to get away from Mutant Town. She created a lot of havok there recently, and it was best that she not be there for a while, to let things cool off. It is best she not be forced to confront upset law enforcement officers; that would not go well.

Looking every inch the homeless veteran she is, even if she is dressed in American surplus, rather than Russian, Diya walks the streets of Harlem, getting a sense for this new territory, and those that move within it. She doesn't walk the sidewalk so much as stalks it, and something about her tends to make most folks choose to walk somewhere else, rather than approaching her up close. Even here in the City That Never Sleeps the people have a sense for predators, and they avoid them when and as they can. And so they avoid the dirty, messy homeless woman. This becomes a tad more pronounced as darkness falls, when certain angles and movements bring to clarity the reflected glow of her green eyes.

Taking stock of the area, Diya's gaze and senses brush over the garage and the woman outlined in the doorway. She senses something odd, something off. She has no idea what it means, or why it might be important. But it is enough to slow her pace, cause her to turn and regard the place more carefully, trying to put her mental finger on the ... odd. The coyote might well pick up the scent that follows Diya. She's no wolf. No, she's feline, not canine.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A beer. That's what Mercy is currently thinking about, as her own gaze idly scans the area around her workplace and home.

There are just same days that a beer is the best medicine after it's all said and done. Especially these last few weeks. Stressful doesn't even begin to cover it -

That thought, however, is cut off midway as the movement upon the sidewalk catches her attention. Her sensitive eyes, ears and nose immediately perk up, as the coyote turns her attention to the homeless woman. It's Mercy's sense of hearing and sight that catch sight of the woman first, and as such, the mechanic will simply watch the woman move. It's only as her sense of smell finally gets a whiff of the other woman's scent that Mercy frowns. Much like Diya, Mercy's attention looks for that source of the odd scent. Her own gaze will find Diya's form just as the other woman turns her own attention to the coyote. Shifting from her casual slouch against the side of the door, Mercy straightens. The wrench that's held loosely in her hand is set aside upon a nearby work bench. With her hands now free Mercy steps from the protective and lighted embrace of her garage and out into the parking lot. She's still a distance away from the sidewalks, but that doesn't stop Mercy from raising a hand upward in a careful wave of greeting.

Even with the distance that separates the two, Mercy can already feel the ping of magic from the woman. A were, definitely, but not wolf, nor coyote. A puzzle for a minute for Mercy as she tries to figure out just what Diya is.

Okhotnik has posed:
The weapon - if that's what it was meant to be - is set aside. In response to that the natural wariness Diya lives with every moment of every day ratchets back, just slightly. She inclines her head towards the woman, tilting her head to the side in a visible gesture of curiosity and consideration. She gets no closer, but neither does she leave, either back the way she came or further along her prior path. She just .... stands there, on the sidewalk, watching and considering the other woman.

There are a few other minor telltales worth mentioning. With more attention, Mercy will eventually pick up traces of both gun oil, and a slightly more metallic-saturated oil as well. There's enough that as she draws to a closer range Mercy would be able to conclude the homeless woman in aged fatiques is armed, probably with a knife and a firearm. And given their scents, these are not aged, ignored scraps of a forgotten life, but well- and regularly-maintained tools of everyday life. They aren't out or visible, but they must be on her somewhere.

Unable to help herself, Diya tenses up as Mercy draws closer; unable to figure out what it is she's feeling, sensing, - unable to make any //sense// out of it - her instincts are ramping back up towards paranoia. She's consciously resisting those urges, but she cannot deny their presence.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
As Mercy's measured steps bring her closer to the woman she can't help but pick out those scents of well-cared for weaponry. While it causes a vague wariness to enter Mercy's brown eyes, it doesn't stop her forward momentum.

What does /stop/ Mercy's forward movement is when the coyote's sensitive nose picks up the emotion of paranoia and fear. That's enough to cause the mechanic to stop all together; halfway towards the woman and halfway not. An awkward way to have a conversation, but Mercy has lived with the Wild Things long enough to know when /not/ to push her luck.

And right now, Mercy's instincts are telling her to be extremely careful. As such, both of Mercy's hands will be raised upward now, a careful gesture, a hopefully placating gesture. "Hey." Calls the coyote, her voice much softer than what it should be, but Mercy is counting on Diya to be able to hear her words with her enhanced hearing. "You okay?"

And while Mercy could have went with something all together different - like 'I won't hurt you' - she doesn't, instead staying with that question. Concern might be heard within that voice of hers, as the coyote watches this lone feline's metaphorical hackles raise upward. There's the potential for aggression here; much like the warning a stripe of stiffly risen fur could give another animal when a cat is feeling threatened.

Okhotnik has posed:
The raised hands are good; the stopping of forward movement is a tad better. The paranoiac concern ratchets back down a step and a half, there, ut is still present. There's an edge to this woman, a razor-fine line to her reactions, that speaks to something rarely seen in //most// wolves the coyote has known. But she has known wolves the rest of the world has not; she knew Bran's pack, including the 'bungled and the botched' - the wolves the rest of the world couldn't be allowed to see, because they were verging on out of control, towards needing to be put down. Wolves are naturally very, very vigilant.

