9281/Path of Glory: But I Have Chosen You

Path of Glory: But I Have Chosen You
Date of Scene:	25 December 2021
Location:	Saint Patrick's Cathedral
Synopsis:	Jon seeks answers by going to Midnight Mass at Saint Patrick's Cathedral and is visited by the Archangel Uriel. The nature of the conflict is discussed and a pact is formed between the pair. Will it be enough to save mortal kind?
Cast of Characters:	Chas Chandler, Jonathan Sims, Michael Demiurgos
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

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Chas Chandler has posed:
    The Midnight Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral is incredible, as far as Masses go. If there is one thing Catholics are good at it is ceremony. The organ pipes out every religious favorite one could think of and some that are more obscure. The prayers are intoned with reverence and faithful precision. The candles are lit and the Message given. Of course the Message is the retelling of the Christmas Story.

    Jesus' birth amongst the the hay in barn the of the inn. His cries heard on the ears of chickens, sheep, pigs, and donkeys. Then the arrival of the kings of the East to bow before the Lord of Lords in his throneroom; less extravagant than their own in material, but so much more in the spiritual. The final words given proclaiming the salvation of the world by the child's birth.

    Once the mass is over, most of the dwellers leave though some stay behind in quiet contemplation. Even after those have finished, one remains. His Eminence, the Cardinal, is the only one left in the cathedral with the lone visitor.

    He thinks about approaching the man and asking him to leave but before he can the darkskinned grounds keeper places a hand on His Eminence's shoulder. "I'll take care of him, Cardinal. You get on home. I'm sure you're tired after a long night giving the Good Word." The Cardinal doesn't argue. He simply nods and leaves the two men in the Cathedral.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    That lone visitor provides a ticket that does not bear his name, sits in the very back pew, smiles politely to the people round him and says very little through the service. He stands when he's supposed to stand, sits when he's supposed to sit, bows his head in prayer. He does not affirm his faith in God through reciting the Nicene Creed, nor cross himself. He's tall enough to stand out, and a few people looks at him oddly, but he behaves even if he clearly doesn't /quite/ belong. A guest, perhaps, but a polite one.

    He sits in that back pew while the majority of the parishoners file out, and then when most everyone has gone, he gets up and makes his way slowly to the front, taking his time to look up at the vaulted ceilings with the intricate stained glass high above. One might be forgiven for thinking him a tourist, but he doesn't pull out his phone to take pictures, even when he stops in the middle of the nave to take a slow turn in place while staring in wonder. He keeps on going, maybe making his way toward the areas for memorial and prayer candles behind the high altar, but stops before the low hinge door in the divider around the altar space.

    Perhaps this is why the Cardinal considers approaching him, though he looks more like a man struggling with something, a petitioner, than anyone meaning to cause trouble. Black slacks, green sweater, black boots, gold-rimmed glasses. Rumpled grey-streaked dark brown hair, dark circles under his eyes heavy enough to show even on his brown skin. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, frowning up at the altar.

    He breaks the silence of the cathedral as the groundskeeper is ushering the bishop out, pitching his voice low enough to not resonate too far even in this place designed to catch sound. Still, the groundskeeper will surely hear his one-sided conversation.

    "I really did believe in You," he starts. His voice is a resonant baritone, his accent placing his origin across the Atlantic, in the South of England. "When I was younger, Your supposed love was my refuge. Maybe I couldn't remember my father, but You could stand in for him. Maybe my mother died and I was left with a grandmother that hardly wanted to raise another troublesome boy--but Mum was safe in Your arms, and I'd join her some day. My whole family would be back together, and I just had to live a good and virtuous life to earn that."

    He shakes his head, and his tone suddenly turns bitter. "What a crock of /shit/. No child should have to /earn/ a parent's love."

    His voice grows thick, as if he's trying to hold back tears. "Why are You letting this happen? These people believe in You just as much as I did. That man that spoke the Word today, Your Cardinal--he seems like a good man. He /believes/. How is it right, to test them like this? To... /hurt/ them like this?"

