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Chapter Text

Click

Frankly grunting, “Behind Una Pizza’ll do.”, the man, unshaven and dressed head to toe in raggedy black, slammed the door shut with more than sufficient force.

Unfazed at this bold act of aggression, the driver answered with a brief nod of understanding. Typical customers for after dark New York- fishy and irritating, but typical.

Sailing alongside the blur of yellow streetlamps and distant drunk chatter, the two men fall into an almost peaceful silence; the bleary hum of the road singing quietly between them.

The cab slowly pulled to a stop on the pavement near an empty carpark.

New York never really sleeps, always lit by the warming ambers of traffic lights and the slurring of late night clubbers.

However this carpark seemed to be an exception, one of the measly corners the flashing lights miss, one that disappears into the side of each passerby’s eyes.

The rundown pizzeria in front resided within a brick block, assorted of what used to be small shops and newsagents. Each window was smashed and each wall graffitied, the only light being the flickering ‘ UNA PIZZA’ lettering hanging above.

Beneath the jet black sky, the man jauntily throws open the cab door and bounds into the small carpark.

It was desolate except for a dumpster and the presence of four similarly dressed people. They were clad in worn, black leather jackets and thick lace up boots. The man greets them with a brief wave of his hand.

Between them, five faces were distinguishable, lit orange by the dancing flame of a lighter.

A drunk straggler staggered by, swaying in her heels and silver minidress, likely making a wrong turn in her muddled state.

The sharp click of her heels and slurred murmuring slit through the carpark’s careful silence.

“Hey!” A deep voice shouts over,

the gang of men now beckoning and gesturing for the woman to come closer.

Surrounding her as if predators eyeing pray, she was backed into a brick wall.

“How ‘bout you have some fun with us, missy?”, the large, square-faced one plagued.

“Yeah stop bein’ so hard to get.”, a gangly thin one nagged.

They impeded closer, the man from the cab seemingly the ringleader of the lot. He brought his scar-ridden face inches from hers.

“Hey…”, in a hazy attempt to brush off the unwanted advances, the woman not quite aiming for anything, mistakenly slaps him right across the face.

The gaggle of delinquents freeze from their casual swooning and almost back away, now rigid with caution.

“H-hey, you stupid bitch what the hell?”, the lanky one pipes up, his eyes nervously darting to the boss and back.

Face flushed pink from the slap, the man turned slowly to his defendant.

Crack

“How dare you pity me.” He spat.

With a single brutal punch the guy was unconscious on the ground, bleeding from his nose.

The remaining three men didn’t dare to glance at the mess, their eyes fixated on the air before them.

Their ringleader refocused his attention onto the woman, a little more sober after witnessing an assault.

“Wait-“ she begun,

“Hold her down.”

The man’s cronies seemed relieved to have been given a task. They jump at the chance to repair their leader’s sour mood, before it backfired onto them next.

He raised his fist, almost spanning larger than her head, about to strike even harder than before.

She clawed with increasing desperation at the arms pinning her to the rough brick,
“Hey, hey, hey-“

Splat

Blood sprayed the brick wall, a crimson halo.

Crack

Red pooled onto the ground, trickling into the cracks of the concrete.
“‘Ey, what the fu-“

Splat

An estranged eyeball, mercilessly pulled out of its socket, splattered into the wall. With dark fleshy tethers of muscle still attached, it trailed down.

“H-holy shit-“

A white fist shovelled the last man’s head into the pavement, almost skewering it in the process.

The grey clouds of pollution swarming the moon drifted from their usual post, illuminating the carpark in ethereal beams of subtle light.

Standing surrounded by mangled bodies, was a white caped figure adorned with black bandages.

Turning to check if the woman had remained unharmed, the mysterious figure was met not with her face but with a camera.

Click

——

“Breaking news- infamous vigilante Moon Knight, has finally been proven more than just a terrifying myth. This night stalking serial killer- Marc, what the hell is this?” Layla asked incredulously, wafting and gesturing at the newspaper before him.

The two were standing in Steven’s dingy flat.

“I- I don’t know,” he openly gestured with his hands, clearly not holding any weight to her words, “maybe Khonshu just found a new avatar, Layla. I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal out of this.” He replied, keen to move on.

“Marc, you’re not listening to me-“

Her dark curls sat on her shoulder, bobbing each time she spoke.

“I am, you’re-“

He ran his hands down his face as if he wanted to rub it straight off. He knew his wife, or ex-wife or whatever she was, was right. It’s just that if it were true, she shouldn’t be involved in this. The implications were too heavy, too dangerous. If it were true-

“Marc!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “Marc, stop keeping me in the dark. I don’t need your protection, I need your honesty.”

The man in question looked up and met her eyes for the first time throughout the conversation.

“I’m worried about you, Marc.”

He sighed deeply and walked over to Steven’s desk, plodding down onto the creaky wooden chair.

Books of all sorts were stacked thoughtfully in several piles, some falling as Marc made the sudden movement.

He keeled over, putting his head in his hands. After mumbling a little as if talking to someone, he sat back up.

“Steven doesn’t know anything.”

“Figured. Doesn’t seem the violent type-“ Layla’s sarcastic comment was interrupted.

“Uh, sorry, can I just speak, yeah?” Marc, now Steven, asked pointedly to himself. Screwing his face into disdain then surprise, he turned to Layla. “Sorry love, Marc said he’s embarrassed, bit late for that, innit?”

Layla softened, somehow Steven always had that effect.

“Did Marc catch you up?” She inquired, still slightly unsure about how they operated.

“Pretty much, yeah, but you reckon I could take a look at that paper?”

Already in their scarce interaction, Steven had surpassed Marc’s communication skills.

At least they were getting somewhere now. Relieved, Layla handed Steven the article, slightly crinkled from her previous tense grip.

The Brit grabbed his reading glasses from the desk, and gratefully accepted the newspaper. He stood up and paced around the flat, squinting intensely and reading it inches from his face.

Layla still couldn’t help but marvel at the sight, he really was so different to Marc. Lost in thought, she jumped as he turned to her.

He pointed aggressively at the featured image of ‘Moon Knight’, his arm outstretched to make sure Layla could see. Thankfully he didn’t notice her start.

“This- this isn’t mine or Marc’s suit,” he began.

She averted her eyes to where Steven was pointing, surely enough there were black bandages she and Marc hadn’t noticed before.

Although disguised by the darkness of the night, it was undeniable once you saw it.

Layla let out a sigh of relief, so it’s just an elaborate fraud. However her relief didn’t last long as she glanced to Steven.

“Uh, sorry, I wouldn’t relax just yet. You see, this is still very much the ceremonial suit of Khonshu’s temple.” He fiddled with his fingers before adjusting his glasses. “You can tell it’s authentic by the wear on the bandages, unless it’s a very, and I mean a very, bloody good copy.”

She paled- “Steven, the Gods can’t switch avatars that quickly- do you know what you’re saying?”

Grimacing, he slid his glasses off and shook his curls a little. “I’m afraid I do.”

Strangely enough, he only paced around thoughtfully holding his chin. Returning to stand before Layla, he seemed calmer than she’d expect. Calmer than her anyway.

“You… were you aware of this already?” She tried tentatively.

Ragging his hands through his hair, he sighed.

“Well, no not really, but there were some signs of another bloke hanging about. Just chalked it up to Marc lying to me, though. Did a lot of that, he did.” He laughed, but it came out a little too forced. “You know, I reckon I’m almost used to this bloody routine, at least I’m not going in blind.”

——

Steven rotated between desperately dragging his hands down his face and frantically walking in circles, muttering something intensely.

The apartment was occupied by only him now, windows pitch black with the darkness of night.

The creaky floorboards croaked with him as he paced about, the only illumination being the subtle blue flickering of Gus’ fish tank.

Contrasting his counterpart’s frenzied stature, Marc stood cross armed and unmoving, reflected by the full length mirror in the corner.

It was almost as if he was being as still as possible to prolong the unavoidable, like a child unmoving when the clock ticks past their bedtime.

His brow was deeply furrowed, the sole indicator of his concern.

“Marc- Marc, this is bad. Really bad.” Steven begun, suddenly snapping out of his frenzy and facing the mirror.

“Yeah, don’t have to tell me twice bud.” He tried gently, yet his voice came out strained and heavy.

Forget soothing Steven, he can’t even control himself.

Before they jumped to any wild conclusions, Marc wanted to completely rule out anything else. Whether out of clawing desperation or logic, it’s best to be sure.

“Didn’t Khonshu swear to let us go? He can’t just swoop us up again behind our backs- Steven, what’s wrong?” Panic rose into his chest as he watched Steven’s face turn a ghastly pale.

The now frozen man raised his eyes to meet Marc’s, wide and brimmed with terror or regret or even betrayal, maybe all.

Getting increasingly concerned, adrenaline now pumping through him like a red-hot stream of protectiveness, Marc almost knocked Steven right out of his body in fear he had been possessed or worse.

“Marc…” he finally spoke shaken, “When I made that deal with Khonshu… he agreed to let the two of us go.”

