Disclaimer: These characters are owned by Marvel. I don't own anything.
CHAPTER 1 - "THE MACABRE"
Long Island, New York; Night time.
Marc Spector pounded and pounded the heavy bag that hung from his ceiling. Despite the bag gloves protecting his hands, the rapid-fire punches produced a series of satisfying smacks whenever his padded knuckles connected with the swinging canvas bag. He came here when all else fails - when he was out of options for how to deal with all the information he'd been having difficulty processing.
Anger and dismay, resentment and incomprehension all churned inside him.
Fists up, chin down, in perfect fighting stance, he whaled on the defenseless bag as though he was going one-on-one with a ghost of himself.
He thought of his past as a Marine and hit the bag. He thought of his sins as a Mercenary and slammed it again. He thought of Khonshu the god of vengeance and punched and punched and punched; harder and harder, faster and more furious. He would have been hitting that bag forever if he hadn't been interrupted by a bolt of lightning that split the sky, and Marc saw something in its flickering light: The Moon.
Catching a breath, he shed his sweat-stained shirt, exposing an athletic torso marred by scars and scratches both old and new. Lines of stubborn scar tissue crisscrossed his lean body, making it look like some sort of flesh-toned patchwork quilt. His fingers traced the network of old wounds: badges of honor from a never-ending street war.
On the far wall was a giant collage. Red wool string was drawn across articles and photos of major players within Long Island's illicit drug trade: the Yakuza; Turk Barrett; Wilson Fisk etc.
Carved in stone, the Moon God himself dominated the room. From across the room, he held Marc in his steely gaze. Gripped in his fist, a sculpted scepter to represent vengeance. Marc touched the statue reverently, as he did every time he was about out on patrol.
Lightning rent the air. . .
Shedding his gloves, Marc crossed the floor, and unlocked a rectangular metal closet the size and shape of an upright sarcophagus. Inside the cabinet, hidden away, was a suit of silver body armor made of reinforced Kevlar bi-weave fabric and fire retardant carbonadium. The silhouette of a crescent shaped moon was emblazoned upon the broad chest piece, which was capable of resisting anything except a straight shot at close range.
Adjacent shelves held steel-tipped boots, silver gauntlets, a hanging cloak, truncheons, a utility belt - last but not least - a white cowl. These were his vestments.
Midnight.
The moon appeared through the dispersing fog and cast the roofs in strokes of silver and shadow. A steely cold rain beat down on Long Island, drawing oil out of the roadways and infusing the old island with an industrial smell. At 1 A.M. the streets were deserted, except for the occasional cars splashing through greasy puddles and squealing around corners, shattering the steady rhythm of the rain. The only people on the streets at this hour were either drunk or dangerous, most likely both.
More than twenty blocks of broken bottles and discarded cigarette butts carpeted the pavement. Spray-painted graffiti defaced walls, while rusty green Dumpsters, failed to contain all the garbage spilling onto the blacktop.
A taxicab roared down a potholed street into the roughest part of town, its headlamps slashing the murky shadows of an old warehouse building, where hundreds of freight containers were stacked high like colored building blocks. They all had labels and logos tagged on the sides with words like Midland Circle Financial and Union Allied Construction.
The warehouse boasted two rear loading docks that opened onto the New York Harbor, and was one of several buildings that surrounded it, all situated around a main structure that looked more like a fortress than an administration building.
The moonlit grounds of the building was brimming with activity. This warehouse was a shipping center. The area was purely industrial, so there are always trucks, construction vehicles, and moving vans with blacked-out windows going in and out of the port.
With wooden crate in hand, Turk emerged briskly into the warehouse; confidence echoed in every first, it smelled slightly musty to him, and there was a faint odor of something unusual, almost like sulfur. Looming before him, were wooden beams and fence posts. There were also loads of crates stacked high to the ceiling.
The men were all wearing expensive suits and look as if they just waltzed out of a Jon Woo film. At the forefront, stood Madame Gao. A dark wooden cane in hand, she waited patiently for Turk. Her glowering bodyguard patted the briefcase in his hands.
Moving further into the warehouse, Turk let out an exaggerated laugh."Let's see it."
The glowering bodyguard snapped open the briefcase, and displayed its contents to the well-known arms dealer.
In response, Turk cracked the smallest of smiles; then from his pocket he drew out what looked like a long thin flashlight and flicked it on.
A purple beam – ultraviolet light – shot out from the end of the device. Turk picked a stack from out of the briefcase at random and ran the wand over it, checking to make sure the bills weren't counterfeit. Satisfied, he nodded at Gao.
He then crossed the floor and flipped open his wooden crate – he then slid it over to Gao's men.
Gao and her men stepped forward, studying the contents. What she saw was the bright yellow Biohazard trefoil stamped on the side of a metal drum. It was stolen Hammer Tech. Repurposed to help the Yakuza produce a highly pure and highly-refined heroin. A product more powerful than Madame Gao's Steel Serpent.
"I like," Gao said, her thin dark lips narrowed into a thin smile.