But this is hypervigilance. And with the military surplus attire, that probably makes a few suggestions to Mercy's thinking. At least, it might.

"I ... am unhurt." the woman says, just as softly. Yes, Diya can hear Mercy, even though the other woman is just barely not whispering from a good distance away. Also, there's something odd in the way she speaks, something instinct would likely tell Mercy isn't normal, isn't right: her words are mushy, soft-edged, garbled. There's no way to know that she's struggling not to sound distinctly, sharply Russian when she speaks the English words.

"You ... you are different." There is a very tense uncertainty to Diya's tone when she subvocalizes that. There's no way for Mercy to know she has never met another like herself. That she in fact has no idea what the Hell has become of her. But clearly this stranger cat is on uncertain footing, perhaps in more ways than one.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, Bran's pack, the bungled and the botched. After all, wasn't she herself one of those?

Worse in some ways. A shifter, but not. A coyote, but not a wolf. A woman shifter, but so unlike the woman wolves.

All things to make Mercy stick out like a sore thumb; which caused some, well, many to dislike her intensely within the pack.

But, that's another story all together and is not this one.

When the woman speaks, the tension within Mercy's gaze lessens slightly. Usually if you can get a too far gone wolf to speak it helps return some of their humanity. While she knows the woman across from her isn't a wolf, she's still going to apply some of that shifter logic to this particular situation. "Good." States the mechanic, her voice still soft, controlled, showing very little emotion beyond concerned. "I'm glad you're not hurt." She continues to speak, striving for a more soothing tone now.

While Mercy considers her next approach with this woman, Diya finally asks, or states her own sort of question-statement. While the woman's accent is odd to Mercy's ears it only earns a flicker of a question within her eyes. That question is left unsaid, as Mercy nods, "I am." She answers honestly, her hands slowly being dropped to her side now, "I can change my shape to a coyote." Her head tilts slightly, as Mercy offers her own question-statement, "You're similar."

Okhotnik has posed:
The other woman flinches back at Mercy's statement as if she'd been strike between the eyes with a baseball bat. She staggers, shaking her head, letting her momentum carry her as she starts backing away. There isn't much sidewalk, and then she has butt herself against the wall of one of the buildings; it's pretty clear she'd have kept backing up if that had not been the case.

"No." she offers, sharply, forgetting to hide her accent; she's too upset. Diya shakes her head, unwashed hair flopping about lankly. "I'm ... I'm not." Is she? No, Diya's instincts //demand// that this not be the case, and that moment of consideration ends abruptly, the door slammed shut and reinforced with mental adamantium.

Thou shalt not pass.

"I don't change my shape." Diya offers, more words bringing out the Russian accent much more clearly; sharp, precise, razor-edged. But fluent in this language which is clearly not the one of her milk tongue.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When the woman staggers Mercy takes one step forward, possibly intending to help her, but then the mechanic stops herself.

It's pretty clear from how the woman reacts and how her scent changes that /something/ with the change didn't go quite as planned.

Or perhaps wasn't planned. That thought echoes quietly through Mercy's mind. She's encountered those who had the change forced upon them. It's not unheard of. Especially when wild wolves are in control versus their humanity.

The mechanic waits to move. She waits for the other woman to come up against the other building, she waits for her to calm down, Mercy just waits. Again, the questions within her eyes are there, but she stomps neatly upon her impatience now that she understands what she's dealing with here. "Okay." The coyote begins, her voice still holding a note of calmness to it; even if she doesn't necessarily feel that way. "That's fine. You don't need to." Change she means, though Mercy doesn't say that word out loud, "Are you hungry?" She asks, striving for another tactic here. "I have some sandwiches and water in the garage. Cookies too, if you like chocolate chip." And then finally, "I'm Mercy. Mercy Thompson."

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya watches the strange woman curiously. She has, by now, realized that Mercy appears to be one of those the texts called 'Native Americans'. So like Americanski, to take what is not theirs, to enslave and twist a once-proud people into pale shadows of their former selves. Not unlike what they have done to Mother Russia. Most interestingly, this mysterious woman seems to understand things about Diya that Diya herself has only begun to puzzle out on her own.

Including realizing that she should not get closer. Should not push. That she needs to give the dangerous woman some space.

Space good.

Hungry? Coyote hearing couldn't possibly miss the gut-rumble that follows that word. And Diya does not bother to lie. "Da." she admits. "What ... what d' I do ... to earn that?" she questions, intently.

Instinct alone compels, and the homeless woman takes a step closer. Maybe two, but remains on the sidewalk. The boundary. That there is Mercy's territory.

"They called me ... Hunter. Okhotnik." Diya answers.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The Russian accent is finally placed by the coyote, thanks to the sharpening of Diya's accent and the fact that she answers with 'da'.

A small part of Mercy's brain has to wonder why she attracts all the Russians, but that's a small almost sardonic question that is definitely not said out loud.

