9179/City of Concrete and Glass

City of Concrete and Glass
Date of Scene:	19 December 2021
Location:	Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	Jon takes a walk in New York and runs into an unlikely ally in the battle against Michael.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Atrun Rai, Dane Whitman

---

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon doesn't go home right away. The Laughing Magician is warded, the boxes are handed over, the 'danger keep out' tape is up. It's getting late, and he's had... a /day/. A Titan is likely to go tell her group he's evil, and he doesn't know what to make of that.

    They're on the right side of this... aren't they?

    He stuffs his hands in his pockets and goes for a walk down 9th Avenue, heading southwest. He's feeling the city, taking in its rhythms, its pulse. Every window he passes reminds him that they don't know what's coming. They don't /know/. His city, now--he declared himself a New Yorker earlier this month, England evidently left behind for good in his own mind. They'll be invaded soon, and they don't even know.

    To mystic senses he pulses with power, the blood of Atlantis running in his veins, void energy trail off him like a cloud as the power he channeled last night slowly ebbs away. The touch of his gods, following him, watching all around. He's oblivious to all of that, mostly. Just walks with his Sight open and hands in his pockets, taking things in.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Of course they're on the right side of things. Even in the blasphemous nightmares of the ancient void, where stars hang screaming in a cold sky seen from any of a thousand crumbling worlds, it is known that creation must be kept in existence. That too much light is as oppressive as night. What is it said? That sunlight is the best disifectant? Poor comfort if you're the bacterium.

    But these thoughts lay but lightly on the mind of the man sitting in a taxi stop bench, looking out from its overhang down the street at the ruined building. That is where it manifested, then. The Angel, this so-called 'Demiurge'. Odd, considering the lattice of reality is called the same thing. But he smiles as he sits there, despie the strange gravity of matters that boil in his mind. Outwardly, a pleasant evening. Spent quietly. Watchful behind those smiling eyes.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It's not /entirely/ clear what draws Jon toward the taxi stop bench, but then it often isn't, for him. He stops nearby to peer up at the new star hanging over Manhattan. He starts humming 'Angels We Have Heard On High' to himself, loud enough to be heard. Ironic, maybe, given everything.

    Then he shakes himself and peers at the man on the bench. Takes in his countenance and clothing. "...You were watching the bar earlier," he says. "You didn't leave with the crowd." Statements of fact, and maybe accosting a stranger in the street will just get him a typical New York brushoff. He's beyond caring, however, these days.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "I did, actually," the man replies. Big voice, friendly. Deep. "You were flashing a badge, after all. Officer..." Heavy brows lift, inquiring with the words. His accent, foreign. Vaugely mediterraean, like his. Semitic? Further East? Perhaps. It avoids easy identification.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's accent is easy to place. He may be a New Yorker, but he stubbornly keeps his South England accent, like the BBC but softened by a decade in America. He frowns at the question. Right. The badge.

    "I'm a consultant for the NYPD, actually," he admits. And it's true. He is. "The building was dangerous, and people do listen to a voice of authority."

    He peers at the man with his Sight, trying to see... what's there. And sees not much at all, which makes him blink, rapidly. He's never encoutered a /blur/ before, and the telepathic aura is... not a thing one would want to look at too closely or for long.

    "Hunh," he says.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    In many ways, that is what he is - an existential smear. Not a demon, certainly not radiating evil. A smudge on a photograph. "I find that in this country it is not good to harass a man with a badge, you see," the man observes, eyes sparking with amusement. "Especially with my..." A beat; he smiles, broad and toothy. "Complexion. May I have your name?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon, of course, shares that complexion--but he knows all too well that doesn't protect one from badges. So he makes a noise of assent and understanding. "Good policy. I can understand."

    "Jonathan Sims," he says. And then, before he thinks about it, "The Archivist." An old title, stretching back to the days just after Atlantis fell, though he doesn't /quite/ know that's how far it goes. "And you...?"

    There's a mystery here, and the Archivist does /love/ to poke at a mystery. Terrific.

Dane Whitman has posed:
It hasn't been long since the incident in discussion, and Dane still has his blood up. That means he's not likely to sleep, as if he sleeps much at all anyway.

