1887/Old Soldiers

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Old Soldiers
Date of Scene: 09 August 2017
Location: Mutant Town
Synopsis: The God of War comes upon a forgotten, abandoned soldier suffering PTSD on the streets, and reaches out to try to help her.
Cast of Characters: Ares, Okhotnik




Ares has posed:
    Manhattan's Mutant Town comes alive during the night, it's a vibrant place with people coming and going, the businesses and clubs hopping as people from so many walks of life appear and congregate. It's a freedom, to be and to be however you wish to be, embraced by the people that make up the hodge podge neighborhood that has grown forth from the strangeness in mankind's genetics.
    Yet during the day the story is different. The streets are quiet, people stay inside, as if hiding in some ways. There are definitely people on the street, perhaps some of the more human looking individuals of mutantkind, but the numbers are nothing like the night when it comes alive. To some there's a stigma here, something unclean. But to others they see the place and its myriad abandoned buildings as nothing more than opportunity.
    So it is for that reason that the people of Lexcorp had considered the place for development. For really with its location, the real estate would have an amazing value if it was recovered. As for what all goes into that is anyone's guess at this point. But there are always the first steps, and in this case today that first step is being carried out by a man known as John Aaron. Representing Local Union 477, he has been tasked to survey several buildings. Yet to the citizens of the neighborhood he is just a tall man getting out of a black SUV.

Okhotnik has posed:
But there are also those who are not inside, out of sight, out of mind because they have no choice. There are those without homes, and they live on the streets, in the alleyways. They are the forgotten, the last, the abandoned. And there are those who choose to be amongst them, whatever their reasons. The homeless of Mutant Town are an ecclectic bunch indeed, even compared to their compatriots elsewhere in New York City. But some look completely normal, other than being the unkempt, the unclean.

One amongst those is a young woman. She clearly earns a great deal of respect amongst her homeless peers, as they do not crowd her, and give her plenty of space. She seems to naturally gravitate forward to positions that put her between her homeless peers and those on the streets who might mean them harm. Her attire is a visible sign of a vet, with olive drab coat, pants and shirt and boots all of desert camo patterns. Ashen blonde hair is darkened, lank and loose, all part of the unkempt look. But there is an air about her that exudes danger. Hers is the hyperalert gaze of a warrior who never made it 'home'. She watches the world around her expecting and prepared for lethal danger at any moment.

To one with a sense that goes far beyond the seen, the heard, the smelled ... she is a soldier. An experienced one. Special forces. But there would be more: she is the abandoned. The lost. A deserter. A survivor. On the run. She is one who 'fit' with her team, and honestly believes she will never fit again, because they cast her out. They cut her off. And yet she cannot lay down and die. She has to keep fighting, in spite of herself.

Ares has posed:
    That man who emerged from the SUV, he has the look of him as just one of the others, one of the people who routinely do not look at them, do not see them. One of the people that lets them be invisible and spares them no thought. Yet there is something about this one. The way he stands and that subtle furrow to his brow. The way he looks over the building that had been in part shelter to some of the homeless on the streets of this borough. He's some distance away from her, crossing the street with a steady stride. The building he had been tasked with before him.
    But this job he pretends at, the semblance of normality. It is ever an act with him. Has always been. Held for the moment while convenient and then... at the subtle tug of the Fates, he abandons it.
    Turning away he leaves his obligation to Lexcorp behind. There is the faint feeling of one who has waged war, stood against others with blade and fist, tooth and claw. Yet it is not only that which would draw attention. It is the lost. One who had known what it was to stand with brothers and sisters against those who would take their lives. A thread woven by the fates that brushes against his own and must now be tended to.
    It's towards that group of the forgotten he moves, the tall grim man. His brown eyes move from face to face to face. There is no fear in him. Nor hesitation as his eyes fall heavily upon Okhotnik. He frowns and then asks her calmly, "Where did you serve?"

Okhotnik has posed:
So long as the tall, dark-colored man stays at a reasonable, conversive distance, the ashen blonde homeless woman remains mostly calm. Her tension ratchets up, but within a controlled bound. She has had others approach, to say something, to ask something. She has learned to keep herself in check. "Nowhere you'd have heard of." she answers, her voice mushy and soft, scrubbing away what she can of her strong Russian accent. She speaks English very damned well. But she speaks it like a Russian, and that's attention she does not need.

This close, 'John' could not mistake the protective barrier the woman has erected with her own self, shielding the other homeless. Nor would he miss that she is armed. Subtly so, but she's carrying at least one blade, possibly two, and a heavy pistol, all tucked away and out of sight. But she's prepared not just for a fight, but a small war if she has to face it. Her verbal response is just the sort of thing a US vet would say, these days, given the many theaters in which they have been forced to operate; most civilians have no damned clue the difference between Kabul and Darfour. But neither sounds like Yukutzk.

