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[M] Bad Moon Rising

Quote:Just a fair heads up a chunk of this thread are flashbacks (Don't worry you'll see what Khonshu is doing outside of Marc's head very soon.) of Moon Knight's origin, so without a further ado enjoy this part two of the reimagining of Moon Knight's original 1980 origin story. 

Lifeless, deader than dead, Marc’s body laid face down on the tombs hard stone ground. Blood pooled out from his bullet wounds into a puddle surrounding his lifeless body and staining the clothes underneath him. A large white cloth draped over him hiding his body from the tomb’s elements. Kneeling over him the one woman, the one person he decided to save watched over his body tears dripping from her cheeks onto the white cloth.

“I... Should be angry at you. I mean you brought those men, those God damn mercenaries but… I’m not. You saved me and… I could see it in your eyes when that bastard bit my father's throat out... “

Still, in shock of her father's death, Marlene lowered her head whipping away her flooding tears. 

“That you didn’t want this, you knew the evils you did and I saw it in your eyes that you wanted to do good but you didn’t know how until now. And God it cost you your life I’m… I’m sorry.”

Outside the tomb, the howling sands of the desert begin to cycle around the ruins creating a sandstorm that blocks out anyone or anything from coming in or coming out. Behind Marlene the many monks that inhabited the village of Selina carry about, moving equipment and making preparations for their order to make the journey of traveling the desert; in search of the next village to settle.     

“Miss Alraune there is a bedroll ready for you if you’ll follow me.” A deep but kind voice boomed from behind Marlene.

“I just want a few more minutes, thanks.” She retorted raising a hand at the large towering man in robes.

As the others scurry about in the tomb, torches unlit for centuries flicker their ancient light upon the statue towering above them, Marlene, and Marc’s lifeless body. The statue, a covenant of time as old as itself, an honoring to what some would call a long-dead king and to others that fear, call a dark vengeful god. For a time perhaps the statue was even watching them, listening, hearing Marlene’s cries for Marc’s death to not be in vain and for her father’s brutal murder to be avenged.

It was than Marlene felt-- knew that sorrow couldn’t bring the dead back. It was then that a single breath gasped out from Marc’s cold dead lips. Startled, Marlene fell back, her eyes locked on the dead man as he rose to his feet, his face as confused as hers. The towering dark-skinned man and his followers fell to a knee, pulling off their hoods revealing that some carried tattoos. Tattoos with ancient runes and glyphs inked into their faces. Their faces plastered in amazement at the sight of the dead reborn anew.

“Who are you? Where am I!?” Marc’s question bellowed out, his confusion turning to fear.

“But you were dead!” Marlene exclaimed.

“No!...” Spector paused turning towards the ancient statue pointing to it. “No more than he is dead.”

The leader of the monks shot to his feet, standing up he let his purple robe fall to the floor revealing more tattoos drawn by ink across his built torso. This time instead of ancient text a crescent moon sat upon the center of his chest.

“Then it is Khonshu that has brought you back.”

Marc snapped his head back from the statue locking his eyes with the man.

“Yes… Khonshu… Khonshu bearer of the moon, bringer of justice, taker of vengeance… a figure of terror.”

“But how would you know that?” Marlene chimed, her expression even more confused that there would even still be people believing in the old gods of Egypt.

The mercenary ignored her question, kneeling to the tomb's floor snatching up the white cloth he had died with. Gripping it tightly, he tied it around his neck making a cloak.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Marlene asked.

Make your claim my priest for they are your followers and the female is but a victim of what has gone on for too long in my absence. Address to them that the days of peace are gone and the war against the wicked is upon us.   

Marc stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes to Marlene. 

“I am but a ghost now, a specter of the moon, the moon’s knight of vengeance and Raoul Bushman and his men are gonna rot in hell for all they’ve fuckin done.”  

“So it is true then, the Moon Knight has returned to us. We have waited for fifty years for the return of our priest and now you have been brought back to us. What did the moon say?” The monk asked dropping back to kneeling position.