Therefore, Dane is doing the next best thing for therapy. He's out walkabout. As it happens, his meanderings have taken him in proximity with the discourse. He won't admit to having been looking for trouble. The reason why has little to do with his membership with certain fraternities. It's in his blood in ways that many of them wouldn't understand.

But such is the fact that the knight is out of armor, but not out of that state of mind as he makes his way.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "My name is Atrun." He gives Jon that same bright smile. "I am a tourist here." A nod to the building down the way. "People say strange things about what happened the other night, of course. But I take it that strange things happen in this city regularly. Especially these last thirty years." He shrugs, then, waving the words away with a broad hand. "But people will make a story out of anything, even in these enlightened time."

    The appearance of Dane does not draw his attention. He's not riding a flying horse, in gleaming armor. No reason to pay /too/ much attention for now. And so, his attention remains on Jonathan. "And what do you consult with the police for, Mr. Archivist? Library duties?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "No, ahh--" Damn it, why /does/ he keep blurting it out like that? Jon runs a hand through his hair. "No, I'm a... forensic psychiatry consultant. The building was... my friend's. Some strange events, yes. I hope it hasn't spoiled your vacation, Mr. Atrun." He glances toward the star hanging in the sky for a moment.

    Which is when he notices Dane and gives him a respectful nod. "S--Mr. Whitman."

Dane Whitman has posed:
At the greeting, Dane stops midstride as if called from a reverie. His mind had been elsewhere, but he's mostly back. His welsh is down a couple of decibals at least.

Eyes fluttering, he regards and recognizes Jon with a courteous nod, nevermind the furtive scrunch of his brow. He glances over to Atrun then and gives him a similar greeting before regaling them both with,"Greetings. Greetings. Small world."

Whitman is an odd duck with speech. He's certainly an anglophile, but he's been around enough that he has a crisp annunciation not quite corrupted by the British or NEw England peculiarities.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Atrun-Rai is, of course, from a different country. His accent, somewhere to the East. "No, it has not ruined my holiday, Mr. Sims," the big man says to the smaller one. "If anything it has...enlivened it." Then, here's Dane. Atrun's heavy brows lift. "Small world? I do not understand."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "We were just talking earlier," Jon explains. For some reason, he doesn't bother correcting 'Mr.' to 'Dr.' Perhaps he feels he's confused things enough, there. "Not that small, though--not surprising to find someone taking a walk down 9th after we met in a building... on 9th." He smiles.

    The curiosity is almost overwhelming--he /peers/ at Atrun's aura for a moment and then pulls his gaze away. It might seem an odd thing. But he says, "Well, I'm glad /someone/ found entertainment in the building getting condemned." It's said in a wry tone, self-deprecating.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane shrugs at it all, conceding the point. He glances to Atrun then and, perhaps because of the accent he just assumes earnestness over the phrase, he explains,"Small world is an expression. It usually is a joke about the likelihood of meeting a person repeatedly in a short span of time."

The observations about him having stalked his way right back here are left unrebutted however. It goes to show his state of mind at the moment, which he is keenly aware isn't the best as he shoves his hands in his pockets and regards the archivist.

Dane Whitman has posed:
The knight sniffs irritably, sensing he has happened upon something. Dane clears his throat and expresses nore mildly,"I think I should be on my way. Pardon me."

With that, Dane gives another nod and turns on heel to make his way down the street. He could really stand a good scrap, it's definitely one of those days...

Atrun Rai has posed:
    As soon as he appears, he leaves; Atun-Rai blinks faintly as Dane takes his leave, wandering off down the street. "....well, Doctor Sims," he says after the other man departs, returning his attention (and his smile) to the man standing before him. "I am confused - in my country, a psychologist is not what you would expect waving off the populace before a crime scene. How does it work in this land?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs. So he /is/ going to have to explain this. Or not, one supposes, but some pull of Truth prods him to say, "Look, it was my friends' building, and it was dangerous. I'd come to get out what was salvagable and there were all those damn looky loos... beyond anyone trying to /take/ anything I was genuinely worried about someone poking around out of curiosity and getting hurt. So I flashed a badge and told people to leave; usually works well enough." He shrugs.

    It was a SHIELD badge, of course. He does have /some/ authority to do what he did. But he's still got "don't let people know you work for SHIELD" ingrained in his head.