Instead, the dark-haired woman stays within her parking lot, while Diya stays upon the sidewalk. It's only when the other woman asks what price she'd have to pay for food, water and cookies, that Mercy's expression turns outraged. "What do you do -" She states, her voice rising in volume, a horrified note found within there, "/Nothing/. Nothing. You don't have to do /anything/. It's free."

Before she says anything more the coyote takes a second to breath. In and out. One more time. With that last breath out, Mercy's voice has lost some of that edge, some of that harshness. "I promise, the meal is free." She states again, even as the other woman approaches closer to her. "No strings attached. Please, come on in?" She asks, taking a step backwards, toward her garage. The light is like a bright yellow beacon, hopefully offering safe harbor within a world that Okhotnik doesn't necessarily understand.

The mention of 'they' finally prompts a question or two from Mercy, "Who's they? Friends? Family?" Though with the hesitation found within that answer Mercy doesn't necessarily believe it was friends or family.

Okhotnik has posed:
The Russian woman's 'hackles' raise at the sharper tone, but ease back when Mercy seizes control of herself and backs it off. OK. Insult. Diya understands that. "Americanski. Always pay." she murmurs, knowing the other woman will hear her. But she follows. If this one is crazy enough to feed her without payment, she isn't going to argue. She //is// hungry.

Diya walks slowly, keeping half the pace of Mercy's very slow and steady retreat back into the garage. She's letting Mercy pull ahead, stay out of range, and choose her placement. It's this coyote woman's home, after a fashion. Her territory. Her choice.

"Army. My unit." Diya answers, a dark and deeply sad tone in her voice as she does so, following towards that beacon of light and warmth.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Oh, Mercy heard those softly murmured words and it's enough to cause a look to be slide Diya's way. "In restaurants, yes, but I'm not a restaurant. if I'm offering you food it's because I want to." And while she doesn't admit it out loud Mercy's mind went to other more darker aspects of 'payment'.

That's enough to cause the coyote to shake her head at herself. Clearly there's too much darkness within her life right now. That her mind would go to the worst possible iteration of the offer to pay. It gives her pause, but not enough to stop the flow of words between the woman.

For Mercy, it's something to think upon another night. Not this one.

She'll allow herself to pull ahead, even presenting a portion of her back to the other woman. Not her whole back, because that would be stupid, but a half of it. She'll keep the other woman within her peripheral vision, even as she steps inside the garage. It's a touch cooler inside, thanks to the air conditioning that's running throughout the building, but the humidity still seeps in thanks to the garage door being up and open. The interior of the garage is fairly neat and tidy. Yes, tools currently still sit out, but only because she has yet to end her work day.

Once both are inside, Mercy turns her gaze back to Diya for a second. The sadness within her tone is heard and Mercy asks, "What happened?" And while she waits for the answer to that question Mercy doesn't stop moving. She's heading towards the back of her garage, where a small refrigerator can be found. From it she pulls two water bottles, a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a couple of wrapped sandwiches. Ham, cheese, lettuce and mayo might be smelled from the plastic-wrapped edibles.

The food is juggled carefully and brought over to a work bench. A nod is given to the folded chairs that lean against a wall. "Grab a seat if you like."

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya continues to follow at that half-pace, always giving Mercy room to make her own decisions, to get herself out from between the Russian woman - and cat - and the anything else. But she does keep approaching. There's something unspeakable in the grace of her movements, as if Diya turns merely walking into a dance. There's an instinctual likeness to the slow stalk of an implacable huntress.

"I was attacked." Diya answers, succinctly. "Should have died. Didn't." That alone wasn't enough to end her association with her team, but it opened the door. "I returned to duty, followed them to Chechnya and then Ukraine. Then others came, wanting me. And they said nothing. Did nothing. So I ran." Alone.

Diya follows to the back, and crouches near the workbench, eyes glowing in reflected light as she takes it all in. Only then does she sit on the chair; yes, she was checking for traps. Tripwires. Explosives.

"Been running ever since." Diya explains, as she settles carefully into the chair, as if she's perched an inch above it, hovering on the brink of exploding into motion again. She visibly inhales, drawing in the scent of the food. "Can ... can I help?' she asks. Asks, rather than commands. It's not easy, staying loose like that. Passivity is not her natural state of being.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, Mercy has seen the wolves move the same way Diya does. And while Mercy's movements are similar in some sense, they're also not. The mechanic is more quick-footed, fleet-footed if you will. Nimble and quick, small and fast.

The inside of her shop holds all the smells one might expect; oil, grease, gasoline, cold metal, heated metal and more pungent scents from paint and primer and even sealer. Beneath that is lighter scents, which seems to come from the back; a cat, Mercy's own scent, food-baking to be specific, and other random scents from customers. All quite innocuous when it comes down to it.

Diya's story is listened to even as Mercy sets the plates down before the woman. All of the food and one water bottle to be exact. The second water bottle will be kept for herself and set opposite of Diya atop that work bench. "What were you attacked by?" She asks, her question both curious and intent. "An animal?" She hazards a guess, her attention focused completely on Diya still. It's, however, at the mention that others came looking for her that Mercy frowns now. "What sort of others? A .. pack?" She'll ask slowly, trying not to upset the other woman with that question.

