Chapter Text
False prophets. If there was one thing Marc Spector had come to despise since taking his mantle as the fist of Khonshu, it was those impersonated his power and his name for their own twisted and often cruel means. That’s what lead him down the familiar streets, alleyways, and rooftops of lower Manhattan, hunting down a street gang whose leader claimed to have attained the powers of the moon god himself. Even if it was Khonshu who demanded that the gang be taken care of, this was one job Marc didn't mind taking.
As Marc traveled, rain slicked the surface of the roofs he ran atop, and the dark gray of a moon rising behind a rainy sky illuminated the Knight among the boxy edges of air vents and wire-frame fire escapes. The city moved beneath him. The whirl of sirens, the hum of traffic, the patter of the rain on the concrete, it was all there. but something hovered above it all; the thrum of danger. There was something off tonight.
He spotted a crew gathering outside an industrial building, and the intel Jake Lockley had gathered as led him to assume that they were planning to carry out a robbery of the place; steal some materials and machines needed to create some kind of weapon. What it was, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it was designed to harness the power of something beyond global scale and it had to be stopped. And that is exactly what he set out to do.
Marc dropped down to the street below. Immediately, the mercenary in him began searching his surroundings. Hiding spots, danger zones, and most of all civilians were mapped out in his mind. A few people moved near the alleyway entrance, likely night-shift employees or guards, unaware of the darkness that lurked nearby.
As he watched, a voice emerged from within his head. “We have to move. They're watching, they can see us.” Jake. Another countered. “No reason to jump in blind. Just observe first.” It was Steven. As much as he’d like to tell the others occupying his head to shut up for once, they had some good points. So he let them talk as he moved closer, processing the information and his instinct.
As he approached, he got a view of what appeared to be the gangs leader, A tall cloaked figure with an aura radiating off of them that he couldn't place. Something more than that of a skilled marksman or career assassin, but not something Marc had come face to face with before. The leader lifted his hands as if to silence the crew, his voice low but carrying authority. “The moon rises. Tonight, we act in it’s name.” Marc’s stomach twisted. To hear a perversion of such secular phrases used before an act of violence made it easier to excuse what he was about to do.
The Knights boots stalked silently toward the group, calculating his first steps. It was an open area, and there were too many people around he couldn’t guarantee the safety of, too many external variables to launch an all out attack, especially considering he was outnumbered. Its not like he hadn’t handled large groups before, but never in this context. Instead, he opted to peel them off one by one; a stealth operation.
He made a wide circle, working around the side of the building to the left of where the criminals had gathered and took not of a truck with a couple more of them moving equipment. Spector took the opening and a gloved hand went over the mouth of one member before striking the other in the skull with his truncheon. That’s two down. He quickly re-concealed himself and reassessed. The leader was still speaking in calm, dulcet tones about some form of plan involving a stone; some form of resource that they were planning to take for themselves and how this was the first step of their plan. Whatever it was, Marc thought, it would be brought to an end tonight.
As another member peeled off to check the side doors of the building, Marc intercepted him halfway, delivering a sharp kick to the chest before disarming and incapacitating him, dragging him out of sight. That’s three. Something about the way the leader spoke changed. A slight shift in his inflection that made Marc freeze the body. “We’ve been spotted. what do we do?” Steven asked. Jake replied “It’s time to stop playing the quiet game, Marc.”
Marc watched as the cloaked figure tilted his head slightly, as if some form of divine sense clued him into Marc’s location. He lifted a finger as he called out. “There’s no use in hiding. “The moon sees all who travel under its glow.” As he spoke, the remaining gang members all reached for their weapons and turned for Marc, and whatever energy surrounded them amplified like it was attuned to Marcs presence.
Marc willingly exposed himself from the shadows. As far as he figured, if stealth didn't work, fear could. The white of his suit caught against that of the fading sky’s as he spoke. “I am Moon Knight, The fist of Khonshu, God of the moon. You are nothing but a liar.” “Then let us see,” He replied plainly, Which one of us it favors.”
