Drip...

Drip...

Drip...

Drip...

There were always four drops. Evenly spread. Every morning. I sit up with resignation, as the cold seeps down into my skin. Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, I don't know the time. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, dampness in the air, and as the blanket falls the cold climbs its way into every fibre of my being. I refuse to give in to it, though. I refuse to shiver. That's why I tell myself anyway, there is every possibility I have lost the ability to shiver. I pull the sheet away from the wall, peering at the scratch marks in the stone where I have marked my days in captivity.

I can't prove it, but I swear whenever I am removed from the cell, the guards adjust the total. At least thirty groups of five adorn the wall.

I am strength. I tell myself as I struggle to stand, my cell door opens, and a bowl of what loosely resembles porridge is thrown into my room. The mixture is so thick that all the porridge and the spoon remain within the confines of the bowl. The same act every morning they used to bring me the bowl. Place it delicately atop my bedsheets.

Then I used the sheets to snap the necks of two guards, and was down the end of the hall before I became outnumbered and overpowered. I shuffle over to the bowl, grunting as I bend down to pick it up.

I am grace. Whatever grace I possessed is long since gone. I collapse on the bed, pulling my feet underneath me. Spoon abandoned, I use my hands to pick up the mix of oats and water. Whatever taste and whatever sweetness the mixture should have, had been cooked out. It is more bread than porridge, but it provides nutrition, no matter how little. My throat fights in protest; it is dry and my lips are parched yet no liquid is provided. There is no relief, no doubt, part of the punishment for the time I used a glass as a weapon. Instead, I would need to wait until we were dragged out into the yard for the morning count, then as everyone went to work I would be able to finally satisfy my thirst.

I am resilience. I do not know how long I have been here. My body aches, my skin a pale imitation of what it once was. My skin sags, as the muscles below have faded into atrophy. I can remember a time when I could run the gauntlet with the best of them, hold my own on the training court. Sparring came naturally and easily, both within the arena and the debate circle. Few could go toe to toe with me. Now? I am held together with nothing more than spite and hope. Fear continues to tickle around the edges of my centre; I can feel it alongside the coldness creeping through my chest. Seeking to puncture my heart. I can feel it, trying to burrow its way in, chilling every point it could reach.

I can't let it win, for once it has won. What will become of me?

---

---

Sif clung to Mjolnir with all her might, but she could feel her grip slipping steadily. This hadn't been planned; she had been at the Bifrost bridge speaking to Heimdall. Next thing, there was commotion from the city, and as she had turned to ask Heimdall what he saw, he allowed the faintest smile to creep into the corners of his mouth. "Be prepared to catch, my sister." She had turned to face the bridge, as there was a roar of energy as the rift between the realms of Yggdrasil opened. Alas, that couldn't be so. For a rift to open Hofund needed to be used; she had never heard of anyone other than Heimdall or Odin himself being able to access the Bifrost.

As Mjolnir came into view, she understood. Wherever Thor was, or whatever he was doing, he needed help. Only Thor would be able to call Mjolnir from its resting place within the throne room. Even Odin had been unable to move it, much to his annoyance. Yet here it came, screaming towards... well she wasn't entirely sure where it was going, yet Heimdall told her to catch. So she did, her joints screaming as she was pulled off her feet and into the multi-coloured madness that was the Bifrost Bridge. Various shapes, sounds, and smells assailed her as she was transported between the realms, all the while trying to maintain her grip on the handle of Mjolnir. Who, if she wasn't mistaken, was speeding up. Finally, her crip faltered as the hammer turned suddenly and shot out of view.

She wanted to scream, wanted to shout, yet no sound escaped her lips as she tumbled helplessly into the abyss. No way to know where she was going. Was Thor at the other side? Had he sent Mjolnir away? Had Odin somehow turned it around? Perhaps Odin had finally had enough, but had left her behind to serve as a lesson for disobedience. Sif screwed her eyes shut as suddenly her eyes were assaulted by the blinding rays of a midday sun. She could feel a cool winter air as she fell through the air, but before she could twist herself the air was knocked out of her as she formed a small crater. There was a loud obnoxious honking and screeching sound, she could hear voices. They didn't sound like trolls, or giants, which had been her first concern.