    He can't hold back the tears anymore. It's probably a good thing the Cardinal left, because he suddenly raises his voice so it resonates throughout the vaulted room. "Why are You making me /do/ this?! Making me force them to leave their homes, fight to defend them, risk them dying." He pulls a hand out of his pocket and gestures around the room. "How many people who were here tonight will be dead before spring because You just can't get enough blood to satisfy You?! Weren't two World Wars and Doomsday enough?"

    His voice rises so that he's yelling now. "Just for New York, weren't 9/11 and the /Frost Giants/ enough?! What do You /want/ from us?!"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    A low baritone voice answers Jon from behind him. "I think maybe you're asking the wrong question, son" says the voice. "Seems to me that something as big as God doesn't want for much of anything. Part of the package after all."

    As Jon turns to face the man it becomes clear it's the groundskeeper who was left with him. He's of a medium height and a bit overweight. His hair is silver and cut close to his scalp, creating a clear barrier against his dark skin. His trimmed beard is also silver. His eyes are dark chocolate in color. He wears grey coveralls and the nametag reads "Lucas."

    "Usually times of trouble and pain are more about teaching us something, rather than wanting something out of us. At least... that's how I've read it."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon startles and turns to face the man. He could have sworn he was alone before now--he had sensed the only other minds in the room leaving. But here stands this man, and his aura's entirely normal, nothing to stand out.

    His cheeks darken. "Sorry. Ahh... didn't mean to disturb you. I just..." He hesitates, sticks his hand back in his pocket. How much had the man heard? Maybe just the yelling? Which... was the most concerned part, really. Shit.

    "Lovely service," he manages finally, and it sounds lame to his own ears. "Your choir's... good." Oh, the /judgement/ there. But, then, the choir was so central to worship in his home parish that they used to bring in singers from elsewhere and give them lodging and schooling just to be certain the music would be top-notch.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "No disturbance to me, son... and trust me I've heard much worse than what you've said in my time here" the man, replies with a nod. "Choir isn't good... decent is the word you're lookin' for. But I've been to a number of churches down south, so maybe I'm biased." He says with a smile.

    He gives Jon a penetrative gaze and sobers some. "You've got a lot on your mind. I can tell, more than you let out there... I'm no priest but... maybe an unbiased ear could do you some good?" he offers.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns at the man for a long moment. It's tempting, if for no other reason than that he really /could/ use someone to unload on who he's not afraid will judge him. He's going to a therapist next week, but this distress is happening /now/, and he's avoiding the Midnight Mission and Mr. Knight, the closest thing he knows to a priest.

    But then he shakes his head and turns away. "No, sorry, it's... ahh... it's fine. Don't worry about it. Happy Christmas." Even if he were more prone to talking to strangers, this particular problem isn't one he feels comfortable dumping onto someone he doesn't know.

    Before the man can really respond, Jon walks off, around the hallway behind the altar, to where the stands holding the prayer candles are. He stops before one of them, looks down at the slot that says 'Candle Offering Two Dollars' and pulls out his wallet to drop a twenty dollar bill into the slot. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he lights the candle. He makes no prayer aloud. How can he? He doesn't believe, per se. But he thinks about Agnes, wherever she is, and, well... if the saint whose name she shares wanted to help protect a young girl as is Saint Agnes' patronage, he'd be appreciative. But he's not going to be so rude as to directly /pray/ for that.

    Especially not when he just did magic in the middle of a church.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The older man waits for a moment and then shrugs before following Jon over to the hallway where the candles are. There is a sigh and the man speaks to Jon again. There is something more to it though. Something vaguely familiar and intensely powerful. "For a therapist you really don't like talking to people do you? Not to mention, you overpay, don't pray and think of a patron saint of chastity simply because she shares your daughter's name. And here I was thinking you'd be the sensible one out of that group."

    If Jon looks at the man again there is an aura about him that glows with the same color of the candles lit. He looks different, but there is no mistaking the aura for anything but the nondescript man at the Gates of the Silver City. God's Spook. The Watcher. The Archangel of Light. Uriel.