A blistering sound that could only be placed somewhere between a cannon blast and a gunshot rang out, and some form of concentrated energy missed marcs chest and struck him in the shoulder, pushing him back with enough force to be a cause for concern. As the rest of the members moved to strike, Spector did as well.
He held off most of the people who ran at him using the weapons available in his arsenal, but what really concerned him was those who didn't approach, wielding some form of energy based weapons. As he fought, the aura around them increased and the gang leader moved into the fray. He seemed more agile than human, able to move at impossible speeds and he intercepted moves before Marc was even able to finish striking. And as he moved high to block a hit, the leader moved low, and a concentrated blast of spectral energy struck threw his abdomen, throwing him backwards into the side of a delivery truck.
The wall crumpled as he collapsed to the floor and the taste of iron immediately rushed into his mouth. He was winded, and as he struggled to get up, the leader approached him, lowering his hood to expose the face of a bald, 40-something man who narrowed his eyes as he spoke. “You, Marc Spector, serve an aging god. A relic. I serve the future, and its one you won’t live to see.
Marc spat blood onto the pavement as he spoke. “You serve yourself.” Marc braced himself to stand, and, he would’ve moved to strike again but the man was already in front of him.
The last Thing marc felt as the mans hand struck his chest once more and and the same energy struck him again felt familiar and foreign at the same time. Marc had died before, its he very thing that let him to his service for Khonshu. But he would never be able to get used to the feeling. The world dimming, the sounds of the city becoming just as distant as the voices in his head became. And for once, Marc felt alone; collapsing once more under the glow of the moon and dying.
But death was never the end for Marc Spector, and Khonshu was already preparing to reclaim what was his, to put his knight back into service. This part of the process felt familiar as Khonshu’s reached to claim his soul. But— something else reached him first. A presence marc had never felt before. It took him away from the presence of the moon god and transported him somewhere else entirely as Marc Spector slipped free of the world and went somewhere else entirely.
--
Marc awoke in complete silence, seeing only a yellow-orange glare in his surroundings. He stood— well, it felt like he did, there was no floor, or gravity it seemed — righted himself in space, and blink harshly to confirm that the endless expanse of amber light was, in fact, what he was seeing adjust ti the shock that he was stable without solid ground.
“Well this is new.” Marc turned on instinct, hearing a familiar voice —his own— in an unfamiliar accent, and seeing Steven Grant standing a couple feet away, looking identical to him but dressed in something much more comfortable, seemingly uninjured for the moments prior. Jake appeared behind him seconds later, somehow leaning on nothing with his hands stuffed in a jacket pocket having seemingly materialized out of nowhere.
“Now where in the hell are we?” Jake muttered. Marc was two busy staring at the two externalized versions of himself to answer. There were three of him floating somewhere in space and somewhere time completely separate in physical space. Steven gestured at the others. “This… shouldn’t be possible.” “None of this is meant to be possible,” Marc retorted “We died ten minutes ago.”
Speaking that word silenced the chatter between them.
Dead.
The memory of how quickly Marc had fallen to whomever was wielding that foreign power surged into his mind. The way his vision faded around him. He had felt Khonshu reaching for him—had known the familiar pull as soul was stitched to body.
But then something else had intervened.
“This isn’t Khonshu,” Marc said finally.
Steven but his lip. “No. No, It doesn’t feel like him, does it? There’s no—” He hesitated. “No weight.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “No obligation.”
They stood in silence, the amber expanse of wherever they were rolling gently beneath their feet like a living horizon. In the distance, shapes formed and dissolved, familiar sights. The manhattan streets, Steven grants home in Britain. All of it flickering around them before vanishing and returning to the empty expanse. To Marc, it felt like his memories were being scanned through. Steven observed quietly. “It’s responding.” “To what?” Marc asked. “To us.” Jake took a slow step forward.“Or it’s waiting.” “For what?” Steven asked.
“For whoever dragged us here.”
Marc replied. “Well whatever it is that brought us here, Khonshu’s not gonna be happy with them having its avatar.” “Yeah, well,” Jake countered, “What ever it is, it must’ve had a reason.”
