Was there any venture in New York that didn't have divine sponsorship? Bad enough to be tripping over godlings with every step through Central Park, or bumping elbows in the subway, or the neighborhood toy store--Sato sighed, inwardly, and wondered when exactly the waking world got so bloody crowded. There was barely room for metaphysics nowadays, what with the divinities jaywalking through mortal reality unchecked.
It certainly made this god's arrival unlikely an accident.
"They're not dead," was Sato's opening statement. Because he was thinking it, she knew the look. It made her want to call him young--which was stupid and dangerous, because he wasn't. Not smelling of oil and rust and powder as he did.
Politely, Sato nodded in better greeting and moved to pick up her coat from where it'd been hastily, but pointedly, hung on a crate's edge. She buttoned it unhurriedly, the loose folds erasing the sheath's outline. Her "night" bag, she noted happily, was by the crate as well.
It was only after the bag was in her hand, that Sato looked back to the god. "Sorry, can I help you with something?"