As for that hesitant offer of help from Diya, it earns a smile from Mercy and then a shake of her head. "I got it. It's all good."

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya purses her lips. She doesn't reach for the food. Not yet. She watches Mercy, her own scent showing a roiling of deep-seated, painful emotions.

"A pack? Of sorts. A unit. Soldiers, but not. Come to take me into custody 'for study'." Diya explains. She has coldly bitter, furious feelings about this event. The sort of feelings that would lead to wholesale butchery if she ever encounters their like again in her life. They cost her //everything//.

"It was a tiger. In Siberia." In the mountains bordering between Siberia and mainland China. Diya sniffs a bit more. "Why?" she queries. "Why do you want to help me? Feed me?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A group was trying to trap her for study? Darkness flashes across Mercy's features again.

"Study." Says the woman softly, her voice holding a sharp edge to it, "That's terrible." And while Mercy would like to blurt out 'how ironic' she doesn't. Simply because Diya would not realize why she finds that statement of hers so ironic. Russia; it never seems to help those that live within their borders, only hurt. Or so it seems to Mercy Thompson.

The mention of a tiger earns a quick eyebrow lift from the woman, as the oddity now makes sense. Feline. Of course. Somewhat like a wolf, but so not. Other than that eyebrow lift Mercy doesn't show any other surprise at the mention of being attacked by an animal. It's to be expected, that's how weres are created typically.

That last question, however, earns a cant of the mechanic's head. "Why not?" She asks, even as she twists the cap of her water off. "You need help, I can help, the answer seems pretty obvious to me. If a person can help another, you should." Mercy says gently, even as she considers whether to broach the subject of shifting again. Finally, after a silent moment, she'll add, "Especially if we're the same, or close enough to the same. Shifters need to stick together."

Okhotnik has posed:
This close, there's no missing the deeply haunted, vacant Hell in Diya's eyes when Mercy mentions again that she could be a shifter, that she could in fact be a tiger like the one that mauled her, wrecked her, left her for dead. PTSD seems such a clinical name, not nearly the soul-shattering Hell reflected in that gaze.

"That's how the Army is supposed to work." How it did work, in fact, until they turned their backs on her. Until they left her to the warriors in black armor. "But not many live up to that." Diya admits. She tries, but she has learned never to expect the same from another.

After a bit longer, the Russian woman reaches out, taking up the first of the sandwiches. She opens it carefully, visibly fighting for control, demanding that her body slow down, rather than simply inhale the sandwiches and then spit out the plastic wrap. Oh, the rumbling of that demanding tummy.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The plate of cookies will likewise be unwrapped, showing a dozen or more of the homemade treats.

Said plate will be put closer to Diya.

The haunted look in her eyes, that's a familiar emotion, and once more Mercy backs away verbally from the talk of shifter. Instead, she'll talk more in a round about way of things. She'll keep tabs on how Diya is feeling through careful sniffs, as Mercy scents the air periodically. It's like trying to walk a minefield with a detector that could save you, or be just a second too late to be effective. And while Mercy doesn't necessarily /need/ to try, she /has/ to try.

As she said before shifters stick together.

"I think because the Army likely didn't know how to handle it." The coyote states slowly, as she keeps her attention upon Diya, though she doesn't necessarily stare her in the eye. "But there are groups -" She continues with, "- that do. With people like you and I. They can help you understand and figure things out. I know some of these groups and the ones I know are good people. They'd be willing to help if you'd want that sort of thing."

Okhotnik has posed:
The ravenously hungry soldier goes into a tightrope balancing act Mercy is likely to recognize, as she methodically, carefully, precisely, and even a little bit slowly works her way through //every sandwich on the plate//. There's an exaggerated precision to her movements not unlike a drunk trying to walk carefully, though Mercy - with her experience - can be sure that's more an effort to keep Diya's very hands from blurring with speed as she seems hungry enough to devour not just the sandwiches but the plate and the table.

It may well make a sort of sense, really, given the other woman's experiences and Diya's resistance to accepting that she could be a shifter. With no one to train or teach her, and clearly resisting the Change as much as she is, she is rather unlikely to be stoking the furnace of that shifter physiology to the level it would demand, especially if she's homeless.

"My team gave me up to the others." Diya offers. People she fought with, bled with, trusted beyond merely her own life surrendered her to those who would have made of her a lab rat or worse, without a protest. Clearly, she's going to find it difficult to trust another group to look out for her the way her team should have. "And even if these others did not ... they could come. I would not want to put that danger on another group, especially if they //didn't// give me up." How horrible, to bring that Hell down upon a group that did better than her own team for her.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy watches the woman work through the food. Precisely yes, but with obvious hunger. "Do you want another sandwich? I can make a few more." She offers, even with that plate of cookies still there between them. Sometimes something more substantial than carbs and sugar is needed, and Mercy understands this.

And while nothing has been overtly stated about the change Mercy has deduced the other woman's resistance to it. To acknowledge it, to understand it, to even speak of it. It's a concerning thought and that concern can be seen within the mechanic's eyes.