Ares has posed:
    The tall man's gaze is level, unblinking for a time as she may get the feeling she is being judged. There is a moment when he looks her over, but not like the bastards who had dared look on her as a victim, as a piece of meat. It is a look that measures her, that sees the weapons, and not just the ones hidden but the way she stands, the reach of her arms and legs, that she herself is the most lethal of those weapons and hidden very well.
    His eyes narrow slightly, and then there's an exhalation of breath given slowly. It's then that he turns away for a moment, the space of three heartbeats at most before he looks back to her and speaks in perfect Russian, // You would be surprised. //
    He meets her gaze again and then perhaps to allay any sudden suspicions that might rear their heads he'll hold his empty hands open slightly more and further from his sides. He is carrying naught, no line along his inseam, nor heft to a cuff.

Okhotnik has posed:
As expected, the shift in language and demeanor puts the woman on edge; she startles visibly and shifts to a ready fighting stance, clearly //expecting// to need to fight. To kill, in fact; such as he could have no doubt that this is not one that labors under some urge to spare the lives of those she is forced to battle. But when John does not threaten, does not respond, and visibly demonstrates he is unarme, she backs away, green eyes narrowed pensively, waiting for whatever may come next.

~//"Yukutzk. Siberian mountains. Anywhere else they sent me."//~ the response comes, at last, if a tad sulkily, in firm native Russian. ~//"Whatever trouble you bring, take it somewhere else."//~ She'll even follow, if she must, if he is here for her. Anything to keep these safe. Why would she care? Because as much as she may be a deserter, she has never forgotten what she is, and what it means. //Why// it is. And these are what she has, that she can protect.

Or die trying.

Ares has posed:
    There is no next step meant to separate her from her charges, to end her threat. There is no oncoming momentary apocalypse to bring an end to what there remains of her world. For in this moment, this brief microcosm of her existence, she stands strong against what she feels would threaten her and in her eyes it is not only an enemy but an enemy from within as well.
    // Despite what has passed you have not forgotten your duty. // He looks to her charges, those who have trusted her to protect them, that had been shown that at the least in this world that is so hard, at least she can be trusted. He steps back and turns slightly to the side, a hand uncurling to gesture that she could follow him should she wish and then he switches back to English as he murmurs in that calm, somehow almost ritualistic pattern of speech. "Neither you nor your friends have need to fear me."
    He gives a nod and takes a step back then turns. "Walk with me if you would. I would hear your story."

Okhotnik has posed:
Far from reckless, the woman considers John a good, long and pregnant few moments before she nods, once, sharply. She glances back at the others in the alleyway, and offers a gesture with an open hand towards one of them. Then she turns to watch him again, before moving to follow, slowly.

She is clearly not one to talk much, or to many. But after they have walked far enough away, long enough, she will finally share her story, beginning with her parents' belief that the best she could do for herself was the military in the crumbling Russia that followed the USSR's collapse. Her dedication. Her effort. Her education. And her training. Spetznaz, one of the best of the best. A sniper, trained in overwatch, keeping a close eye on her team, protecting them from threats. Chechnya, and elsewhere.

Until a fateful day watching a stretch of the mountains of Siberia, looking for Chinese incursions. They'd had several smaller incidents. But this day, she was beset not by soldiers but by an enraged tiger. Mauled, shredded, near death, she was medivaced out by her team. But she did not die as she should have. And she healed, amazingly well and quickly. Instead of never being any good ever again, she healed up clean, without any new scars. And she was different. She could feel it.

Healed, she resumed her post, joined her team in Chechnya again. She proved to be even better, now, with incredibly sharp senses, keen awareness; stronger, faster, she was incredible, even to herself. But then the men in dark armor cropped up, and they bid her come with them. And her team turned their backs on her, abandoned her. And she had to fight for her freedom, and run. And she has kept running. She doesn't even know what has become of her, not really. Just that she's doing the best she can in spite of it.

Ares has posed:
    Through it all he listened, this dour tall man. He followed her words with his eyes, his expression calm and contemplative yet intent. Their steps carried them to one of the courtyards in one of those abandoned buildings, a place that in better times would have been considered a dog park perhaps, or simply a place of green for those in the city to reflect back on nature. Only now it was a ratty twisted and brown place that depicted only decay.
    He had taken up a place from which to watch. Seated upon the edge of a crumbling cement bench, the metal rebar providing its form sticking out in places. If she would sit he would have given her room enough and distance. If she preferred to pace he would simply watch and at points nod. And when she reaches the end... he nods.
    Those dark brown eyes meet hers and there may be a moment of quiet consideration for each of them. As they had walked she had gotten a feel for him. For his stride. She could read the way he moved, a man who has fought before assuredly, trained. And when she was downwind from him she could take in his scent, a curious mix of leather, steel, sweat, and the tang of old blood that somehow still clings to him.
    But there is more, something almost like what she would sense after the strike of lightning. A faint hint of ozone? Or something similar.
    He faces her then, eyes meeting eyes, "Your plight displeases me." Again that tone, almost formal in its manner. "But you should know you are not alone."