Pushing herself to her feet, she stumbled slightly.

"Hey theres a woman down there!"

"Where the hell did she come from?"

"What the hell is she wearing?"

"Woah, that's a lot of woman."

"How is she alive?"

Bending her knees, she pushed off. Clearing the hole in one go and landing on what appeared to be some form of wide path. Buildings stood at either side, and smaller buildings on wheels seemed to be using this path as a throughway. Midgard. Ofcourse, it would be Midgard. Thors affinity for the mortals here had always landed him in trouble, in their youth they had spent much time here. Thor had always told her the stories of what it had been like before, when Gods and Monsters vied for the allegiance and worship of mortals. She was never entirely sure if he had missed it, or if he had missed the feeling of being needed.

Now it is he, that needs my aide.

Looking around at the wide eyed group of mortals surrounding her, Sif singled out a woman who appeared less scared about Sifs sudden appearance. "You-!" All colour dropped from the womans face, as she looked behind her hopefully, and then pointed her hand at her own chest.

"M-m-me?"

"Aye-" Sif stepped forward, and everyone else stepped back. "-tell me. What do you know of Thor?"

𝕮𝖆𝖓 𝕴 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝖙𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖆 𝖒𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙?
𝕴 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓...𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖚𝖒𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘 𝕴 𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖞𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋 𝖎𝖓.
𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖍𝖔, 𝕴 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖆𝖒.

𝕴'𝖒 𝖆 𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖗, 𝖙𝖔 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖞.

𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌, "𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊?".
𝕴 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖇𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙.
𝕴 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙, "𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙."

𝕻𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊...𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖎𝖙 𝖇𝖊 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖋𝖊𝖈𝖙.

𝕬𝖒 𝕴 𝖑𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉?
𝕬𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖑𝖉 𝕴 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉?
𝕱𝖔𝖗 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙?
𝕴𝖋 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞...𝖉𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞?
𝕴𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞...

𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍.

---

ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔨 ℑ'𝔪 𝔤𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢.

“I’m glad Mello's gone!”

That statement from Mo sent the four other men in the barbershop into general pandemonium. Pop’s took time from the plate of food in his hands to call Mo a bum, while the Boykins brothers just booed. Me? I just shook my head and gave him a thumbs down.

“Overrated!” Mo said definitely. “He can score, but he can’t win. Give me five guys like Portakyiv over one Miller any day.”

The mention of the lanky European center sent the Boykins brothers into a frenzy.

Barry Boykins said, “You’re talking out your as—“

Barry stopped short when he saw Pop staring at him over his barbecue, the swear jar right beside his chair and filled to the brim with money.

“--You’re crazy,” Barry finished with a grin.

“He’s got a point,” I said with a shrug. “Mello never played hard on D, never passed, never did anything but shoot. You can’t build a team around that.”

“What about Jordan?” Bobby Boykins asked.

“Are you comparing Mello to Jordan?” Mo shook his head. “Get out of here with that sh—stuff. Jordan was way way more than a scorer. He was a centerpiece. Mello ain’t a franchise guy. He’s a ballhog, which is why the Knicks were losing even though he was dropping points.”

“Yeah,” said Pop. “And it’s also why we lose to Sherm’s Body Shop every year in the city tournament. Y'all acting like you're Mello out there.”

“But they all play like Jello," Barry said with a snicker.

That sent the group of men into another round of bickering and arguing. I opted out, looking out the window with a grin on my face and enjoying an evening off. Pop's was one of the very few places I could just hang and be one of the guys. In here, nobody thought of me as Harlem’s hero.

There was a pretty steady rain outside that night. That's usually good news for everyone. Rain means the gangbangers are too scared to go out, lest they get their sneakers dirty, and the cops aren't up to getting out of their cruisers unless they really need to. They avoid banging people up on the small fry stuff that really pisses off communities. My previous observation was contradicted almost at once. Two NYPD patrol cars with rooftop lights flashing sped by the barbershop, basking the small room in an eerie glow before they disappeared further down the street. Like I said, the rain is usually good news but not always.