When Diya reveals her team gave her up there doesn't seem to be any surprise or shock from Mercy. She expected half as much, having seen something of the sort before, so again there's no surprise from her. Instead the coyote states simply, "I'm sorry your team turned on you." Empathy is held within those words of hers, "That had to be terrible." Broken trust, it's not something easy to deal with. "And the pack -" Yes, she just used that word, "- isn't afraid of trouble. They're hundreds strong and they wouldn't let anyone take a fellow - veteran. We stick together, help one another, no matter what." Veteran; that wasn't the exact word she was going to use, but it's the one she did. There's a moment of silence from Mercy as she considers her next words. It's only when she determines her next question (carefully) that the coyote speaks again. "Who are these people that are chasing you?"

Okhotnik has posed:
There's still a veil of mistrust and doubt in Diya's eyes when she glances up at Mercy, considering her question of more sandwiches. Oh, she wants more. She wants more a lot. But does she want more //enough// to be willing to //ask//. She mulls that for a bit, before she finally nods. "Da. Pazhaluysta." That's 'Yes. Please.' for not fluent in Russian. Clearly substantial would be better than carbs.

"They were following orders." Diya offers by way of explanation. She understands why they did what they did. That doesn't make the bloody raw wound of betrayal hurt any less. "They were Russian. Intelligence, but no group I knew." Not just FSB, then. "Black armor. Weapons I had not seen. Markings I did not know." Diya pauses for a bit.

When she resumes, Diya's voice is softer, less certain of herself. "I did not notice, until after I was fighting to get free." She doesn't remember noticing, at least. Yet some uncertain part of her feels like she did notice. Because why else would she fight //against// these men? Not wanting to be a prisoner wouldn't be enough for that. What happened to all that vaunted Spetznaz discipline? "They had chains, with full-limb encasing cuffs." So they knew more about what she was capable of at that time than she did.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That mistrust and doubt is seen within Diya's eyes, smelled within her scent, and for all of it Mercy just keeps her own expression and gaze open.

Open and honest. She's like a book, her movements are telegraphed, her intentions clear.

The yes is understood, the please not so much, but with that yes the coyote moves. It's back to that little fridge that sits on the other side and from the depths Mercy pulls out a bag of lunch meat, cheese, a half of loaf of bread and mustard. Walking it back over Mercy will set all of it atop that work bench. "Sorry, the breads going to be cold." She murmurs, not that Diya will likely care as hungry as she is.

The mention of following orders that brings a reaction from Mercy. It's not quite a growl, but it comes close. "/Orders/." She states, voice sharp with that first word, "Orders or not there comes a time when you have to put family -" Because Mercy sees that sort of close knit group as a familial structure, "- above all else."

It's with that mention of full-limb encasing cuffs that Mercy's expression turns even darker, "Then they knew what you were - are even." And the coyote waits again, to see how that last sentence is handled by Diya.

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya waits patiently, though she's virtually vibrating in place as she awaits the arrival of more sandwiches. When the bag of meat is opened, Mercy might pick up a ratcheting up of that containment tension, interest and vibration. "Cold is fine." she answers, honestly. After all, if she's like the wolves, she's a blast furnace inside; she could nearly bake the bread (no, not really, but that's the wonder of hyperbole) inside herself.

"That is what I always felt." Diya responds when Mercy comments on her story. "Perhaps that is why them turning me over hurt so badly." Because had it been one of them, Diya would have fought to save and protect them, without question, without hesitation.

"At the least, they knew I had changed. That I was more." Diya agrees with a nod, a tint of sadness. "And I know I am. Faster. So much faster. Stronger. I do not get sick. I heal from ... anything." Anything she's run into so far, at least. "And I know more. Sense more. Sight. Hearing. Even smell. I don't always know what to make of it all." But she senses it, nonetheless. "It is why I knew you were Other."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Eat as much as you want." Mercy says, though she'll add with a note of caution after a second of thought, "Well, as much as your stomach can handle without revolting."

Still, that doesn't stop the coyote from helpfully opening the bagged bread. Once that's done Mercy will turn back to the conversation at hand.

The remark about healing from everything causes the mechanic to cant her head slightly to the side. "Be careful of silver. Many of us have an intolerance to silver." Not that Mercy does, but that warning is offered, even as she nods to the rest of what Diya says. "Identifying scents will come with time and practice. The more you use your senses the better you'll become with them." The dark-haired woman will touch her own nose for a quick second as she continues to say, "It can even tell you the emotional state of people which always helps during tense or worrisome situations." Like now for instance, not that Mercy says that. "And yes, it could help you identify a fellow shifter."

She brings out that word, shifter, testing the waters to see how the other woman handles it. Perhaps with food Diya will be less jumpy, less wary of that word. "How'd you get here in the States?" Is her next question, since to Mercy's mind Diya is still very close with Mother Russia in her words, deeds and thoughts.

Okhotnik has posed:
"Spetznaz. We go where we need to go." Diya offers in that sharp, pointy Russian accent of hers. "We learn how. So I thought of where the men in black armor would be least likely to hear of me, find me, and I went underground. Cargo." It helped that she could tolerate conditions that would have been nearly lethal before the change.

