Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Steven is pretty sure that public transit is both a blessing and a curse.

It’s good, obviously, to have a way for people to get around big cities and avoid adding even more traffic to the already polluted roadways. The drawback came that cars still existed, and so did pedestrians, and weather alerts, and construction, and the hundreds upon hundreds of other things that could delay the system. Steven might not have been a true-born Londoner, but the amount of time he spent being inconvenienced by the public transit probably made him one.

Sure, it wasn’t a big deal in the morning. Most of his coworkers at the bookshop he worked at took the bus or walked, so it was acceptable to be a few minutes late because some person decided to argue with the driver over losing their card. And since his sleep schedule had gotten straightened out (among other things in his life), he has only missed his bus a handful a times. So, for the most part, Steven is doing better.

It’s more annoying when he’s done work and wants to get home. That rush was on a tighter schedule, because often time Steven only has a few hours to get back to the flat, maybe have a cuppa and read his book, before Jake had to get changed over and head out to clock in for an evening of cab fares. At least Steven didn’t have to pay attention for that. He can basically just do the mental equivalent of a four-hour nap without feeling guilty about wasting his day.

(Of course, it isn’t really a nap — the body still needed to rest eventually. Just because Steven wasn’t working didn’t mean the brain wasn’t and all brains still needed sleep to function. Maybe theirs could run a bit less than usual because of the nighttime god they were also acquainted with. But he still needed to remind Marc not to keep them up too late. Steven was the one who dealt with the mornings, usually. He was sure his coworkers were getting worried about his caffeine habits.)

It also doesn’t help when the weather decided to tantrum. Especially when he had forgotten his umbrella.

“Oh, there we are.” He says to his empty flat upon stepping inside. “Blimey, it’s cold in here.”

It’s the dead of October, and heating is expensive. No reason to waste a bill by keeping the heating on when nobody is home. Still, soaked to the bone as he is, Steven wishes he had the foresight to prepare something for when he came back. Like dry clothes set out or a towel folded up by the door so he didn’t truck an entire flood inside with him. Or, like he had already grumbled about, an umbrella that morning when he had noticed the clouds had been grey.

Honestly, it would be nice to have any foresight at all. Khonshu could apparently tell the future in some legends, but he claims all those had all been exaggerations. The bird could never be useful if he even tried.

As Steven shucks off his water-logged shoes and very carefully gets his jacket off without splashing more raindrops everywhere, there is an itch in the back of his head. It’s like the nagging feeling he gets when there is something important on his mind he was thinking about without actually thinking about; though, it technically wasn’t Steven’s thoughts at the moment. Just some other bloke.

Did someone forget to pay the heating bill? Marc mumbles like he had just woken up. Steven mouths the words along to himself, then shakes his head to get his own reply back on his tongue.

“No, it went through last week. I remember to double-check this time!” Seriously, automatic banking was almost just as good as public transit — when it worked. Sometimes the separate bank accounts still get confusing. “Right, let’s get this on …”

Every step he takes squeaks from his wet socks against the old floors, and he’s glad Marc’s aware right now because he did not want to slip and slam his head against the bookshelf again (Jake had laughed at that for ages). There’s a post-it on the thermostat as Steven fiddles with the dial, reminding someone to check that the bill got paid; it’s penned in Marc’s usual chicken-scratch, but coloured by red ink, indicating Jake’s collection of pens he keeps on him for his sudoku puzzles.

The heating clicks on. Steven sighs again, pushing the last of the raindrops from his sore lungs, and plods over to the nearest window. The rain is still going strong. For once, the streets of London are almost empty. Of course, there’s always people bustling about — especially on their street, with the rows of towering flats around them — but less so than usual.

Marc must be happy. Steven isn’t sure why he chose this flat in the first place (from what he’s gathered, it was a safe house before Steven … took residence). The view is terrific but Marc still glowers about the windows being a security risk. Probably the allure of being able to sneak in and out of them like a masked man in the middle of the night was too much to resist.

Steven blinks, not realizing his eyes had gone crossed and vision all blurry, staring off into space. When he refocuses, his reflection in the window is no longer his own — instead, Marc stares pensively at nothing, his face unshaven but at odd ends with the slick-back part of his hair. There’s even a bandage across the bridge of his nose like he split it in a fist fight. He wears Steven’s clothes, but the colours are distorted from the bubbling of the window glass (it’s an old flat and cheaper than what it should be. Another reason, likely, for Marc to have wanted it.)

Besides the clothing, he looks the same as he did in the Duat. Steven knows it’s just the way he pictures him, now that he knows Marc and Jake are separate from him and they no longer appear as just his reflection with a fancy accent. It’s only been since the fight with Harrow’s old lackeys that the image became so solid. Though he’s not sure why, out of everything, his brain picked this.

“Nice weather for the ducks.” He comments idly instead of thinking about that.

Marc loses his thoughtfulness, pinching his nose right across the bandage. Why do you say these things?

“Because it’s true! Haven’t you seen the ducks on the roof?” He waves Marc off. “They’re positively giddy.”

The rain splatters against Marc’s cheeks in the window, covering him in funny starbursts splotches. Why would I see the ducks on the roof?

I’ve seen the ducks on the roof.

When Steven tilts his head to see his reflection in the next window pane, he isn’t surprised to see Jake is now occupying it, grinning with all his teeth. He’s got a hat on and driving gloves and a weird smattering of facial hair, which Steven isn’t sure where his brain picked that up from. Still, he does look dapper enough — though Steven shouldn’t say that to him, it’ll go to his head.

“See! Jake has seen the ducks on the roof!” He points at Jake, then wanders away from the window towards the fish tank, content with his point.

He picks up a few old post-it notes along the way that are stuck to various surfaces. There’s one stuck on a support pillar as a reminder to deposit a paystub, which he knows Jake did last night; another one is about a list of possible dentists offices they might check out, but apparently having a healing factor when the moon is bright takes care of cavities (or at least Marc says so; Steven thinks he might just be scared of getting a filling). For the most part, the system is working — as best as it can be was juggling three different lives at once.

Steven tosses them in the rubbish when he reaches the fish tank. The colourful gravel at the bottom of the tank smears the glass in rainbow. Somewhere near the top of his head or between his ribs, he can hear Jake chuckling, and there’s a pleasant pressure over his skull. Like one of those weighted blanket things they sell by the front counter at the bookshop next to the overpriced bookmarks and mugs too kitschy even for him.

Marc is still not soothed about the ducks. I’m pretty sure you guys are confusing them with something else. Ducks don’t go on roofs.

“I know what a duck looks like, Marc.” Steven rolls his eyes. Now he crouches next to the fish tank, so he can tap the glass and see the three colourful shapes bopping around between the fake sea grass. “Hello buddies! How are you guys doing today?”

He gets no answer from the fishes except for the water filter bubbling. Gus, Not-Gus, and Not-Not-Gus (Jake, for picking out the third fish, was terrible at naming it) likely are just waiting for their dinner. Steven reaches up to the top shelf to grab the fish food, and by the time he’s opened the top to tap the flakes in, Jake’s reflection is shining through the glass of the water tank, tugging at the brim of his hat.

Ducks can fly, they can go on roofs. Says Jake.

Yes, but they prefer the water. They’re not pigeons. Marc replies, scratching at his face when Steven glances up at the mirrors suspended above the fish tank. Are you sure you guys aren’t confusing them with pigeons?

Do you also think I don’t know what a duck looks like?

Steven taps the food into the water, and all three fishes make a beeline for it. Or a fishline? That just makes him think of fishing rods and hooks that dig into skin and he hides his grimace. So he watches the three goldfish circle around each other, enjoying their food and their company.

“Hungry, aren’t ya’?” Steven screws the cap back on the fish food and puts it aside, fitting the lid back on carefully. “That’s okay, I’m feeling a bit starved myself. Forgot my umbrella and my lunch today.”

Jake settles a bit, somewhere in the space between Steven’s eyes. Not your day today, eh, Steven?

“Not really.” He sighs. He goes to take a step towards the kitchen, and hears the squelch of his socks again. “Right. Dry clothes. Dry clothes first.”

Marc and Jake keep going on about the ducks even as he heads to the cabinet to pull out a clean outfit.

Anyways, the roof has been plenty wet enough for ducks to be up there. Says Jake, pulling away and back towards wherever Marc chooses to occupy himself. Basically an ocean.

Marc growls and Steven feels it in his teeth. Why are we still having this conversation?

Just admit you’re oblivious and missed the ducks, Marc.

Oh my god.