Suddenly all eyes fell on me and the din from a few moments ago was now a silence that seemed to be just as loud as their yelling. I stood up, held out a fist that Pop tapped with his own, and looked back at Mo and the Boykins twins with a grin.

“Mitchell Robinson is gonna be the next great Knick.”

That sent the four of them into a new round of debate as I walked out into the rain and pulled my yellow hoodie up over my head. There weren't many people on the street, but the few that were all headed in the same direction: down the street and around the corner. The corner blocked the sight, but I could see the blue and red flash of police lights reflecting off the buildings.

A few minutes later I stood in front of police tape. My hood kept my head dry against the slow pitter patter of rain. The crime scene was at the playground just around the corner from Pop’s. Two uniformed cops kept the small crowd gathering back from the scene, but everyone could see through them to the white tarp covering a dead body sprawled out in a sandbox. There were murmurs and talk rippling through the crowd. I didn't take part, but I listened and got the gist. The body under the tarp was Bobbito Garcia, seventeen years old and a nearby resident. This part of Harlem bordered Spanish Harlem, so black and brown did a lot of co-mingling in this area. Someone said he had his girlfriend with him when he got shot, someone said they heard the shots and turned around to see Bobbito falling to the ground and an unknown shooter running from the scene.

A detective in a cheap suit walked through the crowd, flashing a badge. I started to fade back into the crowd to avoid being seen. The less police attention I attracted, the better. From my vantage point I could see the crime scene and the few places the officers had protected from the rain. Bobbito's body was covered, as was a small space I assumed covered up the murder weapon. A plastic baggie lay on the ground with a small card inside. I couldn't make out the words scribbled on the card, but I saw the logo in the middle of the card as clear as day. A bright red crown, dripping blood.

Who murders a seventeen year old kid execution style and leaves a calling card?

I didn't know, but I was going to find out.

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."

"KHONSHU! IS THIS ENOUGH!?"

"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..."

There was only electric lighting in the Church for the Wayward Soul, inside and out, for Vegas was a city of light. But Father Monroe was much more acclimated to its darkness. The Church was tucked in the corner of a shopping center off the beaten path, its retired patron there to spend the remains of his life helping those who most needed it. More oft then not, his schedule was free, as so few admitted they needed help even in these times where it was most necessary. And that very fact was why he was here in the dead of night, having been summoned outside of usual hours to his confessional booth. Once again in relative darkness, once again a vague shape on the other side of the screen. Who it was and what Father Monroe knew about them did not matter in this moment between them and what they had to say to God.

“I-I’m sorry, Father, I’ve never done this before.”

“It’s far from difficult,” Monroe rasped out. “Make the Sign of the Cross, and then repeat after me. ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.’”

“Forgive me Father, for I have s-sinned. I saw my f-father today, my blood father, for the first time in a long time...” He went silent. For a few moments Monroe only heard breathing. It was not from nervousness; it was the kind one made when they slipping away, as though desperate for something they weren’t sure they’d be able to get again. “I’m sorry.”

“Take your time. This is what I’m here for.”

There was a rattle, a slight alleviation of relief. His voice came again, the words weak with pain but firm with resolve to say them. “I saw my father today, and for the second time, he told me...he told me that the Devil is inside of me. And now I say, in front of God, that...I think he’s right.”

---

“And that’s T-minus 600 seconds, everybody!” A slight murmur of excitement came from the crowd, certainly over capacity limit for the testing chamber. Men and women (predominately men) stood or sat about, all faced towards a large screen with a display of the nearby outdoor desert, a bright moon visible on this clear eve. Most of the Material Sciences division was here, as were a good number from other departments. Cadmus officially started a mere two months ago, and it was still in the process of scouting out new talent to fill out its seemingly endless array of labyrinthine chambers. While levels of security existed based on the nature of the project, the Gamma Beam experiment was in development for years before its Team Leader was hired onto Cadmus, and after several weeks, it was about to engage its first test. They were here not to see Dr. Bruce Banner’s success be realized, but to see the vision of Cadmus come to fruition: this place where all of the hopes and ambitions for these geniuses in so many fields to become reality. The Gamma Beam was only not the hope of Bruce, in this moment, it was the hope of Cadmus.