Diya goes back to eating, then, as more sandwiches are offered, until they are all gone. She does not devour the cookies. Those are left, but all of the meat not still walking around is now long gone. And the Russian's stomach is no longer growling angrily. At least for now. She is quiet for a while, perhaps mulling things over.

"Silver?" Diya questions, at last. "Wolf, then, you think?" Yes, even in Mother Russia they have legends of werewolves, and mention of silver as a means to combat them. But obviously she is no wolf.

The tension in the air crackles. Diya is no longer ravenous, and she isn't angry at Mercy. Not directly. But something is setting her off. "I remember. Every bite. Every slash. Every rip. Every gouge. Every crushed bone. Snapped vertebrae. Steaming hot blood. Growls and cries of rage and agony." The air vibrates around Diya, her voice taking on that odd timbre that is so much deeper, so much larger than she is. "It killed me. It unmade me."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Spetznaz. That word be looked up later by Mercy. After this conversation is over.

A cargo ship. She nods. Again, the mechanic doesn't seem surprised. Likely because other wolves have similar types of stories. Stories of running, of hiding and escaping. "And I take it you haven't seen any sign of them here?" She asks, the question automatic, even as Mercy keeps an eye upon the disappearing food. With the cookies sitting so forlornly there she can't quite help but reach for one. It'll be broken in half though not quite eaten yet.

The question of whether Mercy thinks Diya is a wolf brings a faint narrowing of the mechanic's eyes. Another flare of her nostrils as she considers the woman's scent, but really she already knows the answer. The other woman spoke of an attack, a tiger, in Siberia. As such, "Not wolf, tiger and while I'm not certain you'd have the same sensitivity to silver as a wolf, it's best to be careful. An assumption could lead to an injury or worse."

It's only as the tension ratchets upward that Mercy pauses in words and movements. Warily the coyote watches Diya now; the balance between woman and beast dipping away from human for a moment. "No." The mechanic says, after Diya details her recollection of the attack. "You didn't die. You were remade."

Okhotnik has posed:
"Unmade." the Russian insists, voice at once quintessentially the pure Russian soldier Diya was and still remains at her core, and the Other. What Mercy suspects to be the Tiger inside. That has to be what is shining out of her eyes right now. The irreverent coyote is unlikely to quail in the face of that look, but most any rational being would. "All I was, gone. Destroyed. No family. No Motherland. No unit. No country. No mission. No honor. All gone."

There is a desolation in those words that lies even beyond the words themselves. And this is what combines with the agony of those memories to form that core of nigh-unassailable PTSD which is preventing integration, acceptance or much understanding of what has become of Diya. Indeed, of what Diya has become. She was a woman who was all about human contact and connection. And now she seems to have none at all.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The tigress is seen. It's enough to cause Mercy's gaze to turn even more worried. It's never a good thing when the beast within can be seen. It's a warning that has to be heeded.

As such, the coyote is silent for several minutes.

Determining how to respond to all those raw emotions of Diya's the other woman's words evoked within.

"There's a reason why it's called the 'change'." She begins, her voice low, even, "There was the you -" And she holds up her left hand to represent the you of old, "- from before and then afterwords the you of now." And her second hand is likewise raised before her, "Unlike other situations there is hardly ever any overlap. Old." And she'll waggle her left hand, "New. Nothing in-between."

"But." Because there is a but here, "That doesn't mean that all is lost. There's the pack and the pack can become your family, will become your family. /Must/ become your family. A lone wolf -" Or in Diya's case tiger, "- is not something any pack or leader wants to see. None of us are made to be alone, especially after the change. Whether your pack is of other shifters or those that accept you for who you are is up to you, but they can be found. Must be found." She stresses again, her eyes upon Diya, even as Mercy speaks more to the beast than the woman. "I can help if you'll let me."

Okhotnik has posed:
Something inside Diya recognizes the concern and caution in Mercy. It's an instinct, buried deep inside. But it responds. This is a woman who has not threatened her. Who has helped her. Fed her. And now that woman is afraid of her. And rightly so.

The figure that once was a Russian special forces soldier closes her glowing eyes, and lowers her head, facing the table. And she breathes.

In. Hold. Out. Hold. ...

Softly, now, but still with that ice-cold clipped Russian accent. "Is that why I look after the homeless on the streets, do you think?" An interesting thought, at least. She never planned on becoming a protector for anyone. And realizing her instincts have made her one raises a new concern: if she is driven to protect them, her very presence puts them in danger. First, there's what she has become. And then potentially worse, there's those who know what she has become, and want //her// because of it. No matter the price.

"I ... I black out." Diya mentions, a good bit later. She's clearly still mulling this over. But her voice has lost the Other to it, for now. She's herself.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When the atmosphere within the garage lightens slightly the coyote looks relieved. There might even be a slight sigh from Mercy Thompson; disaster averted.

For now, at least.

