FADE IN:
TEXT "Mercenary, Marc Spector, died in Egypt, under the statue of the ancient moon deity, Khonshu."
"This is what happened next . . ."
[Cue opening credits]
EPISODE CARD "THE MAN IN THE MOON"
[End opening credits]
INT. EGYPT – NIGHT – YEARS AGO
The soft glow of torches illuminates an otherwise darkened room, panning down on the limp body of MARC SPECTOR, the sand around him drink in fresh blood as it gushes from open wounds beneath his war gear. Under his closed eyelids, his eyes dance feverishly while his body is still.
Meanwhile, a small ticking echoes in the darkness, growing louder with each strike.
THE VOICE OF KHONSHU: DO YOU ACCEPT?
INT. NEW YORK PENTHOUSE APARTMENT – BEDROOM - MORNING
MARC's eyes snap open; the world around him is instantly swapped for silk drapes and the hum of New York traffic.
He sits in lotus position on a marble tile floor, the ticking originating from a metronome beside him. His arm reactively snaps and clamps his hand around the pendulum.
MARC wipes sweat from his brow and takes several deep breaths, trying to rip himself away from a clearly distressing memory.
The sudden ring of his cellphone breaks this moment of silence; the person calling him is his personal assistant/chauffer/old war buddy—Jean-Paul "Frenchie" Duchamp.
MARC (answering the phone): Yeah, Frenchie, I'm awake. Impeccable timing.
FRENCHIE (on the phone): It's what gets me the big bucks, mon amie.
MARC rolls his eyes.
MARC: Bring the car around. I'll be down in a few minutes.
FRENCHIE: Understood, au revoir.
MARC hangs up, rubs his eyes, gets up and starts getting dressed. Taking off his shirt, we see his torso covered in scars.
MONTAGE MARC enters his walk-in closet and proceeds to get dressed to the 9s.
Getting a nice view of his apartment, the décor is rather … diverse; the layout itself is very modernist—open living room, kitchen island, muted monochrome color palette, etc.—decorated wall to ceiling with ancient weaponry, furniture, and antiques ranging from Egyptian Khopesh, Song dynasty vases to Georgian velvet Persian rugs and Victorian mahogany bookshelves brimming with material on such topics as basic criminology back to Egyptian mythology.
Also, all reflective surfaces are covered up or blacked-out.
Finishing off his attire, he organizes his last step—a full course of antidepressants, antianxiety, antipsychotics, bipolar medication, and tranquilizers for good measure. All prescribed to STEVEN GRANT.
Taking the elevator down to the lobby, MARC makes his way to a bleach-white limo driven by FRENCHIE.
INT. LIMO - DAYTIME
FENCHIE rolls down the partition with a ticket in hand.
FRENCHIE: Your ticket, monsieur.
MARC: Merci.
MARC takes the ticket.
FRENCHIE: Your accent's atrocious as always, mon amie.
MARC: Yeah, yeah, just drive the car, Duchamp.
FRENCHIE: Exciting, non? Madame ARLAUNE has been looking forward this event for weeks.
MARC: Yep, she's worked hard at it.
FRENCHIE (con't): It was very généreuse of you to help pay for it, Marc.
MARC: Frenchie…
FRENCHIE: Mm, excusez moi, monsieur GRANT.
MARC nods, and looks out the tinted window.
MARC: Yep, out there, I'm Steven Grant . . . I'm Steven Grant.
INT. ART GALLERY – NEW YORK
MARLENE ARLAUNE stands in front of an abstract sculpture with a potential buyer.
The sculpture is a bust of a woman with several faces seemingly being pulled out of her original face.
MARLENE: Identity is a bridge between oneself and the outside world, but there's more to it than just a name alone. We all possess slightly different identities we present for different sorts of people—for our family members, for the co-workers that work beneath us and the co-workers that work above us, or even the innumerable random passers-by on the street. What makes this particular piece very special is its representation of the battle for one's own self-identification; the way one perceives oneself versus whom or what others may see, the person one wishes to be . . . and the person one is afraid of becoming.
The buyer contemplates her words before making his decision.
BUYER: . . . I'll take it.
MARLENE: You've made a very wise decision, sir.
They work out the formalities just in time for MARC (as STEVEN GRANT) to walk up to her.