    Finally he sighs. "Look, I have to know... are you a... well. A mystic sort? Magical? Your aura, it's... strange." Which might be an odd question, but he'll take his chances.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    The words seem only to make the man's eyes crinkle at their edges, and he laughs. A deep, hearty sound, welling up from deep in the breast. "Ah, good," he rumbles. "Good! The blood of Atlyente still runs strong in humanity, yes. You are perceptive." A tap of two fingers on his breast. "Yes, strange. I have been dead for a very long time, you see. But events have conspired to bring me here. To you, it appears, my son. And to this world."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks rapidly, and then his eyes glaze over for the briefest of moments. "Atlyente...? Atlantis. I don't have..." Or does he? There's a lot of questions around that, and the fact that the Archive supplied the translation only edges toward the answer.

    He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "You're... dead. Well, that would explain the aura, I suppose." He rubs a hand along his face. "Why are you here, then? On vacation in New York--I'd ask why everything I run into lately is choosing New York as the hot vacation destination, but I chose to live here myself so I do see the appeal."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Another belly laugh, and the man in black rises to his feet. "Recently dead," the man corrects, chuckling. "I am quite returned to life. I am of course here because of..." A nod down the street, to the ruined pub. "The fellow that made /that/ happen. Reality is to be maintained, not reset by some upstart servitor." He looks to Jon then, brows arching, expectant. "I believe this is when you invite me into the building and offer me tea."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs. "Not much tea to be had at the Laughing Magician now, I'm afraid. But I could offer you some in the Curio, I suppose--the front room's got a kettle and such." He frowns thoughtfully. "So you're here to help with Michael. Is that all? The Justice League Dark could use the help, but..."

    He starts walking toward the building next to the ruined pub, a tenement marked as 'The Curio Cabinet.' Emptying out, but it's not a shell at least.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    The man rises, and Atrun-Rai walks alongside Jon, unhurried and smiling. "I am here to preserve reality," he affirms as they walk toward The Curio Cabinet. "To preserve Creation. If that means destroying Mikha'el, so be it."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon holds up a finger as he opens the door to let the other man(?) in. "Actually, we can't destroy him, because that will take the universe with him. Evidently." He sighs. "But there's other ways to stop this besides full destruction, I'm sure."

    The inside of the Curio is cheaply decorated, potted plants and pictures from Goodwill, rickety chairs and tables in the common room. It's to this front room, just off the entrance hallway, that Jon takes Atrun, going over to the kettle in the corner and fiddling with it.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    If the strange man with him has any issue with the condition of Jon's front room, he gives no sign; he simply looks about, taking in the details with quiet, hungry eyes. Finally he makes to sit down, looking expectantly to Jon as he goes about the tea.

    "Curious," he says, "That the Servant says this. Are you certain that this is the case?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Given that we accidentally very briefly ended everything when we dragged him through Nullspace? Yes." Jon snorts softly. "Still surprised Strange didn't ream me a new one for that. He was surprisingly congenial about the matter."

    There are wards on the Curio, but they're fading, and none of it feels like 'Jon' per se. He looks slightly uncomfortable, actually, but he turns on the kettle to boil water and bangs about in the cabinets for a moment until he finds mugs and puts tea bags in them.

    "So you're here to help us keep things intact. May I ask who sent you?" By his tone he doesn't really expect a clear answer, but he'll ask all the same.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Being dragged through the void will not destroy you," points out this strange man; he looks to the teapot thoughtfully as Jon goes about the tea bags. "Forty-five thousand years I wait to return," he says, amused, "And the first thing one assumes is that I have been sent. My mission has always been to preserve this world, my son." A beat. "Have you any bread?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Well it's anathema to an archangel," Jon says with a shrug. "All I know is what happened. Bread...?" He looks around and frowns. "I'm not certain. I haven't been here in weeks," he admits. "Would crackers do?"

    He does pluck some crackers out of the container on the rickety table and brings them over along with the tea. "I suppose I'm just used to people being sent by something or other. Forty-five thousand years is quite a long time." He frowns, then adds, "...It /did/ feel strangely comfortable to me. The void, Nullspace, the Anti-Matter Universe... whatever you want to call it. Difficult to channel, but... not terrible." And it's still dripping off of him like water from a man just come out of a river.

