[John F. Kennedy International Airport] Fortunate Son

Theresa stumbles as the ropes that bind her pull harder. She's sweating, heart pounding, skin burning, head throbbing. Something big is happening, something with many consequences. This has happened in the past, many times. It terrifies her every time, sneaking up on her. This had happened when Enchantress had acted against the world; when a mutant by the name Erik had been killed; when a young man stepped out of nothing to be somewhere new; when a teen was bit by a spider-

It is too easy for Theresa to get lost in the past. She is here, she is now, and there is something she must witness, or else. 

Theresa can't even see the city around her anymore, not that she should. She doesn't need to see the masses as she passes them by, she just needs to follow this pulling. If she stops, she fears she will burst into flames, right there on the street. Then who will get the tuna Salem likes? Who will make sure there are spiders in the cobwebs? Who will quietly melt into the Sanctum, giving it more life than before? Who will still their beating heart, just a moment, so Stephen can hear the creaks in the night all the better?

It is then the pulling stops- Theresa finds herself blinking, bewildered outside the JFK Airport. An attack? An arrival? A departure? She scans the crowd, seeking, a painful last yank turns her head to a brilliant pink Hawaiian shirt. 

"You," Theresa breathes, and she is washed over by relief. It ebbs and flows, a warmness starting at her ankles, then it builds up her body. She looks down, and sees it is because she is in blood. All around her, blood pours from this man, his hands, his eyes, his mouth, drowning the city. Yet, she is the only one that sees it. Commuters commute, tourists tour, all while they wade through everything that was, is, will be. It continues to rise, the world around her getting swallowed by the millions- billions- trillions- 

Theresa can hold her breath, at least, but it is the silence that strangles her. The blood stings her eyes, suffocating her. 

War. War is in New York City. 

Through the blood, a form takes shape. It grows, heat radiating from it. It is that fire that comes from courage, from blood lust, from rage. It consumes her more than the blood suffocates her, burning away everything that makes her... her. It is a transformative moment, a vision of all things, a whip lashing against her back. Punishment- that is what this is. That makes sense. She can parse that. Her mouth opens, breathing in air. On the exhale, she opens her eyes, seeing the form of a God before her. 

Theresa isn't supposed to be noticed, not in these moments of monumentality. She isn't a part of history, she simply... witnesses it.

Schooling her expression, Theresa shakes her head. "No, I am neither a fan nor a detractor," she says carefully. "You are. I am. There isn't much either of us can do about our place in the universe, save for inhabit it," she says, her face and tone empty of the fear from before. They both have parts to play.

"If I were to pick someone, perhaps Apollo," Theresa says, but she knows it is wrong. "No- I do not belong to him, but perhaps I was gifted by him?" she says, wrong again. "I am a Seer," she finally settles on. It is closer. 

This is a puzzling situation for her. Is she supposed to get coffee with him? Is that the event? Is it over, just his arrival? "I am afraid I don't know what to do now. Follow you? I am... I was pulled here," she murmurs, looking around. She seems lost now, like she expected something to happen and it isn't.

"Dr. Theresa Brooks," she answers him, holding out her hand as social contract demands. 

Theresa blinks. "No, no I do not," she murmurs in answer. His palm is warm, and their contact does not induce visions. A small respite has been granted, it seems. "You are not the only one to think of me as this, so I suppose you are in the majority," Theresa answers. Everyone calls her odd. It isn't really odd anymore, for her. She supposes she is rather startling for others, however. Friends are hard to come by, intimacy even more so. Everyone always seems just out of reach, meant to be observed and not interacted with.

"You are being far more civil than I would have expected, thank you," Theresa says. "I did not guess, I know. I bathed in the blood of all killed in your name. It filled the city, as well as my eyes," she says, her voice flat in that strange manner it always is. She doesn't fight him, but instead accompanies him easily enough. Nothing is pulling her elsewhere. Why not? Not often one gets coffee with  god. She feels a kinship- no, not that... a responsibility? Yes, that, a responsibility towards him. Why? It isn't the type of responsibility a mother would have to a child, but perhaps the feeling one gets when exposing a lit match to gasoline.

Theresa moves into the coffee shop with him, not bothering to correct him in this moment. He is a God, set in his ways. Why bother? Theresa pulls out a few small bills, handing it to the barista. 

