Getting this ready for next time. If you know, you know.

Maybe.

I'm falling into an endless ocean of stars. I try to scream, but no sound comes. Lights sear my eyes as I fall further into the abyss. I don't know how long I've been falling, but eventually I come to a stop, my body landing on the ground with a dull THUD.

Aʜ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ, Mᴀʀᴄ.

I pull myself to my feet, dusting myself off and looking at my surroundings. Ancient Egyptian architecture, hieroglyphs carved into the walls. I look ahead and see Khonshu before me. The sight of him with his bird skull head and tattered white robes would be intimidating if he wasn't currently lounging in a throne, looking almost bored. "Khonshu? Where am I?"

Wᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅꜱ. Tʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ I ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ʀᴇꜱɪᴅᴇ.

"Why am I here?"

Sᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴍᴀʏ ᴡᴀʀɴ ʏᴏᴜ. Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ Hᴜʙ Cɪᴛʏ, Mᴀʀᴄ. Oɴᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ.

There was always a storm coming to Hub City. It had been through hell in the last few years. I had looked into it, heard about the mayor's manor burning down, then the at the time newly elected mayor getting shot and put into a coma, and the societal collapse last year that brought the city to its knees. There had been a vigilante in the city, one who tried to fix it, but even he seemed to have given up. No sightings of him at all in the past year. I'm not sure if I could do any better.

But dammit, I have to try.

"What can you tell me about it?"

Yᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴀɢᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ. Aᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏʟᴅ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ, Bᴜꜱʜᴍᴀɴ.

Just hearing his name sends a spike of rage through me, my pulse quickening. "Bushman's coming? When?"

Iɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴏɴ.

Shit.

"... Thanks for the warning. Not a whole lot of good if you can't tell me when it's coming, but... I appreciate it nonetheless."

Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ.

"So, how do I get out of here?" I ask.

Sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ. Wᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ.

He reaches a hand out to me, touching my forehead.

I jolt awake in my bed covered in a cold sweat. I look to the alarm clock on my nightstand. 9:14 PM. Shit. I slept for twelve hours. Patrolling all night and getting into fist fights was pretty damn tiring, all things considered. Still, I needed to be better about it. No excuses.

I grab the earpiece off of my nightstand and stick it in my ear. "Jean-Paul, you there?"

"Oui, Marc. We've got something," Frenchie's voice comes through loud and clear.

"What's that?"

"Police have found a body that surfaced in zee Hupert River down in the Wedge. Nearest address is 4510 Ditko Street. Detective O'Toole is on zee scene."

O'Toole. One of the few friends I had on the force so far. Asked him why he was willing to work with a vigilante and he said that he was used to it already. Plus, I didn't need to go there as Moon Knight. I had a persona already crafted that would allow me to step in as a... Concerned citizen.

"Get the chopper ready. I'll be there in five." I get out of bed and walk over to my closet, opening the door and grabbing the white suit hanging on the rack.

Ten minutes later and Frenchie is landing the chopper on a roof a few blocks from the site of the murder. I step out of the helicopter and look back at Frenchie, waving him off. He takes flight again and heads out, waiting for the next time he's needed. Making my way down to the street via a fire escape, I stride through back alleys and side streets to the scene of the crime.



Before long I've reached the cops, ducking under yellow police tape despite the protests of the officer watching the perimeter. O'Toole is standing there over a stretcher, his bulldog face twisted into a grimace. The cop standing guard reaches me and places a hand on my shoulder. "Sir, you can't be here. This is a crime scene," he says. At his voice, O'Toole looks over in our direction.

"Cool it, officer Ryder. He's a consultant," O'Toole says.

The officer drops his hand and looks stunned. "Are you kidding me, detective? He's a vigilante!"

"Mister Knight here is a concerned citizen, is what he is. One whose input will be invaluable." O'Toole steps up to me and shakes my hand. "Good to see you, Mister Knight."

"Good to be here, O'Toole. Tell me what we know."

"Got reports of a dead body floatin' in the water. We fished her out of the river half an hour ago." He steps back over to the stretcher. "Cause of death was a slit throat. But there's something else... Take a look at her face."

I step over to the stretcher and pull back the cover hiding her face. I almost reel from the sight. The skin on her face has been removed, just raw meat with dead eyes bulging out. O'Toole shudders a bit as he looks at her from over my shoulder. I pull the cloth back over the corpse for both our sake.

"We got an ID on her?"

"Had one on her. Name's Rachel Blake. Twenty-four years old. ID's from Indiana, so she's not a native. Nothin' more than that yet, have some guys workin' on gettin' her background and contacting next of kin."

"Let me know when you have something on her," I say. I look over the rest of the scene, not really seeing anything of note. Likely the woman wasn't killed here, and this probably isn't even where the body was dumped anyhow. The River flows quickly this time of year. I won't be able to find anything substantial here. "You still have that radio I gave you?"

O'Toole nods. "I'll reach you as soon as we get somethin'."

"Good. Take care, detective." With those words, I leave the crime scene, ducking under the police tape and making my way back to the alleys. Using my truncheon's grappling hook, I zip up to the rooftops and make my way back to where Frenchie dropped me off. "I'm done here, Frenchie. Come pick me up."

"Oui, mon ami."

As I wait on the roof, I rack my mind for any possible motive the killer could have had. Was it some kind of twisted sadism? Someone who watched Texas Chainsaw Massacre too many times? Maybe the killer wanted to... Steal the woman's beauty? I don't know anything for sure yet, but I can't nix any theory yet.

The helicopter touches down in front of me and I climb into the co-pilot's seat. "What do we know, Marc?" Frenchie asks.

"Dead girl, missing a face. We got an ID on her but no idea what she was doing before her death. All we know is she's not from the Hub."

"Les yeux sans visage."

"Huh?"

"Eyes without a face. Describes the dead girl well, no?"

I shift uncomfortably at that, recalling the sight of her face. "Yeah, I suppose so. Where'd you get that?"

"An old movie from my home country. Eerie similarities between the plot and our case, at least so far."

Maybe that's the movie the killer watched too many times. Guess I'll find out.

I'm in the middle of breaking a guy's arm when I hear the feedback of a radio in my earpiece. "Mr. Knight, I got your info on the dead girl," Detective O'Toole says.

I grab the guy whose arm I just broke by the head and slam his face into the floor. "Little busy but I can talk," I say, flinging a crescent dart into the barrel of a pistol. The thug tries to shoot anyway, only for the gun to backfire and blow up in his hands, taking his fingers with it. He falls to his knees and clutches at his fingerless hand, screaming in agony.

"Won't take long. We contacted her parents in Indiana. Said she moved to the Hub to be closer to her boyfriend, found a job as a housekeeper for some rich guy."