Confused, Marc nodded probing him on.

“The bloke in the photo is neither me or you. And that condition only included me and you.”

He didn’t need him to continue.
Layla’s previous implications hit them both like a truck, only now processing the severity of the situation.

After breaking free from his violent and life threatening duties as an avatar, Marc had been reluctant to allow himself to relax even a little.

Just when he had finally let it go- let the constant hypervigilance begin to dim, fade away into the background of his now normal life, everything is destroyed.

So quickly, his immense efforts to move on from his traumatic past were shattered to pieces; it was so easy to demolish something he had spent so long to build.
He wasn’t surprised, he was just disappointed that this time wasn’t any different.

Marc had very hesitantly tried to put his trust into the world again, and look where that had got him.

He internally cursed himself for ever slacking.
For ever slacking off from his cynical, prepared self and for allowing himself to feel comfort and happiness.

Tucking all the healthy emotions he started to feel into a neat little box, Marc resumed his mercenary mindset. No unnecessary feelings, no extra wants, no extra needs.
Just survival of the fittest.

Steven on the other hand, was not so adapted to life shattering circumstances, this only being his second rodeo.

Hyperventilating, hand clutching chest; all the fear, terror, confusion, and pain swarmed him uncontrollably.
The white-hot searing agony of being shot returned to the forefront of his mind, almost blinding him.
He’s not safe, the danger hasn’t left, it never had.It could happen again, it will happen again.

Clouded by all the gut-wrenching scenarios he had been through in the past year, finding his mum was dead, finding out she loathed him- the grief was unbearable. With every emotion ravaging so deeply into his heart, it hurt so much- he couldn’t see anymore, it hurt, he couldn’t hear, he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t-

Marc could.

The ex-mercenary roughly wiped his wet face with the back of his hand, and thumbed Layla’s number.

——

“This is unnecessary.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to do this either.” Dressed casually and carrying a small suitcase, Layla turned to face him. “But do you have any better ideas?”

Marc silently returned to his laptop, not noticing a scrutinising glare piercing his back.

He had definitely returned to the closed-off, vigilant and blunt version of himself.
Just what happened last night to undo all that progress?

The plan was simple, Layla was a twenty four hour surveillance for Marc, temporarily moving into Steven’s flat. They both agreed it was best to use his neutral ground after the divorce.

She and him theorised that this third presence must come out during the night, so the logical solution would to be on night watch.

Steven hadn’t turned up since that fiasco, Marc was glad he didn’t- he would just get in the way. Not to mention, they hadn’t even gotten to broaching the topic of their unknown third;

the shock of still being stuck in the clutches of Khonshu completely derailed them alone.

It was clear his counterpart couldn’t handle this.

Layla’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “So, where’s Steven?”

Marc grunted, not looking away from his laptop. “I’ll handle this alone.”

She paused. “Marc, you can’t handle this alone. You’re not handling this alone- you needed me and you need Steven too.”

Irrationally irritated at her comment, he spun to face her. “You don’t want to be here? Fine. I’m not forcing you to do this, Layla- go, walk out, leave right now then- but I’m not involving him.” His volume became increasingly loud laced with frustration.

“What the hell happened to you Marc? I left for a day and you’re suddenly acting like-“

“Like what?”

“Forget it.” Now equally fuming as she continued on. “I’m doing this for Steven, not you. If you want to lock him out of your life and shut down, fine, but look how that turned out. Who are you to deny him a say in his own life? In my life.”

Marc didn’t reply, but he stared coldly.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Layla was fuelled with indignation for the Brit, shaking her head. He was doing the exact same thing to Steven as he did to her, keeping the hurtful truth a secret. The murder of her father, a secret.

“You think locking him away is helping him? Don’t make me laugh, he deserves a say in this. You’re just hurting him-“

“I am protecting him-” Marc exploded, standing up from his chair and shaking an accusatory finger as he hissed. “He can’t deal with this, Layla- did you see him last night, huh? He can’t be exposed to this sort of-“

“Exposed? Marc, he’s been exposed already. Who freed you both from Khonshu? Who turned back the sky thousands of years? Who found out about your third part?”

Marc backed off, his expression vaguely reminiscent of a child sulking after being scolded. Layla scoffed.

“Hm? The best thing you can do to protect him is to be honest with him. We need his knowledge for this to work; what happened to being a ‘package deal’?”  She finished triumphantly, the previous intensity fading into persuasion.

Marc reluctantly and ashamedly agreed, raising his hand and shuffling over to sit on his bed.
“Just- just give me a moment then.”

He hadn’t meant to set off at Layla, it was just one thing after another. Relying on her for help not only put her in danger, but also himself. Extending his trust to someone and depending on them dug up memories of betrayal, of depending on his dad for safety from his…

Marc aggressively dragged his hands over his face as if trying to rub it off, keeling over and closing his eyes.

Focusing in his mind, he began to wade through the darkness in search of-

Sniff, sniff

“Steven?” He thought gently.

A fresh wave of the familiar sadness he had gotten used to long ago, washed over his heart no longer stale.

“Hey bud, how’re you doing?”

“Bloody awful that’s how.” The sullen Brit thought in reply.

——

Layla sighed, throwing a sidelong glance at Marc- or Steven. Marc-ven. Sleeping soundly curled on the couch, as she sipped her coffee.

The unconventional time was getting to her head.

The two had insisted on letting her take the bed, not backing down despite the fact she wouldn’t be using it.

She pondered what the third one would be like, considering the stark differences between them already.

After two nights, there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary happen.

She’d just nap in the day and keep watch at dark. It wasn’t a bad routine, all in all. Definitely tame compared to the other missions her and Marc ventured on.

How had she never noticed her ex-husband was suffering from such severe condition this whole time? If she’d known about Steven, she could’ve helped… it didn’t have to turn out this way.

She liked the both of them plenty enough.

Layla was pulled from her daydream as the man began to stir. Cautiously, she fixed her attention onto him, not daring to breathe.

Admittedly, if this wasn’t a bust, she was a little excited to see another side of someone she once loved; uncovering the secrets he kept from her all this time.

However, she also knew excitement and fear were all the same to the brain, nervously eyeing the man in question.

The guy dazedly rubbed his eyes and started propping himself up on his elbows. Layla began to advance silently towards him out of view, padding carefully in his direction.

A clatter from the opposite side of the flat startled her, as she spared an instinctual millisecond glancing over.

Nothing seemed displaced.

She returned her gaze to the couch-  it’s empty?!

Then where- she whipped her head around, heart pounding- he’s not anywhere in here, the realisation dawning an instant too late.

Two familiar hands grab her from behind, skilfully restraining her as she struggled.

An unknown accent pierces the murderous silence, heavy and Brooklyn.
“You shouldn’t be here, querida.”

Layla seized his momentary underestimation of her to turn and strike him in the crotch. Stunning him, she grabbed his arm and hauled him over her shoulder, slamming him into the wooden floorboards.

“Me cago en la leche.” He muttered rubbing his back.

“English, please.” She inched forward threateningly.

“Ey, ey, ey-“ Now shuffling backwards, sitting on the ground and looking up at her, he raised his hands placatingly. Continuing almost sarcasticly,“There’s no need to get violent-“

She threw a kick at his head that he narrowly dodged, unfazed if not lazily. “Who are you?” Layla probed sternly.

Studying his face, she absorbed this new expression. Unlike Marc’s tense stare and Steven’s wide eyed grin, his eyebrows were pinched and mouth drastically downturned even when smiling.

“I am…” the mystery mumbled something in Spanish under his breath, Layla would bet on several curses.  “I am Marc Inspector, sí?”

Bewildered, she almost forgot to aim another missing kick. Did this guy think she was clueless or was he just playing around with her?

Remembering the context of his disorder and allowing the adrenaline from his attack to dissipate, she decided to take a different approach.

“Marc and Steven want to meet you.”

He glared, now beginning to actually get irritated.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you… are you not aware of your disorder” Layla had begun gently, but the man abruptly stood up. Despite backing up, he was menacing inches from her face.

“This is none of your business, niña- silly little girl.”

“You set me up to this,” Jabbing a finger into his chest and indignantly meeting his eyes, “Marc Inspector.”

Somehow, she didn’t fear this new addition.
There was something about the three that was similar despite being so different, like an assurance they were all good people beneath their defences.

Speechless, he distanced himself from her and leant against the kitchen counter. Layla had begun to think she had taken it a little too far before he burst out cackling.

“Jake.”

“What?”

“You asked my name, niña tonta.”

——

“He did what?” Marc asked in a furious rage, half inclined to punch himself across the face. Maybe he would’ve if Steven wasn’t gawping like a fish in his reflection.

“I couldn’t exactly stop him from jumping out the window to do whatever he went to do.” Layla sighed, recalling how last night’s events came to an end.

“Bit unpredictable, Marc.”

“No- what? I meant he attacked you, I shouldn’t have put you in that position…” he trailed off, guilt seeping into his body.

“Hey. I chose to do this Marc, are you saying I can’t take care of myself?”

