Chapter Text
One of the downsides of living in a large city such as London was that vigilantes ran amok. Not nearly as much as in America--Jon would be forever appalled at the way they handled superpowers in respect to crime fighting--but it seemed humanity had a perpetual desire, when granted incredible supernatural power, to use it for acting out personal ideals of justice. London was well known to be a den of both organized crime and vigilantism when it came to the superpowered community, and one figure was instantly recognizable: a vigilante named Apocalyptica. (Jon found the name highly questionable, especially since it really had nothing to do with her invulnerability power set, though he begrudgingly conceded that he couldn’t fault the naming conventions of something more than twice as old as himself.) Not much was known about her, but she had been in operation for long enough that most suspected the role was passed down. Otherwise the greatest protective force in London would be well into her 70’s, which is an outrageous thought.
Today, word on the street was that Apocalyptica died.
Jon raised his most skeptical eyebrow (the left one) at Tim when he was presented with the news over lunch. “I feel like that’s the sort of news that would make headlines,” he replied as he set about neatening the ingredients on his sandwich.
Tim leaned low over the table. His curly hair hung low over his eyes, and Jon adjusted his own hair out of sympathy. “You’d really think so, especially since everyone seems to agree she’s dead, but apparently nobody’s owning up to killing her.”
“And before you say it, someone definitely killed her, if she’s dead,” Sasha interjected from over his shoulder. “There’s no way she’d go down any other way.”
Tim straightened slightly to prop his chin in his hands. “Sasha and I looked into it a bit this morning, and our best guess is it’s not in the news because the story’s nonexistent. The last sighting of her was Friday, and then early this morning an anonymous informant told the police she was dead. Sasha’s still working on cracking how the message got to the police at all.” He nodded at her as he said this, and she did a theatrical half bow from in her seat.
“And before you ask,” Tim added with a cheeky grin as he turned once again to face Jon, “of course you’ll be the first person we tell if we find anything. You’d get grumpy otherwise.” Patting his hand on the table, Tim retracted himself from his sprawl across the table to sit down properly and get out his own lunch. “My dazzling research abilities aside, what’s new with you? You don’t usually bother to eat with us, it’s gotta be something big.”
Jon looked around the canteen. He’d taken a late lunch break—only halfway on purpose—so it was mostly empty, although enough people were still there that he felt intensely self-conscious with the prospect of discussing his personal life. “Well,” he started, and felt himself start to flush in embarrassment. “I, ah. Mr. Bouchard called me to his office this morning. He actually, uh. Offered me a promotion?”
Tim and Sasha both exclaimed louder than Jon had hoped but quieter than he had expected. Sasha grinned broadly and clapped her hands. “Jon, that’s fantastic! I just know you’ll be the best middle manager in the city.”
Tim’s face slid into a sideways smirk. “Am I gonna have to start calling you ‘boss,’ now? Are you going to go mad with power?”
At any other time, Jon would have rolled his eyes, or scoffed, or (and the chances of this are slim indeed) run with the joke himself, but today he looked down at his lunch and knocked his shoes together self-consciously. “The, ah, funny thing is, I didn’t actually get promoted in research. Mr. Bouchard asked me to be the head archivist.” He looked up at his friends. They shared an intense look that Jon didn’t know how to read, then turned to him with slightly strained but blank expressions. Jon swallowed, then continued, “I, hm. I’m going to say yes. I said I’d think about it at first, because I really don’t know the first thing about archiving, but then I thought about it and I realized he wouldn’t have asked me in the first place if he didn’t think I was capable, and—”
Jon was cut off by Tim’s hand resting on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll do fantastic,” Tim soothed. “Like Sasha said, your boring sensibilities are very well suited to middle management, and the basement is perfect for a recluse like you.” This time, Jon really did scoff, and Tim barked out a laugh as he pulled his hand back. Sasha didn’t say anything, but nodded and offered a small smile.