I duck under a baseball bat, using one hand to grab it and the other to send a palm into my attacker's stomach. His grip falters and I take the bat from his hands, swinging it at his head. The bat breaks in half as it smashes into his forehead. He's down for the count. "Alright. You talk to the boyfriend?"

"We did, he said she didn't tell him who she worked for. Gave us her phone though and we cracked it. After lookin' through her messages we found a number she had been messagin' about the job."

"You know who the number is for?" I ask, slamming my fist into the last guy's jaw and feeling the bone crack and splinter beneath my knuckles. He goes down.

"Yep. Gerald Hooper, local plastic surgeon. We got an address, 224 West Baker Street. We're working on getting a warrant, but that doesn't mean you can't step in and get some answers."

Plastic surgeon? I recall the girl's face. The skin was removed with medical precision. She wasn't butchered, she was operated on. "Thanks, detective."

"Don't mention it, Mr. Knight. Bring that bastard down." My earpiece goes silent.

I look around at the battered thugs, walking up to the screaming guy cradling his hand and sending a fist into his face that knocks him out. I slip a hand under my hood and press down on my earpiece. "Frenchie, put in an anonymous tip to the police. Drug deal at 610 Lemire Avenue. Perps are down, they just need to come in and clean up. Come pick me up from here too."

"Bien sûr, mon ami."

Ten minutes later and I'm riding in the chopper with Frenchie, heading to the address. It's in Jury Street, the part of the city where the rich folks live. Closer to the rest of the city is high end apartments and condos, the further out you get is when it starts to become manors and mansions ranging from "a little bigger than an average house" to "the size of a fortress". Our guy's house is on the smaller side, three stories tall and not too massive.

Once we're in position, I open the cockpit door and leap out, using my cape to slow my fall as I glide down into the backyard. I land on two feet and make my way to the back door, jiggling the handle only to find it's locked. I click my tongue in mild annoyance, then raise a boot and kick the door open. I step inside, finding myself in the kitchen. Time to find this bastard.

I stalk my way through the house, finding a door that's bolted shut with five different locks. Interesting. I make my way upstairs, checking every room until I finally find it: a bedroom, with a man snoring loudly in the bed. Hooper. I walk up to the bed and pull the man out of it, throwing him to the floor. He wakes up, looking up at me in terror before letting out a scream. "P-please, don't hurt me! Take whatever you want!" he cries.

"I'm not interested in your property. What I am interested in is that door you've got locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Open it for me," I say, looming over him.

"No, no! You can't go down there!"

"Do you want to lose your face like that girl you dumped in the river?" To emphasize my point, I pull out a crescent dart, running a finger over the razor sharp edge.

"Oh God... I-I'll take you down there..." He pulls himself to his feet and I let him move over to the nightstand to grab a key ring. The two of us make our way down the stairs to the door. Slowly but surely, he opens all the locks and then pushes the door open. It leads down a flight of stairs into the basement. I shove him forward and he leads the way down.

What I find down there is a makeshift operating room, a cold metal operating table next to another table with an assortment of scalpels and other medical tools. There's a large cage in the corner of the room, where a woman lays sleeping on the floor. "Wake her up," I say. Hooper nods shakily, stepping up to the cage and rattling it.

The girl wakes up, turning over to look at him. Her face is missing, just like the girl from the river. She looks at Hooper with terror in her eyes. "What are you going to do to me?" she asks, voice quivering.

"He's not going to do anything," I say, stepping forward so she can see me. "I'm here to free you." I gesture for Hooper to unlock the cage and he does. The girl pulls herself to her feet slowly, then runs out of the cage as soon as the door is open. She doesn't run for the exit, though. She runs for the table with the scalpels.

She grabs one and runs back to Hooper, screaming in rage. She raises the scalpel as he cries out, "No, don't!" I don't intervene as she takes the scalpel and stabs it into his neck. He falls to the ground and she goes down with him, landing on top of him and stabbing the scalpel into his neck over and over again. He starts choking on his own blood, his screams turning into wet gurgles.

I watch. It takes a few minutes for her to stop stabbing his corpse. She stands, covered in blood and shaking. "I'll get the cops here. They'll take you to a hospital. Get you some medical help."

"... What the hell am I supposed to do now? My life is over. He took... He took my face. Made me wear other girls' faces," the girl says, dropping the scalpel.

"You can get skin grafts. There's a man I know that can cover your operation. What's your name?"

"... Brianna. Brianna Newman."

"I'll make sure that operation gets paid for, Miss Newman."

She continues shaking, then falls to her knees and begins to sob. I walk over to her and place a hand on her shoulder. She doesn't react to it, just keeps crying. I stay with her until she has no more tears left to cry.

Another successful night out. A couple muggings and a carjacking attempt foiled. Pretty quiet tonight, all things considered. Now I'm in the chopper with Frenchie heading home. Home is a manor on the outskirts of the city with no neighbors for a mile around, one I bought with the money I had saved. Steven made sure to put most of the money we got from our mercenary days into offshore accounts, had about a million in there when we got back to America. That was enough to get the manor and the chopper and all the tools I needed and still have a decent amount left. The rest he spent investing in shares and stocks in both promising start ups and industry titans.

'Got just over ten mill now for the record, Miss Newman's hospital bills notwithstanding,' Steven says to me.

'Good job. Got an idea for the next company to invest in: Kord Industries might be on the up even after that explosion that took Ted Kord's life. Veronica Kord is taking over, she's a cold hard bitch but she can pull the company through. Shame about Ted though, seemed like a decent guy.'

'Hey, never know. Maybe Khonshu will resurrect Kord as another Fist,' Jake chimes in, chuckling.

I ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴘʟᴀɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ Kᴏʀᴅ.

"JESUS!" I twist my head around in surprise to see Khonshu sitting in a seat behind me.

"Marc? Are you okay?" Frenchie asks, concern on his face.

I blink and Khonshu isn't there anymore. I turn to look at Frenchie and nod shakily. "Yeah, yeah... Sorry."

The rest of the ride is spent in silence. We land on the helipad on the manor's rooftop, getting out and heading inside. Frenchie retires to his room while I head downstairs to the kitchen. I flip the light switch on to illuminate the room as I pull off my mask and step over to open the fridge. What greets me is two bananas, a few bottles of water, and a box of donuts that I don't remember ever ordering.

'My bad, got some Krispy Kreme this morning. Grant paid for it.'

'Bloody hell Jake, let me know when you dig into the funds, yeah?'

'Like you weren't just bragging about having ten million in the bank. Kvetching momzer...'