“There’s ducks on the roof, Marc.” Steven adds as he finishes dressing and tosses the wet clothes into the hamper. Marc and Jake are back in the reflections as he walks by, alternating with each mirror he passes.

Anyone that came into their flat must think of them vain with the amount of mirrors around — there’s about a dozen on every wall, at least two on every flat surface, and even a few hanging from the ceiling. None of them match, with some looking like they’ve been pulled straight from a vintage museum and some cracked in the corners for all the houses they’ve been though.

It’s strange, yeah, and probably not the … best for a lot of people in their situation. Everything Steven’s read online says you really shouldn’t encourage your brain to keep on manifesting your alters in every reflection when talking to them.

People on the Internet are wrong a lot of the time, though. Steven would like to call himself a historian, so he knows to always double-check his sources. Plus, the thrift store he searches through for discount history books tend to also have good deals on mirrors.

I’m sorry that it’s our fault we noticed it when you didn’t. Says Jake by the time Steven gets to the flat’s tiny kitchen, and grabs a plate from the cupboard. He should make toast, maybe. If the bread hasn’t gone bad — Marc keeps track of the chores so he has something to do during the day, but he sometimes forgets the stuff in the back of the cupboards.

Marc, at the moment, just sighs. If you guys don’t stop talking about this, I’m feeding the goldfish to the ducks.

Him and Jake both gasp loud enough to scare the goldfish in the tank halfway across the flat.

Absolutely not! Jake exclaims. Steven narrows his eyes at the reflection of Marc in his plate, as warped and lopsided as it is, and his alter just glares back without a hint of remorse.

“You wouldn’t dare.” He slithers out between clenched teeth.

The scruffiness on Marc’s cheeks look like shadows in his makeshift mirror. Don’t test me.

“Don’t test me. I am not having you kill another one of my goldfish!” Steven says, lifting the plate up close to his face so he can see it more clearly, cold against the tip of his nose and still smelling of dish soap. “Goodness, I don’t even know —“

Am I interrupting?

Steven yelps, and drops the plate to the counter with a clatter as his control over his hands slips away entirely; as easy as dropping the plate in the first place. Marc, luckily, slides right in to grab the plate before it can crash onto the floor, and at that point it’s easy to just blink and let Marc be the one to hold the plate and turn the body around and sneer at the God in their kitchen instead.

Khonshu has crammed himself up against the fridge by the time Marc turns around to sneer at him. His staff rests over his shoulder and scrapes against the ceiling tile, and he is unaffected by the withering glare Marc sends his way.

Hello, Marc. Khonshu says, happy as the canary who caught the cat.

Look at that. Says Jake. The duck from our roof.

He sets the plate down with a louder-than-need slam, but he would say it’s warranted. They’ve all told Khonshu to make his appearance known without being creepy about it, but Marc’s also ninety-nine percent sure he only does it to make sure Steven either just startled enough he jumps ship or annoyed enough he asks Marc or Jake to deal with whatever Khonshu wants instead.

The last one-percent of him is uncertain only because Khonshu has started to answer some of Steven’s mythological questions — though, Marc usually tunes that out. He’ll keep an ear out enough to make sure Khonshu isn’t being too much of a dick, but if someone else wants to take Steven’s nerd questions for the team, Marc isn’t going to complain.

“What are you here for?” Marc asks, because Khonshu doesn’t do social calls. If the guy had eyes to roll in his empty sockets, he definitely would be doing so right now.

Do not forget you are my avatar. Khonshu says instead of getting to the fucking point. My fist of —

“Vengeance and protection for people going on night-walks, yeah.” Marc replies. Behind him by the fridge, Khonshu is definitely lifting his beak up in his approximation of a scoff and an eye roll.

Marc looks down at the empty plate in front of him. Steven’s shorted out, and while Jake’s staring up at him from the reflection in the ceramic, he can’t remember what food Steven was going to make.

Toast? Suggests Jake.

I have smited more superior beings than you for far less infuriating attitudes. Suggests Khonshu.

“I was going to go out tonight, you know. If that’s what you’re here to ask about.” Marc tells the bird. Khonshu might latch onto the brain like he lives there, but he doesn’t occupy space in the way Steven and Jake do, so he can’t read Marc’s mind to know he was lying.

Steven’s got them all drenched enough for today, and Jake still has to go drive around in this storm for a few hours. The chill doesn’t actually cause a body to catch a cold, but Marc thinks that they could probably do without all of them dragging water in to stain the floors. Plus, it’s one thing when the body isn’t just yours.

No, I was not. You should already be going out every night to protect the people of the night. Khonshu explains to which Marc disregards. I am here right now for another matter that must be brought to your attention.

“What a joy.”

The suggestion of toast for a meal sounds fine, and Marc’s pretty sure the bread isn’t too old yet. The jam might be a problem, but if Steven’s eating it, it’ll likely be okay — Marc doesn’t mind the berry flavour, but for some reason it makes Steven gag. Khonshu’s in the way of the fridge anyways, so he’ll just have it plain.

Gross. Says Jake. Marc ignores him. He knows Jake will pay attention anyways, since  lately he’s been hanging around whenever Khonshu shows up. Even during Steven and his weird historical conversations. Mostly, Jake just threatens to come out and yell at Khonshu if he tries anything. He’s worse than Marc on some days, which is saying something.

He gets a mental poke for that. Marc did wish that right now he would go find Steven, wherever he went off to in their head. Whenever one of them startles back like that, it leaves behind an absence as heavy as a tidal wave crashing against his chest — instead of the usual barely-there weighted presence of peacefulness, whenever things are good.

It’s a weird feeling. Peace.

I thought you would like some purpose at the moment. Says Khonshu, as Marc plugs in the toaster (Steven unplugs it; says it’s a fire hazard) and grabs the bread bag. Compared to the inane … hobbies you have been engaging with lately.

Well, fuck Marc then, for trying to use his free time productively. Jake huffs. The guitar playing has been nice, Marc.

“Jesus Christ, could you just tell me?” Marc drops the bread bag on the counter, and turns to glare at the bird with one hand scrubbing through his hair. Jake seems, suddenly, very tense; pushing against the corner of his eyes like sleep crumbs he can’t wipe away.

Khonshu hums and adjusts his staff over his shoulder. Thank god he can’t interact with the real world beyond blowing wind in Marc’s face and occasionally denting car doors, because otherwise there would be entire new constellations on their ceiling from how often he knocks his staff against the tiles.

I can sense there are relics connected to myself nearby. Khonshu shares, tilting his beak. I believe there is a group of humans moving them into a warehouse somewhere in this city.

Marc blinks. “Oh. The ones you mentioned last week?”

The very same.

He snorts, then grabs the bread bag again to get the toast ready. Marc is the only one of them all not working, so he does use his free time to keep up with the local news — mainly the criminal stuff, but to each their own. So he knows the exact gang Khonshu is talking about and the exact type of shit they smuggle. Mainly old relics and artifacts that really should be in a museum, but have enough value in other ways that justify smuggling them to the highest bidder.

Marc didn’t think the delivery group was a threat at all, though. There hasn’t been any violent crimes tied to them, and they really just seem to be the middle-men — pick up the artifacts, store them for a little bituntil they can propel delivered to the buyer. They didn’t even manage the money laundering between the seller and buyer. Unless they started to get a bit forceful in their delivery methods, Marc was content to just keep monitoring them.

“What did you want me to do?” He asks Khonshu. He isn’t sure if he’s in the mood to go in guns blazing unless Khonshu knows something about it that he doesn’t. How does a metaphysical moon God get any information about anything, actually? Steven might know. He’s the type to ask about that sort of things.

I need you to go collect the relics associated with myself. Khonshu says as Marc pushes the toaster handle down and the mechanism clunks into place. I am unsure about who exactly has bought them or when they intend to collect them, but I do not wish for them to fall into the wrong hands.

Marc sighs. So, it’s just an ego thing.

As far as he’s aware, the group doesn’t smuggle weapons or anything more dangerous than ancient daggers which would likely break when trying to use. It’s just a few of the things they delivered were said to have mystic properties which he isn’t even sure is true; if Khonshu wants his own back, maybe the rumours do have merit. Or is a clap your hands to make the magic work situation? Marc has no clue.

No wonder Khonshu made sure to scare Steven off. He’d have way too many questions.

“I’ll look into it.” Marc says. Khonshu chuffs, and his staff scrapes against the ceiling tile.

This is an important matter, Marc. We cannot delay.

“I said I’ll look into.” Marc frowns. “Those guys move slow. If they are actually expecting a shipment, it won’t happen for a few more days.”