Jon considered looking at the ceiling or perhaps into the middle distance over Sasha’s shoulder for the next part, but he truly was to be head of any department, he would need to be more confident. He clasped his hands in front of himself and sat up as straight as he could, looking the other two dead in the eye. Tim’s eyes sparkled with a combination of amusement and puzzlement, while Sasha just looked curious. “He also said I could request a few assistants and I felt that you two would be appropriate additions. It’s okay if the answer is no, of course, but I would be greatly reassured to know you’re on my side.”
Tim’s expression softened. “First of all, I’d be on your side whether or not I went to the spooky basement with you.” Jon fought not to react to the phrasing, because he knew Tim had only put it that way to bother him, but Tim’s triumphant amusement made it evident he was unsuccessful. Tim’s expression turned more serious. “But secondly and more importantly, you’re my friend. If the support you need is me and Sasha helping you with a new job, I know I’ll gladly help, and I’m sure Sasha will too.” He looked over at her at this, and she visibly seemed to come to a conclusion.
Sasha leaned closer to Jon. “You’re a good person,” she said. “If I had to pick any of my friends to be on the archival team, it would be you. You’ll do great.”
Jon smiled weakly, then finally took his escape from the eye contact. “Thank you, both of you,” he said. “I’ll go tell Elias after we finish lunch, then.”
“Absolutely, boss,” Tim intoned with a sweeping salute which almost caught Sasha in the face in the follow-through. Jon rolled his eyes, but was internally glad it seemed like their dynamic wasn’t going to change.
“I do wonder, did Mr. Bouchard say what happened to Gertrude? The previous archivist?” Sasha asked. Both Sasha and Tim turned to face Jon, and he felt rather trapped in that moment. He wracked his memory.
“…I don’t believe he said,” Jon replied eventually. “I mean, she was getting pretty old, I just assumed she retired.”
“I don’t think so,” Sasha mused. “I knew her; Gertrude may have been old as dirt but she was stubbornly old as dirt. I think half of the reason she still worked here for so long was just to spite the various heads of the institute over the years. She really hated every single one, it was impressive.”
Tim clapped his hands, and cheerfully announced, “Case closed, archival team of 2015! I figured it out. Gertrude Robinson…” Tim held both hands up as he paused dramatically. “…must have fought Apocalyptica to the death, resulting in both of their untimely ends. What do we think?” He looked far too proud of himself as he glanced between Sasha and Jon. “I’ve brought it full circle.”
Jon rolled his eyes again. “Truly, the epitome of crime solving. You should replace Apocalyptica yourself.”
~ ~ ~
They started to move to the basement the next day, on Tuesday, and the archives were worse than Jon could have ever expected. Upon descending the stairs and seeing what looked like how he’d imagine a book store explosion, he’d had half a mind to break into hysterical laughter and walk right back up the stairs again.
Instead, he took a deep breath and started to get to work. The first order of business was clearing off the desks for himself and his assistants. Jon’s desk had already been spotless, for some reason, so he was more so moving his own things in, than moving other things out. The floor was uneven and unpleasantly stained in the head archivist’s office, which would be something to get used to, but not the worst. He was mostly just glad the basement was finished and he wouldn’t have to brave bare concrete.
It was on his last trip down the stairs that somebody bumped into him. It really wasn’t that bad, not like he was going to lose his balance or anything, but he felt his powers activate anyway. He always hated the creeping goosebumps, the shortness of breath, all because his body had to make supernaturally sure he didn’t fall over. It may have saved his life the first time, but total immovability wasn’t particularly helpful in daily life.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—oh wow, you’re solid—wait, are you okay?” A pair of hands fluttered around Jon’s shoulders, and he swatted them away and forcefully unstuck his feet from the floor. Once he’d taken a few steps back up the stairs, he found himself facing a large man who was practically oozing anxiety. Jon had the fleeting, confused thought that this man had been incredibly soft when they’d impacted, before. Are people normally that soft? He shook his head and re-railed his train of thought to the issue that there was an interloper in his archive.