I just shake my head with a smile as I pull the box out and open it. Out of the half dozen the box fits there are four left: two strawberry sprinkle and two chocolate sprinkle. 'Don't tell me there were maple donuts in here, Jake.'

'... Oops.'

With a sigh I grab a strawberry donut and take a bite. It's pretty good, but maple would've been better.

---

I stand from my perch on the rooftop at the sound of a scream below me, tightening the belt around my gi and making sure my eye mask is secure. Leaping off the roof, I land gracefully in the alleyway and see a man with a gun threatening a woman for her purse. She hands it over to him as I speak, "Nice night for a walk, eh?"

The mugger turns to look at me and jumps up with a scream of terror. "Oh no! Hong Kong Phooey!"

"That's right, you little pisher. Now drop the gun or I'll hit you with the Multiplying Dragon Kick!" To emphasize my point, I raise my arms up in the air and lift my leg up as if in anticipation of a crane kick.

He doesn't have to be told twice. He drops the gun and the purse then runs out of the alleyway, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. Grinning to myself, I walk up to the purse and pick it up, offering it to the woman. "Here you are, ma'am."

"Oh, my hero!" she cries, taking the purse back. I get the chance to really look at her and see-

"L-Layla?"

Everything's the same as the last time we saw her: skin the color of mocha, deep brown eyes that draw you in and don't let go, dark curls that frame her face beautifully.

There's even the bullet holes in her chest.

She falls to the ground and suddenly I'm not Jake, I'm Marc, and I'm not in some Hub City alleyway, I'm cradling her behind a Jeep in some third world desert shithole as bullets rain down on us. "Frenchie's almost here with the evac! Just hang on!" I keep holding her in one arm while the other presses a torn off shirt sleeve down onto her chest.

Her breathing is weak and raspy, the air from her lungs leaking out of the bullet holes with disgusting whistles. "Marc..."

"I'm here... I'm here..." There's tears running down my face as I keep pressing the rag against her wounds.

Her hand reaches up to caress my face. "Ma... ^_rc..."

The hand falls limp and suddenly I'm cradling a corpse. I don't know what to do for a second, staring at her in shock. She can't be dead. She's not dead. She's not. I clench my eyes shut and pull her closer, pressing my cheek against hers and letting out choked sobs. "Don't do this to me Layla, please..."

The rain of bullets stops. I open my eyes to find I'm not hiding behind a Jeep in the desert anymore, I'm in a tomb half buried in sand. Layla's gone and I look down to find bullet holes in my own chest. I fall to my hands and knees, my whole body aching.

Cᴏᴍᴇ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴏɴ.

I look up at the voice to see a statue before me, a man in robes with a bird head. Despite myself, it brings me some comfort. I crawl closer to it.

I ᴀᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.

Once I've reached the statue, I roll over onto my back and stare into the night sky from a hole in the ceiling. The full moon shines down on me, bathing me in its light. I close my eyes and bask in it.

Dᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇ, Mᴀʀᴄ Sᴘᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ?

"Y-yes..." I choke out.

Tʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ. Mʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. Mʏ ᴠᴇɴɢᴇᴀɴᴄᴇ. Mʏ Mᴏᴏɴ Kɴɪɢʜᴛ.

"Moon... ^_Knight..."

Rɪꜱᴇ, ᴍʏ Fɪꜱᴛ.

I open my eyes.

---

I wake with a start, my breathing heavy and ragged. I look over to my alarm clock: 5:23 PM. Didn't oversleep this time. Good.

I grab the earpiece off of my nightstand and put it into my ear. "Frenchie? Anything happen while I was out?"

"Bonjour, Marc. Zee 'Midnight Man' struck again last night, stole a painting from zee Museum of Modern Art. His tenth heist in just as many days."

"Looks like I need get on it then. Get the chopper ready."

"Bien sur."

I get out of bed and head for the closet to put on my vestments. Time to bust an art thief.

When I wake up I feel a throbbing ache in my guts and whimper in pain. Clutching at my stomach as I pull myself to my feet, I look around to find that there's nothing around me but dunes of sand. After a few moments I begin to take steps forward, stumbling through the endless desert. I look up to see a starry night sky, the full moon gazing down on me and providing me with light to travel by.

Am I dreaming? I can't tell.

I don't even realize until I'm standing at the foot of a statue that I've found my way to a massive temple, the structure dwarfing me. I feel a strange tightness in my chest as I look at the statue, a swirl of emotions running through me that finally settles on contentment despite the pain clawing through my stomach. This is the face of my father. This temple is my home.

^{_{Mᴀʀᴄ, ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ?}}

"Yes father," I whisper.

^{_{Cᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴏɴ.}}

I make my way into the temple, one hand still clutching my stomach as I trace the walls with the other hand, my fingers sliding over hieroglyphs depicting a hooded man facing off against numerous adversaries. Memories slowly trickle into my mind, flashes of white cloth and red blood, fleeting moments of peace and endless times of violence. My brain throbs, seeming to reject the information being fed into it.

^{Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, Mᴀʀᴄ. Kᴇᴇᴘ ɢᴏɪɴɢ.}

The voice makes me press on further despite the pain. I keep moving forward through the halls of the temple before I find myself standing before a stone door with a crescent moon carved into its face. I can feel my father behind it. Without a moment of hesitation, I push the door open and step through into a white void.


Hᴇʟʟᴏ, ᴍʏ ꜱᴏɴ.

The pain increases and I find myself falling to my knees before him. "Khonshu... Whole body is on fire. Feels like I'm dying..."

Tʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ.

"Don't wanna die... Hurts..."

Tᴏ ʙᴇ ʀᴇʙᴏʀɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴅɪᴇ. Bᴜᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ʀᴇʙᴏʀɴ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ.

Khonshu reaches out a hand and presses a finger against my forehead.

"I can't watch you do this to yourself, mon ami."

"You made me hideous. I'm going to kill you, Moon Knight."

"I'm taking her with me. Don't try to contact us. Ever."

"Gonna gut you like a pig, Spector."

"AAAHHHHHHH!" I jolt awake, looking around me in a frenzy trying to figure out where the hell I am. The walls are beige and the room is spartan, only a bed and a small table beside it. It's completely unfamiliar. I'm laying on the floor with a blanket tangled around me. I fight to get out of it and as soon as I escape its grasp the door to the room opens.

Two men step inside, a white man with a ginger mullet and glasses and a black man with an afro and a beard. They're both big guys, not body builders but beefy enough. They're dressed in hospital scrubs, white as the snow. "The hell are you screamin' about now, Spector?" the one with the afro asks.

"Gonna wake up the whole damn ward, you keep yelling like that," the one with the glasses adds.

"Please, I don't know where I am! You need to help me!" I plead, looking up at them.

"Hear that, Billy? He needs help."