    He tsks softly, though there is a smile on his face. "And casting spells inside a church? I'm going to have to smite you now. Simply on principle. Because none of the priests of the Church ever did *anything* so vile as 'magic' to imitate the miracles of their Christ." The sarcasm in his tone might be more offputting than the words false threats themselves.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon peers over at the man as he speaks, narrows his eyes and then sighs. "I might have known," he mutters.

    He folds his arms across his chest and turns back to look at the prayer candles. "A patron saint of chastity is certainly appropriate for an /asexual/ man to think of, hmm? Not to mention that she's also a patron of young girls. As for overpaying?" He shrugs. "It's not my house. It seemed polite." But, then, he overpays for a lot of things, over-tips and slips his friends money whenever he can. It drives his poor working-class husband nuts. "And anyway, /you/ are not my therapist."

    His expression hardens. "Is this the part of the trial where we all get visited by angels who help us get over our problems and gird our loins for the coming battle? Cael got Raphael, Lydia gets... what, Gabriel?" He raises his brows. "Are you visiting everyone involved in this, or are we /special/ somehow?" He shakes his head. "Regardless, I'm not interested. Go bother someone else."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. "Why do I always get the difficult ones?" he asks, presumably the Presence. He looks back at Jon and moves closer to the man. "You're getting a visit because I decided to give you one. Who I see and don't see is on *me* the others... they have their reasons as well. We all have our parts in this... even those who don't want to." There is something under his words. Something hidden. Maybe he is as much a pawn in the game as the others. If he is... then who is playing?

    "You seem pretty girded already... but you're aiming your weapons at the wrong enemy. I meant what I said... He doesn't *want* anything. He doesn't *need* to want. He is however, trying to give humanity a lesson in this... one that isn't too hard to understand is you think about it for a few minutes." He focuses on Jon. "All the great tragedies visited upon mortal man by our kind were meant as lessons. You think a few thousand years is going to change the MO of beings that are eternal?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "How, precisely, am I aiming my anger at the wrong place?" Jon turns to look at Uriel. "Your 'Father' is the one trying to teach us a 'lesson' by invading one of the largest cities on Earth. Threatening to re-start the universe if we mess it up--because, what, /humanity/ should be deciding how life goes for everyone? I'm certain the Martians and the Shi'ar and all the rest of the life in the universe will be just /thrilled/ to know the Presence is basing their worthiness to exist as they are now on what a few people in New York decide to do."

    He shakes his head. "I told you to fuck off, and I meant it. I don't know what role you expect me to play in this, but I want no part of it. Not if it's going to be... manipulating me and pulling my strings and hiding and lying to me. Or haven't you done your homework? All this obfuscating bullshit is half the reason I left the fold in the first place." A beat. "The other half was getting beaten up on the regular by people who told me everything from the color of my skin to who I loved made me an evil sinner, and being told to 'have patience with them' rather than them getting run out of the damn congregation. Just so we're clear."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel laughs. "I knew coming to you would be enlightening. My Father is not invading Manhattan, son. My Father wouldn't *need* to invade Manhattan. He would wave a hand and everything would be gone." He shrugs a shoulder. "My brother on the other hand... he is given great power but with it is constrained by Purpose. He is a soldier. To him, it's all about *victory.* Winning. In this case, his win is the redistribution of Creation to another and it taking place in another form."

    He fixes Jon with a gaze. "As for you playing your part. You *will* do it because you already *are* doing it. It's not about manipulating you, it's about presenting you with a choice and seeing which way you go with that choice. Just as the Shi'ar, the Martians, even the Asgard are tasked with making decisions."

    "That is what Life *is.* Decisions made based on situations at hand. This situation... this coming trial, you have the measure of it. But you don't yet have the reason for it. He smirks. "And if you are anything like the person I think you are, that is what is bothering you. More than manipulation. More than lying. More than deciding to take refuge and solace inside a location whose foundation was based upon something you rightly don't tolerate."