“He said gather your weapons for the age of wicked is at an end.”

Marc walked past them making his way for the tombs exit. 


The wind howled beating sand against the horse Spector rode upon. In the cover of the dark night, he rode the beast hard, bolting through the surrounding badlands. Rocks and crevices laid in front of him, making up his pathway back to the village of Salina, the village where everything had started.

Marc knew that what he had been for half his life was not the most reputable of things, not even when he was with the CIA-- back when it was only gun running. He was not a good man and that was the truth, he couldn’t help regret his actions from only several hours earlier. It hunted him just thinking about the very fact that he had gunned down innocent men and women in the sake of plundering the village. He knew he should have taken Frenchie’s advice about leaving Bushman’s band of mercenaries before getting stuck in a deep hole with the warlord.  

“Frenchie,” he said to himself calling for the horse to pick up the pace. He knew the man could handle himself but Jean-Paul was his only friend and it would be tragic for something to happen to him.

However, pushing onwards Spector’s mind couldn’t help but race through his thoughts, regretting each sin, each crime, each decision that led to his close call with death.

There was no close call with death, my dear boy you were. Look at me Marc, look upon the face of your father.

Marc reared the reins of his horse slowing its pace to half of the animal's speed until coming to a stop.

“I heard you speak to me in the tomb, who are you!?” He shouted his brown eyes darting back and forth searching for someone, something, anything speaking to him in the cool night of the desert.  

I am Khonshu, I am the moon, I am a god of vengeance.

Marc’s eyelids widened narrowing to the moon hovering above him in the nighttime sky. The moon itself seemed to glow with a silver hue and it was bright-- brighter then he had ever seen in his life. So bright that even the stars up above themselves were dull compared to the full moon and its creators were so visible that one could almost reach out and touch them.

“What do you want from me?”

Have you already forgotten my son that you pledged yourself to me? You wished for a second chance and in my mercy, I granted it to you. In return for that, you became my moon knight, my priest. You are the protector of my followers; the protector of those who travel the night.

“But why me?” Marc questions the Egyptian god.

Because your mind was fragile and you have always wanted a chance to do right. A chance to be a force of good and you know this to be true but there have been enough questions answered here. Hear my words, Moon Knight, you now have the strength of ten men and the skills of the fleetest acrobat. Go forth to Selina and save its people, seek your revenge but know that I will be watching you, my son… closely.

Looking away from the moon Spector shouted to the top of his lungs for his horse to move fast once more, for truly there was hell to pay for the plunderers of Selina.

Prowling slowly, Marc stalked under the east stone brick wall of Selina. The white sheet turned cowl over Spector danced ever so slightly in his movement. His very presence was uncanny for it had only been several hours since he had died and then resurrected by the even more mysterious god Khonshu. In addition, the snowy cloak dawned over him gave the impression of a restless wraith that stalked the very night of the desert.

Turning his gaze upwards, directly above him was an old guard tower that connected itself to the cities outer wall like a fitting puzzle piece. Spanning upwards to no less than twenty feet, the watchtower was round with thick, chiseled, almost reddish-brown bricks. The stones themselves made up the guard tower, from the desert floor and all the way to its square roof.  

Stepping close to the tower's bricks, Marc knew that this would be the only way into the village. The front entrance would be too guarded by Bushman’s men and showing his face at the gates would spell a second death of Marc Spector and would ruin his careful planning with the cultist of Khonshu. 

Though death wouldn’t stop Marc from achieving his goal of vengeance, he doubted Khonshu would revive him a second time, without at least proving himself to be a worthy avatar. He also understood that there was a new set of standards that he had-- needed to follow. The Moon God did state that he was indeed the Moon Knight, the very title the monks had called him earlier. Also that it was his duty to protect those who travel the night and enact vengeance on those who would harm them. He was reborn a hero to the very people he had caused harm and suffering. That was fine to him for this was his second chance, and with it, he would have to earn trust again. 

