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Chapter Text

Kamala Khan had been doing the whole superhero shtick for two months and seventeen days when she scored her first team-up.

Her and Bruno had finally tracked down the group that’d been peddling this crazy new drug to highschoolers, and she was currently sneaking into a warehouse filled with transport trucks in South Kearney.

Bruno’s voice came crackling through her earbud. “Ms Marvel, confirm your status. Over.”

“This is a phone call,” Kamala whispered in exasperation. She was crouched on the roof and peeking through a grimy window into the warehouse below. People milled about in black outfits, loading product onto pallets. “You don’t have to say over every time you’re done talking.”

Bruno sighed loud enough that his mic picked it up. “Just tell me what’s going on. …Over.”

“Uh.” Kamala squinted. “It looks like this is a lot bigger than we thought. Like legit whole operation. Lotta guns. Everyone’s wearing matching outfits.”

“What sort of outfits?”

“I dunno,” Kamala said. “Black?”

“Any identifying features? Symbols, logo?”

“Don’t think so…maybe I should get closer.”

“Negative, Ms Marvel. Don’t engage until we know what’s going on.”

“I know what’s going on,” Kamala said, already jiggling open the window latch and slipping noiselessly onto a catwalk high above the trucks. “They’re selling drugs to kids in my city. And I’m gonna stop them.”

“Kamala–”

“Code names,” Kamala hissed. “And shut up a sec. I think something’s happening down there.”

She fished her phone out of her pocket and spammed the volume button to lower Bruno’s voice in her ear. Then she hoisted herself up on a railing and tried to get a better look at what all the sudden commotion was about. Nobody was shooting yet, but there were orders being barked and guns hoisted onto people’s shoulders. They weren’t looking up – hardly anybody ever did.

Right beneath her hiding spot, someone dropped to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. Then another, and another. Silver glinted menacingly from the downed bodies. Panicked shouts were starting to ring out, and Kamala flinched back as the first round of gunfire went off.

“Ms Marvel! What’s happening?”

“Someone’s here,” Kamala said, not bothering to keep her voice lowered. “I think it’s – holy crap!”

“What? What is it?”

Kamala had gotten her first glimpse of the newcomer, shining white as they crashed through a clump of black-clad figures. They were literally bashing skulls, kicking and punching everything within reach, unencumbered by the noisy spray of automatic bullets.

“It’s Moon Knight! What’s he doing in New Jersey?”

“Ms Marvel–”

Kamala yelped and ducked down as a bullet zinged by dangerously close to her head. Shit. Looks like she’d finally been spotted. “Gotta bounce!” she told Bruno, hurriedly shoving her earpiece into her pocket and hanging up before he could do more than make an automatic noise of protest.

She sprinted down the catwalk and vaulted over the edge, landing with an ‘oomph’ on top of one of the transports. She sent some chunks of hard light spinning off to trip up some of the people shooting at Moon Knight and slid down the hood of the truck. She embiggened her fist with more hard light just in time to swat away someone rushing at Moon Knight’s unprotected back and slotted herself in to fight at the hero’s back.

“Hey, Moon Knight!” she called, “Need a hand?”

“No.” he grunted, bodily throwing someone into a trio of gunmen like he was bowling. “Who the fuck are you?”

Kamala decided this guy had the right idea and embiggened her hand once again to send a crate of packed drugs spinning into a group of runners. “I’m Ms Marvel!”

“Yeah, ok,” Moon Knight said. He whacked someone in the head with their own gun and turned to her while they lay groaning on the floor. “Get out of here.”

Kamala looked around. Almost all of the criminals were down or down-adjacent, half of them with crescent-shaped blades sticking out of various limbs. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’m blowing this warehouse up.” With that, Moon Knight turned and ran back out the way he’d come.

Kamala stood in place for a second, stunned. Then she yelped and sprinted after him in a panic. “Get out of here!” she yelled at the still conscious gunmen, picking up some of their not so-conscious friends and shoving them into their arms as she went. “You heard him!”

Kamala had almost made it to the edge of the shipyard before the explosion shook through the night, sending a wave of heat buffeting against her back. She turned and doubled over with her hands on her knees, panting and watching with wide eyes as flames licked at the night sky. “Holy shit,” she said, voice heavy with exertion and shock. “Holy shit.”

“I thought Marvel was white,” Someone said from uncomfortably close behind her. “And not a child.”

Kamala spun around. Moon Knight stood there with his arms crossed, white and solemn against the fiery night.

“That’s Captain Marvel,” Kamala said, words tumbling out of her mouth before she’d given it conscious thought. “I’m Ms Marvel.” She tapped the insignia on her chest and smiled at him a little tremulously. Inside, she was trying very hard not to squee. Moon Knight! Talking to her!

Moon Knight was silent. “Alright,” he said finally. Under his breath, he muttered, “Weird.”

“Have you been tracking this drug operation too?” Kamala asked, judiciously ignoring that for now.

“What, Hook? Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Kamala pressed. “I didn’t know you took on this sort of stuff. I thought it was all like, vampires and human traffickers and stuff.”

Moon Knight uncrossed his arms and took a step towards her. “What are you talking about? Are you following me?”

“What?” Kamala stumbled back a bit, frightened. “No? You’re on TikTok, man.”

Moon Knight paused. “TikTok? Isn’t that a song?”

Oh man, how old was this guy? Kamala fished out her phone and showed him one of the vids she had saved in her camera roll. It was slightly shaky footage of him pummeling a huge group of crazy cult people with chitauri-tech in Utah. It’d been all over social media.

The lenses of Moon Knight’s mask squinted slightly as he looked at it over her shoulder. His head tilted quizzically.

“You’re like, definitely top ten on my list of superhero team ups,” Kamala found herself saying giddily. “My Defenders x Moon Knight fanfic was second most upvoted in the fandom on FreakingAwesome last month.” Ok so he was only marginally in it, but that counted! Moon Knight didn’t have a huge fanbase, to be honest. It was because he was so underground. Not because he was lame, no matter what the haters said.

“I don’t know what any of those words mean,” Moon Knight said. He shook his head and stepped away from her. “No – don’t tell me, I seriously don’t want to know.”

“Alright,” Kamala said, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. You couldn’t account for taste, she supposed. “So, Hook? Is that what that new drug is called? They’ve been selling it outside my – uh, outside some highschools in Jersey. I’ve been trying to track down the operation.”

“Yeah,” Moon Knight said. “Don’t worry about it. Apparently Jessica Jones’ crew is on it.”

“Oh,” Kamala said, a little disappointed. This had been her first big thing! But – maybe drugs weren’t really her jurisdiction, actually. She might have to take the L on this one. “How come you were here then?” She gasped in realization. “Are you and the Defenders actually teaming up? Oh man, that would be so sick!”

“Fuck no,” Moon Knight said immediately. “I was doin’ a favour for Daredevil.”

“Woah,” Kamala said, awed. “You know Daredevil?”

“Unfortunately.”

That was so cool. Daredevil was like, the original street-level hero. It made sense he would outsource though – the guy famously never left Hell's Kitchen. Kamala frowned, something suddenly occurring to her. “Hold on, why did you beat up all those guys if you were just gonna blow the place up?”

Moon Knight looked at her, then up at the sky. He shrugged. “Felt like it.”

“Ok…” Kamala said, drawing the word out. So Moon Knight wasn’t very chatty. That was fine! “Hey, can I get a photo with you?”

“What the hell? No. Why am I talking to you?” He shook his head again and made a little shooing motion at her. “Go home, kid. Leave it alone, seriously.” He turned away from her and started to stalk off, cape flapping behind him with a non-existent breeze.

“It’s Ms Marvel,” Kamala called. “Not kid!”

Moon Knight waved flippantly over his shoulder and vaulted up the wall of a warehouse and out of view. So cool.

Kamala hopped in place a little, basking in the glory of her first real superhero encounter. The distant sound of sirens snapped her out of her mental curation of a Ms Marvel and Moon Knight team-up soundtrack.

“Oh crap,” she said, checking the time on her phone. It was almost midnight and she totally had a spanish quiz in the morning that she had not studied for. She sighed heavily and prepared to trek back to Jersey City. Hopefully her ammi hadn’t noticed her sneaking out this time. She could not afford to get grounded again.

“Hullo Kamala,” Steven Grant said, greeting her as she trudged through the doors of the New York Public Library. “Still working on that assignment, then?”

“Yep!” Kamala dropped her bag next to his desk and slid into her usual chair. “I was wondering if I could take a look at some of those manuscripts you were talking about last time.”

Mr Grant pushed his glasses up on his nose and peered at her. “I don’t see why not,” he said genially. Kamala had been spending most afternoons here, ever since she had hit a bit of a lull in her online research. She’d been trying to find out more about her grandmother’s bangle – it was one thing to know that it let people punch holes into other dimensions, and another to know why. Where did it come from? Why did it let her do the things she could do? She knew what Kamran’s mom had said about Noor and all that, but that only answered some of her questions. And Kamala had never been good about just letting these things lie.

“Great,” Kamala said. She stifled a yawn.

“Up late studying?” Mr Grant asked.

“Something like that.”

“It’s no good to run yourself into the ground before you’ve even graduated high school,” Mr Grant scolded pointedly.

Kamala chuckled a little nervously. “Yeah.” She looked at him expectantly.

Mr Grant sighed but let it go. “Well, I know you wanted to take a gander at those manuscripts, but I thought it might be useful to have a look at the Shahnameh. You were asking about djinn, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Kamala said, a little surprised he’d remembered. She suspected that Mr Grant had a lot of free time on his hands. He wasn’t an actual librarian, despite the fact it sometimes seemed like he knew literally everything. Everything about ancient mythology, at least. She was pretty sure it was his special interest, but that was probably rude to ask. “What’s the Shanamen?”