    He shakes his head. "You're smarter than this. You know I'm not manipulating you. I play the long game... but there were several who could be where you are now. It's nothing against *you* personally, or people for that matter. It's about seeing which singular person in all Creation would step forward. Who could be the figurehead for Humanity--no, that's not big enough--for Mortal Kind. You just happened to be the one to take the step."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon rolls his eyes. "Me? /The/ figurehead for humanity? For /mortal kind/? I don't believe it. What, because I stepped up? You don't think there's a line fifty deep behind me just in SHIELD alone, who would do the same? So why /me/?"

    He turns to glare at Uriel. "You /did/ this already. You've done it before, in one version or another, over and over. So I don't believe that this /matters/ any more than any of the others did. If any of /those/ mattered, I would think sending God's supposed /son/ to die for our sins would have been good enough. Or, what, not enough people believe?" He rolls his eyes again. "You're right, I'm not buying it. I'm not buying /any/ of this."

    He glowers at Uriel and then says, quite bluntly, "What do you want from me? You must want something, or you wouldn't be here. For me to go along with your plan?" He points to a spot above his brow, where the feather of Ma'at would be, were he in Archivist guise. "I serve /Truth/, Angel of Light. So, yes, you're right--I don't have the reason, I don't have /any/ reason to go along with /any/ of this, besides 'creation ends if you don't' which is just fucking blackmail and I'm not going to put up with it."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "You're a bit tall to be Tom Cruise" Uriel replies with a grin. He then sobers and sighs. "Truth is subjective based on who is asking... but I think I can give you some of the Truth for you. It's the least I can do for the one you serve."

    He starts to pace slightly. "I've told you some of it. Micahel's war, for instance, *is* solely based on his Purpose as Commander of the Armies of Heaven. But even he is short sighted in this endeavor. You serve not just Truth, but Balance. I suggested your position to Gaea because I knew that our Purposes, if used agaisnt mortalkind, would be disastrous. Imbued by the Presence as we are, we can destroy entire galaxies if we out our minds to it. Reason or no."

    He stops and frowns as if speaking so directly is causing him discomfort. "The Presence is everywhere and is focused on *all* universes. Not just this one. There are an infinite number of... I view them as spheres. To the multiverse. Some are stable and continue without issue. Then again, some are unstable and fall apart only to get reformed and go through the process again in the hopes of achieving stability. Oftentimes that latter is done at the hands of cosmic entities given great power by the Presence."

    He lets that sink in for a moment before taking a breath and continuing. "And then every once in a while, one sphere comes along that walks the tightrope in between. Stable to a point, but only just so... and those cosmic entities have to make a choice. Refresh the sphere in its entirety or let it play out regardless of the damage it is doing to those spheres closest to it. But what if one of those entities decided to put the fix in the hands of its inhabitants, instead of the cosmic entities. Place a figure who embodied a fulcrum into play. Someone who could maybe balance the equation that complicated the situation to begin with. What if say, he asked a friend to tag her Champion of Balance to face off against the Champion of Heaven in order to decide who would handle the cosmic maintenance?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stares at Uriel for a long, long, /long/ moment.

    Then, "...You're /shitting/ me. You're putting the fate of the entire universe on /one/ person? What if I fail? And how can you say this is about someone stepping up if you selected me?" He steps toward Uriel, puts a hand on his chest. "Why me? Why /me/? I don't... I don't /want/ this. I didn't /ask/ for any of this, not to be Archivist, not to be some pawn in your game to... balance a cosmic equation. You can't... you /can't/..."

    He gasps, shuddering. He's trying not to cry. "I can't do it. I can't. This is ridiculous. Find someone else, someone... /worthy/. Superman! Captain Rogers. Th-there's... /so/ many other people who... who could /bear/ this. I... gods, have you been paying attention? I can't hold up /myself/, let alone the whole bloody universe."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel smiles and shakes his head. "Most big cosmically influential scenarios come down to a single person, Jonathan. That is why they are so influential. The actions of one person deciding the fate of everything else."

