[center][img]https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/marveldatabase/images/9/99/MoonKnight.png/revision/latest?cb=20150218201439[/img][/center] [h3]1600 - June 28th, 2018 - Approximately 50 kilometres from Luxor, EGYPT[/h3] The desert sands rose and swirled as the bird lowered. What once looked like a single spinning object slowed until 4 rotor blades were visible, and the men jumped out. The first was a large caucasian man in desert fatigues. Big, with heavy steps which belied a powerful frame. How quickly he could move that frame when he felt the need was a well kept secret. Marc Spector. Ex-marine. Fighter. Violence given form, [b]“Miles from anywhere.”[/b] He grumbled, [b]“What have you dragged me into now, Bushman?”[/b] The mysterious man flashed a dark grin full of steel in response. [color=f7941d]“That depends, Spector. If your friend dropped us off in the right place. Froggy, did you--”[/color] The man he referred to stepped from the chopper’s cockpit. More slender than the first man, with a well manicured moustache. His hat and pilot’s suit kept in a pristine condition, which revealed a far from subtle sense of style and refined taste. [img]https://static.tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pub/images/duchamp_compare.jpg[/img] Jean Paul DuChamp. Pilot. Sniper. Boundless patience. [color=0072bc]“I asked you to stop calling me that… and yes. I set us down exactly where you said. The Alraune dig is just over 2 kilometres away, ov-[i]air[/i] that dune.”[/color] The French pilot chomped down on a cigarette holder. The heavyset man in command stormed forward leaving Spector and DuChamp to their own idle chatter. [b]“Really? A cigarette holder? Don’t you get tired of giving him stuff to rip on you about?”[/b] [color=0072bc]“Marc, what you may consider, ehh… ‘rip-worth-[i]ie[/i]’ my people would describe as a certain… [i]je ne sais quoi[/i].”[/color] The Frenchman held the cigarette holder betwen his teeth with a grin whilst straightening his pilot jacket, and presenting himself with a flourish gesture. [b]“Je ne sais quoi… Is that French for stereotypical?”[/b] The pair approached the heavyset man who was standing at the top of the sand dune his gaze caught on the target in question. African with a powerful build, a heavily tattooed face, a commanding voice like an angry dog and a demeanour that could turn just as nasty, just as quickly. [img]https://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/7/71902/1546509-bushman.jpg[/img] Raoul Bushman. Mercenary. Sadist. Thoroughly Nasty Piece of Work. [color=f7941d]“There it is, Spector. The vans will rendezvous here from the main pass back there in 3-4 hours. Meanwhile, we stake out the road between the dig and the city. Look for tendencies…”[/color] Spector pulled a pair of binoculars. He could see a small archeological crew sifting through a cordoned off area of desert. A large number of locals doing gruntwork, and two notable westerners - an old man and a young blonde woman. [color=f7941d]“You asked what we were doing here, Spector...”[/color] The mercenary leader growled. [color=f7941d]“We’re revenue raising...”[/color] [center][b]* * * * *[/b][/center] [h3]2000 - June 28th, 2018 - The Alraune Dig, 50km away from Luxor[/h3] A young blonde woman walks across a cordoned off section of the excavation site and into a central tent. An old man barks orders at the workers, local labourers, [color=a2d39c]“We need another 6 inches from the inner cordon before we finish tonight!”[/color] The old man walks past gas lanterns to join the young blonde in the main tent. [color=a2d39c]“Marlene, how are we doing?”[/color] The young blonde is examining a table covered in ancient artifacts and assorted metallic trinkets spread across a plain white tablecloth for relief. [color=ed1c24]“Daddy, you know exactly how we’re doing. We’re 6 inches behind schedule on the preliminary main dig site we selected, but we also have had some luck in some of the surrounding regions. We’ve got enough here to keep our funding going for the sites we have planned, so long as we don’t get struck with a major sandstorm or other anomaly.”