PALADIN

"Told him I don't wear white to hide myself. I wear it so they'll see me coming. So they'll know who it is. 'Cause when they see the white, it doesn't matter how good a target I am. Their hands shake so bad, they couldn't hit the moon."

[valhallabcund]

@moonkxight

Since the fall of the Valkyrior, making friends had hardly been something Valkyrie was good at. She’d had a great many friends that she’d loved dearly, and she’d lost them all in one fell swoop. It was difficult to open up to people after something like that, harder still to let herself grow close to Midgardians who were far more fragile than the warriors she’d seen fall in battle. Still, in spite of her best efforts, some mortals were impossible not to become fond of. Marc Spector, she’d found, was one of them.

Like her, Marc had a fondness for fighting and, like her, he was more than capable of winning them. He seemed to use fighting as a coping mechanism the same as she did, seemed to find comfort in bones breaking under his knuckles in a way that was impossibly familiar. A friendship forming between the two of them had likely been inevitable, and in spite of its challenges, Valkyrie couldn’t allow herself to regret it. She sat beside him at the bar now, unphased despite a night consisting of several fights in the ring. “That last one was almost a challenge,” she mused, taking a swig from her drink. “Do you think he’d fight me again if I asked?”

[moonkxight-blog]

SINCE Marc has been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder, well meaning people, who think they have any right to give him advice about how to handle something going on in his mind,  have told him that he might benefit from a place to land, a home, a place to heal. Surely it’s not easy on you to travel that much, they would say--surely normalcy would be the best thing for you. It’s always been nothing but noise, and Marc has never had a reason to stay in one place for very long--Chicago lost all it’s meaning when his father passed away, and it would always be associated with hospital walls and the Nazi’s that beat his father nearly to death. Egypt would always be where he died, South America held nothing besides being the place where he had once assassinated a president, and New York was just--where most of the crime took place. A logical destination. 

An underground fighting ring is about the last place anyone would have thought of when they were talking to him about a place to land, but he thinks it might be as close as he’s ever going to come. He’s good at fighting, he likes the way it forces him back into his own body as violently as he’s ripped out of it sometimes--he likes the way that it reminds him that it’s still his body, despite the fact that he shares it with the kind of ancient god that Valkyrie has probably met in the flesh. She sits down next to him now, a vicious grin on her face and bruised knuckles curling around the neck of a beer--and he’s incredibly grateful that he can count her among his friends, that she’s unafraid of his jagged edges and general strangeness. He’s nursing a black eye and a glass of scotch, his own hands colored like an impressionist painting. “Doubt it, I think they’re cleaning his incisors off the canvas. I’m surprised he’s even here, I took him for a cool 500 last week, and I was pretty sure I broke his nose.” He smirks and shrugs his shoulders. 

“He was all talk about how he could take some army reject, and then he tries to take you? Punishment fits the crimes if you ask me.” 

[karcnpcge]

@moonkxight​

Moon Knight was someone that Karen trusted. In theory, she was a relatively trusting woman, she knew. She believed that people had the best intentions, that they would help her if given the opportunity, and at times, that very belief had lead her into perilous positions. After her discussion with Marc, revealing that his… god wanted to help her, Karen had come to think about Marc as an ally in her investigation into President Doom. Admittedly, her results had been limited. She couldn’t publish an article about how strange it was for a president to have no paper trail, no proof of a campaign, but after the list was revealed, Karen’s suspicions only increased. Everything Victor von Doom seemed calculated and as a result, Karen needed to become unrelenting.

It was dusk when she arrived a few blocks away from the Empire State Building, Doom’s acting office, and that had been a conscious choice. She wasn’t confident that Moon Knight would help her with an investigation as danger as the one Karen was about to begin, but she could ask, and if things went terribly wrong, a vigilante would know the truth about her disappearance. Ultimately, it was the safest decision, although coming from Karen, a woman with little concern about her safety on the pursuit of transparency, ‘safe’ meant little. Her gun was tucked into her pants, unloaded for the time being, and she had her phone recording in preparation. It was the best arsenal she had. When she saw Moon Knight approach, Karen took a step forward and offered him a smile. “Thanks for meeting me,” she said. “I was hoping I could convince you to help me with something. I want to search Doom’s home,” she admitted. “He doesn’t always stay in the Empire State Building. “He sometimes stays at the Langham Hotel, we can start there. What do you say?” Before Marc could answer, she added, “I want proof that always planned on leaking the list.” After President Doom repeatedly promised he would not reveal the names, it was a mighty claim to make.