Okhotnik has posed:
There is something odd and curious in this woman, at once contemplatively still, and yet so wired she nearly vibrates with energy. She watches 'John' intently, aware at a primal level of what her senses are telling her, though her human mind makes very few connections with the information. Still, she watches and does not run. She listens. And she tilts her head, regarding him with curiosity. "My ... 'plight' ... displeases //me//." she admits, as if that were not already clear. "But I am alone. Even those I watch ... they do not understand. They cannot. Even I do not." Others have tried to convince her that they understood. They were wrong.

Ares has posed:
    "There are others like you," John says as he watches her eyes. He gives a faint smile then, the first touch of something... human. "Of your country who have been abandoned. Warriors." His brow knits slightly as he looks to the side. His jaw tightens and she can see the tendons bunching subtly, can almost see the intensity of his thoughts as he considers how to speak to her of this. For this... this moment is delicate. She is a soldier who wisely gauges the situation, and if she gets a read she may well flee and never be approachable again.
    "I have done what I could to help them." He lifts his chin slightly, eyes searching hers as he adds, "I would do what I can to help you. If you will have it. My name is John Aaron." He offers that, "And though you know it not, I have done you ill. I would repair that damage."
    As simple as that, it is laid out there. Further words would be but a couching of terms, an elaboration unneeded. Perhaps it is enough for her, perhaps not. But the man's scent, his body language speak of one thing at the least. He believes what he says.

Okhotnik has posed:
The woman tilts her head the other direction, considering Aaron carefully, intensely. She too has a ferocious intensity about her, and it is aimed with laser-like focus on this man. "You ... we have never met." She isn't bothering to hide the Russian accent, but she clearly speaks English quite well in spite of it. "How could you have done me ill?" But she does not flee. She stands her ground, curious more than afraid right now. Even his intensity speaks, to her, of those more like her than not. Like her team. She misses her team. There is a painful loneliness about her, just beneath the surface, where she lets none see. But some see anyway.

"What could you do for such as me?" Diya queries.

Ares has posed:
    She can tell by the weight of his regard upon her, by the intensity in his gaze, this is no light matter to him. No easy moment to be rushed past. He looks to the side, then back to her. "I am a man who has lived a long time." That is said in that level tone without a hint of dissembling. "I have seen war in all of its shapes, in all of its bloody chaos. I have seen warriors holding their weapons aloft in victory and they in those times held my esteem."
    He lifts a rough and calloused hand to the back of his neck, rubbing for a moment as he frowns. "I glorified those who exulted in the fallen, and ever did they have my eye. But in limiting my attention to these... I ignored those who had fought no less valiantly but only had the misfortune of being beyond my sight. Of those who are failed by those they deemed their brothers and sisters."
    There's a pause and then he adds, "If my actions had been different in the past, perhaps you would not be in this place you are now. For my life has had repercussions, and there is no sure way to know." He folds his arms over his chest and then murmurs, "But you are here in front of me now. And I can perhaps help this. This one thing. If you will not allow me, then I will accept your word."
    A breath is taken as he then answers her second question. "As for what I can do. I can introduce you to the others. I can give you a place to recover as you would. To gain some semblance of normalcy and to find a place for yourself in the world. It is not much. But it is a place from which to start. If my word is not enough for you, then I will send them here to meet with you. I will not tell them who you are or even what you are. But you will recognize them. It will be your choice to approach."

Okhotnik has posed:
The woman soldier regards 'John' carefully; she can tell he is being less than entirely truthful, and yet that what he //is// saying is the truth as he knows it, as he has experienced it. As he has //come// to know it, with time and experience likely beyond her comprehension. Diya cannot know the truth of who - of what - 'John' is. But she has seen enough to know that there are things of this world that are beyond her ken. They do not make her comfortable. But she is a soldier. By definition, that makes her a realist who takes the world as she finds it, even as she strives to make it more what she would wish it to be, if not for herself than for those she protects.

"I ... I am here." It may seem terribly obvious, but that is Diya's first answer, her first and primary truth. She is; and she is here, in this place. "If you know these others, and they would meet me ... send them here. Let them see me, learn me, as I am." Because she cannot imagine any true soldier, like she was, ever accepting one like she has become, deserter, fugitive, hunted creature. Freak. "If they find me here, and decide they want more, we will figure that out as we can." Because if they are like her, they will find trust difficult. She certainly does. They will have to work it out, tiny bit by tiny bit of progress.

Mind made up, Diya snaps to attention and salutes 'John'. It is a movement engrained in her core; in that moment, despite her filth, it is not hard at all to see the resplendently uniformed young soldier she is, should be, shining through. She extends her hand to him, slowly, carefully. "Major Klavdiya Irina Vasiliev, Army of the Russian Federation, Spetznaz division." she introduces herself. "Okhotnik." The Hunter.