When the woman does her breathing exercises Mercy stays absolutely silent. Waiting. It's only when she speaks that Mercy will move. There's a nod from the mechanic. "Likely. The beast within you will always have a hand in how you behave now. Your decisions. Everything." And there's no apology within her tone there, just fact, gently stated, but fact nonetheless. "You are at once two spirits trapped within, but also together too; the edges of both of you blended together to make something new. Different."

Once more concern tinges Mercy's expression, her scent, "You black out?" She echoes, her voice sharpening now, "Without memories then?" She asks, that question likely rhetorical since that's implied with 'blacking' out, but Mercy still asks. Assumptions are terrible things when it comes to shifters. "Do you awake in the same spot you fell asleep in, or elsewhere?"

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya is quite for a while. She felt and sensed the spike in Mercy, and that made her very tense in response. She's staying measured, but that means moving slowly. Speaking slowly. Choosing words carefully, mulling them over to make sure she is saying what she means, even in this foreign tongue.

"Yes. Without memories."

Diya considers a bit longer, and then answers. "Usually different spots. I usually get restless, go for a long hike. The big park. Or up into the northern woodlands. I never remember going to sleep. But I wake up somewhere else." Hence blackouts.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The spike that Mercy felt, that wariness, is lessening. Though worry can still be scented throughout this whole conversation.

Worry for Diya, though that might be harder to pinpoint for someone so new to such things.

The mechanic nods at the without memories part. That's expected. And when she reveals she typically goes to big parks, or hiking and wakes-up elsewhere, that's again nodded at. Still no surprise from the woman with those remarks. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say your tiger is coming out to play during those times. There are times, for the wolves at least, that their beast emerges no matter what." A crooked smile twists her lip upwards, "During the full moon, emotional upheavals, or danger the more human part can't quite handle or parse. I can't say if your tiger feels the pull of the moon, but my guess might be she does. Or she becomes so restless that she forces her way out - leaving you 'asleep' for all intents and purposes." That broken cookie will be set aside now, as Mercy shifts slightly, a hip going to lean against the edge of her work bench.

While she doesn't necessarily cross her arms, her pose is definitely in the thoughtful category, considering how to say her next words, "It means you need to learn how to shift on command, so you retain control in your tiger forms, versus the tiger being in control. Allowing her to stay in control for too long is dangerous."

Okhotnik has posed:
The Russian woman frowns at this. Her scent shows she is very tense and unhappy, even bitter. Not a hard thing to understand; a tiger virtually killed her. Somehow, she managed to survive, but in doing so she lost everything that meant anything to her. And now, on the run and hiding, she discovers that above it all, the tiger left her with //her own tiger// inside, haunting her, running her life, //ruining// her life.

Unhappy camper just doesn't express it, really.

"You think ... when I survived ... that now ... I am a tiger ... inside? A creature ... a monster ... like what nearly killed me?" Diya questions, more bout of an urge to deny, a quest for a negative response even knowing one isn't coming.

"And now ... now ... I have to ... //make peace// with this //thing// inside me?" Yeah. Diya's not loving that idea at all.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
This is where Mercy's voice gentles again, her gaze full of empathy for the younger woman. While Mercy herself can't quite say she's been in this same position, she's seen enough shifters who have been.

It gives her some insight to what the other woman might be feeling; though Diya's scent likewise helps with that.

"Not a monster." Mercy says immediately, those quiet words of hers holding steel behind them. "Never a monster." She says again, just to make sure Diya heard her. "But yes, there's a tiger inside of you. It's the only way you could have possibly survived that attack. Becoming the same thing - most shifters heal at a phenomenal rate. The only thing that typically slows that down is silver. Think about it - your senses are different, you're stronger, faster, hungrier."

And while more could be said the coyote doesn't continue upon that particular track. Instead she shifts slightly, to the last of what Diya says. "Yes. You /must/ make peace with it. If you continue to fight your other side it'll only cause problems. How would you feel if one day you shifted and woke up to find you killed an innocent. It could happen. I've seen it happen. I don't want you to have to go through that on top of everything else. It's why we have packs - to help, to teach, to make sure you acclimate to all of the change happening."

Okhotnik has posed:
"But ... packs. Wolves make packs. Tigers ..." Tigers walk alone. They don't even mate for life. They are by and large incredibly solitary creatures. Probably why no one has ever heard of an organization of weretigers. Those few who are out there are likely spread far apart ... and don't naturally support each other. When discovered, they are probably all alone against the threat of discovery.

"Why would a pack of wolves help ... me?" A valid question, even if the answer should seem obvious.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Because you're one of us." Is Mercy's response, again immediate, like the disregard to the notion that she's now a monster.

"Because we, shifters, have to stick together. No matter what animal we are." Continues Mercy, even as she turns more serious now, versus gentle, "But it won't be easy, nothing worthwhile ever is. There will be those that look at you with suspicion just as you look at them with suspicion, but the pack as a whole and especially the Alpha can help."

"Even if you don't want to go to the pack they'd likely send people up if I asked. To help you figure it all out." States the coyote, even as her voice turns rueful with her next words, "I'd offer to teach you, but I'm no the same. I'm a coyote, but my beast isn't so well-formed as yours. I was born this way." Versus made, though she doesn't say the last part of that thought. That'd be putting her foot in her mouth. "But you have to make the decision on whether you want their help or not. My recommendation would be take it. Take it and gain control, learn the answers you need, then when trouble arises you'll be ready."

