9203/Space Dad Advice

Space Dad Advice
Date of Scene:	21 December 2021
Location:	Recreation Lounge: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Jon goes to Michael for advice on the coming war with the angels--and gets more than he bargained for. In a good way!
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Jonathan Sims
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Michael Erickson has posed:
    In the quiet corner of the Triskelion's lounge area, where the light is dim, Michael sits reading from a large-format tablet occasionally scribbling notes upon the display. Frowning, expression one of someone who is having to do a great deal of thinking.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    There's a war coming.

    It's not going to be pretty. People are going to die. No matter how hard they try, people are going to die. Manhattan is the epicenter, but who knows how far it will spread? All of New York? The Eastern Seaboard? The planet?

    The universe?

    It's not surprising that Jon finds himself seeking out the alien warrior. He comes into the lounge with his hands in his pockets, and makes his way right on over to Michael.

    "Are you busy?" he asks quietly. The man's working, after all. Maybe he is.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I am always busy." He doesn't look up from his scribbling. "But please, sit down. I can do two things at once." Odd, really - distracted as he is, his accent has changed from the plain Manhattan English to something laced with an almost proto-Slavic tangle about his words. "What's on your mind?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks at him for a long moment, raising a brow, but doesn't comment. Of course he's curious--he's always curious--but he pulls his hands out of his pockets and sits down, rubs his palms on his knees.

    "There's a war coming." He blurts it out, because... well, because he figures this man, of all people, might understand. "The forces of Heaven are going to invade Earth, starting in Manhattan. Well, I say 'Heaven' and they're taking on human-style forms, but I suppose they're... bigger than that. I don't know what your people think about the ultimate Creator of the universe, but this is... very very close to that."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "The gods are stupid, and must all be killed." He puts the datapad aside now, because war is being discussed and all attention must be put upon the present. His expression is sober, grave. "Very well," he says. "For what reason is this taking place?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Because the being that shaped the universe has decided that free will is bad and everything needs to be re-made. If... I'm understanding correctly." Jon sighs. "As for why /here/... well... because my friend is the one that summoned the entity--the Archangel Michael--in the first place. And... I am evidently one of the people that's supposed to stop that sort of thing. So I've been, ahh... /intimately/ involved in trying to stop the whole business."

    He sighs and looks down at his hands. "Unfortunately, things got away from us. We tried to send Michael back where he belongs, but somehow my friend wound up there instead, leaving Michael free to commence this invasion. January 6th, is when he'll be coming back with his army."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael blinks once. Twice. The way he stares at Jonathan is oddly flat, like that of the bird from which he had been descended, the human mask slid away. A quiet, hunting hawk is he. Every movement Jon makes observed, his hands folding upon his stomach. Quiet the entire time that Jon speaks. When finally he does speak, that accent is there, stronger more than it was.

    "Yes. Does SHIELD know of this? Does the Justice League? Governments? What forces are being arrayed against this threat?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods. "I put in a report to SHIELD. It is the Justice League Dark that was directly handling the matter, and we are attached to the Justice League, so they're being informed. Governments..." He hesitates. "I wouldn't even know who to talk to. Gods, what, do I just... call up the White House? 'Yes, hello, President Luthor, so angels are going to invade--'" He mimes a motion like putting a landline phone down on a receiver, makes a 'click' sound.

    He sits back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. "Christ. I don't know what to do. We need to evacuate the island, we need to... to set up supply lines, and I'm just... spinning my damn wheels. I want to believe people will take care of it, but... I can't just... it's my responsibility."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "No." Michael keeps that strange, raptor's face fixed upon the man. "It is not your responsibility. It is the responsibility of all who know of this threat, as it exists. You are not a general; you are not even a soldier. You are an academic and a healer. This is the method by which you would be needed in a conflict, Jonathan."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs. "No, that's just..." He makes a frustrated noise. "As Archivist, this /is/ my duty. Not to... lead armies, perhaps, but to stop the angel, particularly. To keep it in line. I was one of the first people aware of the problem, when it was just the 'Papal Killer' in Hell's Kitchen. And he took my /friend/." Anger boils up through his tone for a moment, sharp and hot.