Planting his right hand into the thick stone, Marc began his ascent to the top of the tower. Were he a normal man like so only hours ago, he doubted he would have ever been able to scale the wall without proper equipment. Khonshu was right, he could feel it in his very soul. Marc Spector was no longer just a man but something more. His strength was tenfold and endurance peeking higher than a regular simple individual. It was all something he would have to get used to. 

Reaching the top stone edge of the watchtower, Spector ceased his climbing and peeked his hooded head above to ensure caution. Standing only several feet away from him on the other side, a mercenary peered over his stone frame with an AK-47 resting on his right shoulder. The hired gun didn’t seem to have heard Marc making his way up, which in the case made things much easier on him.  

Silently vaulting over the brick edging, Marc etched his way towards the mercenary, like a haunting spirit. Reaching into a side pocket the Moon Knight slipped out a dagger, the very dagger Marlene’s father tried to use on Bushman before the wicked man bit his throat out. 

In the twilight of the night, the golden blade shining in the moon’s glimmer found its way resting on the hired gun’s throat. With a sudden heave, the man realized what was going on but it was too late. Marc brought a leg down hard on the fool’s hind legs bringing him to his knees and with an almost sudden quick nature, Spector cut the mercenary’s throat. 

Blood pooled out onto the brick floor and side edge making a gory and grim scene as the merc, choking on his last breath, gargled on his own blood. Dropping the lifeless body, Marc took several heavy breaths before kneeling down, taking the now dead mercenary's assault rifle as his. Taking a brief scan of the weapon and then checking its ammo, Spector continued on his way.  

Putting his left foot on the ledge, his brown eyes began darting back and forth, like an eagle looking for their prey he analyzed the village. There had to be a place of interest or something that would indicate where Bushman or at least Frenchie resided. The random gunshots and chaos down below on the village streets didn’t help his search either… Or did it?

Prepping himself before doing so, Marc, with one great heave leaped off of the watchtower.

Falling through the air, to his surprise he didn’t die. He had landed to the next building ahead of the tower unscathed. It appeared Khonshu was right, Marc was more nimble then he had been ever before. Now all he had to do was keep that up or at least until he made it to the villages one and only cantina.   


“Damn it! Again!?” The grizzled mercenary cried out slamming his cards onto the poker table, causing chips to bounce up in the air and rattle. “I swear Jean-Paul, you’re cheating somehow.” 

Frenchie gave out a light chuckle in response to the hired gun’s absurd outburst. Reaching his hands over the table, he dragged the stack of poker chips close to his side of the table. 

“Now what would give you that idea?” The Frenchmen asked leaning back in his chair, a smirk written over his face. 

The mercenary gave out a hearty laugh before lighting a cigarette. 

“In case you’ve already forgotten, we did just kill your main pal for betraying us.” The soldier of fortune said taking a long drag from his cigarette before reclining back in his chair as well.

“No, I have not… yet… forgotten...” The cool tempered Frenchmen came to halt in his words, his eyes darting back and forth from the window behind the mercenary and then back.

Jean-Paul couldn’t believe his eyes, just in the matter of seconds just like a ghost or… something, he thought he saw Marc wearing a white sheet or cloak dive into the alleyway behind the cantina.   

“What?” The hired gun asked, cocking an eyebrow at the sudden changer in Frenchie’s suave attitude.  

“Nothing, I think I’m going to get some fresh air.” Duchamp retorted, standing up out of his chair. 

Not waiting for a response, he was already down the wooden flight of stairs leading to the main bar. Steering clear of the rabble-rousing and debauchery Frenchie etched his way for the bar’s rear door. Making it to the door Jean-Paul doubted what his eyes saw. Bushman himself made sure that Marc was dead, there was no way he could be alive, or could he?

Exiting the bar, Frenchie stepped out into the alleyway starting his search for whatever he saw through the cantina’s window. As he expected there was no Marc Spector or white cloak. There was only the harsh smell of urine and rotting wood, the ground littered by black moldy trash and an assortment of debris.