But Bruce turned away from the crowd. Of split mind, a part of him wished he could preform the experiment in small scale back at Michigan State, but he also knew it would be a dead end. The value of Cadmus was great in so many ways, but an offhanded remark from some of his peers elsewhere claiming a sensation reminiscent of the film Oppenheimer had his stomach tumbling. He felt sweat starting to bead. Leaning down, he pulled up his glasses, he massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers, staying such until a voice ran across his shoulders. “It’s really the opposite of Oppenheimer when you get down to it.” Jumping up, Bruce turned to see a familiar face standing nearby and watching a large screen, Betty’s face framed in auburn locks. She turned to face him with a light smile. “They’ll get it. Everyone here is going to have the chance to change the world in their own way. You just got the chance first.”

Aiming to give a stiff nod and a smile in response, she turned back to the screen, leaving Bruce to nod his head without purpose. Turning back to his console, he ran a set of knuckles across his forehead, feeling the fool for his social inability while another murmur rumbled through the crowd. A few were pointing at the monitor. Bruce looked to see a shape, among the stone, faint in the night. “Is someone out there?”

Bruce might as well have be doused in water for how fast he shot up, leaning in to get a closer look. Whatever it was, it moved unevenly, practically stumbling. Looking back to the room, he met eyes with Betty. “Are they going to be alright?”

Bruce’s heart sank as the pressure set in. Though partly concealed by the stone and aimed outwards, the Gamma Beam emission would go miles into the sky, its unique properties allowing a tunneling focus that Bruce believed would be able to disable the systems of any constructed nuclear warhead, even those protected against electromagnetic interference, allowing it to fall without detonation in wastelands well before they reached their target. The end of nuclear war as it was known. But this was the first time it was being tested: it’s ultimate range was only projected and they needed proper measurements to deduce efficacy. This room was well protected, but the residual radiation, though short lived, would not leave anyone close by unharmed, to put it lightly.

Slipping a string off of his neck, wielding the key it was strung to, he looked over to his assistant, Glenn Talbot, still in his chair looking for guidance. “We have to stop the experiment.”

“Sit back down you little control freak. Security can handle it.” Standing a full head taller than Bruce, decked out in his Air Force attire, gray mustache and dark eyes glaring down at the mild-mannered scientist, General Ross puffed out his chest as the room went completely quiet.

Looking back to the screen, Bruce scoffed, “Yeah, they’ve been keeping a handle on it so far. We have 5 minutes until anyone out there is dead.”

“And if you stop this, this whole project is dead until we get the materials to resume. Too fast a change in temperature means we have to rebuild half the damn thing! You said as much yourself. And until it is resumed– if, I mean, and that’s a big fucking if, you’ll be working on other teams with your thumb up you ass, fucking Boy Genius. Sit back down.”

Hands already in motion, Bruce kept his eyes locked with Ross, slapping the key in hand against Ross’s chest. “Fine then. If I’m not allowed to stop the experiment, then you can. You outrank me.” Ross’s yells of protest only meeting his deaf ears, Bruce stormed off, running to the nearby maintenance exit where he would reach the darkness.

---

Panting, Bruce made it to the top of the short staircase, throwing open a small service hatch. Scrambling up into the chill of the desert. Only the faint edges of moon-bathed stone and sand could be parsed as his eyes slowly adjusted. A particularly odd formation stood out to him, where the Gamma Beam Emitter rested amongst nature, the camera streaming to the room a dozen or so meters away hidden to his sight. “HEEEEEY!” Bruce called out into the night.