The rain drums on the window and shakes the apartment building. Khonshu’s wisps of bandage flare out around him like wings he’s never had. I am being reasonable in my request.

“And I’m allowed to say no, remember?” He turns around and crosses his arms again, picking at a bandaid wrapped around his thumb (Steven got a paper cut, and the bandaid is damp from his run through the rain earlier; it’ll be healed by tomorrow, or instantly the next time he puts on the suit). “Steven could explain it to you again, if you’ve forgotten.”

The toaster pops just as Khonshu disappears, leaving Marc alone in the kitchen save for Jake in the reflection of the fridge Khonshu had just been blocking. In the old bumpy surface, his alter’s face looks as melted as a paper flyer in a rainstorm.

You okay? Jake asks. Marc sighs and shakes his head to clear it, but if it was that easy, he likely wouldn’t have to down so many pain meds for his migraines.

“Yeah, fine. That isn’t even close to his worst tantrum.” Marc replies. He grimaces at the memories that pop into his head, of Khonshu’s booming voice and shadow looming over him as he gasps and bleeds on the ground.

Then there’s a pressure like a stone dropped into the lake that is his mind and all that’s left is Jake, now above him in the mirror hanging from the ceiling. Next time he comes, let me at him. Yes? He will run away even quicker.

“No, it’s fine.” Marc shakes his head again, this time in refusal. It’s nice of Jake to offer, but Marc was the one that still wanted to keep Khonshu around. After their trip in the Duat where they found Jake in the first place and they managed to come back to life and Steven was negotiating for a better deal for them, they could have all left. Marc wanted to stay. So they stayed.

Jake says he doesn’t mind. Steven hasn’t said as much, but since Khonshu no longer insults him as ruthlessly and answers his history questions, he seems to have warmed up to the bird a little more. And Khonshu knows too that he got lucky with their deal. He isn’t going to leave any time soon.

So Marc will deal with him. Steven can have his bookshop job and deal with the mundane things like forgetting his umbrella, and Jake can drive his taxi and do his mind puzzles in colourful pens; Marc will deal with Khonshu and his missions and his tantrums. They can help if they want — like how Marc knows how to clock in for Steven’s work and how to manage the taxi fare box — but he doesn’t mind dealing with the other shit.

I guess, whatever you say. Jake frowns at him in the mirror. Don’t put any jam on the toast. Steven will be upset.

He’s gone by the next time Marc blinks. He just sighs again, and turns back to his meal prep. Jake’s good at finding things, so he’ll deal with the nagging absence of Steven right now, and Marc shivers. There’s still goosebumps on his skin from the rain outside. Or maybe just from the quiet; he’s gotten so used to Steven and Jake being around, that whenever they leave it’s silent enough to drive him insane.

He unplugs the toaster. So Steven will be happy, then.

• • •

“So all he wants you to do is go check it out?” Layla says.

There’s some sort of static in the background of the call, though Marc isn’t sure if it’s from her end or his (Jake swears the amount of books Steven has stacked everywhere has blocked the cell signal). Still, Marc doubts that Layla is having a relaxing evening given she’s already had to put him on silent once to “go do something real quick” then came back over very out of breath.

But hey, she picked up the call. Marc even texted her first to make sure she could instead of just cold-calling. So, at least she answered.

“No, he needs us to steal relics.” Marc replies, scratching his nail across the edge of the chipped dining table, which now is just a dumping ground for books and coats and pens. There’s a post-it note stuck to the edge reminding them that Jake’s going out for drinks with some of his coworkers, but that was from a week ago. “Just his own, as far as I’m aware.”

Layla scoffs and mutters something about egocentrism. Then louder, so she’ll be heard, she says, “I guess that’s not too bad.”

“If he wanted me to do more, he would have brought up his whole divine punishment thing. But we’ll see.” Marc feels the need to add. “You know the group?”

“They sound familiar. What’s the name again? Give me a sec —“

Marc tells her. She hums, there’s a crackle of static, and he’s on silent again.

He sighs in the privacy of his own apartment. Khonshu hasn’t appeared since a few hours ago, but neither has Steven; Marc ended up eating the toast before it went cold. Jake’s also fucked off to somewhere buried in the grey matter of his brain where they all go where not actively fronting, but Marc’s sure he’s keeping an ear out. He’s way better at him or Steven at staying aware enough to know what’s going on but not be obvious enough they’ll notice unless they’re actively thinking for him; it’s a bit creepy, if Marc’s being honest.

There’s a twinge behind his eyes. That also could be from the cold toast or the rain that’s now pouring outside. Jake, if it was him, is going to have to deal with thunderstorms, so the joke is on him.

The phoneline is still quiet. One of the many clocks in the apartment ticks loud enough Marc can tell it’s been almost a minute, but he still sits and waits, and pokes at the plate covered in toast crumbs. He’s almost tempted to start flipping through one of Steven’s books but his eyes are tired enough the ink starts to blur together. Besides, if anyone is going to talk history with Layla, it’s going to be Steven.

Things with Layla are … as good as they can be, Marc thinks. They’ve very decidedly not talked about the big things (like the divorce papers hidden at the bottom of a box underneath their bed; or the storage locker he’s still slowly clearing out and bringing into the apartment) but their small talk is less tense than it was in those few months before Marc took off in the first place. He can say now with confidence that they’re definitely on better terms.

Though, if Marc wants to be honest with himself, he’s pretty sure Layla only talks to him as much as she does for Steven and Jake. She’s fond of them. She sends links to poetry and historical articles to Steven, and her and Jake practice Spanish together over the phone. They’re fond of her, too. He avoids asking Steven about how fond exactly, but they’re all aware that the only thing on the table right now is tentative friendship.

He can’t really think of a reason for her to still want to talk to him besides for the other two. At least they’re talking.

“Right, I got it.” Layla comes back without warning, and Marc jumps. He’s got the phone set on the table with the speaker on, so he’s glad he didn’t just knock it off on instinct. “Yes, I thought I knew them! I didn’t know they were active again. I was tracking them a while ago, but they’ve been radio silent for a year or two now.”

“Did they have a management change, or something?” Marc asks and luckily his voice comes out at the normal octave, and not squeaky enough to indicate he was in anyway startled.

“I just think half their crew disappearing on them screwed them up for a long while.”

That makes him frown — did they get into a fight and lost horribly? Whatever, it’s not the most important question for him right now. “Have you ever actually interacted with them?”

After all, Layla loves to fuck up people that fuck up things they aren’t suppose to fuck up. Her new godly duties might have put a pin in it for the time being, but the extra powerset must help her out somewhat in the business.

However, at the exact moment there’s a harder twinge in his head, and suddenly a force in his head like water leaking out of his ears. Steven, humming something under his breath that sounds familiar and strange at the same times, says slowly, Heya, Marc. Is that Layla?

He’s caught between relief at Steven being back (since it’s always that thing where he doesn’t remember how good it is to have the silence go away until it’s gone) — but also, he has to be a little bit offended at the audacity. “Oh, now you’re back.”

“Pardon me?” Layla says over the phone.

Sorry, I think I was just tired. The cold saps my energy. Steven says. He’s close by, as if Marc had pressed the side of his head to the top of a furnace and the warmth radiated through his entire skeleton. It has his shoulder slumping from the tension in his muscles releasing all at once. Can you say hello to Layla for me?

Marc sighs again, but he relents. “Steven says hello.”

Layla’s delighted gasp should be more hurtful, but since Marc can picture the exact expression on her face — the twinkle of her eye and the way her dimples press into her cheeks in excitement — he can’t be too upset with either of them. “Oh! Tell him hello for me too.”

Ah, that’s nice of her.

“He hears you.” Marc relays because apparently now he’s just part of the telephone network.

“Did he like the article I sent yesterday? It was crazy, right?” Layla barrels on, despite the strange crash that echos out from the phone speaker which is definitely from her end. “The shit they uncovered —“

“Can I finish asking my questions first?” Marc has to interrupt because unfortunately, if they get sidetracked he doubts he will be able to finish the conversation he actually called her to discuss.

She still huffs, even though he’s sure she knows this too. Steven just squirms and comments, with enough chill to freeze butter, Tell her the article was very interesting.

“Go ahead, Marc.” Adds Layla, equal in tone.

He pinches his nose. One of these days, he swears, he is going to eat the jam on purpose so Steven gags. He does not like the attitude he’s copping from basically everyone in his life right now (which is, lamely, a small list; his alters, his ex-wife, the god that orders him around, and the barista at the coffee shop who has order memorized by now because apparently he puts “way too much flavouring” in it).