    He gives Jon a sympathetic nod. "For what it's worth, pretty sure all those who are worthy have to have the same conversation you are having now. Pretty sure Superman didn't want to sacrifice himself when he fought Doomsday. And I know that Captain America didn't want to freeze himself for decades in the norther reaches in order to stop the rise of the Third Reich." He sighs. "I could go on but you don't need a history lesson."

    He eyes fix on Jon again, flickering in the candlelight and revealing only a fragment of the divinity lying inside the meek form he has taken. "As for the rest of it... you'll get there. I've seen you in a crisis, son. You buckle but you never break. Never ever. Not with Martin's death. Not with Lyra's death. Not with the emergence of Agnes. You have your moment of resistance... much as you are now... and then you tighten your belt and get to work on *fixing* the problems. Sometimes you make less than wise decisions, but you're human. That's part of who you are. What matters most is that you never make the same one more than once."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon laughs, shakily. "No, just slight variations on a theme. And what if the mistake, even if it's one I've never made before, is what /ends all Creation/?"

    He glowers at the angel for a moment. "And before you tell me not to sweat the 'what ifs'... I am /going/ to sweat the 'what ifs.' That's who I am, and if you don't like it you can fuck off and find yourself another hero."

    He goes to sit on one of the benches set out for contemplation, puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Why me?" he whispers again. How many times has he said that now? Why /him/? Of all people? "I'm not like them. I'm not a fighter, a soldier. I don't have super strength or... laser vision, or any of the rest of that. I'm a /healer/, and I haven't exactly been doing a bang-up job of even that, lately. Maybe I'm a cape but I'm not a... 'hero.'"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel snorts. "Very fond of that phrase aren't you?" He shakes his head and goes to sit down near Jon. "Being a hero isn't about what powers you have or don't. It's not about how strong you are. Or how much damage you take. It's about what you *do* with the power you have."

    He grins and nods at Jon. "You *are* a healer and you *have* been doing well at that, regardless of what you think of it. People tend to be their worst critics." He pauses and frowns. I would think you of all people would consider the value of healers. Given who your husband is and what you wanted to be before you turned from the Church."

    "Priests are healers. Rabbis are healers. Doctors are healers. All of these are some of the most valued people in a given social system." He guestures absently to make a point. "What's to say they can't lead people toward a position of success in the midst of a conflict? Especailly one that has as much to do with the spiritual as it does with the physical."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You're assuming I can convince people not to run around fighting, when that's everyone's bloody /first/ option," Jon grumbles. He grabs up chunks of his hair, pulling on them slightly, using the sensation to ground himself. Deep breaths.

    "What do you want from me?" he asks after a moment. "To be willing to do this...? I mean, if you're telling me that if I walk away the bloody universe ends..." He laughs. "What am I supposed to say to that? What /choice/ do I have? That's not a choice at all."

    He turns his head to regard the angel. "If you want me to /work/ with you on this, you're going to have to give me something beyond platitudes and good feeling. Something concrete."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel nods. "That's fair. I mean, most of the heroes of legend were given assistance from one of us... why you should be any different in that respect isn't clear to me. Even if it is against us. We are, first and foremost, messengers after all."

    He pauses. "What about keeping this line of communication open? I can feed you information on Michael's movements. Tell you where he might be planning a major offensive." He gestures absently and looks off to one side. "I've already given you part of that... even if you don't know it. But in case the first source isn't available you can come to me." He quickly adds. "Before you ask I cannot tell you what I meant by that... it's not my information to give."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon lowers his hands to peer at the archangel. "...Are you offering to /spy/ on Michael for me?"

    He starts to laugh. "Oh... oh my gods. You are, aren't you? You don't like this one bit, and you've been looking for some excuse to undermine Michael." He quirks a brow. "Unless this is all part of some elaborate game... prod the warrior to start the 'test' and then feed information to the opposition? But it amounts to the same thing, in a way."

    He shakes his head. "Well, who am I to look a gift mole in the mouth?" A pause. "How do I contact you, then?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel smiles at Jon for a long time as the man puts together the gist of the situation. He doesn't give any other indication that the man's guess is correct. After Jon's musing passes he thinks for a moment, his smile turning to a frown.

