Driving around the grudge-filled downtown areas of Los Angeles on his war chariot disguised as an intimidating, black Harley Davidson motorcycle is something that Ares frequently does in his free time—looking for a fight, looking for some chaos, looking for something to entertain his time since causing actual war is frowned upon in these modern times.

While Ares isn't particularly fond of any mortals or being around them for longer than he has to be, driving does get rather boring after nothing happens for hours; so, he does what anyone looking for a fight might do, and he heads to the nearest dive bar—of which there are plenty in the area.

With his usual attire choice—all black ensemble of jeans, combat boots, a leather duster, and a red muscle shirt—Ares fits right into the seedy clientele of the dive bar that he decides on.

"Whiskey," says Ares to the bartender when he walks in, settling himself against the bar. "Straight."

As the bartender complies with the request, a little put off by the unknown face in the dingy, dim bar, Ares takes the opportunity to look around at potential sources of entertainment; naturally, his war-like aura seems to dig at a few nearby individuals, and he watches with a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he reads the tension bleeding into the room. It won't take much to provoke someone into starting a fight to entertain him, thankfully—but before Ares is even given the opportunity to instigate, he catches sight of someone swinging at an older, gross bargoer.

The fist lands harsh against the jaw of the man, sending him sprawling to the ground, leaving Ares with his brows raised and his interest incredibly piqued.

Standing, whiskey in hand, Ares ignores how a few other bargoers seem to be verbally sparring, getting ready to fight, and he moves towards this individual that threw the punch that has sat back down as if nothing happened. Cute, he muses as he steps over injured man, sliding into the stool beside the individual.

"Nice form," Ares comments. "The punch, I mean."