[moonkxight-blog]

LIFE had made certain from the very beginning that Marc would end up a distrusting individual--he had to choose carefully who he told about the other personalities to avoid being thrown into a mental ward, and if he wanted to be taken seriously as the Moon Knight he had to keep Khonshu in his head, think of ways to explain the strange behavior that came with sharing his body with an ancient god. Karen Page was one of a handful of people who knew about both things, and with good reason--Khonshu trusted in her and wanted to aide in her investigation into the President, and Marc fully believed in what she was doing as well--even now when practically the entirety of the general public was fully in Doom’s back pocket, Karen had refused to give up her dogged pursuit of the truth, to fall victim to the sway of anything other than her own internal compass. Marc respected that, Marc wanted to be a part of that in any way that he could. 

“We’re friends, Karen. And I said I would help, didn’t I?” He grins and shrugs his shoulders, the white cowl resting around his shoulders as he approaches their designated meeting spot. He exhales slowly through his teeth when she tells him that she wants to start her investigation by breaking into Doom’s home, folds his arms across his chest as he feels the familiar prickle in the back of his neck that means Khonshu is present, if not ready to speak yet. “That’s not going to be easy--he doesn’t walk around with anything less than five soldiers watching him at all times. Luckily for you, this isn’t the first president I’ve investigated.” Of course, that had been an assassination--and most of the work had been done mostly though the lens of a scope, with plenty of intelligence at his disposal and more than a journalist as backup--but he’s done more with less. 

“All right, tell me what you’ve got.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

THE man tosses out an easy you’re all right, and something warm pools in the pit of Marc’s stomach--a reminder that maybe he’s not as far removed from being a normal human being as he likes to think he is a lot of the time. His mind is blessedly clear at the moment, Khonshu either trusts him to take care of a situation where so many humans are involved or doesn’t care, and his other personalities feel--as under control as they could hope to be. He can relax, at least a fraction. “The Marines, for about three years. Stationed in Africa and South America.” He shrugs his shoulders, matches his companion’s grin with one of his own. He starts talking about haggling with the owner of the fish market and Marc can’t help but laugh, it reminds him of the better parts of figuring out life in a new country whenever he was stationed somewhere else. 

“Hell if I know man, that’s how I ended up eating terrible knock off caviar and getting sick into Port Said. I just usually trust that someone knows better than I do--unless it’s like, beef borsht or challah bread--my old man would have kicked my ass if I couldn’t tell a decent loaf of challah bread.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@kindkara

MARC follows the eyes of the last of this particular set of arms dealers, watches them move from the unconscious and wounded bodies on the floor up to where Marc is holding three moon darts between his fingers. “Who are you supposed to be?” He exhales, though it does nothing to stop the gun in his hand from shaking. 

“The one you see coming.” 

He throws the darts into the wall and reaches for his staff on his belt, hits the guy on the side of the head and sends him careening to the floor, the gun skittering off in the opposite direction. He’s aware of a wooshing sound coming through the broken window as he starts patting down the newly unconscious dealer’s pockets, looking for a phone--the likely place for some kind of messages of meeting places, or even a sales record. “If you’re looking for a fight, you just missed it.” He says without looking up from his task. “Unless you’re looking for a fight with me, in which case you’re in luck.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@daemonlegacy

IT’S difficult for Marc to say that he really belongs anywhere--he was born and raised in Chicago, but after spending the majority of his younger years in the hospital and coupled with the death of his father, he doesn’t hold any special affection for it. The Marines had kept him stationed in plenty of exotic locations, but violence and his own mental instability had tainted those in different ways--it wasn’t until he had taken that job for Bushman in the Egyptian desert that he had really fallen in love with a particular location. Maybe it was Khonshu’s influence, a longing for his temple and the source of his power, maybe it was just nostalgia for the moments before he found out what Bushman wanted--but he thinks if circumstances were different, he’d go back there before anywhere else. 

For now he’s trapped with the rest of New York City, and he has to take what comfort he can in other sources--which include this small restaurant, inherited by a kind young woman from her grandmother, a Cairo native. She claims that she opens early in order to get a head start on the days recipes, but Marc is sure that it’s because he will appear after a long night on the street and order bed bel basturma, and do his best not to fall asleep with his head on the table (he fails more often than not). Today as he walks in, his black hoodie drawn up and shadows swept underneath his eyes, he finds he’s not alone--a young man sits alone at a table, his eyes unfocused on the quiet street outside the window. 