“Shahnameh,” Mr Grant corrected. “The Book of Kings. It’s an epic poem written by Ferdowsi, telling the mythical and historical past of the Persian Empire. The djinn, or div, in the poem share some similarities to the djinn of Islamic folklore, though they’re usually strictly malevolent entities. Of course, most of the events of the poem predate the Muslim conquest of Persia by quite a few centuries.”

“Oh! I think I’ve heard of that.” A little skeptically, Kamala asked, “is it in Urdu?”

“Classical Persian, actually.”

“I…definitely can’t read that.”

Mr Grant chuckled. “There are translations,” he assured her. “Can you read Arabic?”

“No,” Kamala said, refusing to be embarrassed. Just ‘cause she was muslim didn’t mean she had to know Arabic! Even Aamir could only recite Salah--he didn’t actually speak it.

“That’s alright. There are some good English translations as well.” Mr Grant scribbled a post-it note with directions to where she could find it, apologising for not being able to show her himself. “I’ve been getting some flack for leaving my post recently,” he told her, wrinkling his nose. Kamala commiserated with him. It must suck having to teach the same old ladies how to use the computer everyday when you’d much rather be surrounding yourself with dusty old Egyptian tomes.

She bid him goodbye and tracked down the book. It was…very large. Kamala settled on the abridged version, hefting it over to a nearby reading desk. She pulled her notebook from her backpack and settled into a creaky wooden chair. Flipping to the first page, she propped her chin on her fist and got to reading, blinking her eyes forcefully to keep herself awake. Maybe she should’ve brought an energy drink.

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days…

A shake of her shoulder startled Kamala awake with an unattractive snort. Mr Grant looked down at her, amused. “Not too interesting, then?”

Kamala hurriedly wiped drool from her mouth. “No! I mean – yes?” She groaned and yawned, rubbing her face. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“I figured as much when I heard report of ghostly groaning coming from the stacks.”

“Oh man,” Kamala said, face heating. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“Ah, we’ve all been there,” Mr Grant said. Kamala registered that he was dressed to leave as he adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag.

“Are you heading out then?” Kamala asked curiously. She honestly hadn’t realized he ever left – it was like when she was a kid and totally thought all her teachers slept in the school.

“Right-io,” Mr Grant said. “Those fishes won’t feed themselves, you know.”

Kamala shoved her stuff into her bag and tucked the copy of the Shahnameh under her arm. “Can I walk out with you? I’ve just gotta check this out.”

“Sure,” Mr Grant said brightly. “It was helpful then?”

“I think so,” Kamala said, following him out of the dimly lit stacks of books and towards the check-out desk. “I didn’t get through much of it though.”

“Enough for your essay?”

“What?” Kamala blinked and nodded hurriedly. “Oh! For school, right. Uh. Yes?”

Mr Grant stopped and turned to her, kind and frumpy. “You don’t need to keep pretending you’re doing this for school,” he said gently. “It’s alright.”

Kamala laughed a little nervously. “Haha, what? Of course it’s for school? What else would it be for?”

Mr Grant cocked his head with a little puzzled half-smile. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Kamala. It’s very normal to want to learn more about your culture and history.”

“Oh,” Kamala said. She looked away, sheepish. “I know. It’s just–I don’t know. It’s kind of lame.”

“Not at all!” Mr Grant said with a hint of outrage. “It’s not lame at all. I think it’s very cool. I definitely understand the sentiment–wanting to know where you came from, the type of stuff your ancestors got up to.”

“Is that why you’re so into Egyptian mythology?”

Mr Grant laughed and waved his hands. “Oh, no, I’m not Egyptian.” He started walking again, voice dipping down a little in thought. “Actually, I’m – well. It's complicated. I’m not really sure, to be quite honest.”

Kamala hurried to catch up to him as they got to the lobby, wanting to ask but not sure it would be welcome. There was a white woman with pretty hair scanning books at the front, and she perked up when she saw Mr Grant.

“Hey Steven,” she said, fluffing out her hair a little. “Heading home for the day?”

Mr Grant gave a little wave. “Yup!”

“Heard you were late again today,” the woman said, faux-chastising. “Sleep through your alarm again?”

Mr Grant grimaced and scratched his nose. “The subway was closed,” he mumbled, not making eye contact. “Dr Strange was opening portals in the L-train again.”

“Wait really?” Kamala asked, surprised. She hadn’t heard anything about that, and she had notifications on for anything superhero-adjacent for the city.

He shrugged. “That’s what I heard. Giant lizards or something, I dunno.”

“Huh. Weird.” Kamala dropped her book and her library card on the woman’s desk, smiling politely.

The lady tilted her head. “Is this your sister, Steven?”

Kamala and Mr Grant exchanged a perplexed look. They looked actually nothing alike.

“Uh, no,” Mr Grant said. The lady patiently waited for him to say anything else.

Kamala cleared her throat a little awkwardly. “Just this one, thanks.”

As the lady scanned Kamala’s book exceedingly slowly, she kept looking at Mr Grant. “Have you tried that new coffee shop across the street yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve heard it’s very good,” the lady wheedled, smiling sweetly at him.

Mr Grant hummed. He did not appear to be listening very closely. “Is that right?”

“Yeah. We have our lunch breaks at the same time, don’t we?”

“I’m not sure,” Mr Grant said. The lady looked disappointed, but he didn’t seem to notice. He turned to Kamala. “You all set, then?”

“Yep,” Kamala said. She sent an apologetic look and a wave at the crestfallen librarian and followed him out the doors. “Dude,” she hissed, nudging him as they emerged out onto the street. “She was totally hitting on you.”

Mr Grant shot her a bewildered look. “Who, Shannon? No she wasn’t. Don’t be silly.”

“Uh-huh,” Kamala said, unconvinced. “I’ve totally got an eye for these things, man. It’s classic coworkers to lovers type stuff.”

“Sometimes I understand very little of what comes out of your mouth.”

Kamala grinned. That’s why she liked Mr Grant – he wasn’t super old but he also wasn’t one of those millennials who pretended to be super hip with modern slang and stuff to seem cool. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured him wisely. “Love will come to you when you least expect it.”

Mr Grant side-eyed her. “If you say so.”

Kamala hopped over an overturned garbage can and onto a nearby ledge at the edge of the sidewalk, balancing as she walked. “So,” she said, “How long have you been in New York, anyways? You said you moved from London, right?”

Mr Grant nodded, eyeing her acrobatics a little warily. “Five months now. I’m practically a bonafide New Yorker, you know! A rat stole my bagel on Monday.”

“That’s rough,” Kamala said sympathetically. This is why she lived in New Jersey. “Had any superhero encounters yet?”

Mr Grant thought about it. “I think I might’ve seen Hawkeye passed out in a dumpster,” he offered. “Does that count?”

Not really. “Older or younger?”

Mr Grant blinked. “There’s two of them?”

Kamala nodded fervently. “The old one’s kind of lame,” she said. “But younger Hawkeye is pretty cool.”

Mr Grant furrowed his brow. “This one was blonde?”

“Older,” Kamala said with a wise nod. “Although–are you sure it wasn’t Iron Fist? People are always getting them mixed up.”

“No chance,” Mr Grant said. “I wouldn’t miss that fuckin’ dweeb.”

Kamala tripped. “Wait, what?”

“Careful there!” Mr Grant held out a steadying hand. “Are you alright?”

Kamala stared at him. “You said…” Mr Grant blinked up at her guilelessly, a little confused. Kamala shook her head. “Nevermind.” She must’ve been more sleep-deprived than she’d realized.

“Alright,” Mr Grant said hesitantly. He shook his head and gestured down the street. “Well, I’d better split here.”

Kamala blinked. They were at an intersection a couple blocks from the subway terminal. “Oh, ok. I thought you took the subway though?”

“I’ve got to run an errand in Hell’s Kitchen tonight. It was nice chatting with you, Kamala!”

“By Mr Grant!” Kamala waved as he crossed the street and disappeared into the crowd of rushing New Yorkers, a little confused. What kind of errand did someone have to run in Hells Kitchen? “Maybe he’s a secret member of the Kitchen Irish,” she mused. Kamala laughed a little to herself and set off down the street. Yeah right. The world was a whole lot less complicated than that. The day it turned out Mr Grant of all people had a secret identity, Kamala would eat her mask.

“Bismillahi wa billah,” Kamala called, toeing off her shoes in the front entrance. “I’m home!”

“In here!” Her mother’s voice sounded from the living room, before dropping into a low murmur like she was talking to someone.

Kamala dropped her bag next to the stairs and tromped into the kitchen, grabbing a whole pack of roti and a leftover chicken leg from the fridge before heading into the living room. She’d been eating a lot more food recently. She was hoping this was some side-effect of her powers, and not a very late growth spurt. She actually could not afford buying an entire new wardrobe if she outgrew her current one. Hero merch cost serious bank, man.

Sheikh Abdullah was waiting in the living room with her mom. Kamala paused in the doorway in suprise, dry roti hanging from her mouth.

“Beta,” her mom said, looking up. “Where have you been?”

Kamala ripped the bread from her mouth and swallowed hurriedly. “I was at the library,” she said.

Ammi hummed and eyed her, unconvinced. Kamala scowled. She was!

“Hello sister Kamala,” Sheikh Abdullah said. “As-salaamu alaykum.”

“Uh,” Kamala said. “Hey.”

“Kamala,” her mother hissed, chastising.

Kamala winced. “As-salaamu alaykum,” she said quickly. “Sorry hazrat sahib. I just – wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Sheik Abdullah tells me you have missed his last few Saturday youth lectures,” Ammi said. “Would you care to explain?”

Kamala winced again. She put her food down on the coffee table and wiped her hands on her pants. “I was – busy,” she said lamely. “Sorry.”

“You were busy,” Ammi echoed, unimpressed. “Too busy for wisdom?”

“Ammi,” Kamala whined. “Do we have to do this?”

Sheikh Abdullah raised a hand. “Could I perhaps speak to Kamala alone?”

Ammi stood up. “Of course.” She shot Kamala a warning look and left the room with one last suspicious glance at her daughter.