[/color] [color=a2d39c]“Hmm… museums and Federal grants. We Must render under Caesar that which--”[/color] [color=ed1c24]“That which is shiny, because that’s what Caesar gives a shit about.”[/color] Marlene finished crudely. [color=ed1c24]“But you and I both know the really interesting thing around here is if we can find the tomb. And of course, the--”[/color] [color=a2d39c]“Yes.”[/color] The old man said, as his eyes glazed over at the thought of how close his life’s work was coming to bearing fruit. [color=a2d39c]“The surrounding chapels. Think of what we could learn of their culture! By the city that was Thebes! What we could learn of the mythology behind the New Kingdom Gods! The Theban trio; Amun, Mut and their son Khonshu!”[/color] [color=ed1c24]“What do you think we’ll find?”[/color] Marlene asked excitedly. [color=a2d39c]“Well from what we know of Seti II he was frequently the target of plots and assassination events. Particularly a twisted brother or half brother - Amenmesse - who would go on to rule. If we were talking about the Old Kingdom gods I could see a particular reverence to Horus being shown. The comparisons of the murderous relative and the protection figure he often forms… but since we’re in Thebes...”[/color] [color=ed1c24]“Khonshu!”[/color] She gasped. [color=a2d39c]“That’s my girl.”[/color] The old man smiled. The warm moment of family connection is suddenly interrupted by the staccato of automatic rifle fire. [color=ed1c24]“What in the--”[/color] Marlene started. [color=a2d39c]“Oh no… Bushman!”[/color] The old man said. [color=ed1c24]“Who?”[/color] The blonde girl asked. The old man gingerly grabbed the corners of the tablecloth, making a makeshift sling containing all of the artifacts. [color=a2d39c]“A regional mercenary leader. I heard the workers talking. They’re scared to death of him. Take this, put it in the jeep and drive. I need you out of here.”[/color] [color=ed1c24]“What are you going to do? Dad?”[/color] Dr Peter Alraune opened a long box and took out a shotgun. He ran out of the tent before she could ask him again. [center][b]* * * * *[/b][/center] Marc Spector looked on at the chaos. Local workers were herded terrified away to one corner of the dig site. Tents were ransacked to look for valuables. [color=f7941d][b]“WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?!”[/b][/color] Bushman barked. He repeated the same demand in Arabic and Coptic. [b]“Frenchie…”[/b] Marc whispered hoarsely into the night, getting his friend’s attention. [color=0054a6]“Marc?”[/color] [b]“You know I’m far from a boyscout, and we’ve done our fair share of--”[/b] [color=0054a6]“Oui, Marc. Say no more. I’m thinking the same thing. This needs to stop. We’re soldiers, this isn’t a battle, it’s going to turn into a massacre.”[/color] Over the crest of a distant sand dune, a jeep pulled up in the distance. Blonde hair blew in the night’s wind as the driver looked on. [color=f7941d][b]“Where is Alraune! I will not ask a second time!”[/b][/color] Bushman hissed at the workers, levelling his handgun at one of them. The recognizable sound of a shotgun cocking pierced the night’s air. [color=a2d39c]“He’s right here.”[/color] The old man said, aiming the barrel squarely at Raoul Bushman’s ghost-white tattooed face. [color=f7941d]“Don’t be stupid.”[/color] Bushman said, not aiming his handgun away from the same worker. [color=f7941d]“We outnumber you. Put the gun down and stand over there with the others, or I start shooting them. One every three seconds. One..”[/color] [color=a2d39c]“Maybe you do outnumber me… but I can still shoot you.”[/color] [color=f7941d]“Two…”[/color] Dr Alraune was clearly thinking about his options. But his eyes gave him away. He knew there was no easy solution. And he didn’t really want to shoot anyone anyway. [color=a2d39c]“Wait!”[/color] The old man said. Aiming the shotgun away, pointing it at the sky. [color=f7941d]“Give the gun to him.”[/color] Bushman said, referring to Spector. [color=f7941d]“And go and stand over with the others.”