He orders in what he thinks is pretty decent Arabic and approaches slowly, tries to smile warmly. “Late night or early morning?” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@thchellcat

DOOM making his list public has made the streets even more chaotic than when they were just crawling with demons--human beings looking to take matters into their own hands have increased exponentially, and people looking to give them the tools to be incredibly stupid are having a field day. This warehouse that Marc has just finished cleaning out is only one point in a ring of arms dealers--he had taken particular care to leave no one who could tell the others he would be coming for them eventually, but the more he investigates and the more information he steals off their computer set up, the more he thinks that the damage is already being done. He kicks at the glass he had shattered and huffs, retrieves a moon dart from where it’s lodged in the shoulder of a nameless thug and exits the building. 

He ducks into a nearby alleyway and lets out a wince, rotating his shoulder. Of course most of the fighting had taken place in the basement of the warehouse, where there was no visible moonlight to give Marc any extra power in his fighting--leaving him more bruised and battered than he normally would be. He takes an extra second to stand in the light now and inhales slowly--only to open his eyes to see someone approaching him, already speaking. He catches just enough to throw him off guard. “I’m sorry, did you just ask me if I was from hell? Like--literal hell? That’s one opening line I guess.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@lifeincarncte

“I’M afraid I may be a difficult case, even for yourself.” Marc says slowly, finally meets the eyes of Jean Grey, who has been patiently sitting across from him. His father’s Star of David necklace sits in the pocket of his jacket--he’s been running his fingers intermittently over the points in an effort to put himself at some sort of ease, a form of armor in the absence of any of his other personalities or Khonshu--but at the moment it’s doing very little. It’s not like he meant to put off finding a decent professional for this long--but after spending his teenage years confined to the hospital in Chicago he’s been--soured on the practice, and it’s impossible to account for variables like the presence of Khonshu, or what is or isn't going to make its way back to Doom--so it’s been easier to just, live with it. 

He’s hoping that this is something different, that a telepath won't question the presence of something as foreign as the moon god in his mind--and that’s not to mention the fact that he’s put some of the strongest psychically powered people out of commission for days at a time--she could tell him that there’s nothing to be done, or gained. “I’ve been inside of my mindscape before--it’s constantly shifting, due to my dissociative identity disorder, and the presence of Khonshu--” He sighs and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s dangerous terrain for telepaths to cross, but I have no idea if the stress of being on a different--wherever we are, is going to worsen it.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@thcscarletwltch

IT’S difficult for Marc to reconcile the facts of his life as they stand currently with the religion of his youth, with the religion his father had devoted his own life to. He’s killed people, he acts as the host of an ancient god of vengeance--he made peace a long time ago with the fact that if the heaven his father believed in existed, he was always going to be pretty far from it--but that doesn’t mean that he can escape the impact it’s had on his life. There’s something about being inside of the synagogue that calms all of the voices inside of him, at least for a moment, and reminds him of being young and a captive audience while his father practiced his weekly sermons--when things were simple and he was singular. The rabbi is an older man with kind eyes that never questions when Marc appears at odd hours of the day or night, just tells him gently that he looks like he could benefit from attending a service and to turn off the lights when he’s finished. In return, Moon Knight always makes sure that it and the streets around it are free from demons, it feels like the least he can do. 

He exits the synagogue in the fading light of day, draws his hood up and tries to focus to receive any instruction that Khonshu might have for him. His process is interrupted when he hears the telltale half whining half growling noise of demons--two of them being pursued by a young woman with glowing red eyes and hands. They have their backs turned towards him, not intelligent enough to avoid being backed into corners, which gives him the opportunity to slip the moon darts he keeps tucked into his boots into his hand and drive one into the back of each. They go tumbling towards the ground, but the young woman doesn’t let up whatever her power is. “Not a demon,” He says quickly, retrieves the darts and holds up his hands. The pieces start to click into place in his mind, and he knows where he’s seen her before. “I’m also impervious to a lot of magic, so it might not be effective to attack me.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@speedyshcpherd

THERE are times when the amount of noise in his head can feel overwhelming, where it feels like the solid outlines of his body and the things that constitute him as a human being feel like lines of television static. When he was younger, and when he couldn’t escape the images of those Neo-Nazi’s beating his father, he used to hide away and just lose himself in the hallucination of Steven being in his room with him, talking to him until he felt like he was back inside of his own body, until he stopped being afraid. The Marines had forced him to adopt a new set of coping mechanisms, to keep Steven and Jake firmly within the confines of his mind, but being discharged had left him near destructive and constantly feeling like the confines of his body were going to break apart--that was when he started fighting. 