STEVEN: Your silver tongue hasn't lost its polish, I see.
MARLENE: I'm helping people express themselves, Mr. GRANT.
STEVEN: Ooh, there was some bite behind that.
MARLENE: Mild teasing, really.
STEVEN: You know I've never before seen a woman so capable of talking her way out of a hanging.
There's something slightly different about MARC now—he sports a charming blasé attitude and his voice has gone up an octave.
MARLENE: Where's Frenchie?
STEVEN: JEAN-PAUL will be right with us. He's finding a place to park. Wish him luck.
MARLENE: . . . I'm happy to see you. I didn't think you'd show.
STEVEN: Oh, I'd never miss a chance to watch the master apply her craft. Speaking of which—
STEVEN grabs two glasses of Champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
STEVEN (con't): I think I see a married couple with a lot of money and no idea what to do with it.
They clink their glasses and begin mingling.
MARC as STEVEN almost expertly mixes with the other guests; telling jokes, offering insightful observations and amusing anecdotes, never once failing to be a perfect gentleman. Though, he has minor problems when faced with the more abstract art pieces.
Later, MARLENE makes a toast.
MARLENE: I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank our generous donors who made this evening possible. I'm also thankful you accepted the invitations.
STEVEN (in the crowd): Just making sure you're spending my money wisely, Miss Arlaune.
MARLENE: Well, in honor of spending your money wisely, I've commissioned this plaque to commemorate your names.
The plaque is adorned with several names, and Steven's name is among them.
MARLENE (con't): Thank you all for your support and generosity.
After the applause dies down, an older gentleman approaches STEVEN.
OLD MAN: A very lovely woman, your girlfriend?
STEVEN: Oh no, no, we're just business associates.
OLD MAN: From the way she was laughing at your quips, I'd suspect otherwise.
STEVEN: I try not to make those kinds of assumptions.
OLD MAN: A wise policy, especially in regards to women.
STEVEN clenches his jaw.
STEVEN: Can I help you with something, sir?
OLD MAN: As a matter of fact, you can. You seem to be the kind of man of refined taste, so I was wondering what you thought of this piece.
The OLD MAN guides STEVEN over to a painting of warriors fighting in a desert.
OLD MAN: This painting depicts the Celtic warriors that were employed by the Ptolemaic dynasty in Egypt. It's a departure from the more abstract art at this gallery, but there's just something really special about it.
STEVEN: Well … uh … the (ahem) technique the artist employed is certainly inspired.
OLD MAN: Oh yes, the frayed and frenzied lines contrast the stoic edges of its figures. The juxtaposition of saturated and de-saturated colors gives it this dream quality.
STEVEN: Hmm.
OLD MAN: You know, I've always found ancient war fascinating; these days the world is so small and quantified but back then, even well traveled mercenaries hardly knew what was over the horizon.
As the man continues to drone on, STEVEN is drawn further into the carnage that's depicted on the canvas.
OLD MAN (con't) Can you imagine that? Fighting and dying in a unknown world – in the sand and heat – so far removed from anything you recognized?
Eventually, the OLD MAN's words are drowned out completely as a deafening silence replaces the world around him. Deeper and deeper, STEVEN is enveloped into the painting.
Suddenly, STEVEN feels a hand clasp around his shoulder and he turns to see MARLENE and FRENCHIE.
MARLENE: Steven, 'you okay?
STEVEN tries to put on a brave face but inside he's in the grips of a panic attack. FRENCHIE and MARLENE try to reach STEVEN but their pleas our drowned out by a sensory overload. Words, sounds, and sights vanish and reappear in an instant as he frantically searches for something sturdy to hold onto.
Then, he spots a figure clad in white in the distance.
We see a brief flash of it but nothing concrete.
Only three words echo in MARC's head.
KONSHUE: DO YOU ACCEPT?
That's the last straw.
MARC has to leave.
Frantically pushing his way through the crowed, MARC continues to be disoriented, as if he's watching himself do this, while FRENCHIE and MARLENE chase after him.
MARLENE: STEVEN, what's wrong?
MARC: I have to—
FRENCHIE: Mon amie!
MARC: I'm sorry I—
MARC (in a thick Brooklyn accent) Leave me alone!
With that, MARC leaves the building.