He swears he can hear Steven and Layla’s unimpressed eyerolls at him. Seriously, he it’s not fair he has to deal with it on both sides.

“So you haven’t tried to fuck with them yet?” He asks to get them back on track. Layla, at least, gives him a break (Steven is still huffy, he can tell by the way his nose itches like he wants to sniff in that haughty way Steven does when he’s pissed).

“No, at the moment they’re too valuable. They don’t know I exist, so I can monitor them and use them track where they pick up and drop off the deliveries. Then I can deal with those people directly.” She replies. “Besides, I’ve been preoccupied.”

He can tell when she’s using a euphemism, and can picture the sheepish way she scratches at the back of her neck. “Taweret keeps you busy?”

“Occupied.”

He also knows when to let it go. From what he can tell, anyways, Layla got the best deal around. Taweret seems to be the most god-like god he’s ever met (at least from the bits and pieces he hears from Layla, and the streams of complaining he gets from Khonshu.) He is happy for both of them, at least. Layla is the best person he could think to be an avatar. She’s actually … well, good.

Not that Marc’s ever met any avatars there were outright evil — except for Harrow, and maybe some of the others that he killed at the pyramid, but it wasn’t like Marc knew them all too well to tell. They just seemed dedicated to their work and unfortunately that dedication didn’t include any of their business. Khonshu’s still an outcast with the other Gods, and him and Steven and Jake aren’t too popular anywhere either.

None of them have heard from another god since Ammit’s defeat. He wonders if anymore them have found new avatars. Taweret, for her pleasantries, doesn’t ever talk to them — Marc tries not to take it personally, since he’s pretty sure it’s more of a Khonshu thing than a system thing. Layla might know, but they’re not really on the level yet to talk about the full details of their various vigilante activities.

“Do you know the location Khonshu wants you to attack?” Layla asks, and Marc blinks back to find himself still staring at his empty plate. He shakes his head, and Steven’s still there at least, warm as always. He’s lost his twinges.

“No, I’m sure he will just tell me.” He tells her. “He always says that he will ‘light the way through the dark.’”

“Wait, he actually says that?”

“Yes.” And it’s annoying as shit. Steven’s annoyance even bounces through like bubbles in a boiling pot.

“Jesus.” Layla snorts, and yeah, Marc still feels the same way sometimes despite his current allegiances. “Think you’ll need backup?”

Marc sits up from where he had started to slump over the table.

There’s lots of things odd about that question. One is the actual question himself; him and Layla haven’t worked together since the Harrow incident, and he didn’t think they were on the level to get back to it — not that he didn’t want to. Him and Layla worked well together, at least in the early days. He’s just surprised (and confused) on why she’s asking.

Also, the second problem, is that she’s asking now.

“I didn’t actually say I was doing it yet, Layla.” He says after what is likely too much time, since Steven has to nudge him to remind him to say something.

“Oh. Um.” For the first time, Layla sounds caught off-guard. A sound victory since they’ve already had a full conversation where she couldn’t hear one of the participants. “What are you thinking, then?”

Marc’s thinking about a lot of things. That he wants to go on the mission, because as much as Khonshu annoyed him with the way he asked and will annoy him with how insufferable he will be if Marc agrees, he’s been bored, and itching for something that isn’t just waiting around in case someone gets mugged or lost in the city and needs a light home. He’s also thinking about the way Layla’s hair bounces whenever she throws a punch, and the empty plate in front of him, and the smell of wet brick coming in through the window.

“I have to talk with Steven and Jake first.” Is what he says aloud, because saying all that he is thinking is inane. Plus, it is true. Steven and Jake have both been gone since Khonshu left, so he hasn’t had the chance to ask.

Steven, luckily, is close enough to him right now Marc doesn’t even need to form the question. I don’t mind, Marc. You just have to let me know, which you — did! Sorta. I overheard. So I don’t mind it.

Marc blinks, and leans over his dark phone screen. Steven stares back up at him, floppy hair falling over his ears and swishing across his forehead, and he pushes it to the side with a few confused blinks of his own. There’s laugh-lines around his eyes, but none of the scars Marc is used to seeing on his own face.

“Really?” He asks, unable to keep the bewilderment away. Now Steven just rolls his eyes, exactly as Marc is used to.

Yes! Why don’t you ever believe me when I say so? He asks.

Because Marc knows the way his hands shake and knows the ways his thoughts tick. “I believe that you want to see old magical relics.”

That’s beside the point. Steven huffs, proving his point. And Jake isn’t going to mind, either. You know you just have to ask him first.

Marc, of course, does know that. That’s the one rule he hadn’t forgotten yet; Moon Knight things have to be approved by everyone before they can happen. So far, it’s always been Marc posing the requests and the other two approving them like they’re some sort of fucked-up planning committee, but Steven and Jake have still been way too accepting of all it, in his opinion. No wonder they like Layla so much.

“I know.” He sighs. Steven smiles, and it crinkles around his dark eyes.

The phone screen lights up suddenly; Steven’s gone in a flash of light and reveals Layla’s contact. “Sorry, could someone fill me in?”

Steven chuckles at Marc’s sigh, annoyed with himself for once again getting side-tracked. At least Steven’s amusement is a good balm; it always feels nice when he’s happy, like melted chocolate across the tongue.

“I’m probably doing it.” He says to Layla. He hopes that she’s smiling right now, but that’s one thing he’s forgotten the sound of in her voice over the phone.

“Oh, that’s good.” He can’t tell if she’s neutral or positive or upset, which confuses Marc even more until she speaks up again. “So, backup?”

In the background of the call (definitely from her side), there’s a loud crash that has Marc recoiling. Steven even yelps, so close it echoes up their bones.

“Are you in the area?” He asks tentatively.

“I could be.” She replies, which is a no.

Their gods, Marc knows, can occasionally be nice enough to bring them to places immediately; it’s an odd feeling, and he knows from experience Khonshu can only do it on the full moon in certain areas when things are good in Marc’s head. Maybe it’s the same for Layla, or maybe she really is close enough that she could swing by to help steal some old relics. She’s the type of person who would make the time for it.

He isn’t going to … ask this time, though. Unless she’s actually nearby and wants to come help, Marc doesn’t want to bother her. She’s already made enough time in her life for his phone calls. He isn’t going to monopolize more of it even if he wants to work with her again.

She offered. Steven points out, to which Marc ignores. His leg then slams itself against the floor which he will blame on a muscle spasm.

“Don’t worry about. You deal with your things.” He says before Steven can take his hands away. “I got it handled.”

Layla’s quiet for a long enough moment Marc wants it to mean something, but he won’t kid himself. “If that’s what you want.”

There’s about two seconds of silence on the phone. A crack of thunder sounds from outside, and Marc grimaces, picturing the future state of Jake’s work hat.

“I’ll keep an eye out for any stuff linked to Taweret.” He suggests, off-hand. “Unless that’s something you deal with that on your own.”

Is it rude to take another god’s artifacts to stop them from getting shipped across the continent? None of the other gods seem to care, but then again, none of them seemed to care about anything. Khonshu, for his faults, at least knows the meaning of action. However Marc also knows it will be a cold day in Hell until he ever admits that it’s a good thing about the bird.

“I’ll ask her about it, thanks.” Layla says and she doesn’t sound like she’s lying, so maybe it is a normal thing to ask your ex-wife about.

Steven pokes at him; an itch at the back of his throat just before he coughs. Can I say something?

He’s polite about it, at least. Marc’s pretty much done the conversation anyway — plus, he does feel bad about Khonshu startling him earlier. Usually something as simple as that doesn’t shock Steven away so forcefully, so maybe his run through the rain earlier really had tuckered him out. If talking to Layla makes him feel better enough to front, then so be it.

Marc can’t let him win entirely though, so he waves his hands and scoffs, “Okay, okay, fine.”

Before Layla can ask what he’s talking about again, Marc let’s Steven slip into his place. It’s smooth in times like this, as smooth as raindrops slipping down a window; Steven blinks a few times, feeling his skin prickle from the cold — didn’t he turn the heating on? He knows he paid the bill — before he remembers what he came out here for and picks the phone up off the table.

“Heya, Layla!” He can’t help but smile. A slam from the other line indicates Layla is happy to see him too.

“Hey there.” She replies, then a half-a-second pause Steven tracks by the tick of the bedside clock. “That article was crazy, right?”

