8519/The Last Archivist: A Halloween Visitor

The Last Archivist: A Halloween Visitor
Date of Scene:	30 October 2021
Location:	Streets of New York City
Synopsis:	Jon takes a walk on the streets of New York on Halloween, and is visited by the ghost of his grandmother, Gertrude Robinson. She gives him advice and insight--and a warning of sorts.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood

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Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon leaves the Laughing Magician, hands stuck deep in his pockets, shoulders slumped. John Constantine stormed out earlier, and then Zatanna Zatara, each going a separate way. By the looks of all three whatever went on in the basement bar when Jon went in to apologize did not go well at all.

    "You were right," he murmurs for the benefit of the earbud tuned to a channel private with the man under a veil across the street. "He didn't take it well." He pulls out a cigarette and his lighter, maybe to keep Martin at a distance. His husband doesn't like the stuff, after all.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin frowns under his veil and says, "I'm sorry, love." He pauses as the man lights up a cigarette. "If you want to walk on your own, I can shadow you and be quiet." He knew his husband liked to walk with his thoughts after stressful events.

    "You won't even know I'm here..." he says softly as he waits to gauge the man's actions.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon laughs half bitterly as he lights the Silk Cut and puts it between his lips. "I always know you're there, Martin. You're the one who thinks I don't." He takes a long drag, shakes his head, starts walking.

    "You know what he said to me? 'Play the fucking Saint Jon, the one that gives so much of a shit about everyone else.' As if... I'm lying? As if I don't really care? As if I think I'm /better/ than him?" Another shake of the head. "I know who's at fault for this, and it isn't him. But what does he expect me to do, grovel?"

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin follows a ways behind a soft smile on his lips at his husband's sentiments. He is always in sight of the man if not right beside him. "Honestly, it probably would make his day if you did" he says flatly.

    He pauses after a few steps, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Who's fault is it then, if not his?" he asks, tunrning aside to allow a transient to stumble out of an alley without jostling him.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Mine, of course. Who else's would it be? He took me in when there was no one else, he helped me, kept me safe, he told me something he hadn't even told my grandmother, and sure he wasn't /emotionally/ supportive but so what? I was an ungrateful arse and he was right to throw me out." Jon's voice holds no sarcasm, and Martin knows him well enough to know he'll blame himself for anything and everything.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "Jon... I *know* that you realize how silly that sounds given the situation" Martin replies, following along. "You have put yourself out there for him time and again this past month and he just took your assistance as some sort of... Alpha bullshit."

    He sighs. "Part of being a good leader means being supportive of those under you, *including* emotionally." He shakes his head Just because you protect someone physically and metaphysically doesn't give you the right to leave them high and dry emotionally. Regardless of what you have going on..."

    "Where are we going, by the way?" he asks noticing the general aimlessness of his husband's steps. "Or we just letting your steps guide you as they will?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stops near a trash bin, sucking down the last of the cigarette he's been puffing on. He glowers down at the trashcan, muttering, "I never said he was a good /leader/." He hunches his shoulders. He's not willing to admit this wasn't entirely his fault. That way leads to anger, and helplessness. And he /knows/ he's being ridiculous, but it all just hurts right now, like a raw, exposed nerve.

    Once the cigarette's out and the butt thrown away he says, "I don't know where I'm going. Do you really /have/ to follow me everywhere?" He keeps on walking, heading generally toward home. Even if he doesn't know where he's going, his feet seem to.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "Probably not... but I'm going to anyway..." Martin says, a tinge of amusement in his words. "I've only been back a few days, love. And if I have to hide behind a command from the Chief to spend as much time around you as I can... I will do that." As Jon continues along behind, he follows him, speeding up only occasionally enough to keep the Archivist in his vision.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon doesn't even really seem to know where he's going. At first it might seem he's going home, it's close enough to walk; Chelsea's practically next door to Hell's Kitchen, after all. But then he turns at a certain street, keeps on going, and Martin can surely guess if he hasn't already.

    They've done a remarkably good job of fixing up Manhattan since Loki's Frost Giants attacked, but it is nonetheless a construction site Jon slips on into. The specific spot is a little ways inside, the spot where an alien weapon hit their daughter, threw her against a wall, because Jon wasn't fast enough to get in the way. Wasn't fast enough to trade her life for his.