Kamala scowled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Please,” Sheikh Abdullah said, “sit.”

Begrudgingly, she sat across from the imam on the floor, crossing her legs and picking at her socks. “I really am sorry for missing your lectures,” she mumbled guiltily. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yes,” Sheikh Abdullah said. “You were busy, yes? But busy with what?”

Kamala kept her lips shut and didn’t look at him.

He sighed. “Your mother says you have been acting strangely lately. I know she had concerns this past year about you sneaking out.”

“Can we skip to the part where you accept my apology?” Kamala asked a little desperately. She really did not want to talk about this with him.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “Because if something is wrong, then I need to know about it.”

“Nothing’s wrong! It’s not like that. It’s just –”

“Just what?” The man’s voice was gentle with concern. He wasn’t nearly as intimidating when he wasn’t speaking from behind a partition.

“I don’t think you’ll believe me,” Kamala confessed. She didn’t want to lie to him – she couldn’t. But she was scared. What if he didn’t believe her? Kamala Khan wasn’t anything special. She wasn’t a hero. She was just a girl who snuck out and worried her parents and did a terrible job of being a muslim.

Sheikh Abdullah smiled. There was a look on his face like he knew what she was thinking. “Try me.”

After a moment, Kamala said, “I help people.” He raised an eyebrow. Quickly, Kamala continued, saying, “Sometimes, people…get into trouble. Bigger trouble than they can get out of. And I help them. Or – I try to, at least.”

“To help people is a good thing,” Sheikh Abdullah pointed out.

“I know,” Kamala said. She chewed on her lip and stared at her feet. “It’s only – I don’t think I’m very good at it. So I end up missing lectures sometimes, or class, or curfew. And I don’t want to, really – but, I need to help people. You get that, right?” She glanced up at him pleadingly.

He was silent for a beat. “What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing!” Kamala said, frustrated. “Really.” Quieter, she mumbled, “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

Sheikh Abdullah shook his head and held up a hand. “I do believe you. I do not think you would lie to me, not about this.” He gazed at her then, intent and worried. “Sister Kamala – do you need help?”

“Not that sort of help.” Kamala sighed. “But – I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing at all. And I’m just trying so hard to do the right thing, but – it’s hard. I don’t think anyone can help me.”

“I see,” Sheikh Abdullah said thoughtfully. “Well – if you must pursue this thing you will not tell me about, where you help people in a way that you insist you are not good at, then perhaps what you need is a teacher.”

“A teacher?” He nodded. Kamala frowned. “Wait – aren’t you going to tell me to be a good girl and listen to my parents and do istaghfar and all that stuff?”

Sheikh Abdullah chuckled a little. “I know how headstrong you are. You have been going to my youth lectures for ten years – if you are not doing these things already then telling you will make no difference. If I still have to warn you about – I don’t know, Satan and boys, then I should lose my job.”

Kamala smiled with him, relieved.

Sheikh Abdullah sobered. “What I will ask of you, is to do this thing that you are doing with as much honor and skill as you can. With qualities befitting a young woman: courage, strength, honesty, compassion and self-respect.” He stood, adjusting his taqiyah.

“Of course,” Kamala said quickly, standing with him. “I mean – yes, hazrat sahib. Thank you, hazrat sahib. But – how do I do it? Find a teacher, I mean. To teach me how to be better at…helping people.”

“Ah,” Sheikh Abdullah said, a twinkle in his eyes behind his glasses, like he knew something Kamala didn’t. “Well, you know the ancient saying. When the student is ready, the master shall appear.”

And with that mysterious and not very helpful advice, he left.

Chapter Text

Kamala really needed to stop spending all her free time scoping out warehouses. It was getting kind of weird.

This one was across the Hudson, was way out of her usual stomping grounds, but she’d promised this mugging victim she’d saved the day before that she’d check it out. Apparently her brother had been missing for two days, and the last she’d heard he’d been partying with some friends on the pier. (Which – weird, but whatever. Apparently it was hard to have a bush party in New York.) His find my phone gave this place as his last location, at least. The police, somewhat predictably, were doing pretty much nothing about it. Kamala couldn’t find it in herself to be surprised — she was starting to understand that the police were pretty much useless for anything more than the actual locking up aspect of criminal catching.

This wasn’t the first missing teenager that Kamala had heard about, and she was starting to get a weird feeling about the whole thing. But — if kids really were going missing at an unprecedented rate, wouldn’t people be talking about it more? Wouldn’t somebody be doing something about it?

Unless Kamala was supposed to be that someone.

Anyways — that's what brought her here, lurking once again on the roof of a sketchy warehouse filled with guys with guns. It wasn’t even past her curfew yet, which was nice. She needed to see inside, to know if that girl’s brother was in there, but the window was too high up to get a good look at any of their faces. She didn’t think he was, anyway – these people all looked like adults. But she had to be sure. Also, she should probably figure out what all the guns were about.

There was a sound to her left. Kamala startled and whirled around, fists raised and glowing. There was a figure perched like a gargoyle on the ledge of the roof, white cape flapping behind him.

Kamala let out a breath of relief and lowered her fists. “Moon Knight!”

Moon Knight dropped from the ledge and stalked towards her. Did he always have to walk like that? Kamala felt like a gazelle in a nature documentary.

“Kid.”

“What are you doing here?” Kamala asked. Inwardly, she was vibrating. Team-up, take two!

Moon Knight came to a stop in front of her. “I could ask you the same thing. Didn’t I tell you to go home?”

“What – did you mean forever? You can’t ground me, dude, I don’t even know you.”

He crossed his arms. “Isn’t it a school night?”

“Haha,” Kamala said flatly, excitement vacating her body in response to this guy’s total lack of outward enthusiasm and/or politeness. “It’s like, eight pm. Cool your jets.”

Moon Knight cocked his head. “Do I know you?” he said suddenly. “You seem familiar.”

Kamala frowned at him. “Um, we met like, two days ago?” Should she be offended? She was a little offended. She wasn’t sure she was a big fan of this guy, actually. Maybe it really was like they say – don’t meet your heroes. Kamala felt a surge of disappointment. Why couldn’t she have met Wolverine? He was number two on her list of possible super hero team-ups. After Captain Marvel, obvi. Moon Knight was only in the top ten because she was being realistic. Even Iron Fist was on there.

But Moon Knight just shook his head. “No, I mean –” He stopped. Looked to the side. Kamala followed his gaze but there was nothing there. Just the moon, rising slow and shining over the Hudson. “Huh.”

“What?”

Moon Knight looked back at her. “What?”

“You just…” Kamala gestured to the side. Moon Knight looked at where she was pointing, then back at her, tilting his head. It was silent for a long moment. “Nevermind,” Kamala said.

Moon Knight visibly decided not to ask, as if Kamala was the one not making sense. “What are you doing here?”

“I asked first!” Except Moon Knight just kept looking at her and he was clearly way better than Kamala was at mysterious silences. “Ok, fine. So pretty much–”

Moon Knight cut her off with a sharp hand. Kamala shut her mouth a little indignantly. Moon Knight walked forward, passing her on his way to the window. He stood and peered into it.

Kamala’s curiosity won out of her irritation and she sidled up to his elbow, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the inside of the warehouse. “What is it?” she said, voice dropping to a whisper. “Is something happening?”

Moon Knight turned to her. He stuck a stern finger very close to her face. Kamala went a little cross-eyed trying to keep it in view. “I’m going down there,” he said. “Don’t follow me.”

Kamala puffed up. “But I need–”

Moon Knight jabbed his finger at her. “No.”

Kamala pushed his finger away from her face, increasingly annoyed. “Are you going to blow this one up too?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Depends.”

Depends on what? The weather?

“I want to come,” Kamala protested. “I can–”

“No,” Moon Knight cut her off, voice firm like he was scolding a wayward house pet. “Stay here.” Then, conversation apparently over, he took a step back and very suddenly flung himself bodily through the window, dropping down into the warehouse with a loud shatter of glass.

Kamala gaped after him. Hadn’t that window opened? Why the heck did he have to break it? She craned her neck through the newly paneless opening, trying to get a good look at what he was doing down there as gunfire rang out alongside the thud of fists on flesh.

Kamala rocked back on her heels, frowning. Should she go down there? Moon Knight had told her to stay…but what did he know? He couldn’t even open a window. Maybe Kamala should just take a look. She wouldn’t fight anyone – just…watch his back. Yeah. That sounded like a good idea.

Mind made up, Kamala hopped through the window and onto a hard light platform. She crouched down, surveying the scene below. Moon Knight was making pretty good headway, actually – there were a lot of hopefully-just-unconscious people lying around. Maybe he didn’t need her to watch his back. Kamala made her way down anyway, silent as she hopped between stepping stones of glowing light.

“Up there!” Someone shouted.

Oh crap. Kamala knew the glowing thing was gonna get her in trouble one day. She yelped and dropped to her hands and knees as a bullet whizzed over her shoulder, almost slipping off her little platform. She grabbed it with her hands and swung down, hastily creating a half-slide that sent her skidding onto the warehouse floor.

“I thought I told you to stay up there!” Moon Knight shouted at her, skidding behind a crate as more shots rang out.

Kamala sprinted over, taking cover with the other hero. “You’re not my real dad!” she said brightly.

Moon Knight groaned in exasperation and forcefully pushed her behind him. “Just – stay here.” He ducked back into the line of fire.

Staying low to the ground, Kamala peeked around the crate and watched as Moon Knight fought the gunmen, picking them off – sort of efficiently? Kamala wasn’t exactly an expert, but didn’t being a good fighter kind of involve, you know, dodging? This guy was mainly just bashing his face into other people’s fists until they started bleeding. Which was…probably a strategy of some sort.

Kamala sent a couple beams of hard light spinning out to knock the guns from two of the people's hands.

“Holy fuck.” Moon Knight cracked two people’s heads together and turned towards her, irritated. “What the hell did I–” He stopped, eyes going wide. “Kid!”

