Chapter Text
“Mmmmm, Hells Kitchen.” Marc Spector said to himself from atop the building he was crouched on.
He sniffed the air, “Smells like…(Shit.) [Rum.] teen spirit.”
(Ha you’re very funny, Marc.)
Tonight he was looking at the Irish Mafia, who’d been slowly encroaching on his turf. He already had enough to deal with and didn’t want any extra problems. He’d might as well take them out early before they become a hassle.
Marc had spent the better part of a week watching and listening for anything that might tell him where they’re operating out of. That is, until this morning, when one of the members had the unfortunate fate of hailing Jake's taxi.
Jake pulled over into an abandoned parking garage, hauled him out of the cab by his hair, and threatened the Irishman with a scarab dart to the throat until he gave up the location of their main base of operations.
(I believe you have someone to thank for that information, Spector.)
“Lockley, I’m not thanking you for driving around and overcharging people until one of them just so happens to be helpful.” Marc murmurs quietly, watching intently as his targets in the alley below load unlabeled boxes into a large white van.
(Shut up, Spector, at least I did something. Where’ve you been the past few days, huh?)
There was silence from Marc.
(And while I'm at it, Steven has been awfully helpful during this whole investigation we have going on. But do you thank him for it? No, cause Mr. Blue Sky over here has to-)
Spector hisses quietly,“Jake, shut up!”
(Don't tell me t-)
[Shhh! Mate, he’s trying to focus!]
Silence. Finally. The two alters had been uncharacteristically active for about a week and a half. Constantly bickering with him and fronting out of nowhere, even when he wasn't looking at his reflection. That's part of the reason Marc had agreed to look into the Irish mafia in the first place.
Konshu, with his divine powers of eavesdropping, had caught wind that someone was trying to awaken Apophis, The Demon Snake of Chaos, mortal enemy of Amun-Ra (AKA Konshu’s pappy), and this “someone” was somehow linked to the Irish mob. It was a weird conversation.
Marc had a sneaking suspicion that Apophis and the Mafia also had something to do with his system being all out of whack. He was keen to figure out what, and stop it as soon as possible.
Jumping down from the ledge he was perched on, Marc landed directly behind one of the Irishmen, slicing his throat with a crescent dart.
“Mmm, thank you, Marc, that one’s heart was full and young.” Konshu said from over his shoulder.
Having been Konshu’s avatar for so many years, Marc was no longer surprised when his god would suddenly decide to speak up.
“Saying that doesn't fill me with as much hope and enthusiasm as you might assume, Konshu.” Marc stated with a grimace, sidestepping as a bullet came barreling towards his chest.
The old bird, now looming in a corner, watched as his avatar enacted his vengeance. “Behind you, Spector.” The god vocalized without concern.
There was a gunman standing to the side of the van, pistol aimed at Marc’s head. He wasted no time thinking about it, though, as he flung his two billy clubs at the shooter, hitting him in the neck and knocking him out cold.
“To your left, Marc.” Said the god lazily.
Why the hell did Konshu feel that right now was the appropriate time to coach him? Did he feel like Marc needed coaching? He didn’t have time to ponder those questions unfortunately, as a knife went whizzing by his head.
Two more followed in quick succession, grazing his thigh and bicep.
“AHG! Shit-” Marc hissed angrily, annoyed that Konshu had distracted him.
There was a merc on his 9, the same one who’d thrown the knives, wearing a ninja outf- [Shinobi shozoku!] {Thank you, Steven.} and armed with…a katana? Weren’t these people Irish?
The mercenary ninja of unconfirmed cultural origin leapt towards him just as three more Irish(?)men pulled out their pistols and began firing from where they’d hidden behind the crates.
Konshu spoke with urgency this time, “Take it back now, Spector!”
{Whatthefuck?}
“AGHK!” A fiery hot pain burst from his left shoulder, one of the bullets must have connected. The ninja thrust their sword at his chest, he narrowly managed to avoid it by hopping backward and flipping up onto the fire escape.
Marc lept gracefully back into the air, throwing three crescent darts simultaneously at the shooters, stopping the crack of their gunfire.
Rolling onto the ground towards the ninja, he grabbed a broken beer bottle and used it to slash their shin. His left arm was now limp from the bullet wound.
Marc heard the ninja curse as they stumbled out of the way of his next attack and into one of the crates, toppling it over.
“One hop this time!” Bellowed the old god.
Was that…was Konshu singing the Cha Cha Slide?