INT. NEW YORK OFFICE BUILDING - NIGHT
An older (about in early sixties) gentleman by the name of WILLIAM KNOWLES sits uneasy in an empty boardroom, nervously checking his watch. He has in his hand a manila envelope clutched tightly to his chest.
Anxious, he can only swivel his chair and look out the window at the midnight New York skyline.
Suddenly, a rather unassuming man walks into the room and sits opposite KNOWLES.
KNOWLES: Ah, thank you for meeting me on such short notice. I know you and yours are very busy these days.
THE MAN says nothing.
KNOWLES fidgets in his chair but tries to hide his nerves.
KNOWLES: (ahem), well, I don't know what your handlers told you, but this is about my "debt."
KNOWLES takes the envelope and slides it across the table to THE MAN.
KNOWLES (con't): Now, that is all the money that you "donated" to my mayoral campaign 4 years ago, plus interest. I believe that more than qualifies as a debt repaid, so I consider our "partnership" herby dissolved.
THE MAN is, again, silent.
KNOWLES rubs his hands together anxiously.
KNOWLES (con't): And that includes my son; whatever arrangement we had, it doesn't extend to my family or my son's campaign. He's going to win that election fair and square – no tricks, no bribes, and no coercion.
THE MAN is now simply refusing to respond, and makes KNOWLES feel like a coiled spring – tension straining to be released.
KNOWLES (con't): … You don't understand, ever since Midland Circle people have been talking—worse, they've been looking.
THE MAN is unfazed.
KNOWLES (con't): The Hand can't survive anymore. That's why I have to get out—I am out. And if you were smart, you'd get out too.
THE MAN sets a briefcase on the table and opens it. He takes out a newspaper and slides it across to KNOWLES. There is a picture of CARSON (KNOWLES' thirty-year-old son) headline reads "Mayoral candidate, CARSON KNOWLES, and wife pitch in."
KNOWLES (con't): … I don't-
THE MAN stands up and takes something else out of the briefcase – pictures.
THE MAN slaps down one of the pictures … it's of CARSON with two beautiful women taken from some kind of vantage point through a window. Then another picture is placed next to it, this one showing CARSON and the women sharing a bottle of Champaign. The third picture is of the women taking off CARSON's shirt. Then-
KNOWLES (con't): STOP!
KNOWLES huffs and shakes his head as THE MAN takes back the pictures.
KNOWLES (con't): The Hand is dead. You can't do this anymore!
THE MAN packs up his things and slides back KNOWLES' money.
THE MAN: We're not the Hand.
THE MAN motions to leave the room.
THE MAN (con't): Not anymore.
[END OF ACT 1]
[ACT 2]
INT. BROOKLYN APARTMENT - MORNING
In a dingy, one-room apartment, an iphone alarm goes off on a nightstand next to a cot. The man – naked, save for boxer shorts – lazily paws at the phone and silences it. With a groan, the man rises and walks to his bathroom mirror.
After brushing his teeth, we see his reflection … it's MARC.
After staring at the reflection for a moment, he feels that something's missing. Searching briefly, he finds it – a fake mustache, which he places on his upper-lip.
Done.
As he gets dressed (which includes a driving cap), he rubs his temples, grabs some aspirin and takes them with a beer.
Now dressed, the man grabs his wallet and replaces the STEVEN GRANT ID with the ID of JAKE LOCKLEY.
Reaching the bottom floor, he passes the office of the landlady, MAVIS.
JAKE (thick Brooklyn accent): I'll have 'da rent by the end of the day, MAVIS.
MAVIS takes a drag off her cigarette without looking up from her newspaper.
MAVIS: Mmhm, I've heard that before, handsome.
JAKE: Oh, com'on, bueteeful, it's me ya' tawkin' 'bout 'ere.
EXT. NEW YORK STREET – DAY
JAKE gets in his car, takes out his phone, activates his Uber app, and gets to work.
MONTAGE: MARC as JAKE drives around NY, giving people rides and making money.
After the montage, JAKE decides to get some lunch, so he parks his car and heads for his favorite diner, The Other Place.
Along the way, he passes a homeless drunk – CRAWLEY - rambling about nonsense.
CRAWLEY (slurred): The hand – the amaranthine hand of Machiavellian manipulation was relieved of its body, my boy, but the surreptitious attendants of avaricious desire now stands vivified. Determined to prolong their copious consumption and consolidation of unscrupulous influence and predominance.