“What’s wrong Jean-Paul, thought you saw a ghost?” An all too familiar voice resonated behind the Frenchman.

But it couldn’t be, Frenchie thought to himself. Turning around his eyelids widened, surprise plastered all over his face.         

“But you were dead?” Frenchie asked, confused by how his best friend could be dead but still standing in front of him, talking.

“I was but it’s a long story, all I’m worried about right now is getting the remaining people out of the village and beating the shit out of Bushman until he’s a corpse,” Marc answered.

“Why not just flee the country. go back to America? Why the sudden change in morale?” He was confused, when did Marc ever care about saving people? 

“I have reasons but it’s complicated,”  Marc said laying his right hand on Frenchie’s shoulder. “Do you believe in second chances?” 

Jean-Paul locked eyes with his best friend, the confusion on his face washed away into a more sober look, he took a moment to process his thoughts.

“Of course mon amie.” He finally answered.

“Then trust in me, friend. Where are the rest of the villagers located?” Marc asked putting his other hand on Frenchie’s shoulder. 

“I… I overhead a conversation with one of Bushman’s men, talking about the rest of the villagers being held in the bar’s cellar, besides that some of the women are being used as entertainment for the rest of the mercenaries.” Frenchie hesitated, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

“You’re going to need to get a key for the cellar thankfully one of the guards on the second floor has one. If you can get me the key I can-”   

“No, I’ll handle all of this, I need you to make it out of the city and get your plane ready. I got a feeling that after all this we're gonna need a quick exit, now go!”

Frenchie jumped at Marc’s sudden command with a quick nod he made his way down the alleyway before turning back around. 

“Marc.” He called out, in response, the Moon Knight turned back around from facing the building. “Good luck my friend.”

“Thanks, though, I think what I really need is another miracle.”

“Y-you killed her Silas,” Turk said, his eyes locked onto the gory scene.

“This was supposed to be just a late night mugging, we weren’t supposed to kill anyone.” The dark-skinned man’s voice wavered in nervousness.

“She shouldn’t ‘a screamed.” Silas retorted back flipping open his lighter, lighting the cigarette hanging low from his mouth.  Kneeling down his baby blue eyes kept staring at the mess. The mess he made, the mess that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Silas just kept watching, he cut the girl good, her blood pooling onto the paved alleyway's ground. A cool wind blew past his blonde hair and he snapped out of his transfix and took a long drag on his cigarette.     

“But we shouldn’t have done that, what if someone was watching or-or if the EPD show up?” Lenny squeaked behind him.

“They ain’t showing up and besides nobodies dumb enough to fuck with us. An’ If anyone did come to mess with us, you’re the one with the phone. I’m pretty sure Dorrien can spare some men. I mean, he is the third largest crime boss here in tier 4 besides those damn West Side gangers and them orks.”

Giving out a single cough Silas stood up flicking his cigarette onto the body before turning to Brock, the biggest of the four.

“And what do you think Brock?” Silas asked.

“I think, that if the EPD cared they would have already surrounded us by now, but I’m with Turk. We should leave just in case someone walks up on us.” Brock’s voiced boomed down to Silas. 

Not too far, legs perched into a kneeling position, the aspect of vengeance Khonshu sat upon the side of several lose drainage pipes. The god’s eyes narrowed behind the cowl of what belonged to his Moon Knight. They watched closely almost as if analyzing each of the criminals four as they were preparing to dispose of their victim's body.  

The water from the rain drips from the pipes above me as they touch my priest’s white hood, they leave the soft sound of pit and pat. It’s a clam sound, soothing to my ears as the body I control now gears for the coming conflict. Even for millennia, my instincts are still sharp, for in the face of combat it fills me with euphoria that pumps adrenaline into my very being. The same can be said for pain though that is more like a bitter taste in the mouth.   

Bring his right hand from his utility belt, slowly Khonshu brought out a crescent dart. Holding the sharp adamantium shuriken between his index and thumb, he brought it close to his masked face. For a few seconds, his eyes studied it making notes of the craft that his cultist made for his priests all those years ago in ancient Egypt. With a low exhale the god aimed the dart and threw it with a forceful flick.