“Blimey, I know! That part with —“ Another slam, crash, bang; louder than anything previously, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. His hands tighten around the phone not of his own accord, which is good, because this is Marc’s phone and he doesn’t want to break it. “Are you busy at the moment?”

Layla comes back, breathing hard enough that static crackles. “No, no, it’s not too bad right now.”

Marc’s amused, Steven can feel it in his scalp — it tingles like he had been tugging at it with a ratty hairbrush. It’s good that Marc doesn’t self-sabotage the entire time during these calls with Layla, or Steven would have to get involved way more. If she’s made the time to answer his messages and pick up even when he cold-calls, then Marc needs to understand she actually wants to talk to him.

Steven wants to talk with her too, of course. But he also knows that she makes time for him whenever he texts, so he doesn’t mind waiting right now. He’s still freezing, anyways. “We can talk later. Just let us know when you are going to be around?”

“Of course I will.” She huffs. “We still need to talk about the … thing. Remember?”

There’s the sudden urge in his lungs to stop breathing right there and then and just let himself pass out on the table. Right. That thing.

Though, the table is a scratched old piece, and Steven doesn’t want to sleep on it. So he forces himself to breathe even if it probably looks a bit silly with how much he’s shivering. There’s post-it note stuck to the edge; it’s from Jake about hanging out with his coworkers, but it’s old. It falls to the floor when Steven shifts and he picks it up to crumble it in his hand to toss in the rubbish later. When he curls his fist, the jagged edges of his nails dig into his palm.

Marc, slowly, unfurls his fingers for him.

“We remember.” Steven finally manages to say. He swallows and tastes something across the back of his teeth, but can’t quite identify it. “Do you need Marc back?”

It’s polite to check, but there’s a rustle, like Layla shakes her head but forgot they couldn’t see her. “No, I should probably go anyways.”

“So you are busy.”

“Never said that.” Another bang, though more distant this time. “Say hi to Jake for me!”

Steven smiles and is an,e to get control over his fingers again to rub the crumpled paper between his fingers. Jake likes talking to Layla, though only because she’s the only one who understands his frustration with “stupid crossword clues,” or something (Steven likes doing the puzzles too, but he lets them have it.)

“Will do.” He drops the post-it on the table and watches it bounce. “Toodles.”

“Oh my god, bye.”

Layla’s laughing by the time he hangs up and puts the phone down on the table. He leaves it face-up, so that he can see Marc staring back at him, frowning hard enough Steven worries it’s going to leave permeant wrinkles across his face.

He wants to smooth it out, sometimes. It’s not good for Marc to be so tense and he’s told him this and Marc says he’s working on it, but Steven still knows a lifetime of paranoia doesn’t go away even after the smoke as cleared out. If anything, it makes you think that the smoke is still there.

Steven settles for hugging his arms and pretending that it isn’t him.

“You haven’t found anything about Harrow yet, right?” He asks, wanting to squeeze his eyes shut but forcing himself to keep looking at the phone screen. Marc’s frown softens, if by only a margin.

You know I would tell you if I did. He says.

Marc’s been out of the mercenary field for a while, and he didn’t leave it on the best of terms, so a lot of his contacts have dried up. Still, a lot of his free time has been dedicated to trying to track down the remains of Harrow cult and figure out who could have possibly merced the man when he was suppose to be hidden away in the depths of the American medical system.

It’s not helped by the fact that Khonshu — for once in his very long life — seems content to leave it be. Jake wanted Harrow dead all the same so he definitely doesn’t care, and despite their communication being better now, he’s still elusive a lot of the time. Besides, their bar before for communication was literally non-existent. Any form of communication is ‘doing better.’

“I know.” He mutters. “Just checking.”

A poke to the back of his head has him straightening out in his chair, and Jake wiggles his way close, and when Steven sniffs he swears he can smell the fake leather of his driving gloves. It’s silly, really, how it makes the stress ease out from his shoulders.

Did I miss a call with Layla? Jake asks, pressing up into his usual spot, somewhere between Steven’s head and his ribcage.

Yep, too late now. Marc answers. The two of them are so near, Steven swears he can hear them sitting beside him. He tugs at the sleeves of his sweater until he finds a loose thread, rubs it between his fingers, and lets the feeling calm him down. She says she hates you and never to talk to her again.

I think you are a lying bastard.

“I think you two are both ridiculous.” Steven says. He stands up, stretches out his back, but when he looks down at the table to throw the post-it away all he finds is the book he had been reading earlier and an empty plate, covered in crumbs. “Hey, what happened to my toast?”

• • •

The rain still hasn’t let up. Marc’s not sure how anyone in London can deal with this.

Three nights later, and it’s still just as wet and damp. The day previously wasn’t actually too bad — Jake reported clear skies while driving around in the evening, and Steven didn’t need to worry about forgetting his umbrella. But of course on the night Marc wants to do something the clouds are back to block out the stars, and there’s a fine mist in the air that seems to permeate the suit and chill him down to his bones.

Why did he do this again? Khonshu asked, but he could have said no — Steven and Jake and Layla made that clear. He had said yes. He had been bored so instead of picking up some other hobby he’s doing this. Whatever that says about him, he’ll let Steven figure it out. He’s not the one for introspective.

Still, this is the type of work Marc definitely doesn’t miss from his old work days of just sitting on rooftops scoping out targets. He’s been here since ten o’clock in the evening and it’s almost midnight judging by the moon (which he can occasionally see peeking out between the clouds, which also doesn’t matter, because he always knows where it is even if he can’t see it). There’s been barely any activity from the place and he’s getting antsy.

It’s a big building but easy to miss in the general London scene. One thing Marc’s not used to after growing up in Chicago is the fact that prehistoric shit is a common, everyday sight to see anywhere you go. His research had stated that the place was an old textile factory that shut down decades ago after production slowed down and the exterior reflects that. There’s broken windows boarded up with wooden planks, graffiti sprayed across the side, and the amount of trash in the loading bay area he’s  presiding over indicating it must be a popular hangout spot.

Or must have been popular, before it became a front. The graffiti does look as old as the building itself in some places.

The rest of the area isn’t too much of a concern since it just seems to be more industrial and warehouse storage that doesn’t have any nighttime dwellers. One good thing about this gang is that they’re cautious about their locations — they picked a damn good place. Lots of a space and little to no nearby business. It’s good for Marc, too. No need to worry about civilians getting involved.

He had scoped out the location a few days previously on a similar rainy night just to get a lay of the land, which is how he finds himself on a nearby rooftop, hidden behind a chimney that likely hasn’t puffed smoke for a millennium. Jake had also taken the liberty to drive by while on shift to see what the “parking situation was like” but didn’t give him anything useful. Steven said only to bother him if he found a particularly interesting relic because otherwise he wanted to sleep.

Still. The other two are — here, somewhere. As much as both of them claim they want to leave most of the knighting stuff to Marc, they still always find themselves offering commentary. It makes the nights go by faster for the most part, and sometimes comes in handy of Steven happens to recognize some sort of weapon or Jake is in the mood to don his own suit to give Marc a break.

Khonshu … still hasn’t really answered why Jake’s got his own suit now. He always says something about “earning it” that sounds like a load of bullshit to Marc and shady as shit to Steven, but getting answers from the guy is like pulling teeth and Khonshu doesn’t even have any teeth to pull. Jake’s no help either — he seems just as clueless as Steven and him, but also isn’t one to pass by the opportunity.

If Marc chalks it up to anything, it’s probably practicality. Steven got a suit way back when because he was causing enough trouble to interfere with Marc’s work, so he needed protection if he ever got them into hot water. Jake causes way more problems on purpose and Khonshu isn’t stupid — if Jake’s gonna be around, why waste the opportunity to have another fighter?

That’s what he’s told Steven, at least. He’s dealt with Khonshu the most and giving Jake a suit just to fuck with all of them is exactly something he would pull. Steven’s stopped bringing it up. Marc isn’t sure if this means he believes it or not, but in the end, if it comes in handy it comes in handy.

Marc sighs. Khonshu has no in-between; he’s either fighting an end-of-the-world cult or doing the most boring shit imaginable.

Hello, Marc. You are taking your time tonight, I see.

Or appearing where he isn’t wanted.

“I’m waiting for an opening.” Marc replies without taking his gaze off the scene below him. “And for a shipment to actually arrive. These things take time, you know.”

Hm. Says Khonshu, and when Marc turns around to look at him he sees that he is perched on top of the roof peak behind him. With his staff over his shoulder and long beak turned up to the sky, he looks like some sort of fucked up plague doctor searching for a new corpse in the stars. Or maybe he’s the corpse himself with the way his bone shines from the moon above.