He didn’t reply, still clearly wallowing in self-condemnation.

“So this Jake bloke is still an avatar?” Steven asked nobody in particular. The answer was obvious, he was simply thinking out loud.

He felt guilty for what happened to Layla too, but the fact he had neglected Jake with Khonshu weighed heavily on his mind.

“Steven, you… you can talk to Marc, right? Is it any different with Jake?” Layla wondered, curious.

“You reckon it is?” he pondered rhetorically. “I suppose I could only do that when I knew about him, since he stopped hiding from me. I know about Jake now, so it shouldn’t hurt to give it a go.”

——

Layla had left to give them space.

Steven sat on his sofa, attempting some sort of meditation to broach his chaotic mind.

Eyes closed, he mentally scanned the darkness.

Hm, what’s the plan? Marc’s thought translated into a voice inside their head.

Shush! I’m trying to focus here mate.

Steven read about a relaxation technique online and decided to give it a go.

Think of a place you felt comfortable in.

Hm, nowhere in particular really. The entrance to Alexander the Great’s tomb is definitely a place I loved visiting though.

How did it smell?

Of wood and spices, I suppose.

How did it feel being there?

Amazing, bloody amazing. He relished the feeling of standing beneath the towering pillars, exploding with untouched history and embroidered with hieroglyphics. Pure bliss.

Close your eyes and imagine you’re there again.

Steven reconstructed the memory of the sandy tomb entrance, warm and dusty, the smell of resin and oils wafting past the ancient pillars.

He imagined himself standing there in his mind, walking around and admiring the scene as if lucid dreaming.

“What the hell is this Steven?” Marc asked incredulously, standing next to him and peering at the view.

He got the gist of the plan, also imagining himself into the tomb beside him.

“Oh my days, how amazing was Alexander the Great’s tomb? There’s nowhere else I’d go to decompress.”

“Yeah, except we were chased and killed by lunatic cultists here.” Marc added, suspiciously eyeing the pillars.

“Not here, this is just the entrance Marc. I can get rid of it if you don’t like it though.” Steven replied slightly disappointed.

Sighing, the ex-mercenary shook his head. “It’s fine, I’m not bothered.”

Delighted, Steven poked Marc’s face several times.
“Bit like the duat except in a dream, innit?”

Unflinching at his imaginary poking, Marc crossed his arms. “How exactly are we going to find that bastard Jake?”

“Marc!” Steven scolded unhappily, “Although I’m not happy with him either, he didn’t hurt Layla. He was probably just scared, alright?”

Marc decided not to tell the Brit that he seemed more dangerous than even himself, since he was a seasoned killer. He groaned.

“Jake! Jake! Mate are you in here?” Steven cupped his hands round his mouth, shouting into the air.

“Steven…” He mumbled. He didn’t have as much faith in this method.

Marc would’ve been much more concerned for his safety going around yelling, if it weren’t for the fact they had the same body.

However, this doubt didn’t last long as a third ‘him’ slinkered out from behind a pillar. They would’ve been identical, except he was wearing a flat cap and had a moustache.

“…”

Steven paused his shouting and looked dumbfounded at the man.

Marc was also speechless that it had actually worked.

“Fuck, if you don’t want me here I’ll just go then.”

“No- no wait!” The Brit stumbled to ensure he didn’t disappear after so much effort.

“What?” Jake asked in no hurry.

Steven hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck.
“Nice to meet you mate.”

Marc turned to look at him disbelievingly, was this not all to ask about Khonshu?

Steven met his ogling gaze-
I forgot, alright?

Jake watched them exchange very obvious glances and admired the scenery around him instead.

Chapter Text

The world was bleary and unfocused.

Steven groaned as his mouth ached.

He must’ve been having a nightmare, grinding his teeth in his sleep.

Blinking the blurriness out of his eyes, he raised his hand to rub them- except it didn’t move.

Panic began to set into his nerves as he dreadfully realised he was not in fact lying in bed, but sitting chained to a metal chair. With a dislocated jaw.

“Wha’ the-“

Speaking before thinking out of sheer disconcertment, Steven quickly scanned his surroundings.

An industrial looking warehouse, plain and concrete, scattered with a couple mysterious shipping crates.

He could tell it was morning at least, since cool rays of winter sun filtered gently through the cracks in the roof.

Spotting two armed men standing guard at an exit, he sucked in a breath.

Usually, Steven would’ve then yelled out something along the lines of:

“Hiya, little help here?”

However, he had learnt his lesson and kept quiet.

Instead he sat, almost kicking his legs merrily, as he waited for something to happen.

It was rather bittersweet to be unable to summon that wretched suit the one time he needed it, but he was rest assured by the presence of Marc and Jake.

Speaking of Jake…

——

—Three days prior—

Marc turned to look at him disbelievingly, was this not all to ask about Khonshu?

The three stood awkwardly in silence beneath the imaginary pillars of Alexander the Great’s tomb.

Still sitting cross legged on his apartment couch, Steven felt a rush of excitement- or anxiety- to finally speak to this mysterious third party.

Mustering up his courage, he asked “So, you still working with that bloody pigeon then?”

Perplexed, “Pigeon? Do I look like a fuckin’ zookeeper to you, mijo?” was Jake’s response.

“No, pig-eon, dunno’ why I’m saying it like that-“ he laughed nervously, “you know the little grey birds-“ Logic lost in his enthusiasm to engage with this new addition, Steven began to make small wing gestures on his head.

“Ey, I know what pigeons are Steven.” He replied mimicking his flapping.

Marc watched the conversation unfold, dumbfounded. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Khonshu, he meant Khonshu.” He decidedly cut in, earning Steven’s grateful gaze and Jake’s suspicious glare.

“Ah, should’ve said so Stevie.” He patted the Brit’s shoulder. “Sí, I’m still working with that bloody pájaro.”

Steven suddenly adopted an air of misery, drooping to stare sullen at the sandy ground.

Jake stared at his own hand with a complicated expression.

“I wash these you know, mijo.”

“You’re still being used by- sorry what?”

“¿Qué?”

Marc leaves their imaginary tomb for his own sanity, if there’s any of that even left.

——

For the time it took for something to happen, the Brit had almost fallen asleep in the cold retractable chair.

His peaceful daze was interrupted by the tip of an icy, metal gun being shoved into his stomach.

He had long gotten used to the foreign concept of  people running around with these killing machines, Marc’s Americanism had rubbed off on him. So had his hardheaded bravery.

“Oi, watch it.” Steven commanded, indignantly meeting the eyes of his perpetrator.

There were two men, heavily armed and clad in black armour vests.

Momentarily stunned, they turned to each other then back.

“When the hell was he British?” The one who attacked muttered, puzzled.

“Who cares? He’s just putting it on, quit getting distracted.” The other man replied.

With one last quizzical look, a heavy blow winded the air out of Steven’s lungs, causing the chair to loudly grate backwards.

Marc awoke to a searing pain in his abdomen. Chained up.

What the hell Steven? He thought, before backpedaling to the more likely- What the hell Jake?

Assessing the situation, the ex-mercenary stood with the chair still attached, using it to block several bullets aimed at him for doing so.

He then charged at the two men, stupefied, to knocking them out in a series of brutal collisions with it.

The damaged piece of furniture fell off him, not being able to withstand being used as a battering ram.

Peering around, Marc absorbed his surroundings; it’d begun to rain. He glanced upwards to see the fat droplets splatter down through gaping holes in the roof, the sky being a miserable grey.

He caught sight of his reflection in a puddle.

“Bloody hell... They’re not dead are they?” Steven gawped, eyeing the pile of bodies.

“Unconscious.” Marc said, throwing a curt nod at his counterpart and crossing his arms. “Steven, where are we?”

“Oh. I reckon we’re somewhere in America, did you see the size of those guns?”

“People don’t just go walking around with guns in America, you know that right?”

“I’m not silly, Marc, they had an accent.”

“Right.” He walked past the rippling puddle and over to one of the few shipping crates. They were rusted and caked in some sort of dirt or- blood.

Before could even process the ominous sight, he was surrounded by twenty or so men, each pointing a gun aimed to the back of his head.

One cocked their weapon threateningly.

With no choice, Marc slowly turned to face them raising his hands in surrender.

“Alright, let’s not be rash…” he started placatingly, catching Steven’s wide eyes in the reflection of the metal.

“Oh bugger.”

The sea of guns parted as their seeming leader approached him. Excessively tall, each shoulder almost the width of an arm, he spoke.

“Well, well, well. Old friend, there’s no need to act so unfamiliar.”

Marc had never laid his eyes on this monster of a man in his entire life.

Steven has some real unique friends.

“Marc… uh, what sort of friends do you have mate?”

“Jake Lockley.” Drawled the ringleader.

Ah.

“We could’ve ruled over New York together, we could’ve been Gods.” Running his hand down his face, it looked as though the man was reminiscing fond times. “We were unstoppable. But you turned on me, my friend, you- you disrupted my… source of income. That is unforgivable.” Voice resounding and deep, he turned to scrutinise his hostage.