They were both pleased to see that deal has been sealed.
Something cast a fearsome shadow across the sawdust-covered floor, veiling hoodlums in darkness. All eyes moved to the source where a shocking tableau awaited them.
A sinister figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted in misty moonlight. A billowy hood shrouded his face in stark shadows over a matching cloak that swirled on shapely shoulders. He wore gleaming white boots - crisp white gloves. A crescent moon emblazoned his muscular frame.
Barrett stared, burning the cowled man's face into his memory. He suddenly recalled a rumor he'd heard about "a man in a white cowl" supposedly prowling the neighborhood, putting the fear of god, or at least the Moon, into the local hoods and drug dealers. The Mexican Cartel had a codename for this lunatic. . . . But what was it?
Barrett had never taken urban legends seriously before. But now, as a pair of phantasmal white eyes peered down at him like twin windows into the afterlife, an unaccustomed chill ran down his spine with cold feet.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be," Barrett demanded, his bellicose tone undermined by the tremor in his voice. "C'mon Freakshow, cut the spook act and answer me."
Groping under his jacket, he drew out a Beretta 9mm. A scowling hoodlum, seated one chair over, also pulled a gun on the costumed intruder. Moonlight gleamed like quicksilver across his gun barrel.
Barrett heard footsteps flanking from behind, a flurry of Yakuza thugs emerged like a startled flock of birds from every shadow with hammers being cocked, rounds being chambered. Gun muzzles rose, leveled in the intruder's direction. The flaunted firepower bolstered Turk's confidence.
Barrett knew that there was enough fire power surrounding the intruder to blow a hundred holes into his chest.
Obviously Madame Gao knew it too. And she did her best to stare down the cowled intruder, motioning with her fingers for her thugs in the room to hold steady.
"Don't make us ask you again." Barrett warned, his mouth pulled into a thin, hard line. He glared at the intruder with homicidal intensity. He was sizing him up.
But his warning was met with heavy silence. Marc Spector knew that casting a fearsome shadow was an effectual weapon, as powerful as any knife or gun. Fear can turn the most circumvent of men, careless. A former colleague, Raoul Bushman, had taught him that.
Snarling swear words swarmed at the silent figure as irate thugs reacted to his startling presence. Under his cowl, Marc felt his fury growing.
Extracting something from his belt pouch, Moon Knight hurled it swiftly. Crescent darts sliced through the air, disarming gunmen and spearing arms and shoulders. It all happened so shockingly fast. Snarled obscenities gave way to pain-wracked groans and whimpers.
Searing pain erupted from Turk's shoulder, radiating out along his screaming nervous system, as several inches of razor-edged steel pierced through cashmere, skin and muscle. Barrett tumbled ass over elbow along the grimy floor.
He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out in agony, his memory jogged by the silver calling card.
A shiver of fear shook his soul for an endless heartbeat.
It's him, he realized. . .The Macabre-!
Moon Knight didn't wait for the Yakuza goons to come after him; instead he leaped eagerly into the mob like a steel-clad avenging angel, ready to rain vengeance from the moonlight of Khonshu.
God of the Moon. Taker of Vengeance.
His lord and savior.
And he, the knight of vengeance.
Eyes widened, Yakuzamen jumped back. Startled shouts and curses escaped their lips.
This Fist of Khonshu showed no mercy, cutting a swath through raging mercenaries and thugs. Brutal punches sent blood and teeth flying. Lightning kicks shattered knees and dislocated shoulders. One after another, battered bodies were sent crashing to the floor.
Recovering from the shock, the downed Turk crawled across the floor, clutching the flesh wound on his blood-soaked sleeve. Crawling over the broken bodies of his fellow crooks as he clumsily tried to get away from the Macabre pursuing him.
He knew that Madam Gao had disappeared.
Surveillance cameras were mounted at intervals around the ceiling, allowing an unrestricted view of the cowled intruder.
Throughout the facility, intruder alarms sounded; the halls and tunnels resounded with running feet and shouted commands as more thugs emerged into view.
They came running in lockstep down narrower gaps amongst the crates. Dark hair slicked back, each merc was suited and booted, and armed to the teeth for urban warfare.
Fanning out, these gunmen eased forward through the smoke-laden air, gun barrels extended high and low. They walked further down the space between the rows of crates, swiveling their gazes from side to side.
A silvery wraith passed silently behind them and they sensed it with a shiver.
In desperation and terror, bellowing gunmen opened fire.
Muzzle flashes lit up abyssal shadows of the warehouse. Shrapnel buzzed and cracked from plaster walls within silhouette of the moving vigilante.
Headlong through the orange canyon of crates, bellowing gunmen raced after him. The cowled vigilante moved like a phantom ferret - he cut corners, darted through aisles and leapt from crate to crate - always a few paces ahead of them.
Gunshots rang out like a firing squad, blazing the night with misdirected fire. Dozen of crates were shredded with muffled thuds; some tumbled off of nearby stacks, as if trying to escape the gunfire. Wooden fragments rained down into the air, filling the murky aisles in a splinter blizzard. This added to the sense of confusion for the gunmen.