"I hear him, Bobby. Here Spector." Billy picks me up by the shoulder. "Let me give you some help."

He sends a fist into my face and blood spurts out of my nose as I fall to the ground in a heap. I groan in pain, turning over to look up at them. Billy looks at the splatter of blood adorning his shirt and sighs. "Shit, Spector, you got blood all over my scrubs. What I tell you about making a mess?"

Bobby kicks me in the stomach and I yelp, clutching at my guts. "Khonshu, please..."

"Con-shoe? The fuck is a con-shoe?"

"Never heard of it. Think our man here is a little confused. Maybe he needs some extra medicine to help him sleep." I look up to see Billy producing a syringe from his pocket. He steps up to me and grabs me in a chokehold, squeezing tight.

I try to croak out, "No... No, don't..." He sticks the needle in my bicep and injects. My whole body suddenly feels like a bag of cement and my vision begins to go dark.

"Night night, Spector."

"Knight... _Knight..."

My eyes open slowly. The pain sets in immediately, my head throbbing and soreness blossoming from my nose and ribs. The room is bright, fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling and drowning me in white light. I try to get up but I'm held back by restraints. I look around in a panic, finding myself in a room even more barren than the last, and see the two orderlies who beat on me. They've both got sick grins on their faces.

"Ready for your shock therapy, moon man?" Billy asks, sticking electrodes onto my forehead.

"Please, I'm not supposed to be here! I'm Moon Kni-MMPH!" Bobby sticks a gag into my mouth.

"Yeah, yeah, that's all you ever talk about, Spector," Bobby sighs, then flips the switch on the machine.

Agony. Electricity coursing through my skull, frying my brain. Thoughts slip away from me, my mind turning to mush as the currents pass through it. My body convulses, my back arching. I try to scream through the gag but it just comes out muffled. I can hear the two laughing as blackness takes me.

When I open my eyes again my vision is blurry. The light is dimmer than it was in the shock therapy room, making it easier for my eyes to adjust as I open them further. I can hear faint conversations and a news report playing on a TV. I'm sitting in a chair in some kind of living area, people milling around or sitting at tables. I look up towards the sound of the news report, seeing a TV mounted on a wall. My vision clears and I read the headline.


"- caught this footage of New York's favorite vigilante Moon Knight facing off against one of his many enemies, the ebony-clad Black Spectre. The two were duking it out on the street while a crowd watched on, but both fled before the authorities could arrive. Despite our station reaching out to them for a statement, the NYPD has made no comment on the event."

A voice chimes in from nearby, "Careful there, my boy. That refuse will putrefy your brain, moreso than that shock therapy they love to dole out around here." I look over to see an old man with a craggy face and shoulder-length gray hair standing a few feet away from me. He turns to me and smiles with a grin missing several teeth. "It's all part of the lie, anyhow. Pure fabrication."

I realize that I recognize him. "Crawley...?"

Crawley's smile widens. "Ah, I see you remember me. That's good."

"What are you doing here? What am I doing here?"

"You see, we're here because someone with great power wants to control you. Erase you. Supplant you. But if I know you, Jake, I know you'll fight like hell to free yourself."

Jake. Oh God, where's Jake? And Steven? I can't feel them, can't hear them. My heart starts pounding. After a moment, I take in a breath to steady myself, then look back at Crawley. "It's Marc right now, Crawley. I... I don't know where Jake is. Or Steven."

"I see. You're being broken down. Divide and conquer. Easier to erase your being when they do that. Don't worry, my boy. You'll find Jake and Steven."

I pause and look around the room. "So this place, it's... It's not real?" It feels real.

"It's all in your mind, Marc. These walls, this place. It is a tomb. Notice the lack of windows? That's because you are buried."

"How do I get out?"

"One might think you'd need to climb out, but the truth is, you need to go deeper."

I'm mulling over Crawley's response when a door opens. A few patients step through it, heading back to their rooms. A woman with glasses and red hair up in a bun stands in the doorway. She wears a plastic smile and holds a clipboard. "Alright, Group G, time for art therapy."

"That's us, Marc." Crawley makes his way into the room. A few others follow after him: Frenchie, Gena, Marlene. They're all here. What the hell have I gotten them into? I consider whether to play along or try to break out right now, and after a moment decide to do the former for the time being. I stand up and head into the room.

It's a small room with a circular table in the center and six chairs surrounding it. The walls are adorned with sheets of paper either coated in watery paints or covered in drawings composed of crayons and markers. On the table is a stack of blank paper and art supplies, paints and brushes and crayons and markers. My friends and the doctor all take seats at the table. After hesitating for a moment, I take my seat next to Crawley and the doctor.

"Alright everyone, today we're going to do something simple. I'm going to give you free rein to use any of these art supplies to draw one thing: your happiest moment. It could be anything, as long as it's something that you hold onto preciously. You'll have 20 minutes to draw. At the end, we'll present them and explain what we drew. Sound good?"

Gena raises her hand. The doctor points at her to say her piece. "Will you be playing music for us, Dr. Emmet?" So that's her name.

Dr. Emmet smiles. "Of course, Gena. Here, I'll play your favorite song to start." She pulls out her phone and pulls up Spotify, then plays a song. Instantly the melody brings back Jake's memories of late nights in Gena's diner, sipping coffee and eating flapjacks as that same song played. Gena loved to play it on the jukebox whenever business was slow.

I shake off the memory as everyone gets to work. After a moment I get to work on my drawing as well, grabbing a black marker. It's all I'd need. We continue our work, the only sound the ever evolving soundscape reflecting the taste of those at the table. RnB for Gena, 70s rock for Crawley, French pop and dance for Frenchie, 2000s pop rock for Marlene. Nothing for me though.

Eventually, a timer sounds off and Dr. Emmet stops the music. "Alright, let's see what everyone drew. Why don't you start us off, Gena?"

Gena lifts her page and shows everyone the drawing. It's a drawing utilizing a wide array of colors, pinks and blues and reds and greens and everything in between. It depicts her in stick figure form standing in front of her diner with two smaller figures. Her boys? "That's lovely Gena. Is that where you used to work?"

Gena smiles. "Yes ma'am. This is the day I opened my diner with my baby boys Raymond and Richard. I had worked so hard to do it, saved up all the money I made to be able to open my own business."

"I think I speak for all of us when I say I'm very proud of you, Gena. I'm sure your boys are too." Gena's smile lessens at that, but she nods. Dr. Emmet looks over to Crawley. "Okay Bertrand, it's your turn."

Crawley presents his drawing. It's more subdued, only black marker on white paper. It's a few stick figures sitting in a circle. I'm not quite sure what it is. Dr. Emmet seems just as confused but doesn't falter. "What does your drawing represent?"

