Fit in? Why would he, Ares, want to fit in? In all of his incarnations, he'd never consciously tried to fit in with the general population of humanity. He hadn't been popular on Olympus (at least not with his fellow gods, he'd certainly had a way with the ladies...), and he hadn't been a popular god among mortals, but that had never made him want to try and blend, like some coffee bean. Fuck that.
"So you'd rather give them power? Calling on false gods and prophets? It's enough to make me think you like what we've become," Ares spat, a sneer in place as he looked at his nephew. Adapt, indeed. Why should he adapt to their pathetic mortal existence? Better, much better, to have temporal power, to have the humans fear him they way they had back when he'd been a god. He considered casually kicking the barstool out from under his nephew, but didn't want to draw more attention to him. Still, it would be funny to see him on his hands and knees. That might appease the growing annoyance (not yet anger) his presence was stirring in the god of bloodlust. Even if his hand was twitching to back hand the whelp and see how well he flew these days.