It literally, physically demands that he be present in his own body as one person, shuts the noise of everything else down to just what is tangible--he never doubts himself in the ring, he never doubts what is real. The set up of fights is nothing particularly special, a ring gets set up somewhere (usually in an abandoned warehouse) and details get passed around--whoever wants to fight does, and there’s usually enough bored rich people that lay down enough money to make it interesting. He’s been involved with a lot worse, and he needs it, so he shows up when he gets the text.

Tonight he’s fresh out, a bleeding nose and a bruise forming near his cheekbone--but the other guy looks a hell of a lot worse and Marc has 300 extra dollars to his name now. He wipes at blood with the back of his still taped hand to no avail, sees a face that he recognizes enter the room. He’d been in uniform as Moon Knight last time they met, so he plays it casual. “You like what you saw, or are the doctors they get for these things getting younger?” 

[moonkxight-blog]

i’m looking for some new marc threads, so like or comment for a starter ! 

[foggyavocado]

Foggy was vividly reminded of sneaking into staff and alumni parties during college. The expensive location, the live band, the drinks flowing in every direction. But there were some major differences: one, he wasn’t sneaking in. The party was open to everyone, and he was a high-powered attorney now, thank you very much. He had been to dozens of these things, scouring out potential clients, charming the current ones – social events of the season were a lawyer’s playground. 

Difference number two: he wasn’t wearing whatever he could scrounge up that looked expensive. His suit actually was expensive. Stark wasn’t kidding when he said he paid well. But the biggest difference? He was here alone. 

No Matt. No elaborate plans to try and impress the girls around them. No standing in the corner laughing at everyone they’d fooled. Just Foggy, this glass of champagne, and that table of food. Expensive looking food, by the smell of it. After the papers had been running horror stories for weeks before those resources were found, it seemed like heaven, a heaven he had to immediately check out.

“Does anyone actually eat caviar?” he wondered aloud when he reached the table. “I mean, it’s fish eggs. A couple more years and that would be a fish worth eating, if you ask me.” He shook his head, and spooned a little on his plate anyway, shrugging at the person beside him. “When in Rome, right?” 

[moonkxight-blog]

MARC’S plan for the evening is mostly to blend in, something life has luckily given him more than enough practice in. In a room full of this many people someone is bound to know something, and if Marc can stay under the radar he won’t miss what might be valuable bits of information--passed between glasses, between the closely pressed together mouths of dates. He lingers around the bars, holding a glass he has no intention of drinking, around the tables brimming with food, places where its easier to make conversation--but he doesn’t really anticipate the reverse, that people might want to make conversation with him. Though, in his own defense, it’s not like he radiates friendliness, or sociability, it’s not a stretch to imagine people leaving him more of a wide berth. 

He chuckles when the man examines the caviar on his plate a healthy amount of skepticism, tries to hide the expression and the noise behind the glass in his hand. “Some of the guys in my unit tricked me into eating some when I first joined up, it’s not as bad as it looks.” He shrugs. “But if an Egyptian street vendor tries to tell you he has the genuine article, it’s definitely not and you will end up throwing up in the desert--learned that one the hard way, haven’t really had a taste for it since.” 

[samalexandxr]

We need you. We need Moon Knight.

[moonkxight-blog]

@quecnofcrime

STEVEN and Jake were part of him, had their own lives and reacted to things in their own ways--but sometimes Marc needed one of them without giving up complete control of his body. He needed Steven Grant, one of the premier antiquities dealers in the entire city, in the Museum of Natural History making lazy circles around the Ancient Egypt exhibits, with Marc Spector and by extension Moon Knight seeing through his eyes. It was easier to get his questions about the item in question answered with Steven Grant’s business card’s burning holes in the pockets of his designer jacket. It was easier to find the right person for the job of stealing that item, under the cover of Jake Lockley’s taxi cab, or in the dark corners of the bars on the wrong sides of town that he liked to drink at. 

Khonshu had woken him up from a dead sleep a couple of weeks ago, the image of a golden Ankh burning behind his eyes--a screeching half bird, half man, half something else entirely voice declaring that it belonged to him rightfully, and that it would assist the Moon Knight in channeling the power of the moon with more ease, that it was a weapon worthy of the paladin of the god of vengeance. Marc is half convinced the thing is going to turn out to be a grave robber’s ingenuity the moment it exits its museum casing, but it’s all he’s been able to think about in his spare moments--the ankh shape, practically burning with its brightness. He’s perched on a rooftop a few buildings away and he thinks he can see it in the way the moonlight filters down onto the city streets, but he’s started out of that thought when a hand touches his shoulder gently. His thief, who apparently is fond of making an entrance. 