Okhotnik has posed:
"It is ... very hard. To trust." Diya offers. A statement of the obvious, perhaps, but also a Truth worth acknowledging. "Somehow ... you make that ... easier." Not easy, by any stretch. But easier than Diya has found it with anyone, about anything, since her Change.

She's going to have to start thinking of it that way. Not her Survival. But her Change. That the woman and soldier who went to rejoin her comrades wasn't the same one who went into the mountains to protect them.

Adjustment.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"It is hard to trust." Acknowledges Mercy, "Especially after that trust has been broken once already."

"But I can promise you that won't happen here. This pack raised me -" With problems, but that's not said, "- and they're solid."

"Why don't I get in contact with the Alpha and have him send a couple people up? You can meet them, here, on neutral ground. If you don't like the looks of them then you don't have to commit to anything. You can simply turn around and leave and they won't follow you. They'll just go back home." And then they'll have a lone tiger roaming around; one who doesn't know anything about her abilities. And while that's a worrisome thought it is what it has to be to keep this woman's trust.

"What do you think?"

Okhotnik has posed:
"Are you sure?" Diya questions. After all, as Mercy has said, she is not a wolf. Not really of the pack like the others. "Maybe we should meet ... somewhere else? Woods or ... something?" It would mean them meeting in the garage; a tightly enclosed space, potentially a serious challenge depending on what kinds of activities ensue. And besides, its Mercy's home and business. A lot to risk for a crazy homeless Russian stranger with a mad tiger roaming around inside her.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"I am." Mercy states quite firmly, straightening from her hip-against edge pose. "Completely."

"We can do woods, sure. Perhaps meet here first to make sure everything is kosher and then travel elsewhere. I can give you a lift there. We can go to some of the places I typically run and hunt at. Just remember they're here to help. Even if they tick you off." She could have said piss you off, but for now Mercy's in front of polite company (Diya) so she refrains. "And that's okay. It's okay to feel mad, angry and upset. What's not okay is allowing it to call your beast out to a berserker rage, but they can help with that too." When her words pause Mercy will give the other woman a bit of side-eye. There's a tilt of her head too. "Do you have a place to sleep?" She asks, her words cautious and slow; not wanting to cause slight with the other woman, but not really having a better way to ask that last question of hers.

Okhotnik has posed:
"I have my places." Diya admits, with a shrug. She may be homeless, but she's not helpless, and she has made her peace with that part of her life, at least for now. A lot of vets on the streets don't go to shelters or the like because they don't want to be hemmed in, by walls, by expectations, or by others. Diya is little different, honestly.

"Alright. You can call your wolves, Mercy. Let them tell you when. I will come back, and meet them here." And Diya is a well-behaved Russian guest; she'll makes ure not to tear the place up, unless she is literally given no choice.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Good." Mercy says, relief evident in her scent, if not her voice or expression.

"How can I contact you once they're here?" She asks, even as she covers the plate of mostly untouched cookies back up. "And let me pack you a few sandwiches for when you leave." She states, "And if you ever need a meal you come back here, okay? I've enough food to feed an army."

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya looks up at Mercy from her own seated position, consideringly. "I thought you would just call them now." She shrugs. This whole 'staying in constant contact' thing has fallen out of vogue with her. "I suppose you could always come down to Mutant Town. I have been staying with the others on the streets there."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"I could call them, sure, but they live in Montana." Mercy says, her first real grin finally twitching her lips upward. "So, it's going to be a drive. Or really a plane ride for them to get here. Once they're here then we can get down to business."

"Mutant town. Got it. I'm sure I can find you there, my nose is pretty keen." The cookies will be placed back in the fridge, even as Mercy pulls a few more bottles of water from the fridge. These will be brought to Diya, "Here, for later."

Okhotnik has posed:
Diya accepts the water bottle, cracks it open, and drinks it slowly but consistently, emptying it into herself in a steady stream. Clearly getting cool, clean water is a challenge for the homeless in summer. "Thank you." She smirks a bit. "I thought you would call them, ask when they could come, and I would have a day and time to return here. Not that they would just suddenly appear." Reasonable enough approach, right?

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A second and third bottle will be added for her to take with her. "Schedule." She muses, her gaze going distant for a minute, "Let's call it three weeks from today." So clearly, for whatever reason Mercy doesn't necessarily want to call them. Or perhaps call them in front of Diya. "I think we can all commit to that timeframe. Then I can find you in Mutant Town when the actual date comes closer."

Though she'd likely visit Diya before that, to make sure the woman is okay. "If something happens in-between now and then you come find me."

Okhotnik has posed:
The Russian nods. "Alright. Three weeks from today, here at the garage after dark. I will be here." Well, assuming Diya is alive and mobile, anyway. But it would probably take a heck of a lot to prevent her from being those two things. Now wouldn't it?

"Thank you, Mercy."