The crescent dart cut through the air like butter, making a high pitched whistling noise as it spun to its target. The leader of the four men, Silas as the others called him, never saw it coming. Cutting clean into his forehead, the blonde haired man stumbled back tripping over his victim. Screaming in pain Silas gripped his face, hard, pulling at the dart as blood came running down, dripping to the asphalt of the alleyway.

The others came into action their expressions terrified as their companion burst into screaming agony but it was too late the Moon God was already in mid-air. Gliding down Khonshu flung his cape up as his legs bore down for a two-footed dropkick. His cape forming up like a crescent moon itself hanging low upon the criminals. The feet crammed into Lenny causing him to fly back several feet, colliding with the paved ground. With a roll, the new Silver Avenger shot back to his feet.

Shouting his warcry, Turk sprinted full throttle for the Moon God, his left arm raised above leveled with his head, fist clenched. With a quick motion, Khonshu rolled Turk’s arm to his back. Locking the man in place the Egyptian god held Turk’s big head into an arm-lock. Bringing his left fist up Khonshu began his assault beating the dark-skinned man’s face it, breaking his nose, blood rolling down.

As my fist collides with his face, I am reminded of the great pleasure it gives me to punish the wicked. Their pain is a sweet vengeance to those who were harmed, and I am filled with ecstasy knowing my actions prevent the scum from repeating their cycle, from harming others, from more evil being bred, I shall not kill these men but they will know fear.  

Catching a glace to his side, Khonshu shoved Turk to the right as Silas came back, in extreme pain but not defeated. By the force of Khonshu’s shove, Turk stumbled out of control crashing into Silas and in a result, both of them met the pavement.

Being able to take his turn Brock charged in laying a powerful right hook into Khonshu’s face. The God of Vengeance reeled several inches back from the hulking man, not dazed but in pain. It was feeling he knew but not had majorly experienced before. Just before getting a moment to do anything but shake off the first hit, Brock laid out a following left hook that sent Khonshu back instead of inches but feet this time.

In honesty, I let him have it. I wanted to feel his strength, the weight of the assault, testing the waters.

Recovering from the quick beating the God of Vengeance jumped back into action. Sliding close to Brock he planted a left jab, the weight of his fist causing a loud snap as it landed into the man’s nose. Growling in pain and anger Brock’s face curled gritting his teeth. Blindly he swung for Khonshu but he was too quick, dodging the mighty blow. Open for another hit the god took it, his like a rocket, uppercutting the bulky criminal. With a harsh grunt, Brock stumbled back dazed from the sturdy hit.  

The Moon God was nowhere finished with the scum, however. Lunging at him he leaped into the air landing a left knee square into Brock’s abs while his in his right hand he stabbed a crescent dart into the criminal’s chest. The dart itself narrowly missing his heart. Flipping to Brock’s back Khonshu began strangling him with a truncheon. In the struggle for breath, Brock tried his best to throw Khonshu off but it was all in vain. Within mere seconds the man lost conciseness and collapsed to his knees before plowing his face into a muddy puddle.

Acknowledging that the man was down for good, the god turned his gaze away, his eyes locking onto Lenny who had recovered from his two-footed kick. His skin turned pale from Brock’s brutal takedown, shock plastered on his face. In hesitation, Lenny lowered the cell phone that was still held up to his right ear.

It was then to Khonshu’s surprise or was it excitement Silas came back, this time in right hand, he brandished his pocket knife. It appears that he didn’t have enough punishment. The blade glimmered under the cover the night.  

"I don't know who you fucking are but I ain't ever gonna take a beating from some freak in a mask!" 

Charging for the Moon God his blade cut the air coming close but no one can stop the coming vengeance of Khonshu. Many have tried and many have failed but he and or his priest the Moon Knight have crushed them. Dodging the knife the moon latched onto Silas’ jacket launching him into the side of a large green dumpster.

