2373/All You Ever Wanted - Booze Edition

All You Ever Wanted - Booze Edition
Date of Scene:	08 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Loki

---

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The garage is in a state of flux; it's between one moment and the next.

It's after the use of the Mind Stone, which pieced back together a broken Soldier, but it's before the time to save a missing Nurse. It's a time of sit and wait. Though it seems the majority of people aren't sitting idly by while the clock counts down.

The group can currently be found holed up in the empty spaces of the garage, both inside the car port and within Mercy's living areas. Truly, the garage has never felt so cramped as it holds everyone within its brick-and-mortar walls. For Mercy Thompson it's almost like living with the pack again. It's almost comforting in that sense. Voices speak, scents crowd one another fighting for dominance and the sounds of people moving about can likewise be heard. The only difference here is there's less teeth and fur.

Well, less fur, at the very least.

As to Mercy Thompson, the coyote is on the move. It's one part handing out a mission (bring ALL the Soldier's weapons back) and the second checking in on people. Making sure they're situated and okay. Specifically wayward gods.

Loki has posed:
The toll taken upon Loki Odinson, elder power of trickery, is probably less than other similar beings channelling the power of a universal constant. Wherever he banished the blue gem in a disturbingly easy fashion, he undoubtedly doesn't bother to conceal his divine aspect.

Still, he's confined to that spectacularly tailored suit and thus might look ready to lead a board meeting or swan around a red carpet debut. The primary concern for him seems to be consumption of an absurd amount of calories, preferably liquid. Three bottles appear on a table with a wave of his hand, and he wastes no time popping the lid off one and pouring the contents into a glass stolen from Mercy's cupboards.

That's right. Everyone else works hard and he already cracks open the booze to celebrate his excellence. Or something equally troubling.

The scent and the hiss of foaming, bubbling light from one of those bottles implies their contents are not normal.

"If he gives me a taste for borscht, I will curse him to find porcupines arousing." Claire will kill him for that. He drinks the brew with only a minimal grimace, looking up at Mercy. "You're relatively whole?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When Mercy Thompson finally finds Loki, still in that suit of his, she'll give him the once over. There's a definite note of concern held within that expression of hers, though that look eases off somewhat, when she finds him seemingly fit and healthy.

The sight of the bottles and the scent of their contents brings the coyote further into the room. Closer to the Trickster god. She'll turn a curious look upon the bottles, but not yet ask what's in them. Instead, her expression turns to a brief quirk of a smile at the mention of borscht. "Heaven forbid you like beets."

And then she's nodding at that last question of his. "I am, yes. You?" She asks, that concern back within her expression, and then, "What was that?" She'll finally ask, "Beyond a crazily powerful magical artifact." Because what else can she assume it is? To Mercy the energy from that thing read as some kind of insanely powerful magical relic.

Loki has posed:
Mercy's presence is a soothing balm to a man wrought in the clutches of megalomania and all those other delusions of grandeur the stone so loves to bring out. He's not as much on a power high as he could be, but the tells are there. With breathtaking power comes other consequences, all the same, but he slugs back that liquid brew like it's going out of style. Nothing non-Asgardian about that.

"Poison to you, and certainly everyone else here. I advise you don't test your constitution. I haven't thought how spectacularly they might blow apart the particles in a human genome. Hmm." Exercise for later, he dog-ears the thought and slides it aside. "I doubt anyone has actually heard of the recuperative properties of a beet and actually meant it or backed it up with science. So yes, I can do without, darling."

Her question brings a lidded look to his eyes, the hooded smile a thing to hang all the distrust and unease in the world on. It takes a visible effort to kick himself into reminders and the fact a mark is upon her, brought by his own hand (and a friendly hoof). Staring into the aura that surrounds Mercy is a bit like staring at a bonfire, the burnished polish of her life and thoughts scribed out there for him to read. "It's better you don't know. Of course, better isn't /better/ with my dearest spirit walker, and you will find out sooner or later. The sum of universal thought and creativity. Newton had one thing right, the universal precept of the first law. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. So it's true with every rational iota of energy."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Megalomania.

While Mercy Thompson can't quite read souls or even the finite details of a person's aura, what she can do is pick up the non-verbal cues that can be found within a person's expression. Within their scent. Especially those that she knows somewhat well. Though who really knows all of the trickster god, Loki? Surely no one here.

But, that doesn't stop Mercy from finding those telltale signs within Loki's own scent and his expression; showing he's riding high.

And while she was just about to reach out for one of those fizzing bottles, for a look not a drink, her movements pause at his explanation of what it holds. Carefully now, Mercy retracts her hand away.

His heavy-lidded look is met with one of her own looks - concern, worry. It's an easy thing to read, concern for him for this very moment, as he answers that last question of hers. Well, perhaps not answer, but he does address that question of hers. "You know, when you say things like that, for some reason, I can only think of the expression 'may you live in interesting times'. And we all know how that usually ends."

Trouble. So much trouble typically.

She'll eventually settle herself next to Loki and his poisonous drink, before she adds, "We'll be going for Claire soon."

Loki has posed:
"I like how easily you take matters that would cause your friends to panic. They might scream or tell me not to do something, not even to think it." Loki sips the last of the liquid in his cup and pours out more. There most definitely are two streams of colour mingling together in the way oil and water do, and the scent of pennyroyal doesn't match what appears to be a concoction for living sunlight and the meltwater of a glacier. He empties the bottle into the cup, which is holding up well, all things considered. A bit of fog might be forming over them, but it's not terrible.

