Title: Big Money
Character(s): Ares/Morrígan
Pantheon(s): Greek/Irish
Rating: PG
Summary: A man has an encounter with someone he didn't expect to see, while waiting for a meeting to begin.
Disclaimer: I, in no way, am trying to make some sort of grand, political statement with this (although, I am conscious that one can be read into this piece). Really, if you're paying attention, you'll be able to see that I just saw Iron Man, and that I've kind of had it on the brain.




Sitting alone at a circular table, in a posh, New York City restaurant was a man who appeared to be on of the nation's elite movers and shakers. He wore a suit that looked as though it were tailored specifically for him, by someone who most likely lived in Italy. His short, dark hair, and vague shadow of facial hair, was perfectly styled. And sitting on the table, next to his manicured left hand, was a pair of expensive, rectangular sunglasses. The menu was closed in front of him, and he absent-mindedly tapped a finger on a glass that held a double shot of cognac on the rocks.

He caught the waitress out of the corner of his left eye, walking toward him rather cautiously (which didn't really surprise him, as chill as he had been when he ordered his drink).

"Did you want me to start you on any appetizers," she asked, rather shyly, "while you wait for your party?"

"No," he said, just as icy as before. "I'll wait for them, before ordering."

"Very well," she said, attempting a weak smile, before walking away.

It was a pity, he mused, as he watched her walk away, that he was so annoyed with these numb-skulls he was supposed to be meeting, for being late. If they had actually been on time to the meeting they had set up, he would probably have been in a much better mood, and would have most likely have been much more polite to such a pretty girl. And then, he might have been able to find out when her shift ended. Be he doubted that it would happen now.

When he turned his head toward the right, he was that there was a good-looking, Auburn haired woman sitting next to him. She was dressed as she always had been, ever since he had known her, in tartan and leather, her hair cropped short, and finger armor on two fingers of her right hand. On her face were blue swirls that he had always assumed were tattoos, as they had always been there, and he couldn't see her continually drawing them exactly the same over so many years. Her eyes were the darkest shade of green that he had ever seen, and as always, they were looking directly at him, unblinkingly.

"How many times," he asked, "have I asked you knot to just appear in front of me, without any warning?"

"Oh," she said, a mischievous grin splitting her lips, and a lilt to her voice, "several times, I'm sure."

"And can't you blink once in a while? It's rather unnerving."

"If it will make you feel better," she said, blinking once.

"I supposed that's as much as I can hope for," he said, rather dryly. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"You could," he said, letting the "but that doesn't mean I will tell you" hanging in the air.

"You know, you used to be a lot more fun."

"Well, it's been a long time since the 'good old days,' hasn't it?"

"Oh, come on! You can't possibly still be mad about what happened in Sparta."

He did not answer; he simply stared at her.

"It was three thousand years ago!"

"Keep your voice down," he demanded, through lips that didn't move. "Don't forget where we are."

"Please!" she said with a snort, and a wave of her hand. "No one here actually knows what we're talking about. They're far too busy with their meaningless little lives. They might as well have their heads buried in the sand."

"I actually make a good profit from that."

"And what need you have for money, I really have no idea."

"It's the new way to pray, and they don't even know it."

"Well ... it's not exactly all that new, is it?"

"Maybe, but they are getting better at it, aren't they?"

"You really are a piece of work, you know that?"

"Thank you," he said, beaming.

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Coming from you, dear, that's the closest I've ever come to one."

"Would your guest like a drink?" the waitress asked as she saddled back up to the table, still as nervous as before.

"No," he said, still staring at the red-head next to him. "She won't be staying."

"Oh," the red-head said, an eyebrow cocked, "not even one? For old time's sake?"

"Ms. Sparta," he said to the waitress, but pointedly looking at the red-head, "was just leaving."

"Very well," the red-head said, sighing. "But you really were more fun back then."

She got up from her chair, walking with the waitress, toward the front door. One went to a cubby, with some other employees. The other went out the front door and stopped. When the door had closed all the way, she suddenly disappeared, several crows taking up the space that she had just occupied; all were flapping their wings, and already beginning to fly away.

Morrígan, he thought, always did fancy yourself as being dramatic. Too bad it never quite worked out as impressive as you planned.

Movement from one of the windows caught his attention: several men, and a woman, all in suits, hurrying toward the door.

Finally, he thought. If all goes well with this, I should be able to unload the rest of those weapons on these saps.

He set down his drink as they walked through the door. Standing as they walked toward him, he straightened his jacket.

When they were close enough, the woman (who appeared to be the leader of the group), extended a hand.

"Mr. Aries," she said, "I'm sorry we're late. Traffic was abysmal."

"Actually," he said, taking her hand, "it's 'Ares.'"

"What?" she asked, looking confused.

"'Ares,'" he said, a little bit slower, as though he were speaking to someone incredibly dim. "Like the god of war."

"Ah," she said, with sudden realization. "How very appropriate."

In that instant, he wondered if he should take an alias. If he had to listen to one more of these dunder-heads think they were being witty ...

"Take a seat," he said, gesturing to the chairs around the table. Returning to his own, he gestured the waitress back over. "Now, let's see about getting you some food, while we hammer out the details."

He had meant it when he said that these people prayed to their gods with money. And as a god of war, that meant he was making a killing. Because more than anything else, there was money in war.

Big money.