His words were hollow and the embarrassment of being thrown to the trash shall be enough for the worthless fool. 

It was then like the sound of a bestial animal roaring several bullets sparked off of ankh increased onto the chest of his suit. Turning away from Silas a few more bullets rang out this time they didn’t hit the ankh but planted into his lower torso. Standing only a few feet away Lenny held a handgun, fear plastered on his face at the sight at what he had just down.  Blood slowly trickled down the white suit of his priest. The suit of the Moon Knight.  

Mortal weapons, the fool thinks they can stop me. He doesn’t understand that he Isn't fighting a force built on vigilanteism. No. he faces the personification of vengeance!

Reaching to a full sprint Khonshu dived for the little man, more bullets cut through him. The pain was excruciating but it didn’t matter.

No. pain was fuel for the Egyptian god for vengeance would be served-- even in blood. 

"Wait! No please!" Lenny threw the gun to the pavement, raising his hands in submission. It was too late however, everyone in the group was guilty of murder. 

Tackling Lenny to the paved ground Khonshu continued his onslaught. Left, right, left, right, splat! Blood shot up flinging up onto the mask of the Silver Avenger. Khonshu’s glowing blue eyes twitched and his hands shook their gloves no longer being the color of snow white. Now the only color visible to see on them was crimson red. Taking a breath Khonshu shot his gaze up, his eyes narrowing. Silas a good couple of feet away made out for his escape.  

Standing to his feet the aspect of vengeance took out a truncheon. Aiming it at Silas’ head, he fired its grappling hook function.

You can’t run away.

With an ear-popping snap, the cable launched out towards the man, like a speeding bullet. A loud almost unsettling crack came out from behind Silas’ head and then… he fell to the ground. Reeling the line of cable back into the tip of the night-stick, he resheathed. Taking only a few steps out of the alleyway the god was stopped by hovercars screeching to a halt in front of him. Quickly their doors snatched open gangsters following out.

Analyzing the new predicament, Khonshu slowly reached behind himself pulling out a small silver cylinder. With a click of his thumb, the cylinder extended out becoming a quarterstaff. Though it was really Marc’s face, a smile was etched onto it from behind the white mask. 


Darkness-- a void of black, it was all Marc could see. Weird. It felt like his body was surrounded by the coarseness of cold sand.

“D-Do you think he’s alive?” A voice rang out from Marc’s right ear.

“Yeah, but he ain’t lookin to good.” Another voice but to his left. 

Voices, voices!? Gasping, Marc opened his eyelids. To his surprise what his body felt his mind was correct about. Standing in a great vastness he was laying down in the middle of a desert and in front of him were two men. 

The one to his left kneeling close to Marc wore a brown jacket, a pair of dark grey denim jeans, on top of his head he wore an old fashioned newspaper boy cap. His face though, he looked carried the look of a take nothing attitude, he was familiar even down to his thick mustache.       

The other man to his right, however, wore clothes that were the polar opposite of the man to the left. This man was a man of class. Clean shaven he wore a brown fine-pressed overcoat with matching slacks, underneath the business suit he sported a white pressed shirt and a matching tie. 

“Where-- Where am I? Who are you two?” Marc asked placing his left hand on the back of his head. 

“David’s stone! this is worst then we thought.” The man to the left said standing up straight.

“Why do you mean?” The better-looking man asked cocking his brown right eyebrow.

“Are you that dumb pretty boy, look at him! Besides the fact that he looks like he’s ready for his own funeral, he completely forgot who we are!”  The man with the mustache shouted. His face turned red with rage, scowling at the well-outfitted man.

“Well don’t you yell at me you-you low life cabby!” The other shot back.

“Guys,” Marc said his eyes taking note that he was wearing a white suit and tie. The two men ignored his call, continuing to argue with one another.  

“Guys!” He finally shouted. They both turned to his attention.

“Look I don’t know… remember you two” He clenched his eyelids together in an attempt at trying to remember. “But you both need to work together, now again who are you?” He asked again.