"You needn't tell me of Apollo's many exploits, I am very aware," Theresa says, glancing to the side. Still, no visions. How... queer. "I am here because I am a witness. Something important is supposed to happen, or it already has. You have been gone a while, Árriktos. Perhaps I was supposed to see your arrival," she muses. "Or, something will happen soon, and that is what I am to bear witness to," she continues, staying by his side.

"You are back. You seem different than I remember... How are you?" Theresa asks. 

"Wise," Theresa says. "War unchecked means the devastation of all," she murmurs. "Then, who is left to war? There would be no need for you, if all life were gone. Prometheus created man and Zeus made woman... you need both in this world, and Prometheus is rather busy with his eternal punishment," she says, and something about her words feel... personal. Why?

"Enough to drown the world," Theresa answers. It truly had been. War is simply one of the evils of this world, released along with all the others. "I will be frank, it was rather startling," she says. "I would not wish to see it again, for it might lose its power over me. No, once is enough, so that I can forever hold it in my heart with the same intensity as before," she says, cunning in her phrasing. One should not insult a God, Ares least of all. 

Before Theresa is a cup of tea, perfectly sweetened. She can tell by the cloying saccharine scent in the air. "Thank you," she tells the person, knowing they will remember this very differently than she. It will be fine. All things pass. 

"Nothing planned?" Theresa asks, not a single emotion betrayed, but Gods above, she is filled with relief. "Then perhaps, we are meant to speak. I am but a humble Seer. Do you have a question you seek answered? Or a thorn in your paw this mouse can extract?" she says. "There could be other eventualities, but those are my expertise. Strange. I am not usually a part of history, you see. I just watch it happen," she continues, careful to look at the corners of his lips, and not his eyes.

"I have never met you before in my life, Ares, but I know you as if I had spent the dawn of humankind by your side. We are friends, in our way, unnoticed and forgotten. That is my lot in life."

Theresa is no woman of peace, but someone who accepts both sides. But... many look at her face and see what they want to see. She is not one to correct a God. War is- as is Peace. She may want one more than the other, but she also accepts both must exist. To go against that is to go against reality as it is. The scales tipped too far in one direction has backlash for a reason. 

Quietly, Theresa pulls out her cards, placing them on the table between them. Power sparks between them, small and fast. Perhaps this is the historical event. Threads are strung between them, she could reach out and play fate like a lyre.

"Shuffle the cards, cut the deck, all while thinking of your question, Ares," Theresa instructs. She pushes the deck closer to him, almost challengingly. There is a spark of something in her eyes, even if her features as so very blank. He may not like the answers he receives. Once he does so, she takes the cards back, then spreads them before him. "Pick.... four cards," she says after some hesitation. She almost said sixteen. Perhaps a bit too ambitious. 

Theresa watches him as closely as he watches her, something strange starting to grow in her heart between the apprehension and the acceptance: fondness. She hadn't expected this of the God of War, Bloodlust, and Courage, but it is there all the same. She can trace the line of his history like scars, mapping his experiences. He is not good, he is not evil, he simply is, as she said before. Perhaps, in the coming days, she will find reason to pray to him for courage, or something else entirely.

Theresa flips the first card. "South. Where you are coming from," she begins. The card shows Hecate in all her glory, three heads of the maiden, the mother, and the crone. The style is that of the ancient Greeks, like what one might fond on their pottery. One arm points up, the other down, and a table of many magics lay before her. "The Magician," she says, nodding, understanding. "Willpower. Sheer, unadulterated willpower. As above, so below. Earth reflects Olympus, the outer world reflects within, the microcosm reflects the macrocosm, people reflect the Gods. You were entrenched in us, shaping the world like this, by whatever means necessary. Opportunities abounded for you to share your vision of the world, and you took everything. Perhaps... too much," she murmurs. A sickness. "Even Destruction walked away, not wanting to be the cause of what was dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki," Theresa says, a truth she had not known before. "Humans didn't need you, nor him, to create what they did. But, create it they did, and War has never been the same since. As above... so below."

The next card. Theresa flips it, and places it like a point on a compass. "West. What is directly behind you," she says. It shows him, Diana, and his daughter Hippolyta, dancing in a circle with each raising a cup. "Community. Cooperation. Focusing on a common emotional goal. You don't know this... but your daughter was instrumental in helping Diana, and in turn, helping you," she says. Ares and his daughter have not spoken in millennia. Hippolyta refuses to speak to any man, mortal or God. It seems, however, that some part of her may care... or she understands a world with War unchecked is not a world at all. She had always been cunning. "Good things, but... not all good things should be trusted, Ares. It signifies the side of excess in physical enjoyment, and the pleasures of the senses. Too much of a good thing... is simply too much," she says.