“What are you doing down here? Who are you?” he demanded. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact that even standing up a stair, he was not quite at eye level with this man, who was also currently blocking the way to his office very thoroughly. His skin still crawled with the vestiges of his power. He decided that he did not like this man, actually, not in the slightest.
The man giggled nervously. “I, uh, Ma-Martin? Blackwood? And I, heh, I’m actually looking for a-a dog. You haven’t seen it, have you?”
Jon resisted the urge to point out that there could be an elephant in the archives for all he knew, because he was just coming from upstairs. “Why would you be looking for a dog in the archives?”
The man—Martin—patted his hand on the side of his thigh and shrugged. The amount of eye contact he was making with Jon had to have been illegal. “Because I may have…let him in?”
“What?” Jon decided that he was having a bad dream, then. The only alternative was that his actual life was going this poorly, which felt implausible. “Why?”
Martin looked away, at that point, gearing up to do a mild pantomime of the story as he recounted it. “I, well, I didn’t mean to, you know, we were outside, making friends, and then I, I had to come in, but, my hands were full, and you know, the door’s really heavy, so, so I had to use my foot, and then he just sort of…it got past me--”
“Visitors aren’t permitted in the archives. Why are you here.”
“Oh, I, uh, I work here.” He smiled placidly at Jon and Jon wanted to kick him.
“No you don’t.” Martin’s smile faltered. Finally. “I requested Tim, and I requested Sasha, and you are neither.”
Something deep in Jon felt a sort of twisted satisfaction as Martin’s expression went from flagging enthusiasm to panicked recognition. Martin took a few steps back as he spoke, and drew his shoulders up to his ears. “Oh. OH. Oh, you’re…Jonathan Sims, yeah, um. Mr. Bouchard said I’d, I’d. Be working for you.” After consideration, Jon’s luck wasn’t good enough for this to be a dream. It would seem he was going to have to face his newest mortal enemy every day.
Now that the way to the archive proper was opening, Jon re-descended the stairs and brushed past Martin. He still looked very soft, and Jon decided this was another thing he hated about the man. “Well he didn’t tell me about it,” he muttered. As much as he wanted to chew the man out right now, there was a dog loose in his archive, and every second wasted was another statement eaten or otherwise made into a biohazard.
“He, uh. He said that, um, well he transferred me from the library--”
Actually, dog be damned. Jon needed to yell at someone. The library, really? Did Elias not actually think he could do this? He turned back around to face Martin. “So I’m your boss,” he prompted.
“I mean, I guess, heh.” I guess. Idiot.
“Which means that, technically, I have the power to dismiss you, if this dog situation is not resolved immediately.”
“I mean, yeah, probably,” Martin giggled. Giggled. Jon needed him gone as soon as possible. At least when Martin registered the implicit threat, all of his joy visibly evaporated and he took another few steps backward. “OH , oh, yes, r-right, yes, sorry, uh, I’ll…sorry!” He started to run one way, then turned back around and went the other, wincing at Jon in the interim. “Sorry,” he threw over his shoulder one last time.
Jon trained his most potent glare on his back for a few seconds, before sighing and turning to deposit his final box on his desk. He took a moment to concentrate on fully coming down from his powers activating, then reconsidered his plan for the rest of the day. The first order of business would obviously be catching the dog, now, then complaining about Martin to Elias. And probably warning Tim and Sasha about him as well.
A yapping bark sounded through the door to Jon’s office, followed by a dramatic fluttering which sounded suspiciously like a pile of papers sliding over sideways, and a combination of voices which sounded like Martin groaning in despair and Tim laughing.
Jon exhaled one last put-upon sigh into his hands, then stood up to deal with the hell in which he found himself.
~ ~ ~
By the end of the week, Jon felt the road ahead was bumpy but clear. The statement files were entirely unorganized—had Gertrude done any archiving?—but he’d worked with Tim and Sasha on putting together a filing system which should work. Martin was…well, he was still there, but after speaking with Elias it was clear there was nothing to be done on that front.