Maybe he should’ve taken the god more seriously because a second ninja appeared behind Marc, sweeping his feet from under him, and landing him on the ground with a grunt.
From where he lay, Spector hastily took a golden ankh out from his belt pouch and stabbed it into ninja number two’s foot, firmly planting it into the concrete. Leaning back on his hands, he then thrust both legs forward, kicking the merc in the chest and sending them flying into a wall, knocking them out.
That seemed to be the last of the attackers.
Breathing hard, he stood up carefully and surveyed his surroundings. Of the mafia members left alive, they were either unconscious or too wounded to put up a fight. Good. That left him one last objective.
He walked gingerly over to the second ninja, avoiding the pools of blood and all too aware of his injuries. Marc bent down with a huff and roughly pulled his golden ankh out of the merc’s foot, attempting to wipe the blood off on his suit before putting it back in its pouch.
___________________________________
The ninja woke up in the white van, bound to a faux leather recliner that had been ripped out of the driver's side of the car. A dull throbbing came from her right foot.
“Who hired you?” Asked a hidden voice with a vaguely New York accent.
She didn’t respond.
“Who hired you?” They repeated, leaning into the sunlight this time. It was the masked vigilante from earlier.
She looked into his visors, saying nothing.
Moon Knight stepped closer to her menacingly, “I asked you a question, ninja.” His demeanor was different from what she’d observed from him previously. More violent and impatient.
When she still didn’t respond, he dug his heel into her injured foot, leaning all his weight on it. She screamed, it felt like a hot blade was being plunged into her skin.
“Tell me who you work for, or I’ll shove a second ankh into your good foot.” He threatened, pulling out the still bloody ankh for show.
The merc replied in a pained voice,“I- I work for the Irish. You saw m- me fighting for them.”
Moon Knight's voice suddenly rose to a dangerous level. He could feel the strength of Konshu rushing through his veins, pumping him with adrenaline, “No, you don’t!” He shouted, spitting in her face. “That answer isn’t good en-”
His head dipped unexpectedly, shoulders relaxing.
[Tut tut. Not today, Jake. We need her to preferably still be breathing, yeah?]
The vigilante had a blue glow to him now, and what had previously been black armor with white accents and a cape, was now a white suit with matching gloves and a mask.
His head snapped back up.
“Oh my days, I’m so sorry about that, dear!” Moon Knight piped up apologetically, this time with a posh English accent. Acting as if nothing had happened.
The ninja sat in stunned silence, mouth agape.
“Oh! Uh, oops!” The vigilante exclaimed timidly, stepping back. “So sorry love, I was still standing on your foot!”
Her jaw was practically giving head to the floor now.
He wrung his hands together hesitantly, not looking her in the eyes, “It would be a huge help though, if you’d tell us who hired you, please? It’s obvious it wasn’t the Irish, they only ever use guns and smoke cigs, those nasty little buggers.”
He laughed nervously.
The mercenary had once dreamt of having a job in psychology. Specifically behavioral and developmental psychology. And because of that, she could tell that this guy was a certified, and absolute, nutcase. Out of his mind, balloony toons level of bonkers. Shit on a log and call it my ex, kind of wacko.
But she also, in the deep dark depths of her mind somewhere, had decided that she would rather live another day, than lose her life to some psych ward reject.
“Alright, fine. I’ll tell you who actually hired me.” The ninja conceded. “As long as you stay over there,” she pointed to the corner of the van, “And don’t come a single step closer.”
Moon Knight looked a bit confused as to how she’d freed her hand, but did as she asked without question.
“It was the Yakuza.” She said quietly, the pain from her injury still at the front of her mind. “They’re working in tandem with the Irish mob for something, don’t ask me what, cause I don’t know. It’s above my pay grade.” She sighed, looking down at her lap, “They hired me, and the other merc you beat up, to protect whatever cargo was supposed to be loaded into this van. I only spoke with one boss, and he didn’t seem all too important. That’s all I know.”
The mercenary looked up at Moon Knight expectantly, gesturing to her still bound self.
“Oh, right!” He said, embarrassed, as he began to undo her ties. “My apologies, love. Thank you ever so much for being honest.” His visors squinted in what she could only assume was supposed to be a smile.
“Uh, yea no problem…dude.” Despite his politeness, the fact that he still had bloodstains on his suit did not make him any less intimidating. Oh, and the switching personalities part.
“Have a lovely eve-” He started, but she bolted out of the van too fast for him to finish.