Kamala turned. You know what they say about your life flashing before your eyes? Like, you’re facing down your death and suddenly every single thing that’s ever happened to you runs through your head like a sepia-coloured montage with a soundtrack of your ancestors’ singing? And you think: I can’t die here. Not like this. Not when I’ve barely even lived.

…Yeah – so that didn’t happen. But it was a little like time slowed down for a second. Kamala saw the gun, black and shining and pointed at her head. She had time to think a litany of swear words that her parents would actually kill her if they knew she was thinking. She had time to realize that that didn’t matter, because she was about to die. She had time to be very, very scared.

And then something was barrelling into Kamala with what felt like the force of an entire freight train, and she was being thrown to the ground with the wind knocked out of her.

Ow.

Kamala wheezed in startled panic, trying to push the weight off of her. She caught a glimpse of white and red and brown and froze, breath catching in her throat. Moon Knight lay on top off her, maskless and motionless and so heavy that Kamala couldn’t breathe. Or maybe that was just the rising, terrible fear, constricting her lungs as blood gushed from the gaping hole in Moon Knight’s skull.

“Get off,” Kamala whimpered, “Get off, get off.” She heaved with all her might and finally managed to roll the body – the man off of her. Moon Knight sprawled limply on the floor, all dead weight and bloody bandages. Kamala lurched to her knees, panting and making high, pathetic noises in the back of her throat.

The same man with the gun shot at her again. He missed, the shot ricocheting off the floor next to Moon Knight’s head. Without really thinking about it, Kamala encased her fist in hard light and hit him harder than she’d ever hit anything in her entire life. The man went flying – Kamala didn’t look to see where he landed.

She crawled over to Moon Knight, aware that she was crying and really not caring. “Moon Knight?” she stammered, throat impossibly tight. He had a healing factor, didn’t he? He must have a healing factor – she’d seen the way he’d taken those bullets to the chest without flinching. But what could a healing factor do with a shot to the head? Kamala pressed shaking fingers to Moon Knight’s uncovered neck. His skin was still warm. She couldn’t feel a pulse. Kamala had never felt for a pulse before – was she doing it right? Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears that she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to tell someone else’s from her own.

Was he – did she – was Moon Knight dead? Because of her?

He had a normal face, she thought, a little deliriously. Light brown skin; brown, sightless eyes; a strong nose and brow. It was a normal face. It was – a familiar face?

“Oh my god,” Kamala whimpered, eyes wide as she stared down at Mr Grant the sort-of-librarian’s very dead face. “Oh my god.”

“Please wake up,” Kamala pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Please, please, I don’t know – I don’t know what to do! Oh my god–” she couldn’t remember the prayer for this. She couldn’t remember if there was a prayer for this. She couldn’t think of anything at all. Kamala pressed her blubbering face to Moon Knight’s bandaged chest and prayed, silent and wordless and desperate. “Please, please, please.”

And then all of a sudden, beneath her bowed head and clasped, shaking hands, Moon Knight jolted with a loud gasp. His back arched off the floor. Kamala fell back hard on her tailbone, crying out in shock.

Holy, shit, she thought wildly. I just resurrected a man.

“Ow,” Moon Knight said, letting out a long, painful grown. His eyes were glowing a bright moonlight-white.

“Oh my god,” Kamala gasped, feeling beautiful, heart-wrenching relief, “You’re alive!”

Moon Knight groaned again. He put a hand over his face briefly and when it lowered his eyes were brown again. He looked terrible. He looked like he’d just been shot in the head. He looked, perhaps most importantly, like Steven goddamn Grant.

“Mr Grant?” Kamala stuttered incredulously, her voice thick with snot and tears. She sniffed wetly—gross!—and swiped at her eyes, but the image in front of her didn’t waver. She was so confused. She was maybe a little in shock. She was – definitely traumatized.

“Hey,” Moon Knight said. He sounded awkward, and now that Kamala could see his face his eyes were darting around like he didn’t want to meet her gaze. He was wearing a flat expression Kamala had never seen on Mr Grant’s face before. Also, he was still covered in blood. A lot of blood. “Are— uh, are you ok?”

“Am I ok?” Kamala demanded. She was mortified to find her eyes filling with tears again and punched him in the shoulder to release her frustration. “I thought you’d died!”

“Ow,” Moon Knight said mildly. He levered himself into a seating position, grunting as he did. His brown curls were matted to the side of his head with blood, so much of it that Kamala could smell it, metallic and pungent.

“I don’t think you should move,” Kamala said worriedly, hesitating over whether to push him back down. How the hell was he moving? She remembered something she’d once heard about a guy who got a railroad spike right through the head and was still moving and walking around like normal — was that what was happening here? Was the bullet still in his head, lodged somewhere inside his brain? Kamala shuddered and swallowed a wave of bile. “Oh my god. Oh my god, we need to call an ambulance.”

“No hospitals,” Moon Knight said immediately, voice curt. “I’m fine.” He pressed a hand gingerly to his scalp and made a funny face before pulling away a bloody white shard of what Kamala was pretty sure had to be bone. Kamala gagged.

“You just got shot in the head! Oh my god, oh my god…” Kamala covered her mouth with her hands, and tried not to throw up and/or hyperventilate. Was she going to pass out? She could not pass out right now. She had to hold herself together. “You’re going to die. Oh my god you’re going to die and everyone’s going to think I killed you and my ammi’s going to blacklist me from the family group chat—“

“Can’t die,” Moon Knight said shortly, interrupting Kamala’s panicked spiralling.

“What?!”

“Can’t die,” Moon Knight grunted again. He waved a hand over his head tiredly. “‘S a whole thing.”

“…Alright,” Kamala said, a tad hysterical. That was fine. Everything was fine! Mutants couldn’t die all the time, she was pretty sure. Just look at Deadpool!

Moon Knight groaned and unsteadily clambered to his feet, Kamala scrambling to follow.

Kamala hovered by his elbow worriedly, arms out in case he collapsed — though she sincerely doubted she’d actually be able to do much more than cushion the fall. Mr Grant was a surprisingly big guy. Speaking of — “Do you have a twin?”

“What?”

“A brother?”

Moon Knight/possibly-Mr-Grant’s-brother stopped and finally looked at her. His face was pinched and he was standing very still. Kamala hurriedly let go of where she’d been thoughtlessly gripping his arm, suddenly wary. “No,” he mumbled eventually. He shook his head forcefully and turned away. “No, I don’t.”

“Oh,” Kamala said. Had she said something wrong? “But—“

Moon Knight sighed. He looked pretty tired. Kamala judiciously decided that this was a side effect of being shot in the head and probably had nothing to do with her. “Look,” he said. “I’ll explain later, ok? Just — those guys will be waking up soon and we need to get out of here.”

“Fine,” Kamala said. She shook her head and forcibly pulled herself together. “Ok. Yeah, you’re right.”

They emerged into the cool New York night. Kamala tried her best to keep up with Moon Knight’s graceful run over the rooftops, skidding on hard light platforms and leaping onto the lips of buildings, but by the time he paused a few blocks away, she was breathing heavily and her legs were burning. Hm. Was Kamala going to have to start doing more cardio? She hated when her mother was right.

Moon Knight turned to her and did something so the cowl of his suit disappeared again. It was so cool. Could she get a suit like that?

“So,” Moon Knight started. “You have questions.” The tone of his voice conveyed clearly that he did not want to answer them, but had accepted it as a necessary sacrifice.

“Yeah,” Kamala said. “Where’d you get your costume?”

Moon Knight’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What?”

“Nevermind. Not important. Haha.” She could find out later. “You told me you’d explain?” She tried to make her voice firm but wasn’t sure it completely succeeded. For lack of knowing what to do with her body, Kamala crossed her arms over her chest and levied the man with her most expectant look.

“Yeah.” Moon Knight was silent for a long moment, head tilted as he stared at her with a severe expression. Kamala was starting to get that this might just be his natural state. Eventually, he said, “You met Steven. I’m Marc.”

Kamala puzzled over that. “Ok,” she said slowly. “How come you guys look the same? If you’re not—“ brothers, she almost said, before remembering Moon Knight’s weird reaction to that word and swallowing it down. “Hold on — are you guys clones?” That would be so cool. Like Star Wars!

“What — no.” Moon Knight — Marc rubbed his hands over his face and muttered something under his breath, letting out an exasperated gust of breath. “He’s — Steven’s my…secret identity.”

Kamala stared at him. “Wait, really?”

Marc nodded, expression stone.

What? Kamala felt a weird feeling rise up from the pit of her stomach, a sort of strange, betrayed disappointment. “So…so — you’re not British?”

Marc made a face. “I’m from Chicago.”

“But — why? Mr Grant—“

“Dont call me that.”

Kamala swallowed roughly. Steven – Marc – Moon Knight’s face was set in a grim frown, eyebrows furrowed and eyes hard. “Why would you – why?”

Moon Knight turned away like he was preparing to leave. “Like I said,” he said, voice distant and flat. “He’s my secret identity. Drop it.”

Kamala didn’t understand. She didn’t understand. Why would he lie to her? Why would he – he let her believe – she thought they were friends. Kamala shook her head and stepped forward, reaching out to grab at him before he could leave. “I don’t – Mr Grant–“

Moon Knight spun on her with a snarl on his face, violent and sudden. “Stop fucking calling me that!”

Kamala flinched back. “Sorry,” she whispered after a second, throat suddenly tight. She hunched her shoulders. God, what the hell was wrong with her? She hated this. She was a superhero — she was Ms Marvel! She was better than this. Superheroes didn’t get freaked out just ‘cause some crotchety old guy yelled at them.

She never would’ve thought anger would look so natural on Mr Grant’s face. But there was nothing of that mild-mannered librarian who rambled sheepishly about ancient history in the man in front of her. Marc was stiff and blunt and dangerous. He probably didn’t even carry caramels in his pockets.

Kamala didn’t get it. Nobody was that good of an actor. She decided very suddenly that Moon Knight was a dick. What, was he pretending to be autistic? That was so fucked up.