“What the fuck?” Came a slight slur of speech from the darkness. There was a sound of glass slapping into the dirt. Bruce ran after it, and there was a cry of fright. Bruce ascertained that it couldn’t have been someone older than 18 at most. He fell and Bruce was on them in moments, trying to drag him up. “Did you follow me out here you fucking sicko?”

“You’re next to a military base and if you- gah, don’t stop struggling you’re going to die!” As Bruce struggled, he retched from the scent of alcohol, his skin crawling at the recognition.

“I don’t care! Why do you think I came here?”

Bruce growled, “If you really don’t care then the least you could do is stop struggling!” Bruce looked back at the Gamma Beam Emitter. Reading his internal clock, he knew the discharge wouldn’t quite have triggered yet, but he was only praying that if Ross didn’t see this wayward child as a person, the least he could do was see Bruce as one. But that was only a prayer.

---

“That fucker,” Ross hissed, storming after Bruce as the slam of the door closing echoed past him.

“Dad!” flowed a voice that was like water to his clay heart.

His own tone shifting to a softer one, Ross still had as much stern edge as could muster while he demanded, “Don’t call me that at work!”

“What are you going to do? Follow him? Or let him die?”

Ross’s nostrils flared as he bit back his real feelings on the matter before taking the key in hand to the console. Nodding to Talbot, who withdrew a similar key, the two both slotted them in at the same time. It was what, at the time of its conception, felt like a standard security matter for anything involving radioactive materials that could erupt in chaos at a slight mishandling, but as the pair turned the keys to a swift countdown, a faint ‘click’ being heard loudly from Talbot’s side, the General looked over to see him looking in abject horror, half the key in hand, the other stuck in the lock. “You shitlicking-” Looking to the rest of the room, Ross roared, “We need a set of pliers NOW.”

On screen, Bruce’s faint white coat could be seen as he looked around at the camera as he struggled with the intruder. Security was nowhere in sight, and someone was going to have Hell to pay for letting all of this happen. There was a bustling as a few stepped forward with multitools on their keychains, the desk getting crowded as they tried to right the wrong of Talbot’s panic borne haste, the man hovering about as though he there was anything he could do. The countdown was at less then five seconds. At this point, an emergency stop would ruin the Ray irreparably, if it even would stop. Betty started for the door, and Ross followed his beating heart right to her, even though there was no chance anything could be done. “Bruce!” she shouted as he pulled her into her arms, the spot he most wanted her most to be at when they both knew it was where she least wanted to be, especially at that moment. The steadily rising mechanical noises hit a zenith, and the screen flashed with a bright light for but a moment. A starstruck crowd watched Bruce leap to the youth, tackling him down before they both fell and were still. Betty tried to pull herself from Ross’s grasp but he couldn’t let her go, couldn’t let her see what he witnessed.

The death of Bruce Banner was not so dramatic to the world of the living in front of the screen. There was no kaboom, the residual radiation was undetectable to human senses. Those watching shifted from horror to mystification as the two bodies were still. And yet, knowing that the radiation was cooking him from the inside, Ross saw the white labcoat flapping in the wind, and knew that his quiet death was haunting enough. “Turn it off.” His command was met with vacant stares, so he demanded again, “We don’t need it any more. Turn it off!” One of Bruce’s team members found the remote and switched it off, Ross finally releasing Betty. She stumbled from his grasp and slowly reached a chair, freed by its occupant jumping to his feet during the crisis. For a moment, her lip trembled, but then she saw her father, and she scowled, holding it to him. She would thank him for it later, Ross knew, still protecting her as much as she wanted to be free from it. And he would continue to do so as he was obligated to do.

“The Gamma residue has an infamously low retention rate, considering how powerful it is. By morning, we’ll be able to recover the bodies with a few men in protective gear. Brace yourselves folks, because this is going to be a shitshow.”

“What if they’re not dead?” asked Talbot, his voice a small prayer, his face white as a sheet.

Ross gave a long, slow, exhale. “Then they’ll be wanting for it.”