"Why, it's my first time leading an AA meeting. I was getting into social work before I found myself here." Crawley grins.

"I didn't know that about you, Bertrand. That's very admirable. Admitting you have a problem is a hard thing to do."

"Admitting I had a drinking problem was years ago. Helping others admit it was a more recent development."

Dr. Emmet looks over to Frenchie. "Jean-Paul, what did you draw?" Frenchie lifts his paper and shows it off. It's far more developed than either Gena's or Crawley's, actual shapes and well-defined lines instead of stick figures, depicting Frenchie and a man sitting at a table together. "Oh my, that's very well drawn. What does it depict?"

"Zis is my first date with zee man who would become my husband, Robert," Frenchie says. It hits me like a sucker punch. Frenchie got married? To a man, no less? I didn't even know that he was gay. We didn't have any secrets between us, so why would he keep that from me? Did he feel like he needed to hide it? I don't even know what to think.

"Beautiful, Jean-Paul. You have a future as an artist."

"Ah, no, no... It is just a hobby." Frenchie sighs, then looks back to Dr. Emmet. "You may move on."

Dr. Emmet looks to Marlene next. "Alright then. Marlene, what have you drawn?" Marlene shows us her page. My eyes widen. It's half-way between Gena and Crawley's stick figures and Frenchie's well-detailed drawing, the art depicting Marlene holding a baby in her arms. "Is that your child?" Dr. Emmet asks.

"This is the day my daughter Diatrice was born," Marlene says.

The floor drops out beneath me when I hear that. A daughter. Marlene has a daughter. Am I the father? Dr. Emmet smiles and nods at Marlene. "How old is she now?"

"Fourteen months. She said her first word right before I came here. It was 'Moon'." As I listen, I can feel tears pricking at my eyes. I take in a shuddering breath and wipe them away before anyone notices.

"How precious." Dr. Emmet turns to me, not seeming to notice the flurry of emotions running through me. "Last but not least: Marc, are you ready to show us what you drew?"

I nod, then lift my page to show everyone. It depicts the statue of Khonshu in the tomb, the moon shining above and a stick figure meant to be myself beneath it. It's funny. The happiest day of my life was the day I died. The day I became a weapon for a god.

Dr. Emmet frowns. "Marc, what did I tell you about this?"

I'm not sure what she means. "About what?"

"This, Marc." She gestures to the drawing. "Khonshu, Moon Knight, all of it. It's regressive. Dwelling on those fantasies just holds you back from seeing your treatment through." She reaches out and yanks the drawing from my hands, crumpling it up. "No more of this." She stands and walks over to a bin to toss it in.

I'm stunned, unsure how to react. I look over at the others at the table: Crawley is frowning, but the others have glassy looks in their eyes, seeming far away after seeing that. Then I realize that Dr. Emmet isn't looking at me right now. Thinking fast, I grab the black marker I was using and a pencil, keeping them held tight in my hand and lowering it below the table so she can't see. No one comments on it.

Dr. Emmet steps back over to the table but doesn't sit. She grabs her clipboard and pulls a pen from her shirt pocket, marking things off. "Save for that last bit, I believe this was a very productive session. I'm glad I got you all thinking about good times in your lives. Focusing on the good times will help you in your treatment." She looks back at us and smiles. "That's group. You all can head back to your rooms now, it's almost time for lights out."

She heads over to the door and opens it, allowing us to step outside. I'm the last one out, locking gazes with Dr. Emmet as I'm leaving. Her eyes are soulless, belying her pleasant demeanor. She's not human. She's a monster. I need to be able to See her true form, the true form of the orderlies as well.

I make my way back into my room and sit on the bed, waiting. The lights in the hallway go out after about twenty minutes. I grab the marker and the pencil off the bedside table and get to work, grabbing the stark white bed sheet and pillow cases. I use the pencil to tear open holes in one of the pillow cases for me to see out of, then use the marker to draw Khonshu's symbol of the crescent moon onto it. I tear the other pillow case into strips that I wrap around my hands. I slide the pillow case mask over my head and tie the bed sheet around my neck.

Then, I scream.

I scream as loud and long as I can, continuing until I hear the hammering of running footsteps from down the hall. I clench my fists and wait. The door bursts open and Billy and Bobby step through, looking furious. "Goddammit Spector, what the fuck are you screaming about... Now?" Billy trails off as he sees my get up.



"Nothing. Just wanted to get your attention. I wanted to see your true faces..." I see now that they're not human, just like I suspected. They're beasts with jackal heads and claws, and they look terrified as they take in my form. I bask in their fear. "... So I could pound the living shit out of them."

"Uh oh, Billy."

"Uh oh is right, Bobby."

I leap forward with a raised fist. "Knight knight!"

I sprint out of the room, leaving the battered and bruised bodies of Bobby and Billy behind. The hallway is dark save for a light at the end, the red glare of an exit sign. I race towards it as I hear more footsteps hammering down behind me. I look over my shoulder to see more of the jackal-headed orderlies running after me.

Rᴜɴ!

I gasp as I hear the voice but don't stop running. "K-Khonshu?"

Yᴇꜱ, ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏᴏʟ! Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ! Cʟɪᴍʙ, Mᴀʀᴄ! Gᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ!

I don't stop. I throw myself through the exit door and slam it shut. I look around for anything to block the door with, finding a large shelf that I toss in front of it. After a moment, a bang sounds, someone trying in vain to push past the brace to open the door. But it holds strong. They're not getting through just yet. I sigh in relief.

Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ɴᴏᴡ. Tʜᴇʏ'ʟʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ. I ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏꜰ, Mᴀʀᴄ.

Immediately I move to start walking up the stairs, only to falter as I remember what Crawley said: that I need to go deeper. I look to my right at the stairs leading down. It seems to be sapping the light out of the room, leading into an abyss.

Wʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ? Gᴇᴛ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ!

"Sorry old bird, but I trust Crawley a hell of a lot more than I trust you." With those words, I turn to the staircase leading down, and begin my descent. Khonshu screeches in my ear indignantly, but I try my best to block him out. As I go down, I can hear his voice fading away, along with the banging on the door. It hits me after a moment that the staircase hasn't turned to wrap around itself, it's just continuing on down into a pit.

I try to wrap my cape tighter around myself when I find that it's not on me anymore. My hands, once wrapped with the scrap pieces of fabric, are instead covered by white leather gloves. I look down at myself and find I'm dressed in a fine suit, shining white in the black void. "What the hell?"

A loud THUMP! sounds to my right and I find that I'm no longer in the void but rather back in the hospital. The lights are fully lit but no one else is around. I look at a door to my right that's slightly ajar and hear another thump from behind it. Cautiously, I open the door and step inside, finding a sarcophagus that's rocking back and forth.