    Martin /has/ to remember. It nearly tore them apart, after all.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    The scars of those who survived Loki's attack on the city are still fresh even if the damage done is almost completely rebuilt. Jon's path leads them to a place that opens up those scars as easily as a scalpel. "Oh..." he says his voice soft and somewhat hollow. "We're here..." He swallows, the memories of that time still will stay with him as clear and as painful as the day they happened.

    As Jon goes into the site Martin stays outside, unable to bring himself to go into the place where his daughter--*their* daughter--had died. "I... I can't. I'll be... just out here when you're ready..." he murmurs through their comm link.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I know, Martin," Jon says, his voice hollow. "I'm sorry." He'd pulled Lyra's body away from the danger, carried her all the way to the shelter, never quite seeming to realize she was /dead/. He'd refused to believe it when the paramedics had told him, had screamed at them to save his daughter. It hadn't done any good. She'd been dead as soon as the alien weapon hit her. And Jon's never quite managed to let go of the guilt.

    There's nothing special to mark out the spot, the /exact/ spot, but Jon knows, because Jon remembers /everything/. Some combination of Jane Foster's Loki costume, his old friend refusing his apology, and it being early morning on Halloween has led him here. So he stops, facing the spot where she died.

    "Well," he says. "I'm here."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    There is nothing to announce the presence of the shade. No grand light, no rustle of wind. One moment there was nothing there, and then the next an old woman wearing a thick cardigan sweater, a broomstick skirt, and sturdy boots appears.

    There are similarites between Gertrude Robinson and Jonathan Sims. Their eyes, for one, had the same weariness in them. Their posture, when Jon isn't crushed under the weight of fatigue, is similar as well. She regards her grandchild with a soft assessing look and speaks. "I would've expected you to come here sooner, but I suppose that might be giving you and the power you possess a bit too much credit."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glowers at the shade, hunching his shoulders a bit. "What's that supposed to mean?" His tone is snippish, defensive. His grandmother had always /liked/ Jon, had been kind in her way, but never quite seemed to think him up to whatever task he had in front of him.

    Still, it might be surprising, the way he glares at her, the frustration in his eyes. He'd never been outright rude to her in life.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Gertrude's shade blinks at Jon and then her expression softens. "I suppose I sholdn't be too hard on you. You didn't ask for what you've been given and to be quite honest, I had no intention of giving it to you, until the very end, of course." She sighs. "So, for my part in what pain you've endured since my death, I apologize, Child. Truly."

    Then, in a manner that is all business. "Now, I don't have time to give you all the training I gave Sasha, but I can at least tell you what you can do so you're not... stumbling as much as you seem." She pauses. "You have questions. Ask them. I suspect they will lead to the same information as I would give you otherwise, this way your curiosirty and desire to know can be satisfied while I do what I intended by coming here."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "/Stumbling/?!" Jon draws himself up defensively, then his shoulders slump. "No. No, you're right. Everyone's right. I'm... woefully unsuited for this business. That's why you never trained me, isn't it?" He looks away. "I mean, you had to have figured that something might happen to Sasha, but you never... you never even /told/ me. And I've been..." He laughs wryly. "I've been making a right mess of things, haven't I?"

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Gertrude's mouth forms a tight line. "Not as much as you think you have to be honest" she replies. "I didn't train you because the task usually falls to the oldest in line and I had judged Sasha's survival instinct was powerful enough to ensure that the power would not be squandered once it fell to her." There is a frown and she says, almost as an aside. "I had not, however, realized just how much greed she had in her heart and that, of course lead to me demise."

    There is a pause. "And... I admit that your life was soft. You were happy. I did not want to put the power of the Archivist upon you because it would force you to make decisions that you would not be able to make. I wanted to spare you the terrible burden of having to sometimes choose between what you love and what you are meant to do."

     She thinks for a moment. "Don't judge your abilities on what others in the mystical community tell you" she says, pacing in a way that Jon wold recognize and see in himself. "Many will not understand what the Archivist is supposed to do and what the Archivist is truly capable of. Turning experience into tangible power is incomprehensible for those who spend years in study and dedication or who summon powers beyond this realm and make deals with dark gods and angels in exchange for power. The fact that you grow in strength by simply *existing* is terrifying and a mockery of their own powers."