It’s only a half-moon at the moment — not great, but not terrible. Still, Khonshu doesn’t typically appear on anything less than three-quarters for idle chit-chat. Steven’s been keeping track; he’s a lot nicer the closer the moon is to being full, which Steven says is probably a lot like how toddlers get crankier the further away from naptime they are.

“You don’t have any faith in me?” Marc asks lightly, looking back to the scene below.

Of course I have faith in you, my Knight. Khonshu replies. I do not keep avatars who I do not believe can complete their duties.

He just swallows down the sudden tightness in his throat and shifts in his stance so his leg won’t cramp in the morning. He isn’t young anymore, unfortunately. And he refuses to do the stupid stretches Steven gets on his case about. Khonshu’s comment is oddly honest to the point Marc feels uncomfortable replying

It makes him think of Harrow. Dead, dead Harrow.

Last time Marc had checked, the bastard had still been alive. Just locked up in a psych ward where he wouldn’t do anyone anymore harm. It had taken a lot to get him there without any alarms being raised and yeah, maybe he should have died for all the shit he had done in life — but Marc didn’t want to be the one to make that choice. Khonshu wanted him dead which, before everything, automatically meant that Marc had to want him dead too.

Not that Marc doesn’t want to see the mass-murderer pay for his crimes. But he also doesn’t want Khonshu to have the satisfaction of Marc doing his dirty work for him when he seemed to be the one that helped fuck Harrow up so badly in the first place.

Marc isn’t upset that he’s dead, and maybe he should be. He’s not upset about it all. Just maybe a little bit worried that he’s dead because that means someone else knew enough about him to want to kill him and could sneak into the ward without anyone noticing. The only being he could think that would want Harrow dead is Khonshu and he can’t do anything without an avatar, and Marc definitely didn’t do it so that takes that option off the table —

Suddenly, there’s a pressure behind his eyes, and Jake asks, What’s the bird doing here?

Being a nuisance, likely. Says Steven, wiggling up next to him. Marc huffs and hopes Khonshu doesn’t notice.

Pretty much. He replies back internally. He still struggles with it sometimes, and still mouths the words underneath his cowl. But Khonshu, for all his power, can’t hear inside Marc’s head. Which is a godsend — or something else good, or whatever.

About ten seconds later, there’s the smack of tire on wet asphalt. Marc uncurls enough from his half-crouch half-sat position to peer around the chimney. A decent-sized delivery truck has pulled into the parking lot, and half a dozen or so gunned-up people slip out of the building to receive it. Finally, there’s the money; or the weird ancient probably-cursed memorabilia. It would be way easier if it was just money.

“There we go.” He mutters. Jake and Steven are paying attention as well, but only in the abstract way where Marc can just feel a buzzing pressure every time he blinks.

Still, he ends up sitting back down on the roof when it becomes apparent the group doesn’t really know what they’re doing. Someone dressed in all black gets out of the truck and pulls open the back door, then hops inside with two of the guards. What comes next to a very long, awkward struggle of them all trying to push a wooden crate out of the back without cracking it open on the tarmac.

Marc can hear a lot of yelling from down below.

Humans. Khonshu grumbles, though Marc can’t tell if he’s actually annoyed with the people below them for being stupid or with Marc for somehow not being able to fix it.

“At least they’re here now.” Marc rolls his eyes underneath the mask; but he also makes sure to loll his head back so Khonshu knows what he’s doing. “You just needed to hold your horses.”

Jake hums. Or hold his feathers?

He hasn’t got any left. Says Steven.

Must have ran out of patience.

Jake and Steven both snicker, though Marc doesn’t think it was that funny of a joke, and they slowly fade in the background of the pattering rain. Khonshu, however, reaches out with his bottom of his staff to scrape the tile of the roof, and the wisps of fabric around his arms bellow in the wind when he speaks once more.

I am being who has seen the rise and fall of the civilizations, Marc Spector. I am very patient. He says. Do not test that. And do not fail me.

With that warning, Khonshu disappears in a flurry of bone and bandage. Marc turns back to look over the loading bay where the group had finally gotten the crate unstuck of the pothole. He’s pretty sure Khonshu doesn’t control the weather, but he also wouldn’t put it past him because — just to be a dick — the wind picks up and his chimney-cover does little to stop the rain drumming against his back.

Marc sets his forehead against the brick and groans. This is going to be a stupidly long night, and he has no one but himself to blame for it.

Well, and Khonshu. He will definitely blame Khonshu.

• • •

Judging by the dip of the moon in the sky, it’s almost two AM by the time the truck disappears.

Some of the workers stay around the loading bay but look like they’re doing fuck all once all the crates are inside. Marc isn’t worried about them; there’s enough entrances on the roof of the building that trying to sneak in any other way would be stupid. Besides, going in through the front doors was bound to start a fight, and Khonshu always got on his case if he wasn’t careful around ancient shit. Steven always complained too, but at least he was endearing with it.

Sometimes Marc wonders if the reason Khonshu hated him so much was because he was the first person he had met which could match his nagging. He’s glad no one was around to hear that thought. Steven would complain about his complaining about his complaining, and Jake would get involved just to be a dick.

Steven and Jake are around in his head, of course. But they’re just not actively pressing against his awareness; background noise like a TV playing in the other room, muffled through a wall. It’s the type of noise that makes it easier to focus as Marc carefully crouch-walks over to the edge of the roof. Jake’s suit is better for stealth in theory because of the black mesh, but Marc’s found that in the dead of night, the moonlight hides him just as well as the darkness.

A swift jump over the next three rooftops brings him parallel with the building, though about a level below its rooftop. There’s no fire escape or ladders to climb, so Marc settles for spring-boarding off the chimney of his current vantage point and burying a crescent into the building’s outer wall to pull himself up to the high most window he can see. No, he doesn’t smack his face against the wall, and Jake isn’t here to point out otherwise.

The rain makes the brickwork slick and impossible to get a good grip on with his feet, but luckily one thing that’s never failed him from Khonshu his weapons, which bites at the stone to keep him steady. He’s going off the (likely right) assumption that the gang is congregated on the lower levels dealing with their new products, and that the upper levels of the building will be deserted for now. Not that Marc isn’t in the mood to cause a scene, but keeping a low profile is still the better option at the moment.

He reaches the window, pulls himself up with one arm to perch on the window sill, and puts the crescent back into his chest as he elbows the window frame. As suspected, it’s so withered with age the whole window pops out without much resistance. He just barely catches it before it falls and smashes to the floor, so hey, he’s at a one-hundred percent success rate right now.

“There we go …” He mutters as he crawls inside and sets the window down carefully to the floor. This far up the gang might not hear the shattering glass, but he still isn’t sure if anyone’s around, so he needs to be careful. Probably shouldn’t talk to himself, then, but an unfortunate habit by now.

At least the room he’s ended up in is empty. He wouldn’t say it’s unused, though; there’s folding chairs around an old wooden table, scratches and cigarette burns across the top. A pile of cardboard boxes sit in the corner and when Marc creeps closer, one is full of granola bars and what seems to be trail mix, and another is full of the empty packaging.

So, they’re a gang that cares about recycling. Marc huffs. Sometimes people chose weird places in the sand to draw their lines.

What catches his attention most pressingly is the table with the chairs around it. When he walks over to inspect it, he finds one of the chairs has a card deck sitting on the seat, and another one has a half-used cigarette pack. This is the break room, clearly, or something close to it. Marc’s just unsure why it’s so far from the main work area. Maybe they’re just paranoid about playing cards near their old magic relics.

But that doesn’t make any sense since there’s a statue sitting right on the centre of the table.

It’s a small, unassuming thing, but Marc can recognize the texture of sandstone immediately. It smells faintly of ash and it’s intricately carved into the shape of a coiled snake. The head rears up with pointed fangs ready to strike at the next hand that comes close enough to touch the tiny scales flowing down its back. There’s tiny drops of colour in some of the scales that would likely shine beautiful in the desert sun, though now look like spots of blood, reflecting the darkness around them.

Marc swallows and keeps his hands firmly at his side as he stares at the thing. He isn’t the best historian out there, but he knows this thing must be ancient. Plus — most of the relics are likely in some sort of warehouse connected to the loading area, and the upstairs area is left for other storage or just playing cards. The lack of any other relics around it is definitely a red flag.