    "You're not going to like it... he says with a threatening tone. "You need to pray. Close your eyes. Focus. And say my name. I will arrive or come to your mind if necessary." He waits for Jon's response to the conditions of their connection.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon raises his brows and sits up. "What makes you think I wouldn't like it? Because it's prayer?" He gestures. "You're a far more powerful being than I--more powerful than my gods, I surmise. I contact them through prayer... why not you?"

    He regards Uriel for a long moment, then says, "What I wanted to be, before I left the Church... I am that now. My ancestors have been for years. I pray every day. Light candles, incense. Perform ritual. It's all terribly similar to what I did in church... but now, I feel the beings I'm praying to are worthy of my time. I know what they require of me. They do not ask me to suffer nor feel guilty to prove my worth. If I mess up, they ask me to redress the balance, not put on a hair shirt and flog myself through the streets."

    He tilts his head. "Perhaps you and your 'brothers' are too high, too powerful, to understand humans in the same way. If so... I would suggest you back off and delegate the authority, as it were. But if not? If there's a chance you /can/ learn something here...?"

    He stands, pushing his hands off his thighs as he does. "Try paying attention. Humans are secularizing. At least in America, they're leaving Christanity in droves. They're looking for answers that aren't so cruel, so demanding. We're growing up. Maybe it's time to start treating us like adults, instead of wayward children." He raises his brows. "Or do you think this entire morality play is really only for /our/ benefit?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Uriel regards Jon for a moment and chuckles he shakes a finger at Jon in acknowledgement. "I knew there was a reason I liked you. I *know* this play isn't just for your benefit. I'm glad you managed to put it together so quickly. It bodes well for your future."

    He pushes up as well from his seat on the bench. "So you know your next move? he asks arching a dark brown at the man. "There is still quite a bit of time. I think the vanguard should be here in..." he pauses to consider for a moment. "A little less than a fortnight. They are nearing your galactic cluster about now."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "They're coming through space?" Jon stares at Uriel. Trying to fathom the distances, the /speed/. If they're nearing the galactic /cluster/ and they'll be here in a fortnight...

    No, no, he shouldn't think about that too hard. It'll make his head spin.

    He sighs. "I suppose my next move is... make sure people get out of the way. Plan. Get the Justice League Dark together and offer to lead them, if they'll have me." He frowns. "...Find a place to have the meeting. All the same things I've been doing, really."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "All good plans" Uriel replies with a nod. "Then I should allow you to get to it. I too have things that I must prepare for. I do hope that we can avoid each other the field of battle. It would be quite tedious to attempt to fake hurting you."

    He starts for the exit of the Cathedral speaking over his shoulder as he goes. "Remember. If you need to contact me, simply ask and I will be there. Otherwise, I will feed you information as you need it. Be well. Peace go with you. And good luck."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon watches the archangel go, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Then he sighs, and lets his shoulders slump. He looks back to the prayer candles where they're laid out, then steps forward and pulls his left hand out of his pocket. Snaps his fingers, to make a spark, and reaches out to light one more candle. He paid enough for ten, after all.

    "I don't know if I can do this," he whispers. "It's... huge. /So/ huge. I still don't understand why You let them tap /me/." He sighs. "But if You care at all... if You /ever/ cared..." He swallows. Closes his eyes. The words stick in his throat.

    He can pray to the Egyptian gods. To Thoth and Ma'at, Osiris and Anubis, Neith and Hathor and Ra. He knows where he stands, with them. Their world makes sense. But the Presence? Huge, impersonal, willing to wipe out their entire universe because it's destabilizing others?

    How can he pray to a supposed Father that never loved them at all?

    He touches his fingers to the edge of the stand, then leans down and blows out the candle.

    "Never mind," he says. "You were never listening anyway."

    Then he puts his hand back into his pocket and turns to walk back around the altar, through the nave, and out into the chill of a New York winter.