JAKE: … Did you eat a thesaurus today, old man?
CRAWLEY grabs JAKEs sleeve.
CRAWLEY (con't): A committee! A committee of calamitous intent. They mustn't be allowed to go on!
JAKE reaches into in pocket and takes out some money.
JAKE: Here ya' go buddy, that's a twenty.
As JAKE walks into the diner, CRAWLEY goes on.
CRAWLEY: Lunar knights, take up arms against our clandestine foe. You are our champion as much as the moon's.
INT. THE OTHER PLACE – MID-DAY
Inside, GINA LANDERS works the counter as her two sons – RICKY and RAY – work the tables.
GINA recognizes JAKE immediately.
GINA: How's it going LOCKLEY?
JAKE: Going fine, GINA. How're the kids?
GINA: I don't know, how are my kids?
RICKY/RAY: Fine/Good.
GINA: That's what I thought.
JAKE: Y'know you got a crazy guy outside?
GINA: That's CRAWLEY he's harmless. You want the usual, honey?
JAKE: Oh, ya' know me so well, GINA.
GINA: You come here often enough.
JAKE: Maybe it's a hint?
GINA: Maybe you're optimistic.
JAKE: Haha.
As JAKE is presented with his meal, a small bunch of burly white construction workers walk in.
The men all cram into a booth not-too-far-away from JAKE, and immediately start showing their true colors.
MAN #1: Hey, boy! Boy! Can we get some service 'round here?
RAY walks over.
RAY: Can I help you?
The men instantly take on a disapproving attitude.
MAN #1: Yeah, what're specials?
RAY: Well, our specials today include a chicken sandwich with—
MAN #2: Chicken? That makes sense, am I right boys?
The men find this hilarious.
RAY keeps his composure, while GINA and JAKE exchange glances and look to RICKY, who clearly doesn't like where this is going.
RAY: Will there be anything else?
MAN #1: Yeah, who's the manager or owner, whoever of this place?
RAY: That'd be her.
RAY points to GINA who smiles and waves.
The MAN huffs dismissively.
MAN #1: I'll have some coffee, black.
RAY: Great, for the rest of you? Undecided?
The men give the faintest of acknowledgement.
RAY: All right, I'll be right back with that black coffee.
MAN #1: I just wanted coffee.
RAY is stopped mid-stride by that comment, but just shakes it off and keeps walking.
The men sit at their table in silence.
MAN #3: Why don't we go to another diner?
MAN #2: I don't feel like letting them dictate where I can and can't eat.
MAN #1: She's the owner. She's the owner. This whole country's gone to shit.
MAN #2: You're tellin' me, this nation used to stand for sumtin', and if it were up to us, it still would!
As the men continue, JAKE (and the other people in the diner) just tries to ignore them. Their racist and sexist remarks get more despicable with each exchange between each other, while JAKE's patience steady withers, until he can't take anymore.
As JAKE stands up to say something, RICKY beats him to it.
RICKY: You got a problem with my mom, Old Man River?
The men look at RICKY with fierce eyes, but the boy remains undaunted.
MAN #1: We just don't think it's very proper.
RICKEY: What's "not proper"? A single mom trying to take care of her kids? Or that she own a business?
MAN #1 rises from his seat and looms over RICKY.
MAN #1: How 'bout you tell me who're daddy is, boy?
RICKY: Don't call me "boy"!
MAN #1: I know who my father is, do you?
GINA comes around the counter and to defuse the situation.
GINA: RICKY, that's enough. Sir, I think it'd best if you and your friends left.
MAN #1: You can't tell us what to do!
RICKY: WHY DON'T YOU TELL US WHY?
RAY walks up – coffee in hand – and tries to help as well.
RAY: Sir, as legal owner of this establishment, my mother has full right to refuse service to whomever she chooses.
In spiteful anger, the man smacks the coffee out of RAY's hands and onto the floor. The MAN's friends actually cheer him on. GINA has been pushed to the limit of politeness and points her finger in his face.
GINA: That's it! You need to leave!
The MAN grabs GINA's arm by the wrist and yanks it to the side.
RICKY: LET HER GO!
RICKY jumps the man and tries to free GINA.
JAKE then comes up from behind and tries to put the man into a hold.