He’s learned his lesson on not getting them all involved in mystical shit by being an idiot, so he’s not going to touch it. Unless Khonshu wanted him to steal it — but last he checked, Khonshu had nothing to do with snakes, and he doesn’t feel the odd urge to hide it away in his cape like he does for most Khonshu-relics, so. He’s not going to mess with it.

It’s still weird. This is suppose to be a calm mission, though — so he would like to avoid weird where possible.

Steven. He thinks aloud. When that gets nothing, he grinds his teeth. “Steven.”

Steven shakes to consciousness much like how Marc would shake pins-and-needles out of his skin. He sounds blurred, still murky around the edges as he gets closer to the front to tap at Marc’s head in confusion. What — what is it? What’s going on?

“What’s this thing?” Marc asks, tapping the table the relic rests on. Steven’s sudden interest pokes at his head like a spark off a flint stone.

Oh! Steven exclaims. That’s a — here, Marc, let me get closer —

Steven’s definitely aware now, so Marc just sighs and moves away from the front. The sigh in their lungs pushes out of Steven’s lips just as bandages across the suit retract in his usual polished outfit. He blinks. Well, that wasn’t what he meant, but sure. It’s easier this way anyhow.

He leans in close to see the relic in the low light. It’s clearly a stone statue in the shape of a snake as Marc identified, but there’s some carvings on the base of it Steven can’t read from his angle. It’s also not actively blaring out any dangerous signals — mainly glowing, oozing, etcetera, etcetera — and when Steven picks it up, Khonshu doesn’t appear to yell at him for touching a cursed object, so he should be fine.

Marc thinks opposite. Don’t pick it — Steven! Put that down!

Steven pays him no mind. If Marc wants him to identify the weird old relic, he’s gotta let him touch the stupid thing. He’s such a worry-wart sometimes.

The inscription is definitely in some sort of ancient hieroglyph script, but Steven’s still learning the differences between the various eras so it’s not something he can pick up on sight. To properly read it he’d likely have to bring it back to the flat where all his translations books are and spend hours cross-referencing, which is a genuinely fun endeavour. When he’s at home. Not in the middle of an abandoned factory turned smuggling operation.

He can recognize a few symbols though, holding the statue close to his face and tracing the carving with his thumb. Marc’s still hissing at him to put it down which is starting to alert Jake, since Steven can feel the both of them squishing up against his eyes like the feeling of swelling tears.

“Huh.” He says aloud.

At this point, Jake must decide this is all interesting — or important — enough to wiggle in his way in fully to their general perception. It feels like Jake’s voice is leaking out of his ears when he asks, What is it? Should we be worried that our eyes are gonna start bleeding or something?

Steven tilts it over, but there’s nothing on bottom save for the same rough stone texture. “No, it’s just a statue. Or a totem? I suppose either term works.”

I know it’s a statue, but is it safe for us to touch? Marc bristles, the hair on back of Steven’s neck standing up. Jake scoffs.

Too late for that. He says. In the reflection of the table, Steven just can just see the arch of Jake’s eyebrow and the wave of his hands towards the statue. Steven’s basically juggled the evil snake statue already.

No, Seth is the evil God. I know that much. Says Marc. And he’s a crocodile.

“It’s pronounced Set.”

That’s what I said.

And you’re wrong anyways — crocodile ladies are evil. Jake gestures again but a stain on the table blocks out his hands. Or did you all forget that?

Steven runs a hand down his face, but at least the fabric on the inside of the mask is soft. With how much his alters make his head hurt, it better be. “We’ve been over this. In the myths, Ammit served her role, but was never really antagonistic outside of her role in the Duat. And she definitely wasn’t — you know. How she was when we met her.”

Jake hums. Soulfully homicidal?

“Sure.”

So, could this thing maybe not be evil? Marc asks. Split across a crack in the table, Marc’s keeping his arms crossed and in the darkness the bandage across his nose looks like a smear of a moonbeam. If the myths can be wrong.

That’s an oversimplification. Steven almost wishes Khonshu would manifest right now to explain all this without actually explaining anything in that infuriating way he does — on second thought. Probably best if he stays far away right now.

“I guess so, but —“ Steven sighs again, trying to figure out a way to explain himself in a way understandable to people who do not read mythological tales for fun. “Set wasn’t seen as really ‘evil’ until after the conquest of Egypt by foreign powers, since he was associated with foreigners which meant when relations with other groups became bad he started to be villainized in the local mythos.”

Oh. Marc says. Steven can’t tell if he’s bored or being polite since the marks on the desk obscure his face in the reflection. Interesting?

Steven squints at the statue again. “But that doesn’t even matter because this isn’t Set.”

Why’d you say it was Set then? Says Jake.

He gasps. Jake really does test his patience, some days. “I never said it was Set! Marc said that!”

He did?

“Yes, he did!”

Can we stop focusing on what I maybe did or did not say and focus on the relic? Marc interrupts.

Steven holds back on the urge to facepalm. How did Marc survive this long serving an Egyptian moon god? Without Steven there for the mythology and Jake there to tell the time, he wouldn’t have gotten lost ages ago.

“Sure, right.” Steven shakes his head to get back on track and also clear some of the tension the other two being so close automatically brings. “So, I think this might be Apep? That’s the god of darkness. He’s suppose to oppose Ra, who represents light. Again, he’s not so much evil, but —“

Jake snorts. Misunderstood?

“Takes on whatever role he needs to based on his symbology.” He corrects. These two are going to drive him to an early grave someday.

If Jake was in the body, Steven was sure he would be shuffling on his feet — Steven noticed he did that sometimes when he didn’t know what to say, but he wasn’t sure if he noticed or not. Marc, meanwhile, takes over the void.

But it’s safe? He asks.

Steven looks down at the statue again. Obviously, it’s not spitting fireballs or raining plagues down upon him, so it can’t be deadly — there’s definitely something to it, though. It’s kinda like how Steven would feel when he used to walk into the backroom of the museum and could tell Donna was pissed before he even saw her. Just a taste on the tip of his tongue; a gut feeling that doesn’t spell danger, only alert.

He squints at it through his mask. Khonshu has been talking to him a bit more about things that aren’t just insults and disobeyed order — and Steven isn’t sure how much Marc retains of what he relays to him about what the big ol’ bird said. But Khonshu doesn’t just want these relics because they’re useless. There’s a bit of zing to them. Just a leftover bit of magic from whatever household, a few thousand years ago, used to worship it on the daily.

There’s not enough to it that it could cause any word-ending catastrophes, and honestly, most people in-tune to magic would still pass it right on by. Hell, in most cases Khonshu wouldn’t even care about it. Except Khonshu is still healing from his fight with Ammit, and seems to need all the help he can get with regaining his power at the moment.

He hasn’t told Steven that bit. Steven knows anyways.

“There’s probably some magic in it.” Steven declares to his alters. “Collecting a whole bunch of relics like this when you’re already aligned with that god that’s linked to it might help you out a little bit. Though, with just one, there’s nothing you could really do anything. Right now it’s just a fancy paperweight.”

He sets the thing back on the table with a clunk. Goodness, it’s heavy. They really did like their stone back in the ancient days.

Good to know. Marc says. Thanks, Steven.

“Happy to help.” He says, and he is — it’s nice when he can help on missions, because Marc needs to learn how to ask for help more. He keeps that thought to himself, though. Marc gets tetchy sometimes.

However, that doesn’t mean he wants to help with the rest of this, and luckily Marc catches his drift since when he pulls back from the front Marc is there is step in and flick the top of the statue to hear the clink again. Still no answer on why it’s up here away from everything else, but Marc only has the capacity to focus on one thing right now. If this doesn’t need to be on his radar, it won’t be.

He steps out into the empty hallway after peaking through the door. The hinges sqqqueal but Marc is as silent as a ghost when he slips out, and begins walking down the corridor. The one relic being up here in the makeshift breakroom does indicate the floor is in use, but he’s here for … whatever relics Khonshu needed in that shipment. So, he just had to get to the lower level. Should be easy.

In theory.

If he gets desperate, he can just break through the floor — but that’s going to attract attention. Instead it’s probably best if he just finds a staircase. Old factories like this have to have had multiple, right? He could ask Steven, but he’s not into London architectural history — honestly, Marc can’t think of anyone who would be. It seems boring as shit. At least with the mythology and fairytale stuff, you can find some fun with it.

Whatever. He’ll find the least-used staircase, sneak down, and carry on his stupid merry way.

If he can find a damned exit.

“Okay, seriously.” He says after looping around the whole floor twice and ending right back up at the room he came in through. “What the hell?”