The one to the left gave a low sigh his shoulders shifted into a slouch and he put his hands into his coat pockets. 

“The names Jake Lockley, the best damn cab driver in the state of New York.” He finally answered a smirk running up his face.

“And I’m Steven Grant CEO of Grant Industries, I also help produce Hollywood blockbusters,” Grant said giving a nod to Spector.

“Do you remember anything, Marc?” Jake’s voice went to a solid low rasp adding to the effect his seriousness. 

Marc hesitated to answer, trying his best to think, to remember something-- anything.

“I- I don’t think so. I can’t remember anything from my past, not even yesterday or you two in that matter. The only thing I can remember is my name, Marc Spector. Where am I and what happened?” He asked picking himself off of the cold sand.

“A lot Marc,” Grant answered.       

“Righto, Khonshu’s been taken over the joint after you basically forgot us in that Omniverse, adventurin with them Avengers,” Lockley added.

“Khonshu… Yes, I know that name.” Marc said.

“You should Marc, he’s been with us for years,” Steven said. Taking a few steps he placed his left hand on Marc’s shoulder. “He’s gone mad with power Marc. You shouldn’t have done what you had earlier. There’s no telling what he’s going to do now that he’s in control without any restraint. I mean look at what he’s done to this place.”

“What do you mean?” Spector asked.

“Look around you,” Jake replied.

Marc’s brown eyes widened in surprise as they looked up to the sky then back to the ground. From what he could remember, his mindscape sky was always either white or in some special cases blue and the on the ground the sand was not a sunbathed orange or yellow but a dull sickly green.

“What happened?” Marc asked. Fear began to roll over him bringing cold shivers down his back.

“As we said yours truly the asshole with a beak,” Jake said getting a chuckle out of his own response.

“Then… How do we stop him? How do I get my memories back?” Spector questioned. His right eyebrow cocked up as he ran a hand through his short dark brown hair.

“You mean how do you stop him.” Steven corrected.

“Yup, look behind you bud.” Jake pointed behind Marc. “You see that temple? Yeah, we can follow you inside but you’re the only one who can confront tweety bird. As for your memories, you’ll find’em in there alright.”    

Spector turned facing the area that Jake pointed towards. There was definitely a temple and it was definitely old and in ruins. Besides that, however, it was familiar to him especially the two stone, bird-beaked statues that sat on both sides of the temple’s opening.   

“Then… I guess we go in.” Marc answered them.

“Yup.” Was Lockley’s answers as he got beside Spector. 

“Not going to lie, I’d rather not go in there again but what else are we going to do?” Grant added.


It was a glories battle, everything the Egyptian god wanted and more. Behind him several blocks away, at least a dozen or more gangsters’ bodies littered the alleyway and street. Though he won the conflict, the body he used, his priest's, Marc Spector’s was badly damaged.

In indescribable pain, he limped in the center of tier four’s streets. Blood ran dripped down from bullet holes and stab wounds, each step making a bloody footprint. The mansion, he needed to get to the Avengers mansion. Bedrest was what mortal bodies needed correct? He needed rest, he was so tired, so sleepy. Within just a single blink he was at the courtyard's gate. Another blink and he was at the front door. Bearing down with his right shoulder he knocked it open. Breathing heavily he stumbled in. Good, no ones home, he can go to his room. 

Reaching the main elevator he left bloody fingerprints on its console. Limping in he leaned on the left side of the wall. Panting heavily it felt like years before the elevator came to stop at the living corridors. With a ding, the elevator’s door slid open and Khonshu stumbled into the hallway. Leaning to the right of the hallway’s walls he smeared blood across it all the way to his room.

Opening the door he fumbled in knocking several pieces of furniture over. His eyes were locked onto his bed. Rest, he needed rest, that’s how mortals heal right? he needed the be- 

Marc’s body collapsed to the floor, his arms sprawled out, blood oozing onto the wooden floorboards. Khonshu didn’t make it to the bed.               

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