The taste promised by the alcohol doesn't hurry him to drink it for all that it suffused Loki with vigor and replaces the spent energy. It might make his lattes seem like an overdose of caffeine and ponies to the average toddler.

But this is Mercy. He treats her with a modicum of care at the moment. "All's well that ends well. Better for a good story, and that's all that counts where this is involved." Because damn you, Hydra. You lose.

The guns hold no interest. Her concern does. A grin flashes up at the woman. "Clare, of course, needs to be firmly recovered to herself. Give her her freedom and watch the world... Well, presumably stumble along."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The sharp scent of the drink causes the faintest crinkle to Mercy's nose. Again, she watches him pour himself another drink and the coyote will eye the mismatched liquids as they pour into the cup. A cup that may never be used again - at least, by her. Perhaps that cup will have to be now known as Loki's cup. His mention of how easy she's taking the matters of the Mind Stone and its vast quantity of powers earns the faintest of grins from her. "I've had a little more time to accept you for who and what you are." She states, "Them? Not so much. I'm sure if they realized just /who/ you are they'd probably react differently." But for now the team doesn't. Because secrets. So many secrets.

"And besides -" She continues, her voice turning a touch sardonic, "- I've battled a hydra, acquired a winged horse, trapped an assassin, put him back together and am now readying to go storm a castle. What else can top that?"

Though subconsciously she knows there's more.

As to Claire, Mercy nods, her expression grim. "We'll get her back. No matter what. If we can save him - " The Winter Soldier she means, "- then we will save her. And maybe after that fix whatever is going on with Sam."

Loki has posed:
The sharp scent at least hints at natural, though magic radiates violently throughout the body of the liquid. It could be a potion, and it might be the other side of a quasar. No one knows with that man, do they? He could be drinking the coolest energy beverage known, full of electrolytes. It's Brawndo for Gods. It makes plants smart! Or something.

"I don't intend to tell them the what or how or whom. It's not really their business or particularly //interesting// for the story." He smirks slightly at that over the rim. The expression he wears altogether too easily, like a favourite pair of jeans, the crooked lift of his mouth matching the simmering emerald burn in his eyes. Mercy is subject to it all. "I gave you a rather softer landing than most. It wouldn't do to upset so many good people, especially since I would rather they see the better side than the shadowy figure haunting their legends and half grasped stories spat out during Christian times by a man so far removed... Well. Better then not to confuse them."

Where is that winged horse anyways? It's entirely thrilling. Her lamentations for all the excitement of the life she leads is not without a sympathetic nod. "You left behind the veil of ignorance and there is no turning back, not even in death, at this point. You have been led somewhere terribly curious and exciting. Far superior to sitting around bored lying waiting for the end to come."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The coyote's head cants slightly at his words; his intentions to never let them know who he is, to allow everyone to remain in ignorance of just what he is heard. The look upon his features likewise seen by her. His caveat of better to not confuse them earns a slight look of consideration from the dark-haired woman. A look up at the rather tall man that's Loki Odinson.

"They'd be confused, sure. Like anyone would be. Like I was at first, but I think the group would handle it okay. Whether they knew much about 'Midgardian' mythology or not. Besides -" Mercy continues with, "They've seen your better side already. Whatever all the stories may say about you, or elude to, they know you for what you've already done for them. You've helped us and helped them. I think that'll temper any conclusion jumping or hasty words said. You're already a friend to them. Someone trusted." Or so Mercy feels, because in the end that's what Mercy believes.

It's only with his last words that the coyote will snort softly with faint amusement. "It's never boring around here anymore. I'll agree with that."

As for that winged-horse he's somewhere near. Cavorting with the birds, while he waits for his mistress' call to arms. To be useful in battle is what he was made for; even if he's currently having a race high in the clouds with a pair of hooting owls.

Loki has posed:
Seated as he is, Loki is casual. Deceptive, true, but his posture wins prizes of a kind. He leans forward slightly, his knees pointed ahead to compensate for the balance. His elbow almost reaches the table, the better to fend off any interested parties from seizing hold of one of his dubious elixirs full of foul compounds, delightful reactions, and chemical chains that would make Fred's eyes roll back in glee. Born Asgardian, her, if there ever was one. She can be the honorary explosives tech. "Ah, but there very much is the rub. Norse mythology paints a very selective picture of things. Not flattering per se; and worse, there is an assumption I mean you all ill. Or everyone and everything not serving my perennially confounding plans. Even now, there's a kernel of doubt in most hearts."

He curls his fingers around the glass, spreading each long digit far enough to encompass the circumference. He tilts it this way and that, to better appreciate the attractive interplay between the various components. How can he not like the suspended shimmer? Oh, right, beautiful woman with particularly attractive assets, like smarts and also a Trickster, and moreover tricky.

Damn coyote. It's like catnip to a Bengal. No matter, he drinks. To that drink, a toast of sorts.

"I would like to believe your statement. Many people have a nature unsuitable for..." The calculated smirk here. "... trust. Friendship is easy to dispose when facts contrary to assumptions show up. Mind you, I'm used to it." Almost expecting it, really.

Three thousand years and endless cycles of Ragnarok will do that to a man. Maybe. And maybe not. "Perhaps it's worth the fact they haven't shot me yet. I /do/ so find the shooting boring. In their own time. Your nurse already knows, I suspect."