Strange, he thought, there’s something different about him.

“Uh, sorry, could I ask something yeah?” Pondered his former pal, in a funny accent not to mention. Jake would’ve never asked permission to speak. Is he- is he fiddling with his fingers?

More horrified than confused, the burly man allowed it, aghast.

“What.”

“So since me and you are like, old timers, yeah? Do you know what’s in that crate by any chance?”

Thunderstruck, the leader shook his head. “You- you are taking me for a fool Jake Lockley! In that crate is the many products I have trafficked, the very ones you tried to free at my expense.”

“Bloody hell- are you a human trafficker? Oh.. oh I think I’m going to faint- there’s people in there, oh my days.”
Steven concluded, nauseous and reeling at the implication of being involved in such terrible crimes- and well, the crime itself.

“Enough. I know why you have came here today.”

The Brit almost outright inquired as to why, but thought the better of it as he glanced at the many guns.

“I will not allow you to interrupt my business, Lockley, no matter how much you grovel to me.”

At that moment, Steven startled. Rather than hearing a stern American accent, a Brooklyn one echoed inside of his head instead.

“Ey, the fat fuck thinks I’m curryin’ his favour because of you Steven. Give me the body for a sec-“

After everything he just learnt, Jake wants to take control again?

“No!” His reply being too sudden and firm, accidentally blurting it out loud.

“How dare you.” The man began to turn a shade of plum as he trembled with rage.

“Oh- no sorry mate- no, I wasn’t speaking to you.”
Steven twitched his hand to nervously scratch his neck; the minor movement causing the barrage of weapons at his head to stiffen.
“Right. How about we just chill out for a second, yeah? We can- we can discuss this like civil people, innit?”

“He’s going to take that fist and skewer your head with it, jus’ give me the body mijo.” Jake insisted, all while his supposed friend raged on.

“Civil people? You have tested my patience long enough-“

“Ey, Steven give me the fuckin’ body-”

“Tread carefully Lockley, you traitorous-“

“Steven-“

“Argh- Shut your bloody mouths up!”

Stunned at Steven’s slip-up, both the man and Jake paused.

“Take the body, Jake take the body.”

Bang

An onslaught of bullets barraged at their target’s head, commanded by the unknown ringleader at the crux. Dust disturbed from the concrete ground rose, clouding the figure under fire.

After what felt like hours of shooting, when every bullet was exhausted, the gunfire came to a halt.

“Goodbye, Jake Lockley.”

“Adiós.” Came a reply from the debris.

Before he could respond, a white clad silhouette charged at him, brutally plummeting his fist into his skull. Over and over.

Blood splattered around them as if an abstract picture frame, encapsulating his mercilessness.

“Jake! That’s enough, look at his face.”

Faltering, the knight paused to take a look at his victim.

“What face?”

“Exactly, mate.” Steven muttered unhappily, secretly grateful for surviving the whole ordeal.

Swiftly taking care of the remaining men, and leading the people in the crates to safety, he sat on a rooftop watching the sun set.

“So, why were you hanging around someone like that?” The Brit asked curiously, orange beams of sunlight beating against their (intact) face.

“Hm. There was no other way to find the victims, he was a very careful guy. Not careful enough though.” Jake cackled, relishing his victory.

“Sorry.”

“For what, mijo?”

“I didn’t trust you, and now I’ve gone and made you kill someone.”

Sighing, his counterpart replied. “Ey, I was there to kill him. And to free the people- but mainly to kill him.”

Steven’s heart suddenly felt as though it’d been filled with lead. Although Jake had saved him, the idea of him being a killer was another thing altogether.

Sickened by the heavy weight of guilt and regret, he discerned his strong sense of morality was slowly fraying.

Why was he relieved that that man was murdered- he committed horrific crimes, but being ruthlessly pelted to death is too much. It should be too much.

Gradually, Steven was changing, not for the better either; he wondered how long would it take for him to loose everything. Everything that made him him.

Each time he changed, evolved, he felt a deep rooted fear of disappearing- of abandoning a past self that was once him. With no anchor of identity to cling onto, Steven only had himself to tally the charts.

“What the hell happened?” A familiar American accent penetrated the silence.

Chapter Text

Rain pelts down beneath the blackened sky, glittering orange under the street lamps. The road is empty except for a lone yellow cab parked discreetly at the side, its headlights dimly lighting the puddles ahead.

In the back seat was a man adorned with a flat cap, pulled down right over his eyes. He sat sprawled with an air of despair or relinquishment, not quite doing anything.

A lot had happened in the past couple… days? Weeks? Months? Jake wasn’t keeping up with the flow of time- he never had, really. There was no reason to do so.

Keeping himself alive was the only immediate task at hand; waking up in life threatening scenarios and being able to deal with them alone, was his job. His purpose.

Yet now, all of a sudden, Marc and Steven want to help him?  Suddenly they’re a team, and things he’d never even stopped to think about are being questioned- like whether he wants to be Moon Knight.
Jake was lost, his life had never been anything more than cold, hard survival, and now this warmth he didn’t even know existed was confusing him. What was his purpose without danger and fear? He feared stability. The man swore in frustration.

——

“Argh!”

Steven awoke with a headache, drooling over a carseat.

“What the… have I bloody gone and stole a taxi now?” He muttered as he flitted around in his pockets, padding the seats for any clues.

An elderly lady tapped on the window, presumably looking for a ride, just as Steven found the keys. “Thank Go- goodness.”

Rolling down the window, he made frantic apologetic gestures to her, accidentally knocking some sort of cap off his head and scrambling to pick it up again.

“Sorry love, no customers today! Sorry.”

He was met with a middle finger as she scooted off.

“Cheers.”

Rolling the window back up, he addressed his reflection hoping no passerbys were watching.

“Marc? You there, mate?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you own a taxi by any chance?”

“What? No? Steven where are we?” Marc asked almost tiredly, clearly not fazed by the whole ordeal.

“Taxi.”

“You’re in New York, estúpido.”

Steven turned to the front mirror, catching Jake’s pinched expression speaking to him.

“This is my cab.”

“Oh, Jake!” Grinning, he continued. “I thought it was yours, recognised the funny cap.”

“Sí, it was our grandfather’s.”

“Oh. We had one of those?”

“Stop confusing Steven, he doesn’t need to know these things.”

“Oi, Marc, I should know about my own bloody family.” He argued, getting increasingly annoyed at being reminded of how clueless he is.

“No, you shouldn’t, Steven. Digging into the past is pointless- just leave it.”

“What, so you and Jake can just hog everything real then, is that it? While I just stay in my imaginary childhood- where I deluded myself that mum still loved me?”
At this point, Steven was worked up, shouting at his reflection in the window. Realising this, he faltered and nervously looked outside the glass pane.

“Ey, it’s New York, you’re one of the normal ones, mijo.”

“I just- I’m just tired of not knowing anything about myself. So I hate when you try to keep things from me Marc, it’s bloody awful to just go about your life, not knowing- like a rock floating around with no past or present or anything.”

Realising the impact of his supposed protectiveness, Marc felt guilty. “I- I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I thought I was making things easier for you.”

He really did. Each time Steven tried digging deeper, Marc felt sickened with some sort of regretful terror. A sense of gripping urgency, of overwhelming avoidance.

“Hm. That’s a start, innit mate?” Cooling from his outburst, Steven began to feel self conscious despite Jake’s reassurance.

Sensing his hesitance, Jake intervened in the awkward silence.

“Want a ride?”

The man sighed as he manoeuvred the cab into a slim alleyway- all this emotional stuff wasn’t his forte. He’d always simply settle matters with his fist, that’s what it was like in the military anyway. You’d be called pathetic for crumpling over such flakey things- not that Steven was wrong- he had realised long ago it was him who was overly indifferent.

Jake just wasn’t suited for a normal life; seeing friends be brutally killed, brutally killing people himself. It was difficult to heed anything except survival, a fault many had branded him a monster for.

As he watched chattering friends cross the road, they felt lifetimes away, separated by an invisible wall of normality. Deep down, he wished he could make himself care about small talk and feelings and such.

Pulling onto a small alley pavement, he called to his hypothetical passengers. “We’re here.”

“Ooh- I’ve always wondered where you lived, you know? I’m glad it isn’t a storage locker.” Steven mused, throwing in a rouge jab at Marc.

The three left the vehicle and entered an apartment complex through a rusted backdoor. They climbed a spiral staircase beneath flickering, almost green halogen lights, takeaway boxes littered randomly on the floor.

Finally, Jake stops at a peeling door and unlocks it. A plain room is revealed, probably smaller than Marc’s storage locker, but similar regarding the practicality and lack of character.

“What was that about my locker?”

“Oh don’t be wet Marc.”

“Ey, I know it’s not much but it’s everything I need.” He explained, plodding onto the small bed, the metal frame creaking as he did.

Catching sight of a messily stuffed box, Marc’s curiosity was sparked. “Hey. What’s in there?”

“Nothin’.”

Marc scoffed, “‘The hell are you hiding, huh?”