Amidst the chaos, Barrett dove back to the ground and covered his head with his hands.
It was a manhunt.
And in this hunt, the gunmen knew they had the home-field advantage, so the cowled intruder would need a moment to get his bearings.
A moment that they would not allow him to have.
The smart play for them would have been to withdraw and try to cut him down with automatic weapons or explosives, but they were boxed in by the close quarters of the crates and there was no time for them to do more than act purely on reflex and training.
Being an Ex-Mercenary, Spector understood "the gunmen mentality".
Gunmen expected their victims to surrender to their combined and overwhelming numbers, with only a frightened mewling to indicate any complaint. Overnight travelers that the Yakuza terrorized rarely fought back when her punks aimed muzzles at them.
But the man in the white cowl wasn't planning to mewl or surrender. Marc Spector was a born scrapper. People loved him for it. Pain, was just an old friend he had welcomed. In this manhunt, everyone he faced was the enemy, whereas the thugs were too afraid of hitting each other to open fire.
Knowing that, Moon Knight got his bearings.
The cowled vigilante shifted the tight confines into a demolition derby; bouncing one guy into the next, slamming aching bodies into one another. Rifles clattered away from owners.
Snatching up M16s, Moon Knight swung them swiftly - as if they were nothing more than tree branches he fashioned into clubs. Pummeling battered bodies in his savage whirlwind of lunacy. Bones shattered beneath his lupine blows. Ribs cracked, shins and knees and collars snapped.
The crescent crime fighter never stopped moving, shifting from adversary to the next with quick and deadly efficiency.
Making major headway against them, he pushed ahead, his technique blossomed into brutal fluidity.
A lone sharpshooter climbed on top of the orange crates. He aimed his M-21 sniper rifle at the costumed intruder.
Moving with maddening speed, Knight snatched up a rifle and hurled it at the sharpshooter like a Frisbee. The spinning gun swung up and met the sniper's face with a sickening thwack!
He yelped and was sent hurtling to the ground like a bag of cement.
As another soldier fell, his fingers spasmed on the trigger of his automatic shotgun, spraying the ceiling with round after round of magnum buckshot. His shells hit some lights as he fell, and apparently some power cables too, because the remaining lights started flickering like strobes.
This strobe-light effect made it all but impossible for Barrett to keep an eye on what was happening. "Look out-!" Strident voices added to the confusion as strobing lights, smoke and gunfire disoriented everyone in the dank warehouse.
Barrett tore his fearful gaze away from the chaotic scene and took off running. With panting effort, he fought to lengthen his stride as he rounded a corner that lead into the grim darkness beyond. Looking back nervously over his shoulder, Barrett ran toward a flight of metal stairs, and charged straight for the next landing.
A sticky red stream flowed down his arm, dripping into the sawdust covered floor. Leaving a red trail. He knew that if he was caught by this lunatic, his pursuer would show him no mercy.
Surveillance cameras were mounted at intervals around the ceiling, allowing an unrestricted view of the intruder in the pale hood.
Throughout the facility, intruder alarms sounded; the halls and tunnels resounded with running feet and shouted commands as more Hand ninjas emerged hastily into view.
Fury gave way to all-consuming rage when the Knight charged forward, his booted feet moving with precision across the grimy floor. His cloak flowed behind him as if no dust would dare cling to him.
He hurried across the hallway only to find his way blocked by a throng of thugs. Armed with a steely-eyed gaze. Too hyped to be afraid, some whipped out hatchets while others slashed out with shiny machetes.
Seeing only one opponent, the hoodlums brandished their blades and strode toward him. Gearing up for another fight.
The cowled man stood his ground, gasping for breath.
From deep inside his cloak, he let loose twin Truncheons. He spun them like twin propellers and began hacking his way through the hoodlums, in a flow of unnerving speed; Burnished steel ranged against soft tissue, bone and cartilage in a murderous zeal.
Battered bodies fell by the wayside, others crumpled to the sawdust covered floor.
The bellowing Yakuza swung their blades, making up for their lack of finesse for unbridled violence, but the intruder ducked under each swing. He returned their failed attempts with pile-driving interests. Their shiny blades swept like threatening whispers through empty air; some struck sparks on the cracked plaster walls.
The Yakuza herd got thinner. The throng of thugs narrowed to a crawl . . . And the crescent crusader pressed on, howling with rage.
He snapped his Truncheons together and spun it around like a bo staff. Bodies went flying left and right as the spinning shaft cleared a path for Moon Knight through the chaotic scene.
Silence descended. Chest heaving, Moon Knight stood over fallen enemies. He was the last man standing, his armor smeared with blood. His truncheons dismantled and holstered, he rubbed at his silvery wrists.
Lightning flashed. Through the remains of a nearby window, a scene of carnage was illuminated. The floor of the warehouse was littered with broken bad guys, clutching their injuries and whimpering weakly.
NEXT CHAPTER: "INSANITY PLEA"
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