Is he trapped in a fucking labyrinth? That doesn’t spell good chances for him because there’s always shitty things hiding in labyrinths. Steven’s off somewhere else, though, so Marc doesn’t want to drag him out just to ask about it again. Because he’s also sure this place isn’t really a labyrinth, just old and creaky and monotonous, so he can’t tell the difference between one hallway and the next.

They could have at least left some markers around for him. Even ancient labyrinths had instructions.

Marc sighs, and for some reason that seems to act as an alarm bell, because there’s a rustling and then someone creeping close to him, like tingles up the spine. It’s just Jake, though, who still seems mirthful from his earlier aggravating of Steven judging by the way Marc’s teeth feel buzzy.

You lost, Marcos? Jake asks. Marc knows now that Jake is just using the nickname to bug him, and it unfortunately still works.

“Don’t call me that.” He adds as an afterthought. “And, no.”

You seem pretty lost.

“I’m not.”

Okay, then. Tell me where the staircase is.

Marc doesn’t have a reply. He just growls through his buzzing teeth; and Jake snickers, like the aggravating asshole he is.

Let me in, Marc. I’ll get us down to the warehouse. Says Jake, much too pleased.

“This is my mission.” Marc mumbles, though he knows the protest is vain, and Jake knows it too with how he scoffs.

You’re gonna get as twisted as a tourist without a map. He replies. Come on.

There’s a rumbling from Steven somewhere, pressing against the back of his skull, aware enough to agree but not enough to bother voicing his own opinion. Marc sighs again. Jake is, unfortunately, the better navigator. Marc is man enough to admit that — he still hasn’t gotten used to the London block system while Jake knows short cuts on foot and taxi cab. It’s annoyingly useful.

So, he does as Jake demands and lets his alter slip into the space he once occupied, and when Jake takes a deep breath, he feels the suit squeeze his ribcage. This is still a feeling he’s getting used to — wearing the suit and the energy it brings, the purring in his veins and the crackle of lightning through his heart. For a moment, he just has to stand there and feel it.

Except, of course, Marc and Steven are right there in his mind. So he can’t think too much about it. He has to get going.

The direction Marc had been going was as good a place to start as any, so Jake stalks down the corridor while sticking to the beaten wall where the shadows grab at his heels. If he knocks his knuckles against the wall, it sounds hollow on the other side — the expansive kind of hollow indicating it’s an exterior wall. The staircase is likely nearby. These types of old buildings, they keep the middle area for the actual rooms. The outer edges get the travel areas.

He gets to the end of the hallway and takes a left — the only direction to take — and keeps an ear out. Marc’s also hyperaware at the moment and Jake knows at the first inkling of danger he’s going to jump right back in, shoving Jake out of the way if he has too. They’ve gotten better about all that, the three of them. Not taking over when the other is still trying to front. It’s rude, Steven says, or something else about dominating time.

The ceilings in here are low and he longs for a window to show him a better way. Instead, he gets a fork in the corridor. Taking another left will lead him in a circle and Marc’s already been circling for ages; taking the right follows the exterior wall, and from Jake’s mental picture of the outside of the building, it likely leads to a small outcrop which probably has a staircase. Or, push come to shove, a window he’ll jump out to get to the next level.

But when Jake looks down the left side he can’t help but pause. Every hallway and every door in this place is similar enough that Marc and Steven likely haven’t noticed a difference, but Jake sees the finer things. Compared to the rest of the hallways, there’s more footprints on the floor. Most in the shape of thick work boots but some are bigger, longer, heavier — something being dragged.

Besides, Jake finds that after years of having to be the one looking over their shoulder, he tends to have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. It’s how he always knows where to find the next person needing a cab no matter how far down the road they are from him; or how he knows where the grocery store put his sweets after they rearranged their layout; and how he knows, looking down the corridor, that there’s something worth finding down there.

He looks down to the right, the quickest route to completing the mission and getting out of this place.

He looks to left and sees the blinking farebox in the corner of his eye.

He’ll be quick.

Jake ducks down the other hallway, which is physically as nondescript as all the others. Crumbling brick and off-center ceiling tiles and a floor dark enough to hide any blood stains. About eight doors line the corridor — four on each side — until the end, where it veers off in another forked-path. Likely, there’s nothing down here. It certainly doesn’t look like it’s much in use compared to the rest of the factory.

Still, Jake walks down the hallway. He doesn’t get to do much on missions besides occasionally swap in for Marc to fight some assholes, and it’s not like he wants to do much more than what he’s already doing. Marc is the one who really wants to do the knighting stuff, and Jake’s just along to make sure he doesn’t get their ass kicked too badly. Sure, it’s always a good day when you can stop someone from getting pick-pocketed or kick some guy’s teeth out for stalking a kid down a dark alleyway, but Jake tries not to focus on that part of it too much.

What he’s good at, it seems, is finding things. He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s gotten used to all the cab routes he drives everyday — or the fact he’s managed to drag them all out of the endless desert on more than one occasion. He really doesn’t understand why it’s so hard for some people.

He can tell which door has been opened the most by the thin line of dirt collected parallel to the wall on the side of the hinges; swept there by the door whenever it opened. There’s spots on the door knob that are cleaner than others indicating people grabbing it to twist it open, and the scratches across the frame are more recent than any of the others.

The most telling thing is the glimmer of light that peaks out from underneath the crack of one of the doors. It’s hard to see, even in the dim hallway lighting, and Jake was probably only able to spot it because the suit makes the darkness just as perceptible as the daylight. There’s definitely something behind this one door, and when he tries to handle, it’s locked.

Is this the way to the warehouse? Steven asks, both incredulous and curious. He doesn’t want to accuse Jake of anything even if he’s skeptical, so Jake saves him the trouble.

“There’s something here.” He takes a few steps back and readies himself for a kick. Marc, who he can feel has been bristling up over the past minute, finally throws his thorns.

Jake, you were suppose to be getting us downstairs. He growls. Unless there’s something —

“Let’s see.” He cuts Marc off, then kicks the door in.

The handle completely snaps off (damn, the strength on the suit is magnificent), and the force of his kick sends the door flying open inwards. The crash is loud, and while he doubts there’s anybody nearby to come investigate it with the delivery still being dealt with downstairs, he doesn’t want to waste anymore time. Or his alters’ patience since Steven yelps and Marc hisses out, Jesus Christ, Jake! as he slips inside.

“Sho, sho.” He mumbles. God, sometimes they treat him like an amateur. Not like he’s the only one here who has a valid driver’s license.

The room is dark save for a few battery-powered lanterns on a table nearby, and Jake blinks a few times to adjust even though the suit takes care of it. It looks the same as the rest of place, old and run-down, though it smells tangy like iron with the distinct underlay of sandstone. Otherwise, there’s not much in the room.

Except for the man that’s tied up in a chair in the corner.

WHAT THE FUCK?! Marc suddenly shouts, and Jake hisses at the jab of pain through his temples like an oncoming migraine. Even Steven winces, and it’s probably even more forceful for him given how intwined the two of them are right now.

“¡Ay, dios mío!” Jake exclaims, taking a step back and pressing a hand against the doorframe to steady himself. “Don’t do that.”

Sorry, just — Marc gasps suddenly like he’s choking for air, and Jake feels like his lungs are suddenly full of water as Marc gets closer, pressure in his skull coming through in a tidal wave of force. Let me in. Jake, let me in control.

Marc — Steven tries, and when he goes to grasp at Marc, Jake can feel it too in the way spots dance in the corner of his vision. Hopefully the man in the chair is unconscious, because otherwise he must look like a drunkard.

Jake doesn’t need to be asked twice, though, when Marc is clawing at the front so desperately. He slips back and lets Marc’s suit slip on, when he finally has control of the legs, he’s rushing forward before Jake is even fully out. Steven says something, but it gets lost underneath the pounding of his heartbeat. Marc still feels their worry, though. Even if he doesn’t have time to focus on it over his own.

There’s no reflections in this room so Marc only has himself as he drops to his knees in front of the man in the chair, but the man doesn’t even life his head where he’s slumped over in his seat. To Jake’s worry — because Marc had felt it too, as he had gotten so close to the front he had tasted the blood in the air — the man is unconscious, so he doesn’t see the shakiness of Marc’s hand as he presses his fingers to his neck to feel his pulse.

It’s beating. Slow, but steady. It alleviates some of the pressure that chokes his lungs, but not all of it. Especially when Steven and Jake are fallen back away from him in their confusion — leaving him almost completely alone, staring at someone he used to know that smells of blood.

“Frenchie.” Marc gasps. “What the hell are you doing here?”