“See, Jake?” Steven said innocently, “Horrible and bloody violence isn’t always the answer.”
There was no reply from the alter.
“But uh, maybe we should go find a place to sit, yeah? Blood loss is a bitch after all.” With his back against the wall, he slid down onto the floor, not bothering to find a seat like he had previously promised.
Steven leaned over and grabbed one of the ropes Jake had used to restrain the ninja. Tying it just above his shoulder, he used it as a makeshift tourniquet. Hopefully suppressing the blood flow enough to allow a clot to form and keep him from blacking out.
___________________________________
Marc awoke with a start to the shrill crack of lightning.
“Get up, my fist! I am not yet done with you tonight.” Konshu was standing above Marc, his arms crossed and smelling like burnt metal. Marc wasn’t aware that gods could ‘smell’ like anything.
“How- how long was I out?” He asked incredulously, not remembering having ever laid down or -to be frank- having gotten into the vehicle at all.
“Oh, good. It's not the worm this time.” Konshu said quietly to himself.
The old god stood disapprovingly, “Long enough.” He turned toward the open doors of the van, melodramatically bathing in the moon's rays. “There’s a sacred location you must visit.”
Marc looked down at his battered body, sighing at the prospect of having to spend the whole night out.
He turned to face the moon god again, but Konshu was gone. Leaving nothing except for a faint trail of silver dust, leading him out of the van and up the fire escape. That fire escape was beginning to feel like a home now, with how much he’d had to use it tonight.
Marc Spector followed the line of moon cocaine through the towering rooftops of Midtown Manhattan, gingerly taking off the tourniquet, and grumbling miserably about Konshu copying other gods' shticks along the way.
[Thor would be absolutely fumin’ if he saw how the old bird ripped off his godly powers.] Steven added with a snicker.
The moon was in one of its darkest phases tonight; a waxing crescent, Marc had just noticed. That would explain why he’d felt weaker than normal after the fight. His super strength and healing factor weren’t as potent during its crescent phases. In fact, he usually tried to avoid vigilantism on nights like this, and he didn’t go out at all when it was a new moon.
Marc had a 6th sense, so to speak. He always knew what the conditions of the night were going to be. How strong the tides were, wind speed, cloud coverage, moon phase, et cetera, et cetera. Kind of like a built-in period tracker. Though this power, just like all his other ones, only activated when he was Moon Knight. So it wasn’t especially helpful, seeing as how Marc was only really Moon Knight when it was past sunset, at which point he could just look up and see the moon.
So it was more akin to a period tracker that only tells you you’re on your period when you discover it for yourself on the toilet. Marc had never actually used a period tracker before, it’d be weird if he, as a cis man, had. But Layla had one, he’d seen her use it, and it seemed similar to how his ability worked.
In all honesty, his 6th sense worked much more like a weather app. But thinking about that wouldn’t have taken nearly as long as that period tracker analogy had, and his goal was to pass the time by as quickly as possible, get to this temple place, and then go back home to Layla.
Jake shouted in his head suddenly, (Marc, stop!)
Marc skidded to a halt.
He was so distracted thinking about the stupid period tracker analogy that he’d almost ran right into a rooftop pool.
(I swear, I leave for two fuckin’ seconds and you try to give us hypothermia!)
He glanced around the building he had stopped on, looking for a change in topic to distract from the embarrassing moment.
“I have two eyes, Jake, I’m not blind. I was just making sure you were paying attention.” Marc said nonchalantly.
(Spector, we share the same head, dumbass. I know you were thinking about some stupid period tra-)
Moon Knight interrupted him, “Oh, and look at that! The trail ends right over there!” The trail, in fact, went right over the edge of the building and sharply down through a window into one of the floors below.
Marc stood up quickly, glass falling off of him and onto the floor. The room was dark, solely lit by the moon shining in through the broken window. It was sparsely decorated, with only an altar and a statue depicting Konshu placed against one wall. There were unlit candles littering the room, they all seemed old and used. Sand lightly coated the ground, he could hear it crunch under his feet as he walked quietly towards the altar.
The candles lit themselves one by one as he walked by them, and a delicate smell of incense began to wind its way through the room.
“Welcome, my avatar!” Konshu’s disembodied voice boomed all around Marc.
His voice continued, “This is my newest temple, Marc. Filled with my favorite pieces from some of my oldest sites of worship.”
Spector stopped in front of the altar, listening to the god.
“This is where you will do your worship and pray to me from now on.” Finished the god curtly.