---

Bruce didn’t know why he did it. Radiation cared little for a bit of flesh and bone. If it penetrated into his body and mutilated his cells one by one then the young vagabond would be meeting the same fate in due time. If there was any effect it would simply be that he would die a slower and more agonizing death. And all Bruce had accomplished was dying a useless death. A trolley problem where he’d opted to jump onto the tracks instead. But even as he came to that realization, he recognized that he was still thinking, therefore he ought to Be.

He came to regret that election to Be, for as soon as he found himself once again in existence, it was not an enviable one. Where he was once dry he was now drenched, surrounded in water like slime. His eyes peeled open and he saw a face, rotted and desiccated with stringy hair but yelling in silence full of wroth. Pushing against the dirt of the riverbed he broke the water, his bare flesh meeting stale, stagnant air. His ears were met with the tearing of water and screams and cries. A fist found his flesh, and another. He recoiled, trying to dodge but there were only bodies of all shapes and sizes, all covered in blood and bruise and grime, all screaming, all striking out and biting and kicking. He pushed himself away, standing to look for a way out, the road of the river stretching endlessly under a brown sky choked with clouds like smoke. Crags of black rock held true to either side like the sides of a valley. There was no boatman, and yet like one views their own dream and know the context within it as though it was true, he knew himself to be on the River Styx, afloat in Hell itself.

Another strike met him and laid him out, Bruce once again sinking. He scrambled, his own anger flashing as he found footing and struck back. Pushing past, he splashed his way to the nearest riverbank, pushing and punching what felt like every step of the way. He hated to hurt others but when he suffered a blow, his first instinct to retreat would only push him back into the water where he would suffer the pain of drowning endlessly until he surfaced again where he would be struck, and striking back was the only way to bear the pain. He didn’t know where anyone was going. Some seemed to be pushing upstream, others down. It felt so obvious to go to the riverbank that Bruce knew there had to be something wrong, but until he discovered it he wouldn’t be able to rest. So he pushed and smashed and kept going until his hands reached the black stone. He climbed up, seeking reprieve from the muck. A few tried to pull him back but he kicked them away. His bruised flesh scrambled on the stone and it sliced him, the blood offering him no warmth. He slipped and fell, skin shaved from his hand and he knew it would never heal, the filthy water burning his cuts. Those damned in the waters singled him out like monkeys dragging him from the ladder by throwing sharp stones that stung his flesh. Until they didn’t. Fear gripping them, they shuffled backwards, watching something. Bruce heard a breathing above him, and a rare droplet of warm water found his flesh. He turned to look up. A mass of muscle and brown scales bore over him, a long body with a row of sharp teeth in a mouth that seemed to take up half of it’s body starting to sprawl open, a green light like death shimmering through. Bruce tried to run but the blades of stone aimed to hack him to shreds. The devil was upon him, and the suffering that had feigned endlessness was now over.

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."

Sif's hand rested uneasily above the hilt of her sword.

She had snuck away to Midgard before, many moons and many seasons long past. She and Thor together had adventures with Gods and Monsters from before the time of Gods had truly come to an end. This Midgard was not the same one now as it had been. The landscape was more grey, less natural. While Asgard was a great city, the city was designed with colour and character. Each building told a story. Whereas here, everything seemed somewhat drab and miserable. Even in the cool mid-morning sun, the orange glow did little to brighten the environment.

"Thor, like from that TV show? The Viking guy?"

Sif didn't fully understand all that was said, but the urge to roll her eyes was still great. Viking Guy. That was a gross oversimplification of who he was.

"Are you okay? You kind of fell from the sky?"

Sif looked at the crater behind her. "Aye, I am fine. I have fared worse."

"What are you?"

Sif smiled as she walked towards the woman. Ignoring those around her who pointed their strange rectangles in her direction, if they had been weapons, they would have attacked her by now. A loud, piercing wailing could be heard now from around the corner, as people surrounding her started to move away slowly.

"I am Lady Sif of Asgard, and I am here to find Thor and return him home."