    "Most will see you as inept because of your lack of tomes or libraries or connections to anything beyond Thoth and She, who we do not name without reason." She waves a hand. "Ignore their scorn and move beyond it. Find those who find your power as a guiding light. A beacon of hope in an otherwise dark world, stay with those people. Let them lead you to information and experience that will fuel the fire in you than will not only make you stronger, but will fulfill their need for your hope to spread. I... failed the Archive in that while I had it. Don't make the same mistake."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "So... don't listen to John Constantine, is what you're saying," Jon says with an arched brow, smirking briefly. There's pain in his voice, /such/ pain, but he hides it with that smirk. "Be the Archivist, not... a magus, or a wizard, or what-have-you."

    He hesitates, then blurts out, "What /is/ the Archivist? What am I supposed to be /doing/?! I keep... running around diving headlong into things I have no training for, reading people's minds and compelling information out of them, I have these awful nightmares..."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "Yes, I am speaking of John Constantine. He is not someone you should look to for guidance or instruction. His powers, great as they may be, come at a price that Thoth will not allow you to pay. They won't work for you. They will, in fact, diminish you." She sighs. "John was a good boy. Vain, arrogant at times, far too reckless for his own good, but a good boy. But I fear that his education into the mystic arts did not prepare him for what the Archivist is meant to be."

    At his true question, a small ghost of a smile graces the shade's mouth. "The Archivist is a living repository for the experience and hardship of mankind. It is a living, breathing, record of what it truly means to be human. What you're supposed to be doing is exactly what you are so disdainful of, Child" she says with more than a hint of amusement. "What is it you think I did for the past fifty years. The *only* difference between you and I, between Sasha and yourself is training. And from what I can see, you look to be rectifying that injustice on your own."

    Gertrude's expression softens. "The nightmares do take time to get accustomed to, but I assure you, they will not always be as terrible as those you experience now." She shakes her head. "The rest of it... that *is* your purpose. You experience. You seek. You learn. And it all becomes part of the Archivist and as such... your own power grows."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs. "And... I have to give up my life for that, then? My... softness? Happiness?" He frowns at her. "You left Grandad, and Sasha says you pushed her hard, and now... what, are you going to tell me I have to give up Martin, to be the Archivist?" There's a stubborn glint in his eye, a firming of his jaw.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "Yes, if you are to truly be the Archivist you will have to remove yourself from all distractions" Gertrude replies turning to him. Her tone is hard and direct. An unstopable force against the immovable object of Jon's stubborness. "That includes your husband. Your friends. Your allies. Giving up all things and dedicating yourself to experience and accumulation of wisdom.

    "The task before you is not power without price, Child" she says her tone dangerous and carrying a warning note. "You *have* to feed it, to deny it is to deny yourself. And anything that prevents you from feeding it... cannot be borne."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glares at Gertrude for a moment. "No," he says. "No. If... if I'm supposed to... if I'm supposed to be able to give up the /one/ thing in my ife, the /one/ person that... that makes me whole..."

    He shakes his head. "Strike me down. Kill me now, and let this pass on to another. I won't do that, I won't give up my friends and my allies just for /power/." He tilts his chin up. "/That's/ the real reason you never trained me, isn't it? You knew I couldn't do that. Couldn't give people up. You think... you think it makes me /weak/."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    "I think it makes you *human!*" Gertrude replies emphatically. "Which after a time, the Archivist cannot truly be." She shakes her head. "It's not on me to decide who has the power. I didn't *hand it off* to you, it's not built that way. It's a mantle. The gods decide who the next Archivist is. They chose you."

    "Jon, you're going to have to make sacrifices to do what you must as the Archivist" she replies, her expression still containing that hard edge. "And if you want to continue to have autonomy... some of those sacrifices will be difficult. You cannot afford to fail. Otherwise, you doom the world."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I don't /care/ about the world if I can't be with Martin!" Jon shouts. "I already lost him once, I am /not/ going through that again! Not for... for some misguided..."

    He stops, and blinks. "It /is/ misguided. If... if the Archivist is supposed to be a 'record of what it truly means to be human'... humans are /social/ animals. We /need/ people. Friends, family, lovers... we /need/ that to be human." He glares at Gertrude. "Isn't is just possible that /you're/ the one that failed? That because you were so determined to have /autonomy/, you missed out on the experiences you /should/ have been having?"

