2371/Log 2371

Log 2371
Date of Scene:	08 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Fox, Ares

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Fox has posed:
    In the hulk of what was once a shipping distributor's warehouse, shit has gotten real. Amongst mold and grime, the rats and roaches lay tightly wound bundles of coke and pot. Packaged indeed for distribution, The sort've stockpile that could keep most of lower manhattan lit for a few weeks, the kind of place you put a guard on. The sort've place you keep tight to the chest, which explains the body count for certain.

    Twenty or so men, and not a siren to be heard. Yet anyway, but hey it's NYC so give it time right? Each man still and cooling where he fell, the victim of something as ancient and unknowable as anything else. A curse from before the invention of the written word, the stuff nightmares are made of. The sort've thing that could put three neat thirty caliber holes in every man, in exactly the same place. It's beautiful work really, heart, spine and through the head just below the nose to clean out the central nervous system. Excessively precise, and utterly beautiful in it's own way.

    The beast responsible, is just called Fox these days. In years of yore however, she would have been called another name. Six bills worth of magnificently tailored camoflague, kevlar, nomex, D3-O and who the hell else knows. From that armored chest rig, to the kneelpads, to the gloves it's all bespoke. Like the gilded champions of old. That stubby Sub-carbine trimmed with four figures worth of optics, flashlights, sling and of course lovingly sculpted french maple furniture. Kept swept behind her hip, as she works.

    The namesake comes of course from that mask, a polygonal Fox affair painted in a simple bright orange and hard shaded to make it seem like something otherwordly in it's own right. Distinctly digital, and in the low light of this warehouse it looks all the more bizarre. Anywho she works quietly, ripping open bundles and freeing them of stacks of cash which she casually shoves into her own neat matching duffel. A cash rip then, but one that keeps her distracted for the moment...

Ares has posed:
    The tendrils of magic are fickle things, whose bindings and connections are prone to the whim of fate or destiny. Such a thing binds the creature in the Fox mask, connecting it and its past to other beings around it. For some it may just be passing touches of history, family meeting family and having dealings. But for others, or rather for one in particular, there is a stronger depth of connection. A connection that draws attention and demands an answer.
    On some level, the man known as John Aaron is not entirely sure as to the history that he has touched upon others. The times of his past are dark, hazed in the red rage and fury of a being who spent his time moving from wild act of violence to untold unspeakable desecration upon the mortals of the world. War was waged against the living, the undying, and the soul by the being he once was. Yet now, even now he carries the weight of the actions from his past. It is just such an action that makes him beholden to the tremulous touch of fate that makes him aware of the Fox.
    His arrival is with little fanfare, but a twisting crackle of reality bending in on itself like some fun house mirror projecting the unreal to the world. It's such a thing that turns reality apart and allows him to appear in those surroundings, the connection he holds with the Fox letting him appear like so and with little ado.
    A rough rumbling voice lifts as he appears, "Who are you?" He asks.

Fox has posed:
    The glance back is half hearted, rising to her boots casually. One gloved hand reaching back to swing that carbine around to hand at it's sling, thumb against the safety but this isn't a fight just yet. The mask whips around to lock it's gaze on Ares finally, staring from behind the dead black holes where the eyes are supposed to be. Spine straight, chin lifted. Theres a certain swagger without even moving, and well the Reynards always were rather cultured for barbarians back in the day. Sure the decorations changed over the years, claws and glass beads don't quite have the same pop they used to after all. Gilded though, well yeah.

    The free left hand lifts, touching to the throat as it speaks in two voices at once. It's mechanical and otherwordly indeed in effect. "I am a fevered nightmare, the ones I let live call me "Fox". We know the power of a true name though, so forgive me for being somewhat coy. And you sir, what might I call you?"Not a step back, nor one foreward as that mask twists to the right somewhat. "Am I to deduce that we are going to hurt each other's feelings?"

Ares has posed:
    "If we quarreled it would be no casual affair," The tall man says, standing straight and his expression edged albeit curious as he looks across the room, gaining his surroundings as he gauges her as well. His features twist slightly but then he looks to her and counter to her opinion on names... he advances his with a certain severity.
    "I have gone by many names, most would know me as Ares, God of War." His features tighten as he looks over the masked figure, then turns to face her fully, a few steps taking him in her direction though he moves without apparent malice. "Though of late I have become partial to John."
    Stopping to look upon the fallen he quirks an eyebrow as he considers the corpses and their nicely precise method of dispatch. A small grunt slips from him as he looks back towards her and asks, "Your work?"

