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[optikon]

[ he's spent his time since arrival largely in a sort of traumatized fugue, locked in his bedroom in the housing he was provided, probably alarming and upsetting his housemates. if martin were here, he'd have probably already adjusted-- gently bullying jon into cleaning up, feeding him tea, making him sleep. holding him when the nightmares started. .. jon likes to think that he doesn't take martin for granted any longer, and hasn't in months, but.. god, it's so hard not having him here.

still, he'd begun slowly to get himself together, even to make a foray or two onto the network to learn what he could. and now.. now he needs to address the metaphorical elephant in the room. ]

My name is Jonathan Sims. At home, I was the head archivist of an organization called the Magnus Institute, which is an academic institution dedicated to researching the esoteric and paranormal. [ which is.. true, in that he was the archivist.. before the end of the world. ] With that said, the archives took, researched, and filed statements from those that had paranormal experiences they wished to unburden themselves of.

As it appears that I'll be working in a similar capacity here, I'd like to continue my work from home. Therefore, if you're interested in committing your personal experience(s) to paper or to email, I'd be glad to collect them. However, please don't record them in audio or video format.

If you'd like to discuss the details of what that entails, I'll answer any questions I can. Thank you.


[ ooc; anyone in maurtia falls 006 may also find their secretive hobo-gremlin housemate finally out of his room, showered and looking like he's in withdrawal as he attempts to make tea in the kitchen for himself without shaking to pieces. good luck with that. ]

Comments

[killtime]

Maurtia Falls Police Department. Tomorrow, lunch. Ask for Andy at the front desk.

[optikon]

[ somehow he always ends up with law enforcement.. ]

Tomorrow, then.

--> action

[killtime]

[ Tomorrow comes. And when the lunch hour rolls around at the MFPD, there's a woman at the front desk, apparently preparing to leave for her break. She has a stern profile, a natural severity that can largely be blamed on an unforgivingly straight nose and a pensive brow. Her hands are rummaging around in the pockets of her uniform, looking for something when the sound of someone entering the station draws her attention.

The officer looks up, her attention blatant, but she doesn't offer any particular greeting — as if she's debating how much customer service she really owes anybody when she's technically off the clock. ]

[optikon]

[ the figure in question is a small, skinny man in a button-up shirt and jeans that look a little too big for him, with glasses that make his eyes look huge in his face, and with most of his visible skin scarred in some way. his right hand and forearm looks as if the flesh melted at some point as he pushes his glasses up his nose and stops at the desk.

for a moment, there's nothing, just a strange, almost uncomfortably intense stare. but then he crosses his arms loosely across his thin chest, tucking his hands in, the gesture a little vulnerable. ]

Andy, I think you said? I'm Jon. Jon Sims.

[killtime]

[ She stares back. Unwavering. Dragging out that uncomfortable moment until he finally speaks, confirming what she'd suspected when he showed up — this is the archivist. Her gaze breaks then, her attention returning to her pockets. Finally, she manages to dig out a crumpled pack of smokes and a lighter. Pressing a cigarette between her lips, she nods in the direction of the doors he just came through. ]

Let's talk outside. [ The cigarette bobs at the corner of her mouth as she talks. As an afterthought, she holds her pack out for him as she passes by to head out. ] Smoke?

[optikon]

[ he nods once, short and sharp, following her outside. at the offer, he hesitates. he technically quit smoking a couple of years ago, but.. honestly.. he's slipped up several times since then. given what his life looks like, is it any wonder? ]

Yes, thank you. [ he unfolds his arms to dig into his pocket for his own lighter, an old-fashioned zippo with an odd spiderweb design on it. his hands only shake a little as he lights up, tucking the lighter away again and sighing smoke out from between his teeth. ] .. You wanted to talk about your statement?

[killtime]

[ Andy has an unhurried way about her. Like the gods couldn't pressure to do something until she's good and ready. She takes her time lighting up, taking a deep, practiced drag before finally answering through a mouthful of smoke: ]

You haven't been in this universe very long, so you probably haven't thought much about what will happen to all the people you know when the Porter sends you back. [ Maybe that seems like a non sequitur. But she doesn't leave him hanging long. ] I have a family here. There's a lot I haven't told them.

[ It weighs on her, even though her tone doesn't betray much. ]

So I'll give you my statement. With the stipulation that nobody else sees it — unless I get ported out. Then you'll pass it on to them for me.

Do we have a deal, Archivist?

[optikon]

[ he waits (semi-)patiently, the jittery anxious patience of someone that's learned how to be still the hard way, even when he'd rather be anything but. you can't rush avatars when they choose to speak, and apparently you can't rush this andy, either. and since she's doing him a favor, actually.. he can't be pushy even if being pushy would make the slightest difference in the world.

he looks faintly startled as she lays out her terms, though, eyes finding her profile. static passes across his gaze, hissing like a bad recording for less than a second before it's gone again.

he doesn't intend to get to know anyone here well enough for it to matter when and if they leave or he leaves. the only person he really needs is martin, and he can't.. force this place to bring him here any more than he can force it to let him leave. otherwise, it's safer for everyone if he keeps to himself.

but he understands the idea of making a family here. if you're here for a long time, if your world isn't a good place, if you don't have anyone back there.. ]

Yes, [ he assures her, hard and quiet and determined. ] In the event that I'm sent home before you are, I'll make arrangements for it to be given back to you to do with what you wish. [ a pause, and helplessly curious, trying very hard not to put any sort of compulsion in it: ] Why are you giving it to me?

[killtime]

[ Truthfully, she hadn't even intended to tell anyone her name when she got here. She understands the transience of these things more than most. A large lesson that's been taught to her, over and over again. But sometimes people just — happen. And you find yourself attached against all better reason.

She's always been too sentimental, despite herself. ]

Honestly? Because you don't know me, so whatever I write down won't be personal for you. [ With a twinge of dryness then: ] And you seem like the type of person whose sphincters are too tightly clenched for you to run around hemorrhaging other people's secrets.

[optikon]

[ .. that's fair. not knowing her, having no reason to get attach personal meaning to what she gives him. and yet.. she doesn't know just how personal it does get for him, living the statements as he does. knowing a person's fear and pain, feeling it the way they'd felt it.. it gives him more empathy for what they lived through, at least.

the addition earns a huff, but he doesn't deny it, tapping ash off the cigarette with a small frown. ] No, I guess you could say that I collect them. [ secrets, information in general. it's the watcher's wheelhouse, after all. ] .. I have a form with me if you want to take a look at it. You said it's your lunch hour..?

[killtime]

[ The corner of her mouth quirks up a little, slight and wry. ]

Right. A form.

[ Of course he has a form. ]

Give it here then. [ She pulls a pen out of her breast pocket, holding out her other hand for the paper. ] We have time. The station won't combust if I come back late. It's not the kind of city where anybody gives a fuck.

[ Famously corrupt, in fact. ]