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Gertrude frowns. "That... may be the case." She replies. "I made my choice based on what I felt what right. Father had taught me that the Archivist was an autonomous entity. That it was not meant to be in the hands of private collectors, or libraries, or museums. Duty to the role and to oneself *only.*"

    She suddenly looks quite weary, her own features drawn and gaunt even moreso than Jon's. "It may be as you say. It may be that autonomy is not the true end goal. That you can still be happy while being puppetted by beings beyond what we can truly comprehend. I do not claim to be wise or all knowing. I can only tell you what I myself have experieced in life and service."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon folds his arms across his chest. "Well... I don't know if I'll be a very good Archivist, but... I'm /not/ giving up /people/. Not for this, not for anything. And as for autonomy... I'm enlisting SHIELD's help to find the physical pieces of the Archive." He laughs. "Not that I knew they existed before Chief Carter told me. Do you... have any advice on where to start looking? Do I just... call up the estate lawyer?"

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Gertrude smiles, some of the life retunring to her shade's features. "Peggy. I remember Peggy quite fondly. An ambitious, unerring and loyal woman if ever there was one. I considered doing as you did, but ultimately ruled against it. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps your choices will prove beneficial for the Archivist as a role."

    She nods and slides her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. "I scattered the pieces of the physical Archive--a collection of artifacts of great power--because someone is after them. Because of the methods they employed in killing me, I cannot speak their name. I can only tell you that they are."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks slowly at her. "...Then Sasha wasn't responsible for your death at all, was she? She turned to the demon for some other reason, and when she got passed over she went after me to try to wrest the Archive from me." He turns that over in his mind for a long moment. "And all this business... hiding from Sasha, from the demon... it's kept me from making sure the physical Archive is safe. It's played right into their hands, whoever they are. /Damn/ it!" He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

    Then, with a sigh, "Well, there's nothing for it now. Is there anything else I need to know? Am I going down the right path, trying to study lucid dreaming and magic? You said the normal methods don't work properly for us, right?"

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    The expression on Gertrude's face only confirms his suspicions about the circumstances surrounding her death. When he moves on she nods.

    "The abilitiy to contol our dreams and the astral is intrisic to our own application of Will" she explians. "You are well on the right track for that, Child. How we use our power is we take a construct of the Astral plane, and pull it forward from the astral to the material. What is real there, becomes real here." Her eyes sparkle as she explains. "Understand that the greater the shift against reality the harder the pull is to make, but the possibilities are nearly limitless. If you can imagine it, and have the concentration... it can be done."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods slowly. "So I just have to... practice that. Increase my own will, my own mental power." He chuckles. "That'll be easy, right?"

    He hesitates, then says, "...Are you... okay, Gran? Wherever you are? Is... is Lyra okay?" There's something worried and vulnerable in his expression, the way he used to worry about small animals killed by the side of the road or the fate of characters in movies.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Gertrude smiles. "That information is not for the living to know, Child. You will know the answers to that at the same point that all mortals learn it. When they join us on this side."

    Her spirit starts to fade. "There is much I would like to tell you, Child. But time wanes thin and my purpose was to inform you of that which we have discussed."

    There is a wistful, apologetic expression on her face. "I know you will do well as Archivist. Better than I give you credit for. Simply follow what your heart tells you and trust in those you can confide in."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon unfolds his arms, reaches out a hand. "Gran... Gran, I love you. And... it's okay. Thank you, for... for sparing me. For caring about me." He swallows. He hates that he feels that implies she didn't care about Sasha.

    And then the spirit is gone. He turns away, tucks his hands into his pockets, and walks on out of the construction site. "Did you hear all of that?" This to Martin.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin was leaning agains the wall as Jon exits the site. At the question. "I did" he says solemly, the veil fading away from him.

    Then without much warning he wraps Jon in a tight hug. "I'm sorry. I know that must've been... difficult for you" he says, murmuring into the man's shoulder. After a moment he steps back. "Are you going to be alright?" he asks.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon accepts the hug, and seems to want to linger in it; he buries his face in Martin's shoulder, sobs a couple of times. When Martin steps back, Jon clings, clutching his hands into the other man's jacket.

    "I don't know, Martin," he says. "I... don't know if I'm ever going to be 'alright' ever again. This is all just... /so much/. I don't... I don't know why they want /me/ to... why /me/ of all people?" He sniffles, staring at Martin with an expression that's seeking comfort more than answers.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin gives Jon another tight hug and entwines his husband's fingers with his own. "We'll figure it out. *Together.*" He smiles up at the man, reaches the hand up to kiss it, and then tugs a bit at the arm. "C'mon, let's go home. I'll make us a nice cuppa. And we can watch some movies and have supper."