^{_{"C'mon, let me out! For God's sake let me out!"}}

I recognize that voice, probably because it's my own. "JAKE!" I rush over to the coffin and force it open, grunting in exertion as I pull off the cover. A wave of relief washes over me as I see Jake beneath the cover. He looks up at me in awe. Wordlessly, I offer him a hand.

"Marc?" I nod. He grabs my hand and hauls himself out, groaning a bit. "Oy vey, that sucked ass..." I steady him as he steps out onto his own two feet. He looks at me for a moment, then gestures to my face. "What's, uh... What's this?"

"Huh?" I reach up and touch my face, finding that I'm wearing a mask. I take it off and look at it in my hands: white, featureless, with an embroidered crescent moon on the forehead. "I... Have no idea, honestly." I look back at Jake and find that he's holding back tears. "You good, Ja-" I'm caught off guard as he wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, holding me tight.

It's strange, being hugged by yourself, but it feels like a warm embrace from a loved one. He's like my brother, in a way. I wonder for a moment how long he's been wanting to do that. "Had no damn clue how I was gettin' out of that one, Marc... Thought I was done for. Then you show up lookin' like a reject comic book character, more than usual I mean, craziest drek I've ever seen..." He pulls away, looking me in the eyes with his hands still on my shoulders. His lips are quivering slightly but still held upwards in a grin. I smile and pat his arm. "Where the hell are we? And where's Steven?"

"I'm pretty sure that this is our mind... As for Steven, I don't know. I was lucky to find you." I look around the room. It's completely empty save for the sarcophagus, just beige walls and white tiled floor. "We should get out of here. We've got to find Steven."

Jake nods, "Don't gotta tell me twice." I turn back to the door, only to find that it's no longer a steel door with a windowpane like you'd find in a hospital but rather a thick wooden door with a simple bronze knocker. On the right hand side of the doorpost, right at eye level, is a mezuzah. I look back to Jake and see he's just as confused as I am, putting his hands up in the air to show he doesn't understand either.

"Alright... Let's see what's behind this door." I turn the handle and push it open.

We step into a hallway, one that I recognize instantly as my heart sinks into my stomach. To my right is a set of stairs, the edges of each step chipped and the wood scuffed. Hanging on either of the walls are photos of a family, my family: my father, my mother, my brother, and myself. Jake steps next to me and examines the photo as well. "... If you wanna go, we can find a way outta here."

"... This isn't real. This is just our mind. And I think we need to confront whatever is here if we want to find Steven and get back to the real world." I walk through the hall to the family room. There I find myself and Randall sitting on the couch, Rand slowly pulling a Jenga piece out of a precarious tower. It collapses, the pieces flying all over the table and floor with a loud CRASH!

"Oh no..." Randall looks at the fallen tower with a quivering pout.

"Hey, it's alright," my younger self says, wrapping an arm around his (our?) little brother. "That's just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes."

"Do I have to pick it up?" Randall asks, still upset.

"Nah, I got it. You wanna play Uno instead?" The younger me starts to pick up the pieces as Randall smiles.

"Yeah! I'm gonna beat you this time!" I wince slightly at Randall's volume. I know what's about to happen next. Jake places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

A booming voice calls out from upstairs, "What's with all the FUCKIN' SHOUTING!?" Even as a grown man, the voice still makes me shudder. I turn to look at the stairs as the dull thumping of footsteps beat down on them, and see him: Yitz Perlman. My father's loyal student of the Torah, a young man who was about ten years older than me and always babysat myself and Randall when my parents were out. That meant he took naps on the upstairs lounge's sofa and did bad things to us if we woke him up.

His eyes are full of sleep and his face is twisted into a scowl as he steps into the living room. "I thought I told you little fuckers that if you woke me up it'd be bad fuckin' news for both of you!" He points an accusatory finger at Randall. "You, fat boy, you the one that made that loud ass fuckin' noise and started yelling at the top of your fuckin' lungs?"

Randall's lips quiver and his eyes fill with tears that he's trying hard to fight back. Young Marc shakes his head and stands up. "No, it was me! I did it!"

"Oh, we playing fuckin' Spartacus around here? Fine. You're off the hook, lardass. Marc!" His finger shifts to point at the boy. "You're coming with me." Young me freezes as he locks eyes with Yitz. "I gotta tell you twice, retard? COME ON!" Like a well trained dog issued a command, he follows after Yitz.

Down into the basement.

I can feel my heart pounding, my blood pumping battery acid that burns my veins. My breathing is heavy and fast, too fast. Jake and I follow Yitz and myself down into the basement. Yitz stops halfway down and that causes my younger self to pause as well.

Then Yitz kicks him down the rest of the stairs.

I feel every bump, the edge of the wood cutting into my ribs and arms and legs and my head smashing into the concrete floor. Yitz cackles as he watches the fall. Then, he slams the door shut.

"Yitz! Yitz, please! I'm sorry!" the boy cries out. He gets no response. The basement was only used for storage, rarely ever ventured into. Yitz took all the light bulbs out of the sockets so it was enveloped in complete darkness. Young Marc curls up into a ball on the floor, scrapes on across his body bleeding slowly. He sobs.

"Hey, don't cry," a small voice says from the darkness. Marc looks up at the voice.

"Huh? W-who's there?"

"I'm a friend. Bloody hell, he did a number on you, huh?" A boy in a green sweater steps out from the darkness and sits down next to Marc. "Right muppet that chav is. Thinks he can just push everyone around like he's king of the world. He'll get his one day."

Marc sniffles. "You think so?"

The other boy smiles. "I know so. We'll show him, together."

"Who are you?"

"Like I said, I'm a friend. Best friend you'll ever have. You can call me Steven. Steven Grant." Steven extends a hand. Marc looks at it warily for a moment, then shakes it. "We're going to be good friends."

The boys fade away into mist. Darkness envelopes everything. I'm shaking. Tears are streaming down my face. Then I hear a banging sound, like the sarcophagus Jake was in being moved around. I look to my left and see another one before me, standing upright. I turn around to look behind me and find Jake standing there still, having stayed silent through that whole ordeal. "That should be our boy right there," he says, and I nod.

Together, the two of us pry the sarcophagus lid off and throw it to the floor. Beneath it is Steven, taking in a shuddering breath. He looks at the two of us with the most relieved expression I've ever seen on his (my own) face. "Oh thank God," he mumbles, before falling forward. Jake and I catch him and help him stay standing.