Marc sighed again and ran a hand through his hair, anger melting into an awkward sort of guilt. Good, Kamala thought viciously. Yelling at sixteen-year old girls should be a guilt-inducing action.

“Sorry,” Marc said, a fair bit calmer. He balled his hands into fists, but not in a way that looked like he was thinking about punching someone — just like he was uncomfortable, and didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” Kamala denied, ignoring the way her heart was hammering in her throat. “I just — I don’t get it.” Why would he lie to her? Pretend to be someone he wasn’t? Moon Knight wasn’t even a famous superhero. He had, like, one fan-blog. Even Iron Fist was more popular than him, and literally everyone knew who he was. There was no reason that Moon Knight needed to construct a whole entire secret identity — especially one that was British, for whatever reason.

“You don’t need to get it,” Marc said.

Kamala fiddled with the end of her cape and didn’t look at him. She felt like a stupid kid, hurt and gullible. But, she’d thought — she’d thought — “I thought we were friends,” Kamala said, voice small. God, she was so stupid. Obviously they weren’t friends. Kamala was just a stupid, lame little girl and Moon Knight was a superhero. Steven Grant didn’t even exist.

Moon Knight was silent. When Kamala finally glanced over at him, he was staring at her with a really weird look on his face, like he was constipated. Then, abruptly, he jerked his head. Then he did it again. And again.

Oh my god, Kamala thought distantly. He was totally having a seizure. This was some delayed effect of getting shot in the head. She knew she should’ve called an ambulance.

But Moon Knight just threw up his hands and stalked to the other side of the roof, muttering to himself. “I know,” he was saying, “I just — shut up! Jesus fuckin’ christ, you’re so goddamn — I fuckin’ know!”

Kamala watched him, a little disturbed. Marc smacked himself on the side of the head and Kamala jolted, eyes wide. What the actual hell?

“Ok,” Moon Knight said to himself, annoyed. “Ok. Fuckin’ fine!” He turned back to Kamala and she pretended to be very interested in surveying the New York skyline. Huh, she could almost see the Empire State Building from here. That’s so neat! Haha. Oh wow, was it that late? Well, Kamala should probably be heading back now, haha, long way to Jersey City—

“Kid.”

Kamala turned, carefully keeping her expression open and non judgemental. “Uh,” she said. “Hey.”

Moon Knight squinted at her for a second like he thought she was acting weird before shaking his head and saying, “Look. I was lying before. I’m not Steven. He’s not my secret identity.”

What.

Moon Knight said, “me and Steven — we’re two different people. We, uh, have the…same body.” He frowned like the wording didn’t make sense and shook his head again, frustrated. “I don’t know how to explain it, ok? We’re just — we’re crazy. Ok? We’re just — I’m fucking crazy.”

Kamala blinked, mouth falling open in a silent O as she ran back every interaction through this new lens. “Oh,” she said. “I get it.”

Marc stared at her, wary. Slowly, disbelievingly, he said, “You do?”

“Yeah!” Kamala grinned. This made so much sense. “You have DID, right?”

“What?”

“Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

Marc was looking at her with a really strange look on his face, eyes wide and startled. “How — what? You know what that is? How do you know what that is?”

Kamala felt her eyebrows furrow. “Yeah,” she said, puzzled. “I’m on Tumblr.”

“I have no clue what that means,” Marc said blankly. His voice sounded a little shaky.

“It’s a blogsite, it’s like – nevermind.”

Kamala was very suddenly reminded of that thing she always heard people say about dangerous wild animals, like sharks or bears. What was it — that they were always more scared of you than you were of them? She found herself really getting that for the first time. Moon Knight was dangerous, obviously, but — maybe he was scared too. Kamala didn’t really get it. What did an adult man — not to mention an adult man with superpowers — have to be scared of that she wasn’t one thousand times more afraid of? But right now, in this moment, Marc really did look scared.

Kamala took a breath. “Thanks for telling me,” she said, genuine. “I know we don’t know each other very well and you didn’t have to do that. I’m sorry for making you feel bad. It’s just — I thought—“ she swallowed and forced herself to keep talking, because this was important. She didn’t know how she knew — just that she did. This was important and she needed to say it. “When you said Steven wasn’t real I was upset because I really liked Steven and I thought — he seemed to like me. And that doesn’t happen to me a lot. So now that I know he is real I feel a lot better. So thank you.”

Marc just looked at her for a really long time. Finally, he said, “You’re a weird person.”

Kamala laughed a little wildly, dizzy with her relief. Moon Knight wasn’t dead and he wasn’t yelling at her anymore. Everything was going great! “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I actually get that a lot.”

The very corners of Marc’s mouth lifted a little, like he maybe wanted to smile too. Then his face got really serious again and his voice went stern and grim. “Kid, you need to stop doing this. I’m serious. You’re going to get hurt.”

Kamala straightened, smile dropping into a frown of annoyance. “It’s Ms Marvel,” she said firmly. “Or Kamala. Not kid.”

Marc gestured at her, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Don’t tell me your name!”

Kamala crossed her arms and twisted her mouth mulishly. “Why not? You gave me yours.” Also, it wasn’t like Steven didn't already know.

“Yeah, and I’m a fucking — I’m a grown man.” Kamala wondered if she should tell him that censoring himself didn’t really work if he did it after he’d cursed. “You’re like, twelve.”

Kamala scowled in affronted disbelief. “I’m sixteen! I can literally drive!” Well — that was a lie. Kamala had totally tanked her driving test and sworn off vehicles forever, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Whatever,” Marc said dismissively. “You’re a kid. Jesus. You shouldn’t be doing this.” He looked a little sick.

Kamala’s sympathy completely evaporated in the face of her frustration. What the hell did this guy know, huh? He didn’t know her. If Kamala’s parents couldn’t get her to stop, then a random nice librarian’s dick alter sure as hell wouldn’t. Even if he was a superhero. “I’m not gonna stop,” she said stubbornly. “So you can just shut up about it, alright? I’m not a kid. I literally have superpowers, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Marc crossed his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw. “Oh yeah? And what if I hadn’t been there tonight? Can your superpowers stop a bullet?”

He – what?

Kamala stared at him, at a loss for words. She couldn’t help the way her gaze drifted to the side of Marc’s head, where the bullet had hit. There was still blood in his hair. Kamala wondered suddenly if there was blood in her hair. She’d been standing so close to him – she’d felt it, so quick she hadn’t even realized until he was already sliding to the floor and his blood was on the ground and on her hands and staining the bright white of his suit red, red, red–

Marc took a hurried step back. “Why are you making that face,” he said, wary.

Kamala opened her mouth to tell him to shut up – and promptly threw up all over his shoes.

“Ah, jesus,” she heard Marc mutter in disgust, as Kamala gasped and retched, eyes tearing up. She dropped to her hands and knees on the roof, whole body wracked with the force of her nausea as she expelled everything she’d eaten the last twelve hours with blurry vision.

“Groooss,” Kamala moaned, between awful shuddering heaves, “I’m sorry. This is so gross, I’m so sorry.”

Tentatively, she felt a large hand touch her back and start to rub slow circles. “…It’s ok,” Marc said, gruff and awkward. “You’re ok, kid. …Just breathe. Just breathe through it. You’re ok.”

Eventually, Kamala stopped hacking up bile and sat back on her knees, wrinkling her nose at the acrid smell of her throw up. The scent sent another wave of nausea through her so she looked away, pushing herself to standing, and stumbled away from the disgusting puddle of half-digested biryani in somewhat of a daze. The weight of Marc’s hand disappeared from her back like it’d never been there.

“...You good?” Marc said hesitantly.

Kamala quickly wiped her face with her dupatta and nodded. She cleared her throat and coughed a little. “I’m fine,” she said, embarrassed. She forced herself to look at him, bracing herself to see blood and flesh and shards of shattered skull. But it was only Mr Grant’s same familiar face, scrutinizing her with a small frown. Marc’s face. He wasn’t wearing his suit anymore – just a plain pair of jeans and green button-up. He didn’t really look like a superhero anymore. He just looked like a guy. “Where’d your suit go?”

“You got vomit on it.”

“Oh,” Kamala said, looking at her shoes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Kamala was going to assume it was a magic suit, and not that he’d somehow changed clothes at the speed of light while she was busy ralphing all over the place. (Kamala’s life was so weird that magic suit was somehow the normal option here.)

“Shut the fuck up,” Marc said, apropos of nothing.

“Uh.” Kamala blinked. “What?”

Marc grimaced. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

“Oh.” Kamala wanted to know if he talked to himself a lot but she knew that was rude. It was only that she was really curious, to be honest. “Steven?”

“No,” Marc said shortly, and nothing else.

“Ok,” Kamala said, weirdly disappointed. She kind of wished she could talk to Steven right now. The guy had a very soothing presence. It was weird that Marc was so different, even with the same exact face. It was kind of – not creepy! Just…different. It was fine. Kamala would get used to it.

To give herself something to do, she pulled her phone out of her back pocket and powered it on. The low power icon blinked up at her. Kamala stared at it dejectedly. Shit. She grimaced and glanced hesitantly at Marc. “Um, can I borrow your phone to check the bus route? Mine died.”

“No,” Marc said.

“Uh, ok.” Kamala frowned at him, a little offended. So he could save her life but he couldn’t let her borrow his phone? She was right – he was a dick.

Marc rolled his eyes and sighed. He gestured at her superhero outfit. “You can’t ride the bus like that,” he said, like Kamala was being stupid.

Kamala put her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m sixteen and broke,” she said. “I can’t exactly take an uber from here to Jersey city.”

“You live in Jersey City?” Marc muttered, expression twisting in distaste. Then he shook his head. “It's fine – I’ll drive you.” Without fanfare, he vaulted over the side of the roof.

Kamala stared at the now empty space in front of her for a second, thoroughly confused. Then she shook herself and clambered down the fire escape after him. She was still a little nauseous and did not need to make any flashy moves. “Wait,” Kamala hollered, pounding down the metal stairs and hopping to the ground. “Really?”