"Ooooookaaaay."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Well, he's not-he's not real?"

Sif walked towards her, hand still on the hilt of her sword. The woman went to recoil slightly, as Sif outstretched her free hand and placed it on the woman's shoulder.

"And am I not real?"

^{"Well, I'm not sure..."}

There was a resounding screech. The wailing came around the corner, as two of the loud horseless chariots came racing around the corner. Sif pulled back, and as she spun, her sword was removed from its holster in one fluid motion, brought up into a ready stance. The vehicles came to a stop in a plume of dust and smoke coming from the tyres. A heavy clunk, as the vehicles opened. Two people emerged from each vehicle, cowering behind the doors, small objects in their hands pointed directly at Sif. Directly at her chest, centre mass.

These were weapons.

Her feet moved, almost an imperceptible amount. The one closest was on her left; he would be the first to hit her if he fired his weapon. He would also find himself to be the first one hit by her if he tried anything. A thick caterpillar moustache had nested on his top lip, his eyes hidden behind black reflective circles. His accent was heavy, and his voice boomed with authority that had been given, not earned.

"Ma'am. I need you to put the weapon down. Step away from the crater, then kneel on the ground with your hands behind your back."

The sword spun in her wrist, palm up, blade pointed directly towards the man in charge. The warriors in their khaki clothes recoiled slightly. Their thumbs moved on their weapons, with the faint sound of four clicks piercing the silence.

"I have come in peace, but I will not disarm, and I do not kneel."

---

The Parademons swarmed the hull of the lone vessel, her engines flared and faltered. Gun emplacements were torn free of their housing, tossed into the mess of bodies, shell casings and debris that surrounded the vessel like its own asteroid belt. As one of the Parademons found a crack on the hull, it screamed and they swarmed. Grappling and clawing in a frenzy, as if every moment they were delayed meant another eternity in the pits. They weren't far wrong, for their master tolerated no failure.

The survival of this ship, constituted a monument of their failure. A world converted to ash and debris, the living souls converted and the planet destroyed. One less civilisation to stand up against the might of Apokolips, and yet. In a final act of defiance a singular vessel managed to break passed the blockade and flee, carrying with it the hope of its people. The hope that they would survive, that Apokolips could be delayed and defeated.

A hope that could not survive. A hope that could not be allowed to survive.

The creatures clawed and scrambled, pushing against the rush of air as they broke through the hull of the ship. Fighting their way passed the air as the compartment became depressurised. They rushed in, tearing at themselves and eachother to push in. Body parts and armour cast out into the growing cloud of debris. Red warning lights greeted them on the other side, as they spread out. The low glow of the light casting long shadows, as the faint sound of a far away alarm could be heard reverberating around the ship. They moved in packs, fanning out from their entry point until a group came across a door.

THUNK

The dull noise could be heard even in the vacuum as a large dent appeared on the door.

THUNK

The Parademons looked at eachother, perplexed. Something appeared to beating it's way towards them. Perhaps some of their kin had already breaxhed from the other side?

THUNK

KAWHOOOOOOM

There was a roar of air as the door was broken open, the air from deeper in the ship catapulting the door and turning into a ballistic missile. It collided with demons, some lost body parts whereas others found themselves crushed. One demon remained, pushing itself back to its feet it roared into the newly opened doorway as a lifeform approached.

My hands caressed her supple skin, soft as silk to the touch, her skin had a glow that matched the sun. My mind raced at the thought of our love, our bodies intertwined once again. I could feel eyes tracing my body longing for me, telling me how much she needed me with just a look. What she didn't know is that I needed her, Sandra was a love that longed for for so long and I could bare to go another second without her. I placed my hand under her chin, lifting her face so we met eye to eye, stared deep into her soul, and pulled her in to express my love. Before our lips could touch, my mind finally decided to correct itself.

"DANNY, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!"