Any more contemplation about their happenstance the three wanted to work through would have to be belayed, as suddenly, about 20 meters from where they were, the environs began to shift. Someone stepped into the bending of the light waves at that distance. He was taller than any of them by a measure that had nothing to do with height. Gold threaded through his skin as though woven with light itself. His hair fell like spun sunlight, unmoving despite the currents of energy that rolled across the impossible horizon.
The three peered at the figure as he looked back, observing quite plainly the three almost identical men standing before him. “I must say,” The golden man spoke, a clairvoyant timbre in his voice “This is a first for me, to have a soul present itself this way in this dimension.” Marc squared himself, and asked: “You called us here?” the stranger shook his head. “No. You were called here by the place itself.” Steven interjected before Marc could question further. “Sorry— what exactly is… here?” A faint smile touched the man’s expression, not amused, but thoughtful. “You would call it the Soul World.”
Jake’s gaze stayed focused on the unfamiliar surroundings, still scanning for any danger. “You own it?” “Hardly,” he calmly replied. “I am its keeper. I safeguard it.” “So then why, exactly were we brought here?” Marc asked. The golden figure regarded him for a long moment. It seemed he was curious too. “Marc, right? as far as I can tell, you died a time ago. When you met your demise, your soul was claimed and you were spent to life by one Khonshu, god of the moon. However Khonshu’s claimancy of your soul was rendered in complete given your apparent… situation,” he said, glancing between the three. Steven blinked. “That’s… an interesting way of putting it.”
The man’s eyes landed on him. “You are Steven.” He said, not really asking, almost like he attained the information upon observing him. “Right. Ehm, yes. A-and you are?”
“Adam.”
Jake huffed. “You are the guardian of what looks like an entire dimension and your name is Adam?” “If you’d prefer a surname, Warlock would be suitable.” Marc was not yet in the mood for small talk. “You interfered with a soul belonging to a god. “Yes.” “And you’re standing here like that doesn’t matter.” Adam considered. “Oh, It matters,” he said. “But not in the way you or he thinks.” Steven glanced between them, brow furrowed. “You said we weren’t complete in the claim. What does that mean?” “Well,” Adam explained as he moved closer, coming face to face with Steven, “Your soul does not divide as cleanly as your god believes. Given the extraordinary nature of your demise, My soul stone— the object containing the realm you reside in now— intercepted your soul.”
Before any of them could offer a response, Adam continued, tone a bit more serious. “Now I want you to listen closely. The Stone intercepted you,” Adam said quietly. “But it does not command your return.”
“Our… return?” “To life,” Adam clarified. “To your body. To your ‘almighty’ conservator.” Steven straightened slightly. “You mean we have a choice.” “Yes, basically.” Jake was interested at this proposition as well. “You’re saying we don’t have to go back.” “I am saying,” Adam replied evenly, “That no claim on your soul supersedes your will here.”
Marc felt something unfamiliar move through him— he was instinctively bracing for the condition, the cost. It didn’t come. Adam continued, gaze steady on all three of them. “Khonshu reached for you because he believes you are his. The Stone intervened because your death was caused by something far greater than even Khonshu’s power. But neither Khonshu nor what caused your death dictate your decision to return to the the land of the living.”
Steven exhaled slowly. “That’s… not how it usually works.” “I am aware,” Adam said. The amber horizon dimmed, softening around them as though narrowing its focus. Adam’s attention did not waver from Marc as he started: “You have died before. And when you did, your autonomy was compromised in exchange for survival.” Marc tensed.