Seizing control, he walked over to the worn cardboard box, filing through the contents.

“I said it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

“Funny, I see plenty of mentions of Marc Spector, but no Jake.” He seethed, wafting a document branded with his name.

When Jake was angry, Steven noted, he fumed with a sort of silent, murderous rage rather than Marc’s more childish irritancy.

“You don’t want to do that, Spector.”

“Hah, what’re you going to do?” Voice raising with fury. “Can’t exactly kill yourself the same way you killed all those people, huh?”

Jake unexpectedly cackled, sending shivers down one’s spine, his voice vicious and sharp. “Not nice being in the dark, is it ey? But you had no problem doing that to Steven.”

“Uhm, what are you lot even arguing about?” Injected the Brit, not following what exactly was happening.

“These are the documents.” Marc grabbed a handful of papers and threw them enraged across the room. “About my expulsion from the military.”

“So?”

“I was kicked out for going around doing shit and not remembering, called it fugue states. I would wander from my missions.”
He turned to face a mirror hanging over the compact bed.
“When it was him all along. Hiding the evidence in his little boxes.” Growling, he grabbed a random gun (Americans, Steven gawped.) and hurled it at the mirror. It shattered, splitting their reflection into three.

“The whole reason I ended up with Khonshu, was because you got me kicked from the goddamn military!” Marc yelled, pointing accusatorially at the distorted reflection.
He saw the irony of it, blaming the man in the mirror instead of his own insanity, the very reason for his expulsion.

“Okay, how about we chill the eff out and have a calm conversation, yeah?” Steven begun, attempting to mitigate the escalating situation.

Jake’s dark expression contrasted Steven’s pleading gaze in the broken reflection.
“You think I wished myself into existence? You think I enjoy the life I live, eh?
I exist to do your dirty work, the work so dirty even Marc fuckin’ Spector, international fugitive, can’t do.”
He spat in his thick Brooklyn accent, voice rough and foreboding. “I’m your prophet, you’re my God Spector. Not Khonshu, it’s you. You’re the one who wished me into existence, you’re the one who used me to do the things you couldn’t. You used me as your fist, so don’t you ever fuckin’ blame me for becoming an avatar, I only did whatever I could to help you survive.”

It was over before it’d begun, as Steven was left alone with neither of his counterparts present, in a random apartment in New York.

Chapter Text

Marc sat quietly on a park bench beneath a tall tree. It was raining heavily, so naturally nobody was there.
He didn’t know how Steven lived in England, somehow there was always a miserable grey cast over everything.

Steven wasn’t happy and had sent him to reflect on his actions; apparently getting a plane ticket with nothing but fake IDs and ‘illegal shit’ was difficult.
Luckily this time, Layla had been tasked with feeding the two fish- although there should be three now, shouldn’t there? Jake. He ragged his hands through his hair, exasperated.
They had fallen out- big time.

He just didn’t understand what the hell was up with him, Jake hid himself for all these years causing all sorts of trouble, and now they’re just supposed to get on with each other?

“You used me as your fist.”

Marc shook his head violently, as if trying to waft away the memory. Was what he said really true?

Grappling with a sudden onslaught of guilt, he stood up spontaneously, rubbing his arms to warm himself from the rain.

Alright, alright fine, fine, fine. He was wrong for throwing all the blame onto Jake, it was just overwhelming to learn that he was behind all those fugues.

Sitting back down, Marc decided to attempt Steven’s relaxation technique- the one that somehow ended up as some lucid meeting ground.

Closing his eyes, he followed the simple steps quietly.

Steven peered around Marc’s chosen location. They were on a small open top boat, sailing tranquil beneath the night sky.
It was lit tenderly by an array of purples and blues, creating a peaceful ambiance; surrounded by nothing but calm waters, no land was in sight beyond the endless horizon.

“Wow, don’t think I’ve ever been somewhere like this. Well, I must’ve since you have- oh this is lovely though, Marc” Steven mused, leaning over the side and swishing the water. “Oi, but don’t think you’re off the hook.”

He turned to his counterpart who sat slouched displeased on one of the seats. “I hope you’re here to make up with Jake.”

Pulling himself a little more upright, Marc sighed raising his arms to rest on the deck railing behind him. “Uh-huh. I have reflected.”
He emphasised the ‘d’ almost sarcastically, driving the point of his discomfort home.
Jake never seemed to appear in their strange inner-world situations anyway, only turning up if he’s called for enough.

Crossing his arms, Steven stared disapprovingly. “Marc, I want us to get on with each other- Jake’s nice, he’s just been through a lot, innit?”
The imaginary stars shone brighter above them, glittering almost as much as the Brits eyes. “We’re a team, the lot of us.”

“Alright, I said alright, okay?”

“Y’know I see you both as, like, my brothers or something.” He rambled on, rubbing his arm slightly embarrassed at the sentiment.

Marc froze, he tried not to show it out of pride, but Steven had also been filling that gap his brother once left.
He admittedly harboured a familial affection for him, maybe something beyond that- It was as if they were something closer than family could ever be, yet infinitely distant from being the same person.
Steven was the only part of himself he couldn’t hate.

“Ey.” Jake had appeared out of nowhere in particular, ruffling the Brit’s hair fondly.
Snapping out of his train of thought, Marc cleared his throat to awkwardly address their sudden guest.

“Uh- the other day. My fault.”

Jake pointedly ignored him, finding Steven’s head abnormally interesting, as Steven coaxed him to apologise with a glare.

“Look, the other day… I got too worked up. I never took the time to consider how this has all been for you, alright?”
The gentle lulling of waves crashing in the distance added to the surrealism of it all.
“I’m sorry I… I’m sorry for using you. You were right. About it all. You should have as much of a life as we do- without the violence and fighting.”

This seemed to stir Jake as he finally seemed to acknowledge him.

“Look Spector, I don’t care about what happened, sí? I jus’ said it how it is. This life you’re promising me, I don’t want it. You use me, but I don’t care.”
He stroked his cap in a quick motion, awfully casual about the whole ordeal. “This is all I’ve known, ey- I can’t live like you and Stevie even if I wanted to.”

Before he could finish, he felt Steven’s arms wrap around him as he was drawn into a warm hug. He was stunned.

“Uh.” Glancing almost pleadingly at Marc for help, Jake didn’t know what to do with his arms for the first time in his life.
Eventually the man settled for an awkward shoulder pat.

Pulling away, Steven’s earnest eyes brimming with empathy made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. “Mate, you’re no different from Marc and I, and if anyone deserves a peaceful bloody life, it’s you.”

Jake could’ve argued that he’d killed plenty more than either of them tripled, but he decided to stay quiet.
There was something about the Brit that made him actually begin to believe what he was saying, maybe his undoubtable sincerity.

As if on cue, the imaginary clouds drifted from the moon as it beamed white in the navy sky. It beamed bright, then brighter, then too bright.

Sheltering his eyes from the blinding light, Marc swore. “What the hell is happening here?”

“Marc..! Are you having a panic attack or something? This is supposed to be a bloody relaxation technique!” Steven exclaimed, taking cover behind Jake’s elbow.

“Ah, it’s not him mijo.”

Reacting to the raging moon, the sea around them rocked the boat violently as if in a storm.

“Then who-“

The blazing luminosity faded, and there stood a towering bird-like figure.

“Oh bugger. He’s not real, is he?”

So we meet again. Marc Spector, Steven Grant.

Jake spew what Steven could only assume a stream of rapid fire curses in Spanish.

“Jake… mate… is he real…?”

I am very much real, worm. See, my avatar is becoming distracted by your meddling.

The fleshless bird moved his staff to his other hand.

I am here to ensure you end this ceaseless nonsense; Lockley is my fist of vengeance, and I will not allow you to-

The God didn’t seem to notice Steven may as well be spouting steam right out of his ears.

“Shut it you sorry excuse of a God!” He yelled- neither Jake nor Marc had ever seen him so furious before, as he jabbed his finger aggressively at the seven-foot-something creature.

“What sort of swindling little fraud are you? Scamming us like this, yeah? No wonder no gift shop in the bloody country- actually the bloody world- sells Khonshu merch. Resorting to such low means,” he scoffed, still staring him in the eyes threateningly.
“No wonder you’ve been locked up by your mates dozens of times- justice?  You don’t deliver justice, you just exploit the vulnerable!” Breathless, he finally laid off the bird.

Jake found the scene to be hilarious, as Marc seemed troubled about his safety.

“Ey, he can’t hurt him.” His counterpart reassured.

Khonshu was quiet, taking a couple seconds before responding.

How dare-

However, whatever the God was about to say was interrupted by Jake, cackling loudly and shamelessly pointing at him in mockery.

This time breathless from laughter, he shouted over, “Nobody wants ugly little pájaro plushies, confirmed by the gift-shopper himself.”

Marc gaped at the two men, wondering why on Earth they were provoking a literal God; never in his servitude had he gone this far. He really was a lunatic, wasn’t he?

Yet, Khonshu only sighed, placing a hand on his skull and shaking his head.