Marc grunted and headed down the alley at a brisk walk.

Kamala grinned and jogged to catch up with him. “Do you have a car?”

“Nope!”

Kamala followed him as he beelined towards a sleek-looking red convertible. She paused mid-step. “Are you going to steal a car?” she asked disapprovingly.

Marc grinned and winked at her. “I’ll bring it back.”

Kamala almost tripped over her own feet with the force of her shock.

“Aw, hell yeah!” Marc called, giving a low whistle as he pat the car on the hood, ignorant to Kamala’s sudden gaping. “Ey, patoja, you see this? Now this is a fuckin’ car!”

Kamala stared at him, eyes wide. Since when could he emote?

Marc pulled something – a knife? – from his back pocket and did something mysterious to the car door, humming under his breath. Kamala watched in silence as he worked, suddenly very unsure if this was a good idea. But, like – he had saved her life, hadn’t he? It was probably fine.

“Get in, get in,” Marc ushered, sticking his head into the car and fiddling with the console. It sparked brightly and he laughed.

Kamala threw up a Bismillah and opened the passenger door.

Marc tried to stand up and banged his head on the doorway. “Fuck!” he straightened hurriedly, acting like nothing had happened, and pointed an accusing finger over the roof of the car. “Ah-ah-ah. I look like your mom, kid? Don’t answer that. Backseat.”

Kamala silently shut the door. Maybe she should’ve just bit the bullet and taken the bus.

Well. Little late for that now. She wasn’t about to be rude. Kamala got in the backseat.

Marc swung into the driver’s seat after her, muttering to himself while he twisted wires in the console together. Kamala curiously tried to figure out what he was doing. Who knew – what if she had to steal a car someday? “Yeah, yeah,” Marc was saying, a bitchy note in his voice like he was rolling his eyes. “Shut up already, asshole. I’m a better driver than you.”

Marc fell silent for a second before his voice abruptly rang out loudly in the small car. “Stop callin’ me a douche! You’re a douche!”

His voice fell into near-silent muttering again until the car came alive with an audible rumble. Then he turned to look at Kamala and frowned. “The hell are you doing back there? I’m not a cab driver. Get up here.”

Kamala stared at him. Then she got out of the car and slid into the front. “I’m staying in this seat,” she announced loudly.

Marc shot her a weird look. “Uh, ok? Put your seatbelt on.”

Once Kamala was strapped in and Marc had pulled the stolen car onto the street, she turned to him. “So,” she said casually, “Marc?”

Marc grunted.

Kamala nodded to herself. “So that’s Steven, Marc, and…”

Marc was silent for a long moment. “Jake,” he said finally, like it physically hurt to confess.

“He seemed nice,” Kamala said magnanimously.

Marc glanced over at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t know,” Kamala mused. “He made a lot more facial expressions than you.”

Marc rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s funny.”

“Is he?”

Marc shot her a look like what do you think? “Where am I going?”

Kamala opened her mouth to tell him.

“Don’t give me your home address.”

Kamala slowly closed her mouth.

“Jesus kid,” Marc muttered under his breath.

Kamala rolled her eyes. After a moment of thought, she gave him the street of the shawarma place a couple blocks from her house. She was kind of hungry.

There was another long stretch of silence as the car sped through New York, and then Kamala said, “can I ask you a question?”

Marc grunted. Kamala was starting to think that he thought this was an effective method of communication. They’d have to work on that.

“What is it like?”

Marc glanced at her. “What, being crazy?”

Kamala frowned. “No,” she said. “Having DID.”

Marc smiled but there was no humour in it. “That’s what I said.”

Kamala turned around in her seat and looked at him. The lights of the city flashed by the window of the car, lighting his face up red and white. Blood and bone. “Why do you keep saying that? It’s – you shouldn’t say that. People with mental illness aren’t crazy.”

Marc snorted. The sound was bitter. His fingers were drumming on the steering wheel and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Yeah, whatever.”

Kamala sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, her stomach twisting uncomfortably.

After a while, Marc sighed. “It’s…loud.”

“What?” Kamala turned to him. Marc silently checked his sideview mirrors and turned onto the bridge. “Oh.”

Marc shrugged. He drummed his fingers a little faster on the wheel and shot a quick glance at her. “Did it scare you? The whole–” he waved a hand over his face. “Jake.”

Kamala blinked. “No?”

A beat of silence. Then– “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Kamala said, a little offended. “I mean, I’m not used to it, sure, but I wasn’t scared. And, even if I was, that wouldn’t be your fault. It’d be mine.”

“You’re a weird kid,” Marc said after a moment. There was a look on his face like he didn’t want to talk anymore.

“You already said that,” Kamala said, unimpressed. “Get some new material.”

Marc snorted.

After a moment of thought, Kamala asked, “Are you a mutant?”

“No.”

Kamala furrowed her brow. “Okay…Are you a super soldier?” She wasn’t sure there was anything about supersoldiers walking off getting shot in the head, but hey — Steve Roger’s survived crashing a plane and being frozen solid, didn't he? Maybe she wasn’t too far off.

Marc shot her a confused, narrow eyed look. “No? What the hell are these questions?”

Kamala squinted at him. “Um, your powers?” She gasped excitedly, eyes going wide. “Hold on — are you like an alien or something? Like Thor?”

“I’m from Chicago,” Marc said flatly. “I’m the Avatar of the Egyptian god of the moon. The reason I can’t die is because he won’t let me. Now, will you stop asking me questions?”

“Woah,” Kamala said. The twitter theories had been way off. (Everyone sort of just assumed he was on crazy kinds of drugs. Moon Knight had a weird reputation, for someone so reclusive.) “So. Kind of like Thor?”

Marc sighed. “Sure, kid. Just like Thor.”

Kamala shivered as a breeze ruffled her hair. She went to turn the A/C down only to find it was already off. Weird.

Under his breath, Marc muttered, “calm down. I don’t care about your weird Asgardian thing.” He paused, then snorted. “If you say so.”

Kamala didn’t know if it was rude to ask someone to narrate the voices in their head, so she kept her mouth shut. She wanted to know if it was Steven he was talking to, though — could he see her? Did he know what was happening? Kamala didn’t know nearly enough about this stuff. She wanted to, though. She wanted to understand, and more than anything she didn’t want Marc or Steven or Jake to find her offensive.

Aw, man. Was Kamala going to have to join Discord?

“I’m a mutant,” Kamala volunteered. “Apparently. But I only know ‘cause of these things.” She held them up so Marc could see. He barely glanced at them, humming under his breath. “They were my great grandmother’s — but she only found them. That’s why I wanted to find out all that stuff Steven’s been helping me with. I don’t know where they’re from or anything about why they let me do the stuff I can do.”

“Alright,” Marc said. “I mean – does it matter?”

“What?”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Who cares why we can do the things we do? We can do them, we have to live with it. The why or how is irrelevant.”

“I don’t know,” Kamala said unsurely, watching the whizz of the city racing by. Something in her chest warmed at hearing Moon Knight’s use of we. She was like him! They were a we! “But, like, wouldn’t you want to know? If you didn’t know you were…an Avatar for a god, but you could do that stuff anyways – wouldn’t you want to know why?”

Marc was silent for long enough that Kamala glanced over a little uneasily. His brow was furrowed, and his knuckles were clenched around the wheel. “No,” he said finally, tone brokering no arguments. “I wouldn’t.”

Kamala frowned but didn’t push. She didn’t understand it, but that was fine. She was used to grown-ups dismissing her scattered obsessions and seemingly inane questions. She went back to looking out the window and found her mind drifting into that familiar place of make-believe. She imagined being back at that warehouse, only this time she was there as Moon Knight’s sidekick – no, his superhero partner. She could picture it…

“Look out,” Kamala shouted, sending a beam of hard light racing towards a goon swinging their gun at Moon Knight’s unprotected head. She did a graceful flip and kicked another one straight across the jaw, landing on her feet with an artful toss of her hair.

Moon Knight sent a crescent dart whizzing past her, pinning a huge man by the sleeves of his coat to the wall behind him. “Not so shabby, kid,” he called, nonchalantly sticking his arm out to clothesline an approaching henchman.

Kamala grinned and did a spinning kick to knock out yet another goon. “I told you, it’s Ms Marvel,” she shot back, striking a pose with her hands on her hips. “Now, what say you we get what we came here for?”

Marc grunted an affirmative and turned with a swirl of his cape. “Good thinking, Ms Marvel.”

Kamala followed him deeper into the warehouse. The criminals were down, and it was time to…time to…to…

“Hey,” Kamala said, straightening in her seat. “Hold on a second. How come you were at that warehouse, anyways?”

Marc glanced over. “The same reason you were, I’m guessing.”

“I was only scoping it out,” Kamala said. “I was trying to find this missing kid.” Who she still hadn’t found – would Moon Knight help her with that? Or…maybe it was stupid. Maybe Kamala was being stupid. What if he told her she was going after the wrong stuff? What if she wasted his time? Teenagers ran away all the time, and the cops always said there was nothing to do about it. Probably it was nothing, and he’d tell Kamala that she was making a big deal out of nothing. Like she always did.

Kamala shook her head, forcibly redirecting her thoughts. “Is that what you were doing?”

“Oh. No. I was…there on a mission. Got side-tracked.”

“What sort of mission?”

Marc was silent for a moment. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh,” Kamala said, realization sinking heavy in her stomach. “Were you – were you going to kill those guys?”

“...I mostly don’t kill people,” Marc said eventually. The tone of his voice was clearly meant to be reassuring. Kamala did not feel very reassured. It was the mostly part that she was having trouble with.

“Ok,” Kamala said, “sure.” She’d seen the blog posts, man. Her father’s voice whispered in the back of her head – ‘whoever kills a soul it is as if he had slain mankind entirely’. But there was more to that ayah, wasn’t there? And Moon Knight didn’t kill innocent people. Kamala didn’t know what she thought about this. She didn’t want to kill anyone ever. But the Avengers did it, didn’t they? Maybe that was just part of being a superhero. She hoped not. She really, really hoped not.