"Third... East. What lies in front of you," Theresa continues, turning over and placing the penultimate card. "Justice, reversed," she says, tone even. It shows Themis holding her scales. "You are going to do something you regret, something you know is wrong, and you will do everything you can to avoid punishment and justice for it," Theresa says. "I have no judgement, nor do I know what this action will be. You will know it, perhaps before, perhaps after. Whatever the case, that is what will come to pass," the Seer imparts on him. She motions to the Three of Cups. "You might be able to rely on them again... but my warning from before should give you pause. Just because they are good... does not mean they have your best interests at heart."

Finally... the last. "North, your next move to take," Theresa says, showing an image of Hermes and his winged sandals. He holds a sword upright, eyes cast out onto the horizon. "Be open to new ideas, new people, new avenues of communication. The suit of swords is one that delves heavily in how we express ourselves. You are a new person, now you must show others that. You have a new project in mind..." Theresa starts, and not for the first time does she wish she could hold back. It is not her place to, however. "Move forward with it. But..." she says, then taps the Justice card. "Do not lose yourself, do not compromise your ideals, do not hide when you are Courage incarnate."

Teleportation magic could be messy and complicated without a magical artifact like a Sling Ring, enough magical power to brute force it, Doctor Strange had offered him one once, but his magic was incompatible with the artifact. Trying to use it had nearly blown off his hand. James’s magic often involved coincidences. A flavoring his magic had developed from mixing it into his performances. Rather than simply appear out of thin air, James and Anwir found themselves getting out of an Uber. The car vanished into the hustle and bustle of the airport traffic. The air at the airport was thick with power. Even with this god masking their power, it was nearly suffocating to James. The connection between James and the being only intensified with the closer proximity. James could almost see a golden thread connecting him to the being within the airport. He looked at Anwir and said, "Be alert. If you see something weird, say something. Our perceptions of reality are different, so I may miss something that you might notice." What James left out was that he would likely be having intense hallucinations.

James strode into the airport with a confidence he shouldn’t have given what he was walking into. The air seemed to change as he walked in. There was a magic in the air. Powerful and familiar. He couldn’t quite place it. It echoed in the thrums of power that played like a dreadful beat in Jame’s ears. His head turned towards the Starbucks. James found the chain to be a parasite fed by consumerism. It was unsurprising to him that there was another one only a hundred feet away. James’s gaze focused in on a man in a familiar woman sitting together. As Jame’s eyes went to the man, time seemed to slow as he could hear every mechanical movement as the gun pressed to the back of his head went off.

James found himself in a field in the north of the lands that would one day be called Sudan. Dozens of bodies littered the ground around him, many of them riddled with arrows. He could feel the hot blood of the man he had killed dripping down the obsidian dagger onto his dark skin. The blood stained the ground like an offering to a god who had just been born. There was no name for war, because this was the first of many. This rival tribe had poached on their hunting grounds. With the poor hunting conditions, this war was the only recourse. In the distance he could see the entity, or perhaps a fragment of the entity, who would come to be known as Ares smiling in the distance.

The scene before him changed. A ceremonial knife in his hand as he walked towards the strongest bull from the herd, who had been brought to the temple as an offering. There was no hesitation as his knife slit the throat of the bull, spilling its blood on the alter. War was coming, and the God of War must be appeased. Ares had always been pleased with their offerings, and they would always work to ensure he remained on their side. The city of Jerusalem stood before him. Soon it would be theirs, conquered in the name of Christianity and God. In the back of his mind, he could hear the cruel and vicious laughter encouraging him and his men to slaughter and pillage not in the name of god but in the name of war. Deep down he knew his God would not approve of this senseless slaughter and war, but he still gave the order. The laughter only increased.

Blood. He looked at his hand covered in his own blood. They were pinned down by those fucking Viet Cong. They weren’t making it out of this hell. He smiled as he pulled out his radio, calling in an air strike on him and his own men. If they were going to die, let them all burn as sacrifices to this war. To many other visions of war and sacrifices to the man before him flooded James mind. It was a struggle to stay in the present, cutting through the hallucinations. James doubted he could summon the willpower to call upon magic in this moment without being consumed again. Yet James’s eyes did not leave the man. He presented himself so casually, but James could see his true self. James muttered to himself,"Of course it’s fucking Ares."