Such is the consequence of having an ideal avatar. No sane human can withstand these duties, so I will excuse your lunacy for now. Lockley, I will not disturb you as long as you carry out your missions as usual.

And with that, the bird was gone.

Incredulously glancing at the others, Marc goggled. “Why is he such a pushover to you two?”

Steven turned to face them again. “Dunno. If the old bastard really does care about justice, he probably feels a shred guilty.”

“Nah, I’m just an excelente avatar. Also, Spector.”

Marc remembered the situation with Jake again, and braced himself for whatever he had coming.

“Might want to wake up, some old lady thinks you’re a loon.”

Marc opened his eyes, recalling the fact he was sprawled over a park bench.
An elderly woman walking her dog was side eyeing him nervously, shuffling around the bench with as much distance possible.
Pursing his lips into a tight smile, he sat up and raised his hand in a polite greeting. She scurried away not willing to return the favour.

Chapter Text

Margaret was a lovely woman, around seventy in age, a beloved grandmother and upstanding citizen.

After finally retiring from her busy job as a nurse, she had decided to travel outside of England for the very first time.
She ought to venture out- dip her toes into the bustling attractions of America, perhaps.

The sudden change of heart began with a rather peculiar encounter with a drug addict (she presumed), who was crawling around on the elevator floor.

Although he claimed he had lost his contact lens, Margaret had spent many years as a nurse and could tell this was not the case- withdrawals, most likely.

She sat in her modest flat that day, pondering her life choices.
Widowed with no more children relying on her, she concluded that life was too short not to indulge in her stagnant pension, not to explore the wonders of the word.

So off she set, pursuing her childhood dream of visiting New York City.

However, by the most extraordinary of coincidences, Margaret saw a familiar face through the taxi window she was trying to hail.
It was the very man who made her decide to leave England for some peace of mind!
Furious, she partook in the profanity of the middle finger.

Now back in her home country, the spirited lady resolved to take a walk in her local park- except there she found that same wretched fiend lolling about on a bench! By the heavens above!
Peering over at his situation, she assumed the poor sod had relapsed on his drugs.
With pity, she shuffled away, not wanting to get caught up in his bizarre antics.

——

Steven sat at his desk, running his finger down a glossy postcard.

Heavy rain drummed against his windows- even the bloody weather was miserable.

Nothing happened in particular, it was just that the grief from losing his mum- from discovering the truth- never really faded.
It festered like a cancer in his heart, weighing it with regret and sorrow.
Steven had only learnt to expand his life around all the bad feelings, since reducing them seemed near impossible.

A polite knock sang from his door, the sort that comes from a well meaning stranger; throwing his reading glasses aside and snapping out of his daydream, the Brit scurried to address it.

A woman, tanned skin and silky long hair, stood demurely before him.
She wore a subtle khaki dress sitting at her ankles, wrists adorned with several gold bangles. They chimed as she waved.

“Hello, Steven Grant I presume?”

“Uh- yes hi. Sorry, do I know you?” He wondered apologetically- this wouldn’t be the first time he’d forgotten a face.

“Oh, no, my apologies for not introducing myself. I am Rhea, current avatar of Hathor. I was granted the honour following the untimely death of Yatzil, my predecessor and victim of Harrow.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. Well, I’m not really like, working with Khonshu, if that’s what you mean. Sort of.” He laughed nervously. “Long story, you know?”

“Yes, I do know somewhat.” She said, not unkindly, as she proceeded into his flat. “My Goddess informed me of your struggles, and your God’s potential schemes.”
The mysterious woman peered around the chaotic room as if studying it, eyes lingering on the discarded postcard.

Catching up to her and clumsily leaning back on his jumbled desk to block the view, the Brit ashamedly explained its poor state.
“Sorry, bit messy. I wasn’t expecting visitors and that.”
A pile of books tumbled to the ground with a bang.

“Don’t fret. I apologise again for this inconvenience, however I must converse with one who possesses Khonshu’s blessing. It’s an urgent matter- I implore you to consider.”

The Brit glanced over to the full length mirror standing behind Rhea, noticing his reflection lag a little. “Jake… little help here?”

“Ey, what does she want?”

“She’s saying she wants to speak to you, Jake, about avatar stuff or something, says it’s urgent.”

“The fuck? Does she think we’re a twenty four hour telephone service? Hola, I’m lookin’ for a Jake, now fuck off Steven. Who the hell does she think she is?”

“Uh, mate, I appreciate it yeah? But it seems serious- also wasn’t Hathor one of the nice ones?”

“Nice? Mijo, no god is nice, those stuck up bastards always want somethin’ or another.”

“Huh… really? Wouldn’t expect that from all mighty beings and all, innit?”

Rhea cleared her throat at the glassy eyed Brit, clearly lost in his own thoughts.

“Jake please just take this one mate.”

The man froze for a moment before adapting a more casual and almost careless gait, his expression morphing into something much less pathetic than before.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am Rhea, avatar of Hathor. You are…?”

“Enough with the flowery shit, get to the point niñita.”

Unfazed by the extreme shift in demeanour and accent, she continued. “Very well. I am here under the direct orders of Hathor, to inform Khonshu’s avatar that Ammit’s Ushabti is missing.”

This seemed to wake Marc up, as the man froze again before adopting a rigid stance with a somewhat military intensity.
His mouth contorted from a dramatic frown to a stern line, opening to speak with yet another voice.
“What the hell do you mean Ammit’s statues’ been stolen?” He fumed, dumbfounded.

“Hello- Marc Spector, was it?” Rhea inquired graciously.

After being thrown a mildly irritated glare in reply, she resumed. “Yes, it’s not ideal. We concluded it was best to enlighten you, as it was with your efforts the world was saved from Ammit’s wrath.” The woman spoke with a note of imploring sincerity, probably fabricated for business’ sake, thought Marc.

“We? The same gods who called us insane? The same ones who ignored everything we told them? And now you’re back here begging for help?”

“My Goddess sends her deepest regrets regarding what unfolded that time, I am here to ensure that such a disaster does not occur again.”

Scoffing, he crossed his arms in displeasure. “Fine. Tell me what happened- I’m only doing this to stop Ammit from walking free again.”

“Wonderful. As you may already know, Ammit’s Ushabti was sealed within the Chamber of Gods, hidden inside of the Great Pyramid of Giza. Such a chamber should only be accessible to avatars, however despite all of us being in agreement of her banishment, one of them has gone behind our backs to steal it.”

“So what you’re saying is, you have a mole.”

“Precisely, and you are the only avatar who is not… directly involved with the rest of us-“

“Meaning I’m the only one you could trust.”

“You catch on quickly, Spector. So I must ask of you a favour.”

Marc raised his hands in an unimpressed gesture, wearing a tired, bothered expression- the look of a man who knew there was a long journey ahead.

“And I can’t refuse otherwise…”

“Ammit may be freed, resulting in a world-ending massacre of billions.”

He turned to her, suddenly serious. “And how do I know you’re not the mole?”

“You don’t.”

——

“Right. Of course it couldn’t be that easy, of course.” Layla mumbled, pacing around Steven’s cluttered flat.

Marc sat on his desk chair, hand on forehead- he could barely think straight with Jake’s incessant cursing and Steven’s panicked questions.
The scene was almost comical, the two of them painting a cliche picture of irritation.

“Guess our adventures haven’t come to an end yet, huh.”

His ex-wife threw him a joyless glare. “Where do we even start?”

Naturally switching now, Steven took the wheel, assuming a scholarly air. “Well, we should start by brainstorming suspects for our thief, yeah?”

He turned and grabbed a well used notebook, carefully spreading it open onto a blank page. Layla trudged towards him, leaning over the chair to see what he was scrawling.

A rouge bobbing curl occasionally tickled her chin.

“So, Rhea came here to tell us ‘bout this, so I think she’s the least likely to be the mole.”

He crossed something out in a smooth stroke.

“Hm. If the mythology is accurate to real life…” he muttered to himself, now highly invested.

“Okay, Layla what’d you think about this?” He asked, finally giving her a clear view of whatever he was writing.

It read:

The ennead council:

Horus

Hathor - Rhea (low risk)

Tefnut

Isis

Osiris (knob)

Taweret - Layla (not in council?)

Layla held in her amusement as she scanned the page, it was a good start at least.

“Well you see, essentially all their old avatars were bloody murdered by Harrow, so we don’t have much to go on.” Steven explained, glancing over his shoulder to look up at her.

“But why have you wrote knob beside Osiris?”

“He was a knob? Oi don’t laugh, that puts him at higher risk dunnit’!”

Chapter Text

The two, or perhaps four, came to a halt before a humble building. Layla was sipping on a syrupy drink, lugging her baggage along in the other hand. “This is it.”

Marc gazed up at the structure, the exterior a clayish yellow decorated by cheaply patterned windows. A red poster was plastered above the front door, reading: فُنْدُق HOSTEL.

The hot Egyptian sun beat down onto them, as the air hung heavy and dusty, drying his eyes.