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” Marc said, startling her with the force of it. He was looking at her very intently, brown gaze severe.

“Jeez, alright!” Kamala yelped. “Eyes on the road, dude!”

Marc muttered something under his breath and swerved back into the lane. “I wasn’t,” he said again. He slapped his palm against the wheel and scowled at nothing. “I wasn’t.”

“Alright,” Kamala said again, eyeing him nervously. “Sorry.”

Marc glanced at her. He cleared his throat and loosened his grip on the wheel. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “We’re almost here.”

Kamala perked up and looked out the window. “Sick.” She grinned. “Thanks! Uh – do you wanna get shawarma?”

Marc parked the car in front of the shop and turned to look at her. “No.”

“Oh.” She nodded a bunch of times. “Right, right. You’re probably, like, super busy, right?”

Marc kept looking at her, silent and blank-faced.

Kamala inched towards the door. “So…I’ll just –” She jerked a thumb out the car and clicked her tongue.

“Go home.”

Kamala nodded some more. “Right. Yep. Going home!” She hopped out and called, “Goodnight, Moon Knight!”

She stood on the curb for a second, watching the stolen car disappear down the road. Once she was sure it was gone, she put her hands over her mouth and let out a muffled squeal of excitement. Superhero team-up! Nobody died (permanently)! Things were looking up!

Man, Sheikh Abdullah had been right. Kamala was never missing another one of his lectures for the rest of her life.

She turned on her heel and headed for the shawarma place, a skip in her step. Man, Bruno was not going to believe the night she’d had.

Chapter Text

“Are you serious? Moon Knight?”

Kamala shushed Bruno loudly, flapping her hands at him. “Keep your voice down!” She grinned and leaned closer to him, dropping her voice into a whisper. “But, I know, right? Isn’t that freaking awesome?”

But Bruno didn’t really look like he thought it was freaking awesome. He just looked kind of worried. “I don’t know, Kamala,” he said slowly. “Isn’t Moon Knight kind of, like…”

Kamala frowned at him. “Kind of what?” Awesome? Dope as hell?

Bruno blinked, taken aback at her defensiveness. “I dunno – freaky? Terrifying? He kills people.”

Kamala busied herself with pretending to work on her vocabulary sheet. Her and Bruno were both taking second-period Spanish and she had not been keeping up with her practice. “He only kills criminals,” she pointed out, halfheartedly trying to remember how to conjugate a verb. “And not just like, drug dealers and poor people. Actual bad guys.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s some really dedicated blogs out there,” Kamala said. The guy had some die-hard fans. Who would’ve guessed? Admittedly, most of them were Moon Knight/Scarlet Scarab truthers. Kamala was of the mind that Scarlet Scarab – a relatively new Middle Eastern superhero who she’d fallen into a bit of a rabbit hole researching last night – was way out of Marc’s league, but whatever. She was doing her best to steer clear of fanfic. It was a little weird to read when you’d actually met the guy/seen the inside of his skull.

Bruno had that furrow in his brow he got when Kamala was doing something he didn’t understand. “Maybe we should talk to Nakia about this,” he said finally. Like Kamala’s life decisions were a democracy. She rolled her eyes. Whatever.

At lunch, her and Bruno talked Nakia into eating in the stairwell with all the dick graffiti instead of the cafeteria, so they could talk in private.

Nakia settled against the floor with her arms crossed, raising an imperious eyebrow. “If we catch people hooking up again I’m ditching you for the rest of the semester,” she announced. “Finding new people to eat lunch with.”

Bruno rolled his eyes. “You don’t have any other friends.” Nakia threw her water bottle at him.

He dodged, yelping. “Are you crazy, lady? That thing’s metal!”

Ignoring him, Nakia turned to Kamala. “So? What’s this big secret?”

Kamala told her.

Nakia looked appropriately stunned. “Woah,” she said. “You’re kidding.”

“Nah, man. Inshallah,” Kamala attested. “He totally saved my life.”

“Woah,” Nakia repeated. “What was he like?”

“So cool,” Kamala gushed.

Nakia raised an eyebrow. To Bruno, she said, “I see what you mean.”

Bruno threw up his hands, as if to say, Thank you!

Kamala glanced between them, suspicious. “What?”

“Bruno thinks you’re letting your fangirl tendencies overrule your common sense again.”

Kamala pointed at them. “Unfair. Again?”

“I’m just saying,” Bruno said delicately, “you have a reputation.”

“And so does Moon Knight,” Nakia interjected. “You know what people call him?”

Kamala thought about it. “The inspector Holmes of kung-fu madmen?”

“No, you dweeb. They call him the B-list Punisher.”

That was so unfair. Moon Knight wasn’t B-list! He was…ok so maybe he was B-list. But it’s not like the Punisher was an A-list vigilante. He was just a guy with a lot of guns and a really depressing back-story.

“Moon Knight kills way less people than the Punisher,” Kamala protested.

“‘Only some people,’ is still too many people!” Bruno said.

Nakia shushed him. She looked at Kamala intently. “I hate to be the one to say it, but I kind of feel like you’re only defending him because he’s the first other vigilante you’ve met. It could’ve been literally anyone and you’d be saying the same.”

“That’s not true,” Kamala insisted stubbornly. “I wouldn’t care if it was Iron Fist.”

“Well, that's ‘cause Iron Fist is lame.” They all nodded their agreement in regards to Iron Fist’s obvious lameness.

“Fuck billionaires,” Kamala said.

“Fuck billionaires,” Nakia agreed immediately, on principle. “But also, like, aren’t half of New York’s heroes just rich white guys with anger issues?”

“Marc’s not white,” Kamala said. “And I’m pretty sure he’s not rich.” Being a librarian wasn’t a very lucrative gig. Also, she was pretty sure if he was rich he would wear better clothes.

Nakia frowned. “Marc?”

“Oh my god.” Bruno pointed at her, gaping. “You know Moon Knight’s secret identity? What the hell! I thought you just fought with him!”

Kamala grimaced. “Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “Fought is a strong word.”

Nakia grabbed her hands and stared her hard in the eyes. “Kamala Khan,” she said firmly. “Spill.”

Kamala was very susceptible to peer pressure. She spilled. Her friends listened intently, eyebrows rising progressively higher with disbelief as her story progressed. She left some stuff out, obviously, but it was pretty much a scene by scene rendition of her night. “—so then I asked him if he wanted shawarma and he was like, ‘nah, I’m all good. There’s a burning orphanage I’ve gotta go save. But I’ll totally take you up on that offer later. Thanks for all your hard work out there.’ And then he jet off. It was pretty cool.”

“Holy shit,” Bruno said. “Did that seriously happen?”

“Ok well — he didn’t exactly say yes to getting shawarma later, but the sentiment was totally there. I could see it in his face.”

“No,“ Bruno waved his hands with a shake of his head, “not the shawarma stuff, that obviously isn’t true. I mean — did Moon Knight actually get shot in the head?”

“Oh.” Kamala deflated a little. She shrugged. “Yeah. It was wild.”

“Oh my god,” Nakia said, eyes wide. “Are you ok?”

“What?” Kamala frowned. “Yeah, of course. I didn't get shot.”

Bruno and Nakia shared a significant look. “Still,” Nakia said slowly. “You were right next to him, right? That must’ve been really scary. And, like, traumatizing?”

“Oh.” Kamala made very pointed eye contact with a poorly drawn penis next to Nakia’s head and shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess. It’s whatever. I’m going to have to get used to that stuff, right? To seeing—“ she swallowed and tried very hard not to think of the way Moon Knight’s blood had stained bright and crimson on his gleaming white suit. “that sort of thing.”

“You shouldn’t have to!” Bruno said. “This is what I’m talking about. Moon Knight’s the type of person people shoot at. You’re—“

“What?” Kamala interrupted. “What am I? A little girl playing superhero? Just some weird brown kid who got lucky and thinks she can actually make a difference? A stupid fangirl with no common sense?”

Both her friends were staring at her. Slowly, Nakia said, “Kamala…”

Kamala stood up abruptly, shoving her backpack over her shoulder. She wasn’t hungry anymore. “This is what I do,” she said firmly. “I’m saving people. I’m sorry if you guys don’t get that. But Ms Marvel’s a vigilante. She’s got more in common with Moon Knight than with either of you.”

Maybe Kamala was being harsh. But they obviously didn’t get it – how could they? She didn’t stick around to see her friend’s faces twist into hurt. She just turned and walked straight out of the school without looking back. She had a spare next period and her last class never took attendance — she didn’t have to waste her next two hours with this. Ms Marvel had more important things to think about than high school geography class.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when she hopped off the bus at the library. But she was somehow surprised to find Steven hunched over at his desk as usual, muttering to himself as he whacked the side of his ancient desktop.

Kamala took a deep breath, hiked her backpack higher on her shoulders and marched forwards.

“Stupid hunk of junk,” Steven grumbled under his breath, scowling lightly at the computer. He was dressed frumpily as ever, in a plaid sweater vest over a button-up. He didn’t look like someone who could beat up twelve armed men single-handedly.

Kamala hesitated in front of his desk, suddenly nervous. “...Mr Grant?”

Steven looked up, blinking owlishly at her behind his dweeby reading glasses. “Kamala! What are you doing here?”

Kamala’s shoulders dropped a little in relief. She hadn’t really expected him to speak in Marc’s voice, it was just – she wasn’t sure. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you?”

Steven frowned, tilting his head. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I had a free period.”

“Alright. Well – I was just about to take lunch, but I can push it back a couple of minutes. Are you returning those books from last time?”

“You can take your lunch,” Kamala said. “It’s not about that. It’s about. Um.” She dropped her voice low. “Our mutual friend?”