[/color] The old man looked down, defeated. He handed Spector the shotgun and began to walk over to the group of workers. [color=f7941d]“Alraune…”[/color] Bushman called. The archaeologist looked up. Bushman pulled the trigger and the worker’s brains sprayed across the sand. Blood spattered across his tattooed face. With a speed that seemed unnatural for someone’s Bushman’s size he rushed up, grabbed the sides of Peter Alraune’s face and whispered hoarsely in the old man’s face whilst he looked deeply into his eyes. [color=f7941d]“I don’t negotiate with that which is already mine. You made me kill him the second I raised the gun.”[/color] Bushman shook his face in his big hands. [color=f7941d]“...Just as sure as you died the second you decided to touch that gun.”[/color] With a quick, sudden, sharp twist Bushman broke the old man’s neck. Dr Alraune’s body crumpled in on his own weight. [center][img]https://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/2/22664/1350215-bushman_1.jpg[/img][/center] [color=ed1c24][h1]“NO!!”[/h1][/color] The scream came from the jeep over the sand dune. Marc stood stunned. They were simply looting this site. Unarmed local workers and an old man and his daughter. An entire band of mercenaries. None of this was necessary. [color=f7941d]“There!”[/color] yelled Bushman. [color=f7941d]“She must have the goods, bring her back dead or alive… Alive, we have more fun...”[/color] Mercenaries took after the jeep. [b]“No! Nobody had to die here today!”[/b] Marc had enough, levelling the shotgun at Bushman. [color=f7941d]“Spector…”[/color] The mercenary snarled. [color=f7941d]“Put the gun down.”[/color] Bushman asked with a cooler tone. [b]“Like Alraune, huh? Yeah… not gonna happen.”[/b] The pretence left Bushman and he unsheathed a combat knife. Spector squeezed… and the shotgun dry fired. The firing pin broke and dropped into the desert sands. The old man didn’t even have it loaded! As Spector looked down at the weapon in shock, Bushman made up the distance and thrust the knife home. [color=f7941d]“Spec-tooor.”[/color] He growled. Marc felt the blade scraping between ribs and the heat off his breath. A chopper strafed firing twin cannons. Bushman dove aside. Spector staggered away leaking blood. Slowly he began to work up to a trot, running in the direction he saw the blonde woman’s jeep speed away in. [center][b]* * * * *[/b][/center] With neither smog, nor light pollution the desert night’s sky was filled with stars. The full moon hung in the sky like the swollen fruit of a colossal cosmic tree. The second full moon of the month. A blue moon. Spector staggered across the desert sand, his eyes focused on keeping the jeep’s tire tracks in front of his feet. It had seemed like an hour since the mercenaries had come running back the other way under a hailstorm of chopper cannon fodder as Frenchie had halted their pursuit. Spector had dropped into a sand dune and waited for them to pass, before re-commenced tracking the jeep. Marc couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken water. That could have just been the blood loss though. A horrible thought just passed through Spector’s mind; he hadn’t even seen tail-lights and in the open desert he could see for what seemed like miles. Besides, he was starting to get tired. Well, not exhausted tired… but sleepy. Then he saw it. The rear end of the jeep, sunk about 2 feet into the sand. He staggered around the jeep, unable to see where the driver had gone. Then his right leg sunk through the sand. [center][img]https://goo.gl/images/ynf24q[/img][/center] Marc Spector fell forever. An air pocket beneath the sand. Spector tumbled through space. Marc saw himself falling through the cosmos, his clothes turned bright white, then his clothes turned to just wrappings on his form, falling behind a planet he emerged on the other side as a white feather drifting on the cosmic winds. Cast adrift on the whims of gods. Marc Spector’s body lay on the hard floor of the temple, at the feet of a great statue covered in a white shroud. Bleeding profusely. From behind a pillar the blonde woman peeked out.