Eager to take shelter from the stuffy heat, they shuffled in with their belongings.

The inside was suspiciously similar to a regular house, except for the fact a till- probably a couple decades outdated- sat proud upon a wooden table.
There was an eerie aura to the place, perhaps it was the humming of the fan or the shadowy dim lighting.

The seeming owner, a gangly man with a neat moustache, hurried over to greet his guests.

“Aye, if you two stopped shaving my ‘stache off, I could’ve had that.” Jake spontaneously raged, completely derailing Marc’s focus.

Layla threw him an incredulous stare for daydreaming in these crucial moments, before taking the reins.
She engaged in polite conversation with the owner, sometimes casting a friendly gesture towards Marc, other times barking a feigned laugh.

Snapping out of his chaotic internal monologue, he caught onto the end of a rather heated discussion as she reluctantly accepted their keys. The two stalked away to their room, the disorientating haziness dissolving from his mind. “Everything going to plan?”

Layla tossed him an unimpressed look. “Was it you back there? I thought you spoke Arabic.”

“I do, just zoned out.”

Sighing, explaining as she unlocked the door, “He was telling us there was an issue with our booking.”

“An issue? You still got us the room though right?” Marc scrutinised her hand on the handle, glancing back at her with a questioning look.

Without a word, Layla shoved the entry open, allowing for a clear view of the place.

It was plain, a singular mirror plastered to the wall which was painted an odd lilac colour.

He caught sight of his reflection frantically pointing downwards to the bed below, eyes as wide as saucers. He mouthed something along the lines of: “Mate, where’s the other one?!“

Confused, Marc scanned the room for the second bed with no success- the realisation dawning.

“Oh.”

Raising an eyebrow at his almost flustered reaction, she laughed a little bitterly. “What are you thinking about? We’ll take turns sleeping on the bed each night. I’ll ask for a spare blanket for the floor.”

“Yeah- yup, great.”

This would’ve been so much simpler if they were still married, thought Marc begrudgingly.

——

The dingy hostel room was silent, only the passing sound of distant music and glare of colourful lights rippled the serenity. The moon hung bright in the star ridden sky, astonishingly clear above Cairo.

Two figures sat still, eyes closed and minds focussed.

Within a particularly chaotic mind…

Three near identical men stood on an open top boat beneath the glittering stars.

One of them ragged his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Steven patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Look, I don’t want to do this as much as you do mate- but I’d rather this than everyone being zapped out of existence and all.” He continued, not so reassuring anymore.

“But Layla-“

“Marc! I’m worried for her too, but she makes her own decisions- so isn’t it best we help? She’d do it whether we wanted or not, yeah?”

He paced restlessly. “Yeah. I guess Taweret stays true to her word, unlike a certain God we know.”

“Oh she was lovely, wasn’t she? Proper guided us through the afterlife she did.”

“But do you really think your technique will work?” Marc asked, clearly skeptical.

“Oi, we’re standing here right now thanks to my relaxation technique- we’d be a right mess without it.”

“I’m not insulting it, Steven, it’s just that we’re,” he twirled his finger beside his head, as if to highlight their insanity. “And she’s not.”

“We are not-“ Offended, the Brit mimicked his counterpart’s insulting gesture. “Yeah? We can speak to that silly bird by doing this, so Layla might be able to do the same with Taweret.”

Jake climbed over the side of the boat and jumped with a loud splash.

“What the fuck?”

“Jake! Bloody hell- Jake!” Steven ran to the railing, leaning over desperately searching for any signs of the man drowning.

Marc flung his arms outwardly in submission, expressing his astonishment to the air.

The Brit turned back to address him. “I’m going in for him.” Before Marc could argue, another piercing splash echoed through the now empty boat.

Steven flailed his limbs as hard as he could, as quick as he could- not daring to open his eyes.

“Uhm. Are you okay mijo?”

Adrenaline fading, he carefully pried his eyes open, beginning to feel solid ground beneath him. He was lying horizontal in the back of Jake’s cab- imaginary cab this time.

Sitting up, Steven fumed. “What the bloody hell were you thinking, leaping off into the water?”

Jake edged his flat cap a little lower, covering the upper half of his face. “Testing somethin’.” He explained sheepishly from the front seat.

“Oi! Never, ever test anything again then! Do you just go jumping off every boat you see-“

Thump

Marc appeared in the seat beside him, refusing to acknowledge the existence of either of them, staring ahead into thin air. He wore a tired, irritated and frustrated expression all at once.

The Brit glowered at Jake, a look that said:

Look what you’ve gone and done, he’s bloody fuming.

“Ey, alright, alright, my bad okay? I knew the water was safe because… jus’ because you two were taking too long bickerin’. I can summon Khonshu at will here, bien?”

——

The stagnant hostel room was interrupted by the ethereal glow of ancient bandages embracing Marc’s arms, his body convulsing as if absorbing its power.
Suddenly, they retracted and were replaced by a modern white silk of sorts, until the man was adorned with a snowy three piece suit.

“Took you long enough, Steven.”

The supernatural garments disappeared in an instant as he snapped up to reply, looking over in awe. “How’d you know it was me? I hadn’t even spoken yet.”

Layla couldn’t help but snicker, fighting the urge to lie. “Your suit.” She nodded towards him.

He looked down at himself, patting as if he’d somehow feel it.

“It went when you woke up.” She clarified.

“Ah.” Steven replied bashfully, stopping his search.

“So I’m guessing it went well with Khonshu?”

“Oh, yes.” He continued, perking up. “The sorry old bird agreed for us to become temporary avatars, only to find Ammit’s Ushabti, then he’ll release us. All of us, this time.” He grinned. “Good, innit?” Pausing, he studied Layla’s face. “Did it… work? My technique?”

She smiled, and before the Brit could blink, she was dressed in her avatar garments. Pulling out a pair of wings, “Our temporary contract is back on.” She proclaimed.

Chapter Text

— The politics in this fic are purely fictional and are not made to resemble real life conflicts or people

Sky tinted indigo by the setting sun, a man furnished in a lavish suit lounged, spread over a plushy deckchair.

His face was striking, perhaps even handsome if not for the aggressive sharpness of his features.

Shaded beneath several palm trees, the subtle crimson glow of coloured footlights lit an ominously sensual scene.

He admired the view, a sleek hotel to his right- five star with a direct outlook to the pyramids.

A well groomed woman politely approached the sitting figure, wordlessly offering a tablet; still gazing outwards, accepting it and averting his eyes to the screen, his face contorted into a wide grin.

Tensions finally Break as the Egypt-Libya Border Erupts into an Armed Conflict, Will this escalate into an all out War?

——

Bright white beams of moonlight beat down onto Cairo, shining as if a beacon in the still night sky. A lone black SUV was parked somewhere in the endless planes of desert.

“Are you sure your old mate is around here?“ Steven questioned, addressing the bird-like figure. “Might’ve travelled about in the last millennium, innit?”

Silence, worm. Horus is not my ‘mate’, he is merely a fellow God with whom I share some similarities. Within a certain range, I will be able to detect his avatar’s divine presence.

“Alright, calm your horses.”

A breeze disturbed the thick curls on Layla’s head, as she trudged over to him across the sand. “He’s definitely in Cairo, I’m sure of it. As a God of war and protection, Horus’ avatar must follow conflict. Especially in Egypt. Look-“

Shuffling a phone out of her pocket, she tilted the screen towards Steven- or Marc. Or Jake. They seemed to be getting along with one another better than ever, their swift switches becoming harder to pinpoint.

“Bloody hell…” he begun, before assuming a more assertive demeanour. “Border tensions have finally reached a climax, huh.”

Layla threw him a sidelong glance. “Marc?”

The man paused before meeting her eyes, briskly averting them and nodding his head, as if the whole ordeal was greatly embarrassing to him. “Yeah- yup.”

With more pressing matters at hand, she didn’t inquire further.

The two continued to follow Khonshu uphill, feet sinking in sand as they trekked onwards. Coming to an abrupt halt, the God turned his hollow skull to face them; moon hanging as an ethereal halo, bathing the desert in white beams of celestial light, he spoke.

I have discerned the location.

——

A black SUV sped across the bustling motorway, its yellow headlights flying like shooting stars slicing through the heavy traffic.

“Jake- slow down!” The vehicle narrowly squeezed through two other cars, speeding far past the legal limit. “Why can’t Steven or Marc drive?” Red, white and amber lights were barely a blur as they passed.

Hands still planted on the wheel, Steven spun to face her. “Sorry love, don’t have my license.” He grimaced.

Almost colliding with the car in front, Jake switched back, pivoting to watch the road and cackling.

“Ey, I’m a good driver.”

Layla glared, clearly doubtful.

“Don’t look at me like this, that pájaro agrees- don’t you birdy?” Jake called playfully to the God.

You each represent a key aspect of my power, you being the Pathfinder.

His voice echoed from above.

I do not condone the garishness of your chariot, however it is you who possesses my sense of direction, Lockley.

Layla, now the avatar of Taweret, consequently heard his response.

“Is he on the roof?”