“Black Cat,” He says as he turns around slowly. “You come highly recommended.” 

[turn-of-the-cards]

@moonkxight

One of the few places in this obnoxious city where there was the slightest chance of feeling like being back in Asgard was the large park. It was far from the grandeur of the forests of the Realm Eternal, but it did offer a respite from some of the annoyances of the city. Not, sadly, the Midgardians, for they still infested the place. Yet that did allow for Loki to have a bit of fun by playing tricks on them. Some young boys playing ball? Oh no, their ball suddenly deflated! Some people having a picnic? Oh no, they were suddenly inundated by insects! Loki chuckled at watching all of their reactions. It was not much, but it was some entertainment, at least.

After a while, however, Loki began to feel a very interesting presence, something that was decidedly not mortal. There were other beings from other planets and realms about the city, of course, so that was not completely an unheard of occurrence. And of course there were the ever-present lurking demons. But this was a different sort of presence, one which felt quite powerful as well. Glancing around, Loki saw a mortal walking nearby, about to pass the bench on which he was sitting. He did not look particularly powerful, yet there was still something which Loki could sense, and that meant the man warranted further study.

“Pardon me, my good man,” he called out as the man passed, “I don’t suppose you could recommend a good place to eat? I am not from around here, you see, and as it appears I shall have to remain in this city for some time due to its having been relocated, I would like to at least discover some decent cuisine.” Loki could have cared less about any Midgard restaurants, of course. He just wanted to get the man talking.

[moonkxight-blog]

MARC normally makes a habit of avoiding largely populated areas--he doesn’t need the questions if he suddenly goes from one personality to the other, and he has enough noise and static in his head that he doesn’t need the sounds of other people adding to it, making him want to climb out of his skin just to get it all to shut up for a few moments. He doesn’t even really mean to be in one now, but he’d gotten lost in thinking about his conversation with Karen from a couple nights ago, and when he looked up from his feet again he was following a path lined with scenes that felt entirely out of place considering the circumstances--people happily riding bicycles, buying food from street vendors, children laughing at dogs as they barked. He slows his pace to a walk and scrubs a hand over his face as he tries to get his bearings--but a moment later the inside of his head feels like it’s going to shatter.

He grits his teeth and nearly doubles over in the process of trying to understand what Khonshu suddenly felt the need to tell him, tastes the familiar tang of blood in his mouth. He can’t parse it all the way, Khonshu is either too worried and speaking too fast, or Marc is just in no shape to receive it so suddenly--but the god doesn’t stop to wait for Marc to turn what he thinks is a vague warning or alert into something he can understand fully. As soon as the god shot into his head it’s over, and he’s left standing in the dappled shadow of a tree, trying to catch his breath. 

He looks up when someone approaches him, and he can feel something that reminds him of Khonshu coming off of him--but he can’t really place it, or maybe, doesn’t know where to place it. “Um, I think there’s one of those farm to table places down the block if that’s your thing? Or if you’re looking for more of a hole in the wall there’s really good kebabs on the other side of the park there.” He shrugs his shoulders, tries to force a friendly look on his face. “I’m from Chicago, though, so don’t blame me if authentic New York is what you’re after or whatever.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

THERE’S always a risk involved with the truth--it got him thrown out of the Marines, it got him murdered in the middle of the Egyptian desert, he’s sure that under the accords he would have been thrown in jail or some manner of institution if the truth were really known. He likes Karen, he likes having her as an ally and possibly a friend, he also thinks she’s one of the last genuinely trustworthy people left in the whole city--but perceptions change, Marc has the exact tick of muscles that happens with every reaction memorized. He glances up at the moon for a half second, as if the outline of Khonshu’s bird skulled form will suddenly appear and tell him the right course of action. He doesn’t care, Marc knows it. “Dissociative identity disorder.” He says slowly, finally. It’s been since the hospital in Chicago since he properly said the words out loud himself, rather than hearing them said to him, about him. “Since I was a child. Khonshu effectively functions as--another personality, though he is very much his own. I’m more of--a vessel, when it comes to him.” 