    Then it deflates, and he sighs. "People keep looking to me to lead. Whatever else I may want--and you're right, I'm /not/ a fighter--I find myself... coordinating. Leading. People keep looking to me. It's... strange." He chuckles, and shakes his head.

    "I mean... /you/ don't think I'm a general. /I/ don't. But what do you do when the leader of the enemy thinks you are? Targets you? When everyone /around/ you keeps asking you for plans to defeat the enemy forces?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "It is strange," he agrees, "But it is what it is. You are a leader, now. But you are not a general - a general is a /military/ leader. You are a civil one. Both have their importance." He leans forward a little. "A leader delegates. Do you know how to delegate, little brother? Do you know how to tell people what to do amongst their strengths? This is how you begin: identify the strengths that people have, and assign them the tasks proper to them."

    Cal'hatar sits back, looking at Jonathan from over the coffee table with eyes like chipped sea ice. "Step forward and take this mantle. You do not want it, but it has been thrust upon you. The universe cares not if you are 'ready'. Take it up. If what you say is true, then much depends on it, if not everything."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns. "I know there's no use in whinging about whether or not I'm ready, or the right choice. Whatever doubts I may have, here I am, and I decided that I'm doing this, being the Archivist, so..." He shrugs. "That's part of why I sought you out. I'm /doing/ this. I started doing it before I even really thought about it. I just don't know /what/ to do."

    He hesitates, and then adds, "I hate to ask, because it seems to be a thing you struggle with, but I think we could use you, in this. I'm... you were right, about me. The other night, when we faced Michael... He was threatening to take those who had captured him away for 'retribution.' The others were trying to fight him, but nobody could touch him. I knew if it came to a fight we wouldn't win--not then, not in that moment. So I threw my weapons down, and offered myself in place of all the rest. And he accepted, and gave a us a reprieve." He laughs. "That... might be why we /have/ until January 6th, and the armies of Heaven didn't march right on into Hell's Kitchen right there."

    He swallows. "But we can't surrender our way through a whole war."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "We cannot," replies Cal'hatar - and make no mistake, any vestige of friendly old Michael is gone here. What sits there is patrician, grim. He may well have been carved from marble. "You are a good man, Johnathan Sims. But you are not a killer. And I am that." His eyes narrow faintly, and he leans forward. "Be our intelligence officer, then. Tell me how these creatures are to be armed. What energies they wield. As best as you know, of course. We may extrapolate from there."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods once. "Negative energy... ahh, from Nullspace, the Anti-Matter Universe--is anathema to them. I was holding Michael off with a shield of it, despite everything else. I considered holding the shield and telling the others to run, but I thought... an act of love and compassion might turn his head. And it did."

    He frowns thoughtfully. "They are creatures of order and logic. They will follow rules to the letter. I know what Michael intends for me, generally--to hurt me as badly as I hurt him, burning the feathers off one wing. Not to kill me, since he lived. He will not deviate from that, even though I may. I've considered ways to use this to our advantage, to gather information." He speaks calmly, but his hands tremble. He's terrified. Beyond terrified. Whatever he did to Michael, it must have been /bad/.

    "But love, compassion, mercy, /will/ make him hesitate. You might wish to read the Bible, if you have not--whatever he may /truly/ be, here on Earth he is Saint Michael the Archangel, Michael Demiurgos, and there are mentions of him throughout. And the ultimate outcome of /that/ story is a man sacrificing himself for the supposed sins of humanity, out of love. And there's also the Book of Revelation, which I presume he'll at least /try/ to copy in some manner. Or maybe one of the other apocalyptic prophesies?"

    He bites his lip. "The other Great Powers... don't seem to want this. At least, the one I serve doesn't. She spoke through me to Michael. She won't intervene directly, but She seems to think we can stop him, so... point in our favor, I guess. But if we could talk the other archangels into... I don't know... turning against him? Staying out at least? We short-circuit his plan for the End of Days."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Now he laughs, grinning - and gets to his feet, clapping a hand upon the younger man's shoulder. "Good," he says. "Good! You have inflicted fear in your enemy. This sign of magnaminity of his, it may simply be an aspect of that fear. And as for the rest..."