JAKE: You heard 'im, let her go!
In the scuffle, the man's elbow connects on the bridge of JAKE's nose and breaks it.
JAKE doubles over in pain.
JAKE: Aah, ta' sonovabish' broge 'by nobes.
RAY sees an opening.
RAY: All right, you people need to leave or I'm calling the police.
MAN #2: Over what?
RAY points to JAKE.
RAY: Assaulting this man!
The MEN leave, rather accepting defeat than face an arrest for assaulting a white man.
RAY bundles up some napkins for JAKE's nose, as they watch the racists leave. RAY notices something odd with JAKE – he's hyperventilating.
RAY: JAKE? Are you all right?
JAKE stares at MAN #1 with a mix of panic and rage. Watching him, JAKE spots something behind the man across the street.
Through the windows of the diner, JAKE sees a white-clad figure (whose face we don't see) obscured in a strange haze, and JAKE hears the all-important question …
KONSHUE: DO YOU ACCEPT?
JAKE panics. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a wad of bills and shoves them into GINA's hands.
JAKE: Here.
GINA: Wha- JAKE? Where you going?
JAKE pushes open the door and runs out.
GINA: JAKE!
INT. HOSPITAL - DOCTOR'S ROOM
MARC blinks his eyes and looks around anxiously.
DOCTOR: -damage wasn't too serious, Mr. Grant. I'll prescribe you some painkillers, but just sleep with your head in ab elevated position and try not to blow your nose.
The doctor rips off the prescription and hands it to MARC.
DOCTOR (con't): It should heal up good as new.
MARC looks at the note suspiciously and rubs the bandage on his nose. After some hesitance, he takes the note.
MARC: Thanks, doctor.
INT. HOSPITAL HALL
Leaving the doctor's office, MARC takes out his phone and activates his facecam. Seeing for himself, he does have a bandage for a broken nose he doesn't remember getting. All of this causes MARC to bend over in pain from a sudden severe migraine.
INT. MARC'S APARTMENT – NIGHT
FRENCHIE and MARLENE sit with MARC in his living room.
FRENCHIE: The headaches are getting worse, aren't they?
MARC: … Yeah, and the blackouts are getting worse, too.
MARLENE: Have you been taking your pills?
MARC: Yes, I've been taking my pills, at the exact same time, everyday. They're not helping.
MARLENE turns to FRENCHIE.
MARLENE: Maybe he should see a new doctor, maybe—
MARC: That's your answer to everything, isn't it?
FRENCHIE: MARC, someone out there knows how to help you, you just need to be patient—
MARC: Well I have been patient, FRENCHIE! I've been patient, understanding, open-minded, reasonable, and what do I have to show for it? A bunch of antipsychotics that don't work!
MARLENE: MARC, another therapist might help.
MARC: I've seen about a dozen therapists already, MARLENE! First it was Bipolar Disorder, then it was BPD, then it was schizophrenia, then it was PTSD, then it was this or then it was that and then right back to bipolar and then everybody changes back again!
MARC gets out of his chair and leans against his living room window. MARLENE and FRENCHIE sit in silence, with the bitter taste of failure in their mouths.
FRENCHIE: MARC, mon amie, we want to help you.
MARC: Nobody can help me.
FRENCHIE: That's not true—
MARC (con't): I'm cursed.
MARLENE facepalms while FRENCHIE just shakes his head.
MARC (con't): It all could've been simpler, all I would've had to do was say "no".
MARLENE: MARC … he's not real.
MARC finally turns away from the window to argue with his friends face-to-face.
MARC: He is real, MARLENE! I could feel the life leaving me, and I given a choice, and I should've said "no".
FRENCHIE: He's an Egyptian fairy-tale, MARC! He's all in your head! KONSHUE isn't real!
MARC: He is real, and he's not going away! You guys don't get it, I'm not MARC SPECTOR anymore!
MARLENE: Is that why you have all the mirrors blacked out?
MARLENE gets off the sofa, walks over to one of the covered mirrors on the wall, rips off the sheet covering it, unhooks it off the wall, and charges towards MARC with the mirror in hand.
MARLENE holds the mirror in MARC's face.
MARLENE: Who are you? If you're not MARC SPECTOR, then who are you?!
FRENCHIE: MARLENE—
MARLENE: Who are you?!