"Don't know how long I was in that damn casket. Thanks, lads." He wraps his arms around the two of us and we all squeeze each other, the three of us breathing a collective sigh of relief. We part, Steven pulling back to look at the two of us as he keeps a hand on each of our shoulders. "Good to see you two... Where in the hell are we?"

"Long story short, Grant, we're in our own head."

"Come again, Jake?"

"Trapped in our mind. Forced to relive our traumas and all that gut shtopn. We're still tryin' to find a way out."

I nod. "We've probably got a ways to go, but at least now we're together." I hear a door open behind me and the three of us all turn to look at it. In the void, a door frame has appeared, the door opening into blinding white light. I look at the two of them and we all nod together.

"Let's go."

We step into the light.

The next room is an office, bookcases covering all the walls. In the center of the room is a mahogany desk with two chairs placed in front of it. A man that I vaguely recognize is seated behind the desk while my younger self and my father sit in the chairs in front of it. "Tell me more about this, uh, Jake," the man says, not to me but to my father.

"Jake is a new development," my father begins, crinkling his nose a bit. "We'll go weeks where it's him or Steven, then it's Marc again for a while, and then back to Steven or Jake. Marc doesn't seem to remember things from when he's one of the other two. He's been failing all of his classes, if he's even going to school in the first place."

"Is this your first time taking him to see a psychiatrist?"

"Yes. We were hoping it was just some kind of phase, or that he was just playing a prank on us, but his behavior has been erratic and we weren't sure what to do any more."

The psychiatrist turns to look at Marc. "Marc? Can you go sit outside for a moment? I need to speak to your father privately."

My younger self nods and stands from his chair, heading for the door. He steps outside and closes it and in the blink of an eye the three of us are outside of the office with him. Rather than taking a seat in one of the chairs, Marc kneels next to the door and presses an ear to it. He can hear the voices faintly, so quiet it's almost like they're not there.

"Marc is suffering from what's called Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder."

"Is there anything we can do for him? Medications he can take or therapy he can go through?"

I know when this is. I look to Steven and Jake, watching our younger self contently. They don't seem to know what's about to happen.

Then it does happen.

Wʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ, ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴍᴀɴ?

Khonshu.

"Listening to my dad talking to the doctor," Marc says, not even looking at the voice.

Tʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀɴ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ.

He looks to the source of the voice and sees the old god looming over him.

The door opens then, my father stepping out. My younger self, face still stricken with fear, looks up at his father with wide eyes. Elias Spector kneels down to be at eye level with Marc and places his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Marc, listen to me. The doctor has told me that you're sick. Very sick. There's nothing that your mother or I can do for you at home."

"What are we going to do, then?" Marc asks.

"The doctor told me about a hospital out in the country. It's called Putnam Psychiatric Hospital. It's a place where people get better. You can stay there for as long as you need to."

"But I want to stay at home, dad. With you and mom and Randall."

"I know, son. But you can't. I'm sorry." Elias pulls Marc into a tight hug, holding him close like it's the last time he'll ever see him, like if he lets go the boy will disappear. Marc looks over his father's shoulder. Khonshu is standing there, watching the embrace.

I'ʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, Mᴀʀᴄ.

The walls fall away and pull themselves back together, this time taking the form of my room at Putnam. The room is barren, a bed and a desk with a stack of books and nothing else. A barred window looks out into an open field. Myself, a young man now, sits on his bed with a duffel bag in his lap as he stares out the window. There's a knock on the door. "Come in," Marc says, and the door opens.

Dr. Emmet steps through with an orderly. "Are you all ready for your trip, Marc?" she asks, smiling at him.

Marc stands with the duffel bag in hand. "Yeah, all ready now." He opens the bag and shows her the contents: a few changes of clothes and some toiletries.

"You don't want to bring a book or anything? You'll be sitting shiva for a week."

He shakes his head. "This is all I need."

"If you say so. Come on, Jeff's got the van ready."

They leave the hospital, passing through the wards and heading to the front entrance. A white van is parked outside, the driver waiting in the front seat. The orderly opens the sliding door and lets Marc step inside. He takes a seat and the door closes, the van setting off. The countryside is tranquil, open plains with trees dotting it every once in a while. Eventually the plains give way to city streets as they arrive in Hub City.

Marc steps out of the van. His mother, our mother, is waiting for him in front of their old home with Randall. They're both dressed in black. She embraces Marc who lets his arms rest at his side as she does so. As the embrace breaks, Randall steps forward and places a hand on Marc's shoulder and smiles sadly. Marc is more enthusiastic to see Randall, pulling his younger brother into a hug.

"It's been a while, Marc."

"Too long, Rand. Too long."

I blink and then we're at the funeral, my younger self standing over the open hole as the coffin is lowered in. His expression is unreadable. I follow his gaze into the grave, trying to think of just what I was feeling in that moment. Can't remember no matter how hard I try. Just an empty, yawning pit where that feeling should be. Our mother steps forward and drops some dirt into the grave, followed by Randall. Marc hesitates for a moment, then drops some into the grave as well.

Then we're back at the house. It's the early evening, the sky turning dark. The living room is packed. Jake stands with Marc's mother in the kitchen as she pours him a glass of water. He takes it and sips from it. "I'm so glad you were able to make it, Marc," she says, smiling at him weakly. "Dr. Emmet's been telling me about your progress. She says you might be able to leave the hospital in a few more months, maybe a year at most."

"Dr. Emmet says a lot of things, Mrs. Spector."

She looks taken aback by that. "Don't call me that Marc, I'm your mother."

"It's Jake. Marc can't handle what's going on right now."

Her eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in anger. "Marc. Do not do this right now. We just buried your father for God's sake."

Jake pinches the bridge of his nose in embarrassment and takes in a breath, and then Marc looks back at her with a wince. "I... I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry." He steps away from her, turning around to walk into the living room. "I gotta get some air."

Marc walks past the crowd of mourners to the front door and steps out into the cool night breeze, taking a seat on the curb. He places his face in his hands and lets out a long sigh, rubbing circles into his eyelids. The sound of a zippo being flicked open to his left makes him look up to the sound.

Yitz Perlman stands there, lighting up a cigarette. He's gotten older of course, in his early thirties now, with a goatee and slicked back hair that's starting to thin out. Marc stands to leave when Yitz speaks, "Marc. Been a while. How you doin', kid?"

The young man falters for a moment, then clears his throat and replies, "Uh, good. I've been good."

Yitz nods. "Shame about your father. He was a good man. Cancer's a real son of a bitch."

"Sure is," Marc says, moving to head back inside. Yitz steps forward and grabs him by the arm, stopping him. Marc's gaze snaps to the hand and he can feel his pulse quickening, his fight or flight instinct screaming at him. Everything fades away, just him and the fingers wrapped around his wrist, the grip tight, too tight.