He laughs and shakes his head when she matter of factly states that she never claimed to be safe. “I suppose that’s why we make good traveling companions, we can make up the difference together.” Her profession has taught her to keep outward expressions of emotion minimal, but Marc sees the way her eyes fall downwards, the way she too spares a half second glance at the moon as she tries to digest what exactly having Khonshu on her side means. “I will, though he’s not really all that personable--or easy on the eyes. He normally has a bird skull instead of a face.” He smiles warmly, since New York got moved and he’s been separated from Frenchie, he’s forgotten how it feels to have someone who genuinely enjoys his company, believes in what he’s doing and how he’s doing it. He wonders if everyone who meets Karen Page is as suddenly struck with the urge to kill anyone who tries to hurt her as he is. 

“I think--people who come by their power naturally, like Khonshu, it sits on their shoulders in a certain way, a natural way. It feels like he’s--still searching for something, y’know? For that natural ease.” He shrugs his shoulders, runs a finger idly over the edge of a moon dart. “Of course I’ll have your back, you don’t have to question that. I’m good at this whole paladin thing by now.” His mind is already going, he’s already filling away questions to ask Khonshu next time the god makes himself known. “Whatever he did--I should have been invulnerable to it, Khonshu protects me from psychic attacks, not to mention it’s nearly impossible to navigate my mind in the first place. I don’t know if that’s--at all useful.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

@halfinagrave

STEVEN Grant shook the hand of his business associate and smiled warmly, promised to schedule a meeting for later in the week. He purposely keeps it vague in terms of specifics, just in case something comes up in Marc’s night job, or more truthfully, in case it’s one of those days when Marc has a hard time hauling himself out of bed, feeding himself, basic human necessities. It’s Steven’s version of sympathy, planning for these things, despite what Marc might say. He gets into the back of a cab but has it drop him a couple of blocks over, enough so his business associate won’t ask any questions, and he ducks into a nearby dark alley. He drags a hand through his carefully tamed dark hair and sighs. It’s been a long day, hopefully Khonshu will keep it light tonight, not drag Marc out through who-knows-what. 

He blinks his eyes and Marc’s breath hitches as he takes in his surroundings--an alleyway he doesn’t recognize, a couple of blocks from where he vaguely remembers Steven having a meeting of some kind--or was that next week? He’s still dressed in Steven’s clothes, so much nicer than anything Marc would ever choose to wear, but he can feel the under suit of the armor underneath it, which eases something in his chest, eases him into his body again after being out of it for so long. He starts digging through the duffel bag at his feet with one hand, undoing buttons on the button up shirt with the other, starts sliding on pieces of armor in careful order--establishing control of himself. Under his breath he says a kind of mantra, this is not Khonshu, this is not Steven, this is Marc. This is not Khonshu, this is not Steven, this is Marc. 

He pulls the cowl on his cape up over his head and exhales, glances up at the moon for a half second before he hears the sounds of a demon growling, and a familiar voice that he hasn’t heard since at least before the invasion started--if not longer. He was kinda convinced the owner had somehow found a way to get himself killed, against all odds. 

“Deadpool,” He drawls as he steps out of the shadows, a faint smile on his face as he throws out a moon dart. “Still making friends I see.” 

[moonkxight-blog]

“I’M not a god.” Marc says on a slow exhale. Most days it feels like a loose catch all term for everything that Khonshu is, he’s always shifting and changing enough that Marc can never quiet grasp him entirely--some days so he can’t grasp him at all. He sometimes thinks he might be closer to an angel, a warped and twisted version of some heavenly being basking in holy light--the white light of the moon, the absence of light in the darkness of that tomb or the night sky, the spaces between stars. “They’ve always been there though, it’s just that no one knows where to look for them until it’s too late and they want something. Bad usually.” He’s reminded of the scant few memories he has of his father practicing his sermons, his voice reaching to the back of the synagogue with rapture as he preached of the divine missions of human beings--how little he actually knew about the real terror of the divine. Then again, he’s not sure what actually constitutes divine anymore. 

“Listen man, I was just tracking a group of soldiers, and you happened to be in my path. I’m not suggesting marriage here.” Marc shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes. He knew that the Punisher would be difficult, but this is bordering on just stubbornness for the sake of stubbornness, possibly to see if Marc will just break and move on his way. “I wanted to see how they interact with the demons on the streets--in comparison to the ones guarding the resources.” He resists the urge to grin triumphantly when he gets his in, approaches the place where the Punisher is crouched in wait. 

“Fine then, call me Spector, I don’t care.” He huffs and rolls his eyes underneath his hood. “What do you want me to call you, if not Punisher?”