    There is a moment where there is...nothing. A flicker of light, bright and violet, fills the lounge - where he was, where Michael was, stands instead a towering thing, a suit of armor made of what looks for all the world like red chrome: every line sculpted, it is like a combination of an anatomical model of human musculature and an old hood ornament, a crest of gleaming silver crowning its head like barbed, metallic features. There is no face, just a long, shallow 'v' of a visor that glows with that same violet light - angry, seething, cold.

    << Reach out to me, >> he tells Jon - the machine speaks with Michael's voice, however cold and distorted it might be. << Reach out. Feel where the armor has been. Trace it to me. >>

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks rapidly at the flicker of light, and the red chrome armor as it appears. He narrows his eyes, opening his Sight fully to try to see... what should he be seeing? Is it magical?

    Then he gasps. "Oh my gods. Nullspace. That... that armor is connected to /Nullspace/. You're there /right now/." He shudders, remembering the moment he'd spent there. How /right/ it had felt, as terrible as that was in retrospect.

    He sits back, gears turning in his mind. "As powerful as he is, that energy stopped Michael short. Bound him. Held him off. That... will be /incredibly/ useful against the angels."

    He looks back to Michael. "Would you be willing to meet the Justice League Dark? Offer your expertise to the fight? I know this isn't your usual... realm of operation, but I knew very few mystics who've fought an actual war."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << Of course. >> The machine-thing looks around the room. << I sit there now, at the black tree that contains the hearts of the machines, a heart that I now share. I can look out of the crystal prison and see the enormity of that darkness. The horror of it. >> A bitter laugh escapes from the machine. << I will kill these angels. I will smash their works, I will bring them wailing defeat. I pledged myself to the defense of humanity; I will not shrink from it now. >>

    And then, suddenly, another flash of violet light, and there is only Cal'hatar. Staring down at the man, the blue eyes sharp, bright. Almost aglow. "You have my oath, little brother. S'aal nathur anthaal M'kraan esta."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon swallows and nods. "We cannot kill Michael," he says. "If he dies, the universe dies. But he can put him right back where he belongs. We can defeat his army and send him back to guarding the Gates of Heaven. Get Chas back down here where he belongs." A pause. "But thank you. I... am glad to have you on our side."

    He frowns then, looking toward the wall. "I'll check with Pezzini about the effort to talk to the government. Double-check with the others about getting hold of other groups. We're going to need to run meetings. Have to figure out where."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "...we stand here in SHIELD," says Cal'hatar, a tad incredulously. "Do not go to an agent, go to /command/. Speak with Chief Carter. Speak to Doctor Foster. Agent Pezzini is a powerful combatant, but she is not in communication with the United Nations as far as I am aware."

    He grunts, now, running a hand through his hair. "I must draw up plans. The fighting will be intense. Urban fighting is the worst even when there are no civilians to worry about. Do as I advise, little brother - you may ask Pezzini to serve as your interlocutor, perhaps, but do not sit about waiting to hear from someone. Bold action is required, here." Cal'hatar leans forward then, smiling, clapping a hand again upon Jonathan's shoulder. "Burned off his wing feathers. Ha! Hail Atlantis, indeed!" He gives Jonathan's shoulder a squeeze before picking up his tablet, and makes to leave. "Call me at any time, Jonathan," he says. "I am at your beckon call." But for the moment, he must go and plan...

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I made a report... but you're right. I just..." Jon runs a hand through his hair. "I'm a /recruit/. Knocking on the Chief's door seems..." He makes a noise of frustration.

    "Necessary. Ugh."

    He's going to have to get used to this.

    "I'll keep in touch," he says as he stands. He needs to plan, himself. And maybe get some sleep.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    "I'm not even an agent," the alien says as he lingers in the doorway, grinning at Jonathan - now back to his usual 'human' self. "And I've talked to her three times in the last week. Go, she will listen. The stakes are too high." A drumming on the doorframe for just a moment and he is off.