Steven’s eyes went a little far-away like he was listening to something. Now that Kamala was paying attention, it was a very familiar expression. She’d always figured he was just thinking hard about something like slowly rotting ancient people with their brains and stuff sucked out. Not that he was hearing an American man in his head. “Ah,” Steven said finally. “Alright. But – you’re almost overdue on those books, you know.” His voice turned disapproving.

“Sure, whatever,” Kamala said hurriedly, grabbing him by the arm and tugging. “Let’s go!”

Steven ate his lunch everyday in the park across from the library entrance. Today he had a tupper-ware filled with quinoa salad and a large assortment of protein bars he made a face at and didn’t touch. Apparently, he was a vegan. Kamala was getting a real glimpse into his life today.

Steven’s tupperware had a post-it note attached to it. He scanned it quickly and balled it up before Kamala could catch a glimpse of what it said.

“So,” Steven started, in between bites of his salad. “You met Marc.”

“Yeah.”

“I have to say, I wasn’t really expecting to see you again.”

Kamala frowned. “Why not?”

“Well,” Steven pointed his fork at her. “Like I said. You met Marc.”

“...I don’t understand.”

Steven cocked his head. He put his fork down and looked at her head-on. “Well, I didn’t see much of it,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I don’t really stick around for all that. Moon Knight-ing. But Marc is generally…Well.” He gestured a little uselessly, searching for the right words, before settling on, “He’s famously a bit of a knob. I’m sure you’d know.”

Kamala giggled a little. Knob. British insults were so funny. She swallowed her amusement and shrugged, saying, “I thought he was cool.”

“Get better taste,” Steven told her honestly.

Kamala didn’t really know what to say to that. Was it normal for DID alters not to like each other? “Is it only Marc that’s Moon Knight, then?”

“Mostly,” Steven said. He lowered his voice. “But – do you know how Moon Knight sometimes wears a three-piece suit?” Kamala nodded. Steven grinned, and proudly declared, “That’s me!”

“Really?”

“Yep!”

“Awesome,” Kamala gushed. She’d known another superhero this whole time! “What about the black suit?”

“Oh.” Steven sat back, waving a flippant hand. “That’s Jake. He’s – the other one.” His voice was carefully casual. A little tight.

“I met Jake,” Kamala told him. So there was only three of them? That was probably good to know.

Steven blinked and sat up straight, alarmed. “What? Really?” His brow furrowed a little in worry. “What did he do? Did he scare you?”

That’s what Marc had asked too, wasn’t it? What the hell was this Jake guy’s deal? “No,” Kamala said slowly. She shook her head and decided she was better off not asking. “Do you really know Scarlet Scarab?”

“Know her?” Steven’s eyes lit up, the problem of Jake summarily forgotten. “Well, of course – She's only my wife!”

“Woah.” Kamala blinked. “You have a wife?”

Steven started to nod – and stopped. His face went slack. Hardened. “She’s my wife, dickhead. Not yours.”

Kamala felt a little jarred. “...Marc?”

“Yeah.” Marc gave an awkward half-wave. “Hey, kid.”

Did he not know her name? Kamala was convinced he just didn’t know her name. “Kamala,” she told him anyway, “not kid. Wait, wait – you have a wife?”

Marc narrowed his eyes. “You sound surprised. Why do you sound surprised? You weren’t surprised at Steven having a wife.”

“Uh.” Kamala gulped. “No reason.”

Marc huffed. Kamala scrutinized him. Even the way he held himself was different. While Steven’s face was open and friendly, Marc’s seemed stuck in a perpetual half-frown. Kamala had never known a sweater vest to be worn dangerously before.

The sudden switch from Marc back to Steven was visible, and a little disorienting to watch. What must that feel like? Did alters get nausea from switching? She hadn’t got the chance to do any research yet, too caught up in Moon Knight specific trawling.

“Sorry about that,” Steven said, shaking out his limbs a little. “Like I said: total knob.”

“Oh,” Kamala said. “Um. I actually kind of wanted to talk to him?”

“Marc?” Steven frowned. “What about?” Was it just Kamala’s imagination, or did he maybe look kind of hurt?

“Not that I don’t enjoy talking to you,” Kamala hurried to say. “It’s just – I had a question. For Marc.” A thought occurred to her – was it rude to ask an alter to switch on command? Could they even do that? Quickly, she added, “So if you could maybe pass a message on to him?”

Steven appeared to relax slightly. Inwardly, Kamala let out a breath of relief. “Don’t see why not,” Steven said genially. “What’s the question?”

“Well – I was just wondering. Uh...” Kamala took a deep breath and blurted out, “Doyouthinkhewouldteachmehowtofight?”

Steven blinked. “How ‘bout let's roll that back one more time for me.”

Kamala grimaced and fiddled with her thumbs. This was way more embarrassing than she’d anticipated. She took another breath, and steeled herself forcefully. She was Ms Marvel. She was networking. She was finding a goddamned teacher. She made herself look Steven in the face, even though he hardly ever really met her eyes. “I need to learn how to fight,” she told him firmly, making sure not to rush her words this time. “Marc was right. Last night – if he wasn’t there, I could’ve died. I almost did die.” She dropped her gaze to her clenched fists, frowning. “I have these awesome powers, but– they don’t mean anything if I can’t even fight off one normal guy with a gun. I have to learn more than just how to get back up again.” She glanced up at Steven, searching his expression for clues. “Do you – do you get that?”

“Sure,” he said, blasé. “I’ll teach ya.”

Kamala stared at him. Hesitantly, she said, “Marc?”

He grinned and shot a finger gun at her with a click of his tongue. “Try again.”

“...Jake?”

“Ding-ding-ding!” Jake stretched his legs out lackadaisically. “So,” he said, suddenly cheerful, “You’ve come to Uncle Jakie to learn how to murk a motherfucker! Great first step, patoja.”

“Please don’t call yourself that,” Kamala said. “Also I don’t want to…murk?…anyone? I really just want to learn how to fight. So I don’t die.”

Jake waved breezily. “Potato, tomato!” (“That’s not the saying,” Kamala mumbled.) He pointed at her sternly, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners. “They say offense is the best defense, you know. You’ve gotta get ‘em before they get you.”

“Right,” Kamala said agreeably, inching a little bit away from him as he dug a pack of cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket and lit up. Her parents would actually kill her if she came home smelling of smoke. “But like, me getting them is hopefully gonna be more me tying them up and waiting for the cops than…ya know.” She mimed a ridiculous stabbing motion with one hand and shrugged. “Keep it PG-13, ya know?”

Jake made a ‘psh’ sound around his cigarette. “You gonna trust those pigs to keep it kid-friendly? Ya wanna know something about the American prison system, chica? ‘Cause trust me–” He jerked, something in his neck audibly cracking as his eyes slipped shut for a beat before opening. When he looked back at Kamala the cheerful, borderline manic grin had been replaced with a scowl.

“I’m not teaching you to fight,” Marc said. “And she’s not killing anyone. Fuckin’ christ.”

Kamala was never getting used to that. She rallied quickly. “Please?” She said, eyes wide and pleading. “I’ll be a great student, trust! I get straight-A’s!”

“No way,” Marc said resolutely. He took a drag of the cigarette between his fingers somewhat absentmindedly and flinched. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered, irritated. He took a couple more hurried inhales before stubbing the cigarette out on the bench somewhat wistfully.

“But why not?” Kamala asked, struggling to keep the whine out of her voice. Taking a page out of Nakia’s book, she said, “Don’t you want to pass on your knowledge to the next generation of POC superheroes?”

“I’m not a superhero,” Marc said immediately. He wrinkled his nose. “And – seriously?”

“We’ve gotta stick together out here,” Kamala said resolutely. “Solidarity! Remember where you came from!”

“Uh-huh,” Marc drawled, eyebrow raised. “And where did I come from, exactly?”

“Uh.” Kamala laughed a little nervously. “Can I pass on that one?”

“That’s what I thought.”

Kamala waved her hands, frustrated. “Ok, whatever – forget that part. Imparting wisdom on the future generations! Sending forth your years of experience!”

“You’re making me seem way older than I am,” Marc said, with a hint of annoyance. “What about me makes me look like a schoolteacher to you?”

Kamala discreetly eyed his sweater-vest.

Marc scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Shut up.”

She didn’t even say anything! Kamala threw her hands up. “Jake said he’d teach me!”

“Woah,” Marc said flatly. “That’s fucked up. Really?”

Kamala looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She frowned down at her shoes, swallowing her disappointment. This really was not going the way she’d imagined it. She’d let herself get carried away in the daydream of it all again – Ms Marvel and Moon Knight, fighting crime and keeping the city safe, one beat-down at a time. There went her plans of getting a cape and adding a sick hood to her costume.

After a moment of Kamala’s dejected silence, Marc sighed. The sound was exasperated, and a little defeated. “You’re really serious about this?”

Kamala peeked up at him. She straightened hurriedly, the hope rising in her gut dizzying and fluttery. “Yeah,” she said, nodding quickly. “It’s like you said – My powers can’t stop a bullet.” Probably. She hadn’t ever tested it. A little unnecessarily, Kamala added, “I don’t really want to get shot.”

“And there’s no way you’ll listen to me if I tell you to drop the whole fighting crime thing ‘til you’re older?” Marc checked, sounding like he really hoped the answer would be yes but was starting to know better.

Kamala shook her head.

Marc sighed again. He put his face in his hands and let out a long, muffled groan. Kamala patiently waited for him to be done. He looked up at the sky, then at her. Sighed again. “Fine.”

Hell yeah! Kamala pumped her fist and swallowed a squeal. “Yes! This is gonna be so awesome! Like Batman and Robin!” She gasped in realization. “We’ll be just like the Hawkeyes!”

“Oh my god,” Marc said. “I think this is actually the worst day of my life.”

Kamala pointed at him and tried unsuccessfully to tamp down on her obvious excitement. “You won’t regret this,” she promised.

Marc rubbed a hand over his face. His eyes bore into her, dark and intent and serious. “Yeah. Make sure I don’t.”