The problem, which Jon had been vaguely aware of during his days in research, was that apparently people just liked to lie when they made statements. One would think that power activation is something that can’t be mistaken, but once the word “anomalous” is added to the equation, questions start to be met with descriptions of any strange happenstance, activation-related or not. It seemed like half the statements were people mistaking a bad drug trip or a weird sickness or awkward coincidence for activation. The other half were genuine but ordinary activation stories, which were fine but not what the Magnus Institute researched. Many seemed to be from people either unwilling to go to therapy, or who just wanted to brag about having met a superhero (there were a lot of statements about Apocalyptica, and all of them were utter hogwash). Jon had found two statements which he was positive were genuine anomalous activation incidents, and that was because he had researched them himself in the past.
And of course, half of the information was missing. In every other file, the actual investigative findings would be absent, leaving only the statements, which were usually handwritten. Jon would have to have Tim and Sasha (or maybe Martin, if the other two were busy) redo some preliminary research in those instances. As for himself, he planned to oversee and do the bulk of the actual organization.
He’d worked out the following system: he would assign his assistants to work on verifying and retyping a few statements every day, and then he would read over what they’d done and file them away in the new system. When he first implemented the new system there would be a bit of a lag in productivity, but before long everyone would have their work cut out for them.
Friday, Jon sifted through a pile of statements and found a few which appeared to both have research attached, and be nicely typed. There was no accounting for whether or not they were genuine, but that was a matter for when he actually filed them away. He’d started with a neat stack of thirty, reading fourteen before lunch, and he anticipated getting the rest done before the end of the day.
He settled into his chair and pulled the top sheaf of papers toward him. Statement of Nathan Watts, it read. Not too long; he should be able to read it to himself in maybe ten minutes.
The statement looked to be gearing up to be another drunken misattribution, and Jon was tempted to not even finish it, but he powered through regardless because he really ought to do his job thoroughly if he wanted to fix this place at any point.
About halfway through, it went… odd. The statement giver described a strange voice, calling for a cigarette, and Jon immediately felt his own powers activate, rooting him to his chair. A small part of him was deeply annoyed—this was the second time this week they’d gone off like a hair trigger—but most of him was afraid. His body was trembling and sweating at midday in a basement in London, but in his mind, he felt like he was stumbling down an Edinburgh street in the early hours of the morning, facing a figure which was increasingly seeming to not be entirely human. He couldn’t stop reading, finishing the whole account of the swaying thing and feeling the entire time as if he were living it himself.
When he finally finished, Jon set the papers down and stared blankly at the wall. He didn’t feel like he could stand up, though whether that was because he had supernaturally bound himself to the chair, or because his knees were weak from nerves, he couldn’t say. He had the strangest feeling, like a thousand eyes were watching as his mind and body conspired against him, which was ridiculous, of course. He was alone.
He didn’t realize how long he’d sat there until Martin knocked on his door to bring him tea at two. Over an hour, he’d been stuck gaping at the wall. He could have read at least five more statements in that time.
He didn’t want to read any more today.
After dismissing (shooing) Martin from his office, he gingerly lifted himself from his chair and regarded the statement. This was his conundrum: it seemed that reading the statement caused his body to overreact, thoroughly draining him both physically and mentally. At the same time, his job was to read all the statements. One of those two facts would have to win out in the end.
The eventual conclusion was thus: if only the fifteenth statement he read elicited this reaction, the reward (a job well done) outweighed the risk (lying paralyzed in his office for an hour).
The statement itself was the usual fare--activation incidents which involved another individual’s powers were often perceived as anomalous, simply due to the multiplicity of supernatural threads, but this specific story seemed rather cut and dry. Mr. Watts had developed what he claimed to be a sort of second sight or intuition--which were Jon’s least favourite types of powers because they were practically unverifiable--but given the strangeness of the situation, it seemed legitimate. Really, nothing strange about the statement at all, if you really thought about it.
At the end of the day, Jon took exactly fifteen statements, filed them away, and resolved not to think about any of them any further.