Owner	Pose
Mercy Thompson	On this particular December day, in the middle of the afternoon, there happen to be large, plump snowflakes drifting down from a grey sky. It's not particularly cold as of yet, hovering right around the freezing mark, and so one of the garage bay doors is lifted to allow fresh air to waft in as it will. It also brings the odd swirl of snow, but that's not something that's bothersome at all. Mercy was raised in Montana, and winters are much snowier there than what they are here. And sometimes colder, as well. The half-native woman steps out of the warm shop air and into the cooler air of the outdoors. She's wearing a green shirt with sleeves that end just past her elbows, and a pair of blue jeans, in addition to her tan steel-toed boots. She finishes drying her hands on the terry rag she holds, then tucks it into one of the back pockets of her jeans. She doesn't usually work on Sundays, but here is where she happens to be. There's a bruise along her right jaw, perhaps a day old but not appearing to be more than that. After taking a moment to look up towards the sky, she eases through a stretch, her eyes half closing as she does. She steps over to a k-block at the side of the parking area for her garage, then settles atop of it.
Jean Grey	An older car sits just down the street from the shop designated at Mercy's. It's a black, mid 90s corvette. With the hood up. Jean stands there, looking down at the car. From where she stands, she can't quite see the garage not far away through the falling snow. She stares balefully at the silent muscle car. "Why, oh why, did I let him talk me into driving this wretched thing back to the mansion?" Jean sighs. She lifts her right hand to run her fingers through her red hair. A red that stands out quite a lot against the snow falling around and onto her and the car. Already a layer has accumulated on top of the car. And on Jean's shoulders and the top of her head. She'd just been driving a car back to the mansion. A new project for one of the students to tinker with. She hadn't expected it to die halfway there and so hadn't worn proper attire.
Mercy Thompson	As luck might have it, it would be the spoken words that tug at Mercy's attention. One of her eyebrows quirks up out of curiosity, and she tilts her head faintly to one side as she gets to her feet from where she'd been settled on the k-block. Him? she wonders. Him whom? And what wretched thing? Although given that the chosen verb had been 'driving', then that would make the wretched thing some kind of vehicle. But what kind? The thought that she can maybe help easily becomes that she'll help in whatever way her mechanical knowledge can, even if all she can do is kick one of the tires and growl at it. Curiosity is a powerful force, and Mercy's is assuredly tickled. As she puzzles over this particular mystery, Mercy steps briefly into the shop to grab a plaid fleece jacket. She easily shrugs into it, and then she lightly jogs in the direction of the silhouette of the car with its hood up. She can see it -- and the red hair that she presumes belongs to the woman's voice she heard -- through the falling snow, though others might miss the sight of it. Once she's near enough, she slows to a quick walk and calls out, "Hey, need a hand?" The offer is genuine and sincere. And curious.
Jean Grey	Him. Yes, him. However, there's no 'him' to be seen with the car or with the redhead. Clearly, she'd picked up the car alone. Or driven it back alone. Jean leans forward and considers something in the engine. Bright pink surrounds the radiator cap. She shakes her head, brow furrowing. "Not the radiator then," she murmurs. The pink what ever it is, power?, puts the cap back into place and screws it in. Her eyes, emerald green, move to a different location. The engine itself, maybe? "No. I'm not going to do that. Unless you /want/ to replace the engine after I melt it into slag? That's what I thought. Just get a tow truck and get here. Fort Joseph. Yes, Haven. And you get here. It's cold and I didn't think to grab a coat. Why? It was sunny and nearly fifty degrees when I left. I didn't expect to be stranded so long the sun started going down." She rolls her eyes and heaves a sigh. Before Mercy gets within general hearing distance for most people, Jean falls silent and turns to look in the woman's direction. "Ah, no, not really," she says, shaking her head. "Or.. maybe? I'm not sure what's wrong with it. It stalled here."
Mercy Thompson	The lack of a 'him' is noticed by Mercy as she comes closer to the car. Interesting, yet it makes a certain amount of sense given what had been said. The bright pink that surrounds the radiator cap perks her attention, and she tilts her head a touch to one side at that. That's -intriguing-! What is that? And how does it do what it does? What makes it work? There are questions in her brain, and none of them work their way to being asked at all. That would be rude! So she wonders about what she saw, and she keeps her questions to herself. Then there's the comment about the engine getting melted into slag, and Mercy raises an eyebrow. That's a bit of a surprising statement! "You might not need the tow truck," she offers, stepping a bit closer. She's not going to pretend that she didn't hear the comment about a tow truck. She shrugs out of the plaid fleece, and then she offers it towards the redheaded woman. She isn't cold, herself. "You can wear this, if you'd like," she offers, a smile tugging up the corners of her lips. "Did it make any unusual sounds or behaviours before it stalled out on you, any strange smells from it?" she asks, curious. These things are all a piece of the puzzle where cars are concerned. She steps closer to the redheaded woman and offers out her right hand. "I'm Mercy. I own the garage just down the way there. I'll help if I can, and depending on what the problem is, I may be able to get it running for you again," she offers, lifting her left hand to gesture towards the mostly snow-obscured shop when she mentions it.
Jean Grey	That the woman wonders is not something that's lost on Jean. She can tell. She always can. But she doesn't answer those unasked questions. That would provoke /more/ questions, afterall. She looks thoughtfully at this woman. At the apparent curiousity to her. Curious. She tilts her head. "Might not need a tow truck?" She pauses. "Jack, hold off on the tow truck. Yes, I know. I'll let you know." There's no evidense of a cell phone. And it doesn't look like she's wearing anything that could be considered bluetooth or otherwise transmitty. Though, some of those these days are very tiny and easily hidden. Jean shakes her head at the offer of the plaid fleece. "No, thank you though." She does not take it. Another shake of her head. "No strange sounds. No strange smells that I remember. The only unusual thing it did is the power steering and brakes got harder to use. I put it in park when I got it stopped, and tried to start it, but it wouldn't." The offered hand is taken without hesitation, and shaken without challenge, but with a firm enough grip to satisfy most people. Jean uses the moment to get a deeper scan, wary where it can't be seen of the sudden offer of help. Then again, when it comes to unbidden help, Jean is often wary these days. Her emerald eyes follow the gesture to the shop. Mostly snow obscured as it is, Jean can only see it as a large mass down the street. Her eyes go back to Mercy. "Pleasure to meet you."
Mercy Thompson	The woman-coyote has always been possessed of a strong sense of curiosity. Sometimes it gets her in trouble, but hopefully this time will not be one of those times. She gives a small nod to the question, and there's a smile that quirks at the corners of her lips. "I can't guarantee anything without taking a look at it, but it's a possibility. There's a few things that could cause a car to stall out," Mercy comments. The lack of apparent cell phone or other bluetooth type apparatus is a curious thing, and she wonders how the redheaded woman is communicating with 'Jack'. And she wonders, too, who 'Jack' is, other than someone with a tow truck or the ability to send one! Mercy listens attentively as the woman describes what happened with the car. She lifts one of her shoulders in a bit of a shrug when the fleece is declined, and then she hooks it lightly on the rear view mirror on the driver's side of the car. "It sounds like it lost power for some reason," she muses, her tone thoughtful. "It might be something wiring related, or the battery. Or something else," she adds. There isn't an overwhelming amount of strength that Mercy puts to the handshake -- she does her best to match the redhead's grip. There's nothing at all nefarious to be found within her mind in regards to the offer of help that she had extended. That she's a mechanic is easy enough to pick up from her mind, and it's been her profession for a number of years now. Mainly German cars of various makes and models but she tinkers with other cars as well. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well," she adds, giving a small nod.