Fox has posed:
    "My play."She retorts without missing a beat. "You should never make your passion, your profession. Everyone needs a hobby, or so they tell me." Cocky like the ones before too, it seems she's more alike than different then at first blush. "If the stories are to be believed, you had quarrel with those that came before me. Two of them, father and son if I recall correctly. Am I to understand you're here to continue what was started?"

    Not one step back, not a squaring of the shoulders or a race of the heart. Those that came before, fought as though they were at play. They took joy in their wars, and to be frank nothing was beyond them. They burned camps, they slit throats at night, put children to the sword, desecrated the dead. So too does Fox, well she may or may not take joy but she certainly doesn't seem given to fear does she?"

Ares has posed:
    A hand lifts as if to stay her from violence as he looks away from those fresh corpses, letting the weight of his brown eyes fall heavily upon her again. It's such a calm regard he holds for her, measuring, gauging, and judging all in those few moments. Her words, her manner, her stance, her work, all summed up in his thoughts. A tilt of his head is given as he answers, "I hold no ill will for you and yours, what has passed was another time..."
    There's a beat as he frowns marginally, perhaps nostalgic, perhaps refretful. "Another world." He lifts his chin, "All I would know is if there were matters to tend to between us then I would settle them as you would or know if you seek to address them. For my part I wish nothing further."
    A beat, then he adds. "What say you?"

Fox has posed:
    "I say that such a thing can not go, not without some form of reciprocity. Revenge would be appropriate, but as you said. It was another world, and another time indeed."Theres a pause, as Fox lets that gaze wander. Then slowly she releases the PDW and lifts her hands to her head, fussing with the straps. Slowly, rolling the thing off and setting it aside. Beneath well, theres a Balaclava to slide off before she's bare faced. Those soft blue eyes are as beautiful as they are intense, predatory even. She's young, dark haired and well yeah she's a knock out.

    "I am, for better or worse tasked with a reckoning already. I have no room for yet more revenge, especially for one which occured as long ago as it did."And finally she offers a hand, and a little nod. "A modest apology, I believe will be sufficient to settle this matter. I cannot speak for the Reynards to come after I have fallen, but this would be sufficient to satisfy me. Fair?"

Ares has posed:
    "Acceptable," He answers as he steps forwards and accepts the hand, his own grip firm but not aggressive, at least not in this case. A single pump and he gives her a nod, "I regret much of what passed in the ages behind us, and what happened with your family..." He shakes his head slightly, "I regret that as well. If in the future you would seek redress, then we will face it then. For now, indulge in your hunting."
    That said, should she allow, he'll withdraw his hand and rests it on his hip as he looks to the side, again considering the fallen and what must have happened. For most they would just see corpses. But him... he sees the balletic play of motion that must have occured for her to reach such precision and to create this tableau. A small nod is given, "This was a fine battle. You should have pride."

Fox has posed:
    "You are not to blame for what injures my family, thats what I seek now."She returns the squeeze, her own grip firm but not crushing. This done, she retreats to replace her mask with reverence. "This was no battle, nor were all the others. The men I seek are cowards, but they can be broken with greed. Just as those who came before."And a pause as those latches pop back into place.

    It wasn't much of a fight indeed, most didn't even fall near cover. There are no empty magazines discarded, few casings. She ploughed through them in a rush, it must have been beautiful. "And John hm, have you given up your place in the wheel? Become a mortal, as some before me tried to do? I'd warn, such a thing tends to harm those you seek to protect."

Ares has posed:
    A glance is given to her and he says, "You are not at liberty to speak on such matters with me." His manner is sharp, severe, but perhaps without malice. Not a topic he will broach, not with her, not right now, and perhaps that is the most direct way to inform her of such. In any case he extends a hand to the side, gesturing sharply and causing the world to once again bend to his wishes as it cracks and twists, sloughing into shape like a Dali painting left too long in the sun.
    "I wish you good fortune, and if our paths cross again hopefully they will not be bloodied." With that having been said he steps to the gap in reality, and unless stopped... through.

Fox has posed:
    "Well then, fair tidings and good fortunes to you. May you find your place."And well she won't stop him, but she does watch him go. Plucking a roll of twenties off the table, and pitching it after. For luck, she would say. Otherwise well, she's not going to tarry and try to delay a god in his business.

    Slowly she lets her gaze drift, before well there is money to collect and the night grows old. She does unfortunately, have some flavor of work in the morning yet as well. So she attends to her crime, before off she goes.