Atrun Rai has posed:
    Tea and crackers. Atrun-Rai smiles as the cup is set before him and, one assumes, is filled with water. "My thanks," he offers to Jonathan, sitting back a tad. "And yes, I saw it in you. But the Void, in itself, is no more villainous than a neglected campfire. The things that live there, now..." He shrugs. "In any case. You are a physician of the mind, yes? Have you not considered his motivations? His mentality?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Yes, there is tea in the mug, steeping. Jon holds his own in his hands, wraps his fingers around it for the warmth. He hesitates a moment, then sits down. "I have no inherent issues with that energy, it just..." He frowns thoughtfully. "It's new, all of this. I'm still... adjusting."

    He sighs. "I've considered his motivations, yes. From what I gather, he sees the universe as flawed due to free will. He sees mortals as... degenerate, corrupted. He wishes to re-start everything with less free will--or so he claims." He shakes his head. "I was speaking to him while he was trapped in a mortal host, so I may not have all the information. I know that the Great Mother, whom I serve, is unhappy with his actions, so I presume he's not kicking off some pre-appointed End of Days. That we have a chance to stop him."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "You remind me of me when I was young." Warmth there, no amusement. "Well, my son, I can assure you that /nobody/ in the halls of the cosmos is happy about all this. Though tell me, for all the sins that he lays at the feet of existence, is he not acting out of the worst? That of Pride, that is. Of Ego. One might remind him what happens to his sort when they have attempted to don their Father's work-clothes in the past." Now he reaches for his tea. "Degenerate, corrupted. Yet Creation persists at the hands of his master. And /he/ thinks he can do better?" He makes a doubtful sound. "That sounds like something a physician should diagnose."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs and sits back. "Oh, he brought up the 'Adversary.' Blames him for the whole lot, or so he said." He shakes his head. "He responded to compassion, though. To kindness. Self-sacrifice. I suspect, while we'll have to fight, that showing him that mortals can be better than he thinks will be the key. I don't know what you know of human history, but he appears to be working within a framework that prizes such acts." He smirks. "He was angry that I quoted the Bible at him, given I didn't believe any of it was /real/ until the proof came before my eyes."

    He toys with the tea mug for a moment. "I am the Archivist," he says, "and that position was created some time after Atlantis fell, during the Exodus, to allow the remaining homo magi to have a way to keep immortals such as angels and demons from running roughshod over humanity. Evidently, I am to Watch even the archangels and keep them in line. So... yes, part of my goal is to learn Michael's true motivations, and figure out how to... cure him of his madness, I suppose." A pause. "I hadn't thought of it like that, actually."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    A chuckle escapes the man with the coiled beard. "Atlantis," he offers in his oddly accented voice. "We never called it that, you know. Neither did they until the unification. 'Hail, High Atlantis, Most Brilliant Of Cities' and so on." He chuckles as he sips his tea. "There were six other city-states that made up the united lands. I don't suppose your Archive knows anything about /that/."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon tilts his head slightly. "If it does, it's not providing. I can't always access the information at will. TThere may be others who would know--Zatanna, maybe. But for myself... no, I didn't." He smiles brightly. "It sounds /fascinating/, however." As befits an Archivist, one presumes, he's curious.

    He chuckles. "Admittedly, I didn't even know... Atlyente was more than a myth until recently. So I know very little save that there used to be more magic in the world, and some series of events caused the fall of the old order, a reduction in magic, and much of the magical creatures and people fleeing to other dimensions."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Mmmm." Atrun-Rai takes another sip of tea, reaching for a cracker. "Well. What it seems that people know about normally, you see, is Atlyente in its prime - that was long after I died, of course. Atlyente was the first city, which of course is also called Atlantis, and it was founded....oh, I think forty-two, forty-four thousand years ago. Give or take." He winks at Jon from over the steaming rim of his cup, eyes wrinkling slightly in teasing amusement. "And from there, the people went out into the land, into the continent, and the other city-states were formed. Each of them had a specific speciality, so to speak. And of course, they warred against one another in the early days, but finally resolved into a single unified league of nations. And that is what we know as the Seven Kingdoms."