My eyes shot open, the world a haze, but my ears could make out the sound of people screaming and cheering. Misty's voice felt the loudest, a voice I remembered, a voice that woke me up from my delusion. The taste of iron was strong, blood pooling into my mouth, and running down my face. Warmth was all I felt, a warmth that reminded me of her. My mind wandered, over and over before another fist collided with my jaw, waking me from my stupor. I focused my vision, seeing the world around me clear as day. Twelve men stood before me, angry, rowdy, fists raised toward me. I had entered this pit for a reason, to feel pain, to let out my rage. I wanted this. I wanted to hurt.

"Colleen."

Pain swelled in face as another fist struck me right above my left eye.

"Orson."

A kick to the midsection. This pain was nothing in comparison to what I was feeling. Was this all these men were capable of? My training in K'un L'un was worse than this. Could they not make me forget? No. They weren't worth it. I wouldn't fall to these idiots, these jive turkeys as Luke once called them. I always loved that term.

"What the fuck would Luke say, huh?"

For a moment, I could hear his voice echo in my mind, rewinding and replaying like a VCR, over and over. Why the hell should I let these assholes be the ones to hurt me? They can't do anything that I hadn't done to myself. No, these guys just wanted to fight and make money, entering shady fighting pits to make a quick buck by hurting others. They were all just like him. Just like that bastard who tore my heart from my chest, who took my powers, who took my father. It was time to cook these turkeys.

Adrenaline pumped into heart, every beat per minute increasing rapidly, entering a state of anger that I hadn't felt since that moment. A fist came from the right, a simple hook countered by left hand intercepting it, gripping the fist of the man, pulling him forward, and the sound of a snap echoed outward. Bone nearly sticking through the flesh, the man's own scream gave a me bit of satisfaction. The rest came rushing in, their foolish attempt meaning nothing to K'un L'un's greatest warrior. I may have lost Shou-Lao's chi but, I was still beyond the normal limits of a human. The stance I took mimicked that of masters of Muay Thai, a hard hitting style that I used with intent to end the fight early.

"Hurt this fucker."

My perception was honed to the utmost, my reactions still as fine as a pin point, there was nothing they could do to overwhelm me. A move of the head to avoid a punch, retaliating with an elbow to the ribs, snapping them like they were brittle. To those watching, I was a flurry of elbows and knees, breaking bones, knocking out teeth, and sending blood flying everywhere. I made it a point to not kill any of them, but they would all need a visit to the hospital. The last guy had a build that didn't match the previous fighters, his body riddled with veins, and muscles that only came from strenuous exercise. He was quick too, nearly catching me a few times, a fast jab leading into a combination. Unfortunately for him I was quicker, head avoiding every punch, taking every kick by hardening the points of contact. Eventually I found the opening, striking his shin with my own, nearly snapping it in two. I quickly drove a knee into his face, busting open his nose, and sending his consciousness on a vacation. I refuse to lose to anyone before I could get my hands on Davos.

"AND THE WINNER IS DANNY RAND!"

I didn't care bout the recognition. I didn't care about whatever praise would be placed upon me for beating twelve men. I just wanted to get out of there and I made sure they all knew it. I was so tired, blood dripped from blood stained warps on my hands, my nose and lip busted from the repeated blunt force trauma, and all I wanted to do was find some peace. Pushing past the "officials", I made my way out of the place till I heard Misty's voice.

"Danny."

"Not now, Misty."

"Yes now, Danny. Why the hell are you here?"

"Because.."

"Because you're trying to forget. You don't want to face the reality that Orson.."

"IS DEAD! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!"

"I want you to open up to your friends. Danny, go see Luke. Go see Colleen."

I winced at the sound of her name, my mind unable to process my emotions at the moment. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her to fuck off. For a moment, I wasn't myself and I knew that taking my anger out on Misty wasn't the right call. Instead I turned my back to her and walked away, grabbing my Superman hoodie on the way out.

The streets of New York were loud with the hustle and bustle of city life, the people unaware to world around them. I threw my hood on my head, disappearing in the crowd. I wasn't the immortal Iron Fist at the moment, just a New Yorker looking for the answer of why I was put on this Earth.