Captain Uni

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

I S S U E # 4
I S S U E # 4

A L L T I M E L O W
A L L T I M E L O W

P A R T F O U R
P A R T F O U R

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.

I AM.

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.

Cᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ, Mᴀʀᴄ?

"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."

Uni's Character Depository And Post Workshop

I S S U E # 4
I S S U E # 4

A L L T I M E L O W
A L L T I M E L O W

P A R T F O U R
P A R T F O U R

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.

I AM.

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.

Cᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ, Mᴀʀᴄ?

"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."

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

I S S U E # 3
I S S U E # 3

A L L T I M E L O W
A L L T I M E L O W

P A R T T H R E E
P A R T T H R E E

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 like it's happening again, 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 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.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

Can you explain Sin-Cong?

Mister Negative usually ends up playing a key role in Cindy's storyline for me. That and a slight lean towards Asian American influences so I'd want to know exactly what that country is. I'd want to get my facts straight if I present stuff.

@Pirouette

It's basically just Vietnam 2 and I only asked for the country and its war to be included in the timeline so we could have a definitive recent war for characters with military backgrounds like Moon Knight and the Punisher to have fought in. The Marvel wiki would have better info on the details than I or even any of the GM team probably would.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

You guys can't have two of these going at once.

That breaks the canon.

@Pirouette

I am formally extending an invitation to you. Give us Silk. We need her now more than ever.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>

It's why I don't do it.

I just give you my love.

Except for that one guy. You know who you are.

@Colonel Sep

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

@GreenGrenade

luv u 2 jon

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

I'm going to fight somebody

@Colonel Sep

Fight me motherfucker

Uni's Character Depository And Post Workshop

I S S U E # 3
I S S U E # 3

A L L T I M E L O W
A L L T I M E L O W

P A R T T H R E E
P A R T T H R E E

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.

Absolute Comics: Odyssey [Invite Only]

I S S U E # 2
I S S U E # 2

A L L T I M E L O W
A L L T I M E L O W

P A R T T W O
P A R T T W O

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.

MOON KNIGHT FACES OFF AGAINST BLACK SPECTRE IN DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN

"- 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."