MARC frantically avoids the mirror as if his life depends on it. The stress of the argument causes flashbacks to when he was lying in the Egyptian sand, bleeding to death. Like a guitar string coiled too tightly, MARC's hold on himself is pulled to its limit. Suddenly, the MAN IN WHITE appears in the background.
KONSHUE: DO YOU ACCEPT?
Snap.
MARLENE: Who are you?!
MARC: I DON'T KNOW!
MARC practically punches the mirror out of her hands, shattering the glass.
FRENCHIE: MARC, you're bleeding.
MARC looks at his hand with an almost alien indifference to his pain. Brushing MARLENE out of his way, MARC heads to the bathroom to get a roll of gauze.
Exiting the bathroom, MARC bandages his hand, pockets the roll, and grabs a jacket.
MARLENE: MARC, wait.
MARC: Leave me alone.
MARC's voice is detached and guttural.
MARLENE: MARC, I'm sorry—
MARC snaps at MARLENE with a veracity of a rabid dog.
MARC: LEAVE ME ALONE!
MARC slams the door behind him.
[END OF ACT 2]
[ACT 3]
INT. NEW YORK POLICE STATION - NIGHT
Officer RYAN TRENT stands in a descending elevator, watching the level numbers drop. In his hand, he holds a file-folder, with one of the pages sticking out the top: "transfer".
Exiting the elevator, he walks down a dimly light hallway to the office of DETECTIVE FLINT.
INT. FLINT'S OFFICE
Inside, TRENT finds DETECTIVE FLINT in what can only be described as Fox Mulder's closet: stacks of filefolders bound by rubberbands surround FLINT's desk, miscellaneous papers litter the floor, and corkboards pinned by cut-out newspapers and strings cover the walls.
The detective stands to great the young officer.
TRENT: Detective?
FLINT: Ah, you must be officer Trent.
TRENT: Yes, sir, I just got my transfer papers and I-
FLINT: Yeah, yeah, kid. Sit.
FLINT motions to the seat opposite his desk, which TRENT grudgingly uses as FLINT fishes something out of his desk.
TRENT: I'm not a dog.
FLINT: Good boy.
TRENT shifts angrily in his chair. FLINT opens a folder on his desk.
TRENT: Sir, could we pleas-
FLINT: "TRENT, RYAN. Detective - 1st precinct. Graduated 45th in the New York Police Academy. Two misdemeanor arrests. No major arrests" … Says here you were there during the 2012 Invasion.
TRENT: I was, sir.
FLINT: You were a beat-cop, right?
TRENT: That's correct.
FLINT: Did you see them?
TRENT: Sir?
FLINT: "Them" - The aliens; did you see any action?
TRENT: No, sir. Though, not many of us did, sir.
FLINT: No … we didn't, did we?
FLINT closes TRENT's file and flicks it away.
FLINT: Officer TRENT - (ahem) – a few years ago, the craziest thing in the world was a billionaire with a fancy suit. Then, a hole in the sky opened up and aliens started falling out of it. And, after that, we all just kinda hoped things would go back to normal, but it didn't, did it?
TRENT: No, sir.
FLINT: This is an undiscovered country again, TRENT, and there a lot of "here be dragons" signs being put up.
TRENT: Like the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?
FLINT: Yeah… Have you heard about me, TRENT? What do you know about me?
TRENT: I know we're not supposed to talk about you, sir.
FLINT: Hmph, yeah.
FLINT rummages through a few old stacks and pulls out a piece of crumpled paper.
FLINT: That is the first police report of the Devil's attacks.
TRENT: No shit.
FLINT: Back then; he just wore a black mask and t-shirt. And over here - somewhere – I got a report of a British guy who made someone give him his watch just by asking for it. And over there, I got a report of some guy who swings around Queens in a garish outfit.
TRENT: Why are you telling me this, sir?
FLINT: Because, even though people called me crazy, I decided to investigate these kinds of cases, and, sure enough, they were real. So, the boys and girls upstairs have decided to indulge me. TRENT …
FLINT gets up, walks to the other side of his desk and rests a leg on a corner next to TRENT.
FLINT: I want to put together a unit that investigates these kinds of cases, and I want you to be part of it, if you want.
TRENT looks at the Daredevil report.