Jake folded his arms. “It was a deal.” “It was coercion,” Adam corrected. Jake felt like if anyone else said that in any other tone it would be grounds for a fight. But the way this man spoke, the way he presented himself as someone so painfully aware of how much he knows and how he affects other people allowed Jake to let it slide, for now. “You were not given space to decide without fear,” Adam continued. “You were offered servitude for a life that was no longer yours.'“
Marc countered “But it was still me who chose.” “Yes,” Adam said. “But you chose as a response to your death, which you were not given a chance to process. Adam closed the remaining distance between them. Slowly—so slowly that if felt that time bent for him—he raised his hand and placed it against Marc’s shoulder. “You are a very fractured man, Marc Spector. You have spent your whole life broken down as a means to defend yourself. And every piece, every fracture, carries part of you worth seeing. Worth being here for.” But being here is a decision that you were not allowed to make. You became someone else’s asset, a weapon meant to serve them. But you are not an object here,” “Not an avatar. Not a weapon. Marc held his gaze. Up close, Adam’s eyes held depth, something weathered and searching. “You are a soul,” Adam continued, and his thumb shifted slightly against Marc’s shoulder as if feeling the shape of him beneath skin and bone. If you return, it must be because you wish to. Not because you believe you owe anyone else your life or service.”
“Why do you even care?.” Marc asked quietly. “Because I was made without choice,” he said. “Engineered to fulfill a destiny written by others. I was a child, a weapon crafted before I understood what autonomy meant. I know the shape of a life lived under expectation.” As he continued, nothing about his expression tightened, but his voice grew in urgency. “And I know the difference between devotion freely given and purpose imposed on the unwilling.” Steven moved closer to Marc and Adam. “And you broke free from that?” “Yes. At great cost.” Marc felt the warmth of Adam’s hand, the steadiness of it. “But there’s not cost for you,” Adam said softer. “The Stone would sustain you here. You would have an afterlife.” For a moment—just a moment—Marc allowed himself to imagine it. No voices in the sky, in his head. No more servitude to a life of his that should have ended in that desert long ago.
Steven’s voice came carefully. “But there are people.” So much time spent in marcs head gave him a good sense of what he must be thinking. Jake nodded once. “Loose ends. Whatever killed you is bound to hurt others.” Marc exhaled. He thought of the streets. Of the men who used power to hurt others. How he was the protector of the midnight travelers whether Khonshu willed it or not.
“If I go back,” Marc said tentatively, “it’s because I choose to fight. Not because he owns me.”
“Then you understand.” Marc held his gaze another second. “And if I decide differently someday?”
“Then you will not be stopped here,” Adam replied.
The promise settled between them, unadorned and absolute.
The amber currents began to rise again, brighter now, responding to decision rather than conflict. Adam’s hand lingered a fraction longer on Marc’s shoulder before falling away. The absence of contact was immediate and noticeable. Steven offered Adam a small, earnest smile. “Thank you.” Jake gave a subtle nod, something like respect passing between them. “Then I’m choosing,” he said.
As soon as he spoke, the world dissolved as he relaxed into something like a sleep.
--
Marc inhaled sharply and sat upright with a start—Not on the streets of manhattan or wherever his body had presumably been discarded after his death—but in a familiar, modest loft lit by soft gray daylight.
London. Steven’s flat.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as sensation flooded back in.
Steven’s presence was immediate and silent. Jake’s followed, steadier but no less aware. He kept his word.
Marc pressed a hand to his sternum. No injuries, just himself in his plain clothes.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grounding himself in the creak of the floorboards, the muted hum of his A/C unit. Everything felt normal but something was quieter in his head. Khonshu was absent. Probably angry, or expecting something from him.
Marc stood slowly, crossing the small flat to splash water on his face. His reflection, and his head mates stared back at him—tired, steady, altered in a way that had nothing to do with injury. Four sharp clicks landed on the door of Steven’s home. He would jump at the sound, if he didn’t already have an instinctual guess of who it was. He crossed the flat and opened the door.
Adam stood in the narrow hallway, gold muted in the gray London light, hands relaxed at his sides. He did not look like a god, or whatever he may be. He looked… uncertain, like he was way out of his depth. His eyes met Marc’s. All three of them, somehow. “I wished to confirm,” Adam said quietly, “that your return was truly your own choice.” Marc held his gaze for a long moment. Adam hesitated, just slightly. “May I come in?”
Marc stepped back from the doorway.
“Yeah,” he said.
Adam followed Marc into his home, unsure why he felt so comfortable in his presence.