_{^{"Look, Marc, I just wanted to say that I'm sor-"}}

Marc slams a fist into Yitz's face and the older man stumbles back, losing his grip. The young man, now with both hands free, lays a series of hooks and haymakers into the older man that sends him to the floor. He keeps laying into Yitz, climbing on top of him to beat on him further. The years of abuse, that yawning pit of hatred Yitz put inside of us, all being let out in a burst of violence.

I look to Steven and Jake who are watching the scene as well. Jake's face is contorted into a wince and after a moment he looks away, having seen enough. Steven's eyes are cold as he watches the scene. He's been with me the longest, gone through the most abuse from Yitz right beside me. He knows how cathartic this beating was.

By the time Marc is finished, Yitz is choking on blood and bits of his own teeth, and Marc's arms and the front of his white dress shirt are splattered with blood. He stands, looking down at his shaking hands. After a moment, he steps into the house, pushing past everyone on his way upstairs. He heads into the bathroom and strips his shirt off, washing the blood off his arms into the sink.

Tossing the shirt into the trash, he leaves the bathroom and steps into our childhood room. He grabs the duffel bag off of his bed and opens it, pulling out a new shirt and sliding it on. With duffel bag in hand, he steps over to the window and opens it, slipping through it and out onto the fire escape. It groans in protest at his weight, clearly hasn't been in use for decades. He climbs down to the street, taking one last glance at his childhood home before disappearing into the night.

We follow after him as he runs, the streets shifting as the asphalt breaks away to reveal thick foliage. The buildings collapse into ruins, and we keep chasing after him, into the jungle. Marc slows down, stops completely, then looks up to the full moon. His clothing, no longer street clothes but now military fatigues, are stripped away and laying in a pile behind him.


"Yes," Marc says.

"What the fuck are you doing out here, Spector!?"

"Huh?" Marc wakes from his fugue state, looking over his shoulder to see two marines about twenty feet behind him, standing behind a knee high fence of barbed wire. "I... I was just going for a walk."

"Marc, you're in the minefield," one of the marines replies.

I blink and it's a few nights later, my younger self fully dressed now and sitting at table in a tent. A military psychologist sits across from him, holding a stack of papers and looking them over. "Private First Class Marc Spector. Joined up with the marines three years ago, about a year from the end of your first tour. From what I've read, you're a good marine, but these... Episodes of yours are worrying."

"It won't happen again."

She shuffles her papers. "I've been told these have regularly occurred in the last three months. Every other week you'll be found doing something strange, in a fugue state. PTSD is a very real thing, Marc. You can't just shake it off."

"I know, I know... It's just a bit of shellshock. Last bit of combat I saw was hectic." Marc looks down at his hands, fiddling with them.

"That's the thing, Marc. Your PTSD isn't just from this war. Your CO had me do some digging after this latest episode. I know who you are, Marc."

"Y-you do?" Marc lifts his head to look at the psychologist only to gasp at the bird skull that's been planted on her head.

Yᴇꜱ. Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴇᴅ. Yᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡɪʟʟ ɢɪᴠᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ɪɴ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.

"No!"

"Calm down, Marc. We know about your time at Putnam Psychiatric Hospital in Illinois. We know you lied to the recruiters. And I'm sorry, but your behavior is unfitting of a marine. Your CO has made the decision to dishonorably discharge you, effective immediately. You'll be driven out to Bao Nhan where you'll be put on a plane back to Hub City, and from there we hope you can find help for your mental health issues."

We didn't take that plane. Once we got to Bao Nhan and got dropped off at the airport, we went AWOL and took off into the night, like we did at home. The next year was spent traveling around Asia, moving west. The first anniversary of our discharge, we were in a warehouse in Quetta, Pakistan. Shirtless, sweaty, bit of blood on the face, surrounded by a crowd of lowlife mercenaries and scumbag locals shouting bets.

"FIFTY FOR THE AMERICAN!"

"ONE HUNDRED AGAINST HIM!"

Marc raises an arm to block a hook then retaliates with a jab right into the other man's face. He stumbles back and Marc moves in for the kill. A hook into the gut followed up by a cross punch right into the other man's jaw. The man falls to the ground and my younger self climbs on top of him, slamming his fist into his face once, twice, three times.

He stops, keeping his fist raised. "Say it."

"KILL HIM!"

"SAY IT!"

"RIP HIS HEAD OFF!"

The man coughs up a glob of blood. "I... I yield." Marc breathes a sigh of relief and stands, raising a fist in the air. The crowd erupts into a mix of cheers and boos but Marc doesn't pay them any mind. He moves through the crowd into what used to be an old office that now serves as a rest area for the prize fighters. Grabbing a bottle of water and a towel from a locker, he takes a seat in a plastic chair and starts chugging the bottle while wiping the blood off of his face.

A man enters the room, one Marc doesn't recognize. I do, though. Despite myself, I smile. This is a good memory. The mystery man steps forward and addresses Marc, "That was very impressive. I made good money off of you. Strange that you didn't kill him, though."

"Yeah, well, I don't like killing people unless I have to. Life or death, y'know. He didn't deserve it, he's just some dumbass merc that thought he was tough enough to take me."

"Ah, a mercenary with a conscience? One could say I am one of those myself. In fact, that is why I am coming to you. I have a proposition."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Work together, of course. I think we could do great things together, mon ami."

Marc raises an eyebrow. "I think I'd like to know your name before I commit to that, pal."

"Ah, but of course." The man takes off his hat, doing a little flourish with it.



"I am Jean-Paul. But you can call me Frenchie. Everyone else in this place does." He smiles. "Marc Spector, I think you and I are going to become very good friends."

Previously...

"I am Jean-Paul. But you can call me Frenchie. Everyone else in this place does." He smiles. "Marc Spector, I think you and I are going to become very good friends."

The world goes still after Frenchie says those words, the room collapsing around us and falling into an endless abyss. Back in the void. I look to Jake and Steven, both of them taking this brief respite to stop and think in their own ways: Jake with hands on his hips letting out a heaving sigh, Steven with arms crossed and a pensive expression written on his face. I raise a hand to the back of my neck and take in a deep breath, reeling from the whiplash.

It was quick, sudden. We barely had a moment to process the memories, plowing through them one after the other like a roller coaster through our own personal hell. I look over to the two of them, and it's almost like they can feel my gaze because they look up before I even speak. "How are we holding up, guys?"

Jake gives a strained grin. "Me? Never better." It's a lie, but he makes it sound hearty enough.

Steven isn't having any of it though, giving a snort and rolling his eyes. "Right, just going through the most traumatic events of our lives again. I'm rather chuffed, personally."