“He won’t be anymore.”

The SUV swerved sharply, weaving between lanes at breakneck speed.

——

Pulling into a well lit carpark, the duo exited the vehicle.

Slamming the door, Layla scoffed. “Wow, most expensive hotel in Cairo. Horus’ avatar must be someone important.”

“Ey, follow me, I sense he’s close.”

“You’d be correct.” An unfamiliar voice spoke from behind.

Both startled, they whipped around, adopting a fighting stance. A tidy man with sharp features, adorned in a tailored suit, stood politely.

“Nice suit, that is.” Steven silently added.

His neat presence juxtaposed the unkempt two, who had earlier been hiking about in the desert.

“Adi Eman?” Layla asked in disbelief, relaxing a little.

Muttering, Marc peered at her incredulously. “What, do you know this guy?”

Shaking her head as if the question was ridiculous, she murmured back. “What- no, he’s the Egyptian Minister of Defence.”

Adi smiled at the disgruntled figures before him. “You’re looking for me, I presume? I heard about the… incident regarding you-know-who.”

Marc met Layla’s eyes, affirming their suspicions in a quick gaze.

“You’re… Horus’ new avatar?” He began.

“Let’s take this conversation somewhere more private. I’ve rented an adequate space inside the hotel.”

As the minister lead them inside to a lavish meeting room, he garbled on almost enthusiastically.

“This mythical business, if you’d call it, was a complete shock to me. I was never the superstitious sort- so imagine my surprise to hear the voice of a God speaking to me.” He ushered them through a glass door.
“It’s soundproof, specifically for meetings. Take a seat, take a seat.”
The two cautiously sat, alert for an ambush or any other traps.

“It’s an honour to finally meet you, I was aching for a chance to speak to someone else in the mythical industry.” Awkwardly shaking their hands, he continued. “However, I have to ask… where are the other two?“

“Sorry, what?” Layla, becoming increasingly vigilant, queried.

“I can sense two other presences nearby, it’s quite puzzling.”

“…did your God not inform you about Khonshu’s avatar?”

“Did yours? Horus has only once spoken to recruit me, it was a great gift to receive his wisdom at all. I wouldn’t dare beseech him again- most never garner the luxury of hearing a God in their lifetime.”

Marc could feel Khonshu’s smugness from somewhere within.

“I see.”

Adi stared expectantly.

“Oi let me speak, I have a good excuse.” Steven’s demand echoed in their head.

“So you see,” he began. “Khonshu has three different aspects of himself, yeah?”

“Yes? I may be mistaken, but weren’t you Americ-“

“Mistaken. So, Khonshu is the Pathfinder, the Embracer and the Defender- and all together he’s the watcher of overnight travellers. Naturally, his avatar has to embody all these things, innit? So that’s why you’re sensing that.”

The man pondered for a moment before replying. “You must be correct, when I focus, the presences are not complete people. It seems they really are almost, hm… parts of one whole. I apologise for accusing you of hiding accomplices, your explanation checks out.”

Layla urgently glanced at Steven, concerned for him after being branded an incomplete person; However to her surprise, he only smiled a little sadly.

“No problem.”

Steven, on the other hand, had his head set aflame- which was very much a problem.

“What the fuck? I’ll make his limbs incomplete, don’t listen to him mijo.”

“Steven, I’ll deal with him, give me the body. We don’t need be civil to do this.”

“Sí, Spectors’ right for once, hand over the body.”

“Guys- stop. He’s right, we aren’t a… we’re three thirds making up one whole. That’s just something we have to accept, innit? Doesn’t make us any less real.”

“…well I don’t- it’s not- well fuck him anyway, had no right, bunch of bullshit.”

“Marc…”

Tuning back into reality, the Brit hastily revived the conversation. “Right. So Ammit’s Ushabti, what’d you know?”

“Well, the matter hasn’t been officially announced to the whole ennead council, you see. As a high standing member of the government, I have sources who keep me informed- specifically about the status of potentially magic artefacts.”
Adi paused before addressing Layla. “So I was aware of who you were, an infamous thief. Don’t panic- police aren’t my department. It came as a shock to find you’re an avatar, though.”

She chuckled dryly. “Why would you, the Minister of Defence, have eyes on artefacts?”

The atmosphere shifted into something more tense.

“After being blessed by Horus, I ensured I had eyes on everything related to ancient Egypt. In my research, I found that artefacts often go missing. As a form of worship, I was to collect any relevant items to present as offerings.”

The minister’s voice dropped lower, as if disclosing sensitive information.

“And that’s how I heard through word of mouth, a rumour, about a powerful statue gone missing. Intrigued, I dug into it, and found theories stringing from a supernatural massacre to a mysterious Moon Knight character. I theorise, this Moon Man stole the statue to gain power. And now, the Gods cannot ignore him, sending you two to help me find the statue, preventing a world ending catastrophe.” He finished solemnly, hands clasped leaning into the table.

Steven and Layla shared a glance.

“Uhm... not quite.”

“Ey, what the fuck is this idiot on?” Jake thought, almost humoured.

“He’s a moron. He’s a moron.” Marc’s voice tiredly echoed back.

“So,” the Brit started. “I am actually Moon Knight, Mr Knight specifically…”

Adi’s eyes widened as his brows furrowed, backing away from him slowly. “You…”

“No- no wait- I didn’t steal the statue, yeah? Let’s just take a second, yeah?”

“Then who did, my friend?”

“That’s what we don’t know, mate, we were hoping you’d give us some clues.”

Layla cut in, attempting to salvage the conversation. “One of the ennead avatars has stolen Ammit’s Ushabti, which is the statue she’s sealed in. Ammit is the God responsible for that supernatural massacre, and Mr Knight here is the one who stopped her. Understood?”

“So could he not be the thief as an ennead avatar himself?”

“He’s not, neither am I. You’ve just got to trust us, since we both want to find the Ushabti.”

Adi seemed deep in thought before a loud bang erupted from the entrance of the hotel. The three reacted with inhuman speed, racing to the source of trouble; a receptionist stood behind the marble front desk, hands raised and trembling in surrender.

A security guard lay in a pool of blood, unmoving, no perpetrator in sight. The crystal chandelier hung high and glamorous above them, reflecting the scene in its many jewels. The minister had already begun to shout orders for backup through his phone, as Layla cautiously approached the petrified receptionist.

Steven scanned the area for any other victims, eyes catching on the woman Layla was walking up to. Was she… mouthing something?

The Brit squinted, trying to make out what she was saying. R… ru-

Run! Khonshu boomed.

“Layla! Get away-“

With an ear rupturing clang, the enormous chandelier catapulted into the ground, crystal shards flying like bullets in every direction.

As the dust settled, Marc sprinted towards the now demolished counter, white cape in tow; there was nothing except fresh rubble and scattered gems.

“Layla!” He yelled, panting with adrenaline and terror. He couldn’t loose Layla, not like this, not because of him- this was all his fault.
Unwilling to accept it, he grabbed and flung chunks of concrete and chandelier out of his way, desperately searching for his ex-wife.

In the mess of broken marble slabs, a glimmer of gold shimmered, debris sliding of what seemed to be a wing.

Marc bolted over and tossed the remains aside, uncovering Layla crouched beside the receptionist, whom she was shielding with her wings.
Standing up and dusting herself down, she patted his shoulder. “See, I told you I didn’t need protection. Stop worrying about me and look for that idiot Minister.”

High on relief, the masked man began to scrutinise the wreckage for Adi. “Surely he’s not dead- he is Horus’ avatar right?”

“I am well-“ another voice echoed, coughing frantically. “Over here!”

The two shuffled across the ruins towards him. He wore a gold helmet reminiscent of a falcon head, a matching shield and sword in either hand.

“You are American, I was sure I wasn’t mistaken.”

Switching to a three piece suit before allowing the dust to fully settle, Steven walked over.

“Did you hit your head mate? I’ve always been British.”

“Huh.” The minister rubbed his head. “What a nice suit.”

Layla sighed, reminding them of the situation at hand. “What caused this disaster? Someone must’ve known we were here, the timing is too perfect.”

Adi froze. “It could’ve been the Libyans- since the border conflict, I’m a prime target.”

“Or someone could’ve been trying to stop us from finding Ammit’s Ushabti.”

“Or you set this whole thing up as a fuckin’ trap.” Jake scowled, pointing at him.

“What? Why would I want to do that, I could’ve been killed just then.”

“But you weren’t, pendejo.” The man spat, threateningly edging closer to his face.

“Jake, lay off him. We don’t have any proof and he could very well be innocent.” Layla rightly remarked. “This is the Minister of Defence you’re provoking, he’s a national threat.”

Adi shook his head. “Look, I know you’re skeptical of me, but I have every right to be accusing you of attempting to murder me. But I won’t because we’re all looking for the statue, yes? We have the same goal, it wouldn’t make any sense.”

Jake growled before retreating, black bandages unwrapping around his body.

“Still, why does your accent keep changing? Were you not just British?”

“Hm? I am, yeah.”

“You- you just changed it.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”