    He takes another sip. "I was born in the northwestern most kingdom, that which was called Lantalla. Indeed, it was only a day's sail to the southwest of this city's harbor. I am amused that after all this time, there is still so much stone used in the construction of cities. I am to understand that by the time Atlyente sank, it was all orichalcum in many places. Certainly in my time, even Lantalla's palace was made from bricks of mortared diamond."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "That would require magic, I imagine. Concrete and glass and steel were advanced enough in their day--London, the capital of my home country, used to burn down so often there's more than one historical 'Great Fire.'" Jon shakes his head. "I suppose you're... more of a local than you seem, then? Born closer than I was, at least."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    He chuckles. "One supposes." Atrun=Rai takes a cracker, munching at it in a moment's thought. "Mmm. But magic, you see, it's nothing now like it was. Magic was /everywhere/. Everyone used it, from the lowest peasant to the greatest king. But...there were specialists." He gestures between the two of them. "Which we would count as. There's always danger in magic. Its regular use, in my opinion, is exactly what spelled doom for my count asry - the roots of its doom had taken in even when I was alive. In fact, that's why I died."

    He pauses a moment, then. Smirks. "Sacrifice," he echoes then. "The angel, it speaks of sacrifice. Why, then, does it not offer its own throat for its cause?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I've been to one of the realms like that," Jon says, and there's wonder in his tone, wistfulness. "Magic in the air. It... must have been /incredible/." The longing tone of a man born of the blood of magic, into a world bereft of what his ancestors knew. He sighs. "But nothing without a price, no. I suppose now we use the power of the Earth Herself much the same way. If there was a way to want less..." He shakes his head.

    "As for sacrifice... it was not Michael that spoke of sacrifice. It was..." He sighs. "I am not Christian, but I grew up with the stories, with the books. And I remember /everything/. 'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son...'" He sighs. "The angel is working in that tradition, or seems to be. He responded to the words of the Torah and the New Testament when I threw them at him. So we thought... perhaps he would respond to reminders of love. Of compassion. And last night..."

    A long, heavy sigh. "We could not hurt him. Not a half-angel nor Energy Arcane--he'd already harmed one of those present, and it was all threatening to devolve into a fight, and people would have been hurt. Maybe died. And... I angered him, anyway. Trapped him, bound him, threatened him, burned the feathers off one wing. So I surrendered. Offered myself, if he'd let the rest go. And... he stopped, and gave us a reprieve." He shrugs. "If that's what it takes, to remind him that the universe is not so unsalvagable as he thinks."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "His work is arrogance," says the apparent Atlantean. "And that makes it evil. Angels have always been like that. Even his name - Mikha'el - is arrogance. He's confused 'like god' to 'is god'." Atrun-Rai shakes his head. "I gave my life in sacrifice. I could tell him a few lessons on that score."

    He's quiet for a long moment. "I was an exorcist for a while. One of the best of my order. The thing I always found that it was the prideful spirits that possessed. Because you see the way that it's seen, the vessel isn't /worth/ respect, it's just a suit of clothes to wear. Beneath the spirit doing the possession." Another sip of tea. "Your angel is a monstrosity. It must be shown this, or untangled from its current power and destroyed."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "That's the idea," Jon says. "I wish I knew where to start, besides..." He glances out the window. "I keep wondering if it'll do any good, evacuating the island. Won't it just... spread?" He shakes his head. "It's worth trying, I suppose. Keep the civilians out of the way, to the degree we can. Fewer casualties." There is no hardness in his tone. He's a physician trying to save people, not a war commander making hard choices. Not yet, anyway.

    He looks back. "We've assembled a team. The Justice League Dark. A lot of people don't like the name, but..." He shrugs. "If you'd like to join us, to deal with this problem, I can see that you meet the others. Our headquarters got... blown up, but we'll be meeting to discuss this soon enough. Probably after Christmas."

Atrun Rai has posed:
    "Well, I will do what I can," he says. And, having finished his tea, rises to his feet. "People are going to die, if it comes to fighting. You must prepare yourself for that. As I say, this 'sacrifice' of his, it is arrogance. He should affix horns to himself already, for he has become not an angel, but a Baal."

    That said, he walks toward the exit of the room, and ostensibly the building after. "Be well, Doctor. I shall come and find you soon enough."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I know," Jon says, "but I don't have to like it." He sighs, and drains his tea, and stands. He really ought to be getting home, himself. He has an early morning.

    "I'll keep an eye out. And tell the others. Thank you in advance, for the help."