Moon Knight's breath hitched. Pray like… like praying to Hashem kind of praying? Marc shook his head, “Konshu… I don’t know what to say.”
“A simple thank you should suffice, maybe some groveling and-”
“NEVER in a MILLION YEARS, HAH!” He barked out a laugh, wheezing at the idea of actually worshipping the god. The same god who manipulated him, enslaved him, and kept him with golden handcuffs. And Konshu expected praise for that.
The old bird looked at Marc like a disappointed nanny. Hands on his hips, head bowed.
“Okay, wow, you had no need to hurt my feelings. Could’ve at least pretended to be excited.” Konshu huffed sassily in his deep, narrator from Audible-like voice.
“Mm mhm noted.” Spector mostly ignored the god, voting to look closer at the altar, inspecting its intricate details and etchings.
Steven was practically vibrating out of their head with excitement, his astral self bouncing up and down at the prospect of finding new ancient Egyptian artifacts and lore.
[Oh my days!! Marc, don't move! Look more to the left. Yea that! Right there.] Steven yipped out directions like a crazed chiwawa.
“Marc, how dare you ignore me! I am your god! I resurrected you when you died! I-”
He cut Konshu off, “Steven, what am I looking at here?”
[It’s…huh. I’m not entirely sure. Let me have the body, yea? You keep moving, and I can’t focus on it.]
Steven leaned closer to the carvings in the marble, carefully tracing his fingers over the indented hieroglyphics. It depicted a large snake, its body overlapping itself in figure eights, Apophis. Next to Apophis stood a tall figure with a humanoid body and a falcon-head, adorned with a headdress in the shape of a crescent moon, Konshu. The serpent was biting the falcon headed man in the neck, its fangs marking two bloody holes.
A jackal head, symbol for the god Anubis, the protector of the dead, was facing away from Apophis and Konshu. He would not be protecting the moon god if he died.
Steven turned his head towards the god, “When did you say this altar was from again?”
Konshu had been watching Steven intently, “I don’t know the exact date, worm. But it was constructed sometime during the height of the Egyptian empire.”
“Oh, okay, cheers then. So you have been killed before?” He asked hesitantly, eyeing the scene.
“No, of course I haven’t, dummy. If I had died, then I’d be clawing my way out of the duat right now.”
“Ah.” Steven bit his lower lip and raised his eyebrows in realization. “So…Konshu, mate. This altar must have been replaced, or you just never summoned one in the first place, because these carvings show you being killed by Apophis and then being doomed to non-existence via heart consumption by Ammit. And it has been well established that she doesn't fancy you.” Steven glanced wearily at the moon god, waiting for his reaction.
Konshu was leaning against a wall, absentmindedly fidgeting with his staff. “Mmmm. This is…not good.” That was much less emotional than the vigilante had expected. “Steven, I must depart to discuss this with the council of gods. Do not attempt to contact me, and don’t go poking around.”
With that, he disappeared in a puff of silver celestial meth powder.
“Marc, you can have the body back now. I think I need a nap.”
___________________________________
“Okay, so you deciphered this…ancient but apparently actually not ancient at all, marble altar… which depict’d yer god’s death, and now you wanna do...what.” Clint asked in between bites of his panini. It was a bright sunny day, enough clouds in the sky to cast shadows but leave plenty of blue, birds were chirping, the smell of coffee and fresh flowers from the florist shop across the street potent in the air. In all respects, it was a perfect day.
“Well, that was all Steven but, yea basically.” Marc sat at a small round table across from the blond, lightly sipping at his dark roast. The umbrella that sat just to his left shielded the duo from the bright afternoon sun.
“I want to do something-had planned to-but I can’t summon my powers right now. That damn bird left me without any warning and I just- GAH.” Marc cut himself off. Running one hand through his hair, he leaned back in his seat, taking deep breaths. “Jake and Steven are still acting out, there’s a god apparently planning to attack my god, and I know the Yakuza are at least partially responsible for it, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m just- I’m just stuck.” He let out a sigh.
Barton stroked his light beard thoughtfully, “Ya know, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but it has recently come to my attention that another hero/vigilante type is also in the hots with the Yakuza. Maybe they could help you out?”
“Clint, I work alone.”
“But I really think-”
“No. They’ll only get in my way. End of discussion.”
Hawkeye rolled his eyes through his purple-tinted glasses, letting out a huff of annoyance. “Fine, but if you keep prodding around his territory, just know that he’s gonna find you before I can stop him.”