FLINT (con't): This isn't going to be glamorous, and this probably won't go anywhere, but somebody's got ta do it. You feelin' up for this?
After a moment of consideration, TRENT agrees.
TRENT: I think I am, sir.
FLINT: Perfect.
FLINT taps the side of his open hand on TRENTs shoulder as a mock knighting.
FLINT: Congrats, officer TRENT, welcome to the Freak-Bait Unit.
EXT. NEW YORK ALLEYWAY – NIGHT
MARK is hyperventilating as he doubles over in the grip of a splitting migraine, worse than anything he's had before. Adding to this, he begins to have flashbacks to his time in Egypt and the voice of KONSHUE continues to harass him.
KONSHUE: DO YOU ACCEPT?
KONSHUE's words are like thunder, which causes his migraine and his flashbacks to get even worse, and he actually vomits from the pain.
INT. THE OTHER PLACE - NIGHT
GINA and her kids in the process of closing up The Other Place for the night, when RICKY spots something across the street – a man in a ski mask.
RICKY brings this to the attention of his mother and brother who are just as shocked as he is.
The family lock eyes with the masked man who is staring at them. It couldn't be more obvious that he staring at them.
RAY leans over to his mother.
RAY: Mom, get out your phone and dial 9-1, and if things start going wrong, dial 1 again.
RAY step outside, with RICKY behind him.
RAY: Sir? I'm afraid that we're closed for the night.
RICKY: That means take a hike, buddy!
The man does nothing.
Other men, who are also wearing ski mask, then join him and start marching towards the restaurant.
GINA jumps over the counter, drags her sons inside, locks the door, and starts waving her phone around.
GINA: I just called the cops! Get out of here!
The leader take out an alcohol bottle with a rag stuffed inside it, and one of his friends' lights it with a lighter.
GINA takes her kids and orders them to run.
GINA: The back-door; get the back-door, right now!
The man throws the Molotov cocktail through the window and it explodes.
Over the roar of the flame, the men hoot and holler, as the start smashing windows to feed the fire.
LEADER: GO BACK TO AFRICA!
EXT. NY ALLEYWAY
MARK exits the alley and he sees several masked men committing arson.
MARK was in the alleyway next to The Other Place.
Hearing the screams of terror inside and the evil laughter of the men causes a sudden change in MARK.
He begins to clench his wounded fist so tightly that it draws blood.
Suddenly, all the sound in the world vanishes, and only one question manages to cut through the silence:
KONSHUE: DO YOU ACCEPT?
It begins.
MARK reaches into his pocket and takes out the roll of bandages and begins wrapping it around his face, as pure fury boils behind his eyes.
The men collect themselves and prepare to run, only to be stopped by a punch to the face no one say coming.
The punched man falls to the ground instantly, TKO'd.
MARK – in a posture we've never seen before - stands over him and faces the men, and speaks to them in a voice like a hacksaw cutting through bone.
"MARK": The weed of crime bears bitter fruit.
With a look that could kill, he stares down the men, and the fight begins.
Cutting between the fight, we finally see the full flashback and what happened in that Egyptian tomb.
Every savage blow unlocks a new bit.
Years ago, MARK SPECTOR dies at the feet of an Egyptian statue of KONSHUE, only he doesn't see a white light at the end of a tunnel. Instead, MARK finds himself in a black void, with only a small spotlight above him.
FLASHBACK!MARK: Where am I? Am I dead?
He gets an answer.
KONSHUE: YOU STAND ON THE PRECIPICE OF DEATH, ONE FOOT IN BOTH WORLDS. THE TIME DRAWS NEAR, INTERLOPER, CHOOSE OR PERISH.
FB!MARK: "Choose"?
KONSHUE: I HAVE SEEN THE CORRUPTION OF THIS WORLD, EVIL'S WEED ENTWINES AND CHOKES THE LIFE OUT OF EVEN THE MOST PROSPEROUS GARDEN. THERE MUST BE A CHAMPION, A WATCHER OF THE NIGHT TRAVELERS. FOR THIS TASK, I HAVE CHOSEN YOU.
FB!MARK: Me?
KONSHUE: I CAN SAVE YOU, MARK SPECTOR, BUT IN RETURN, YOU MUST BE MY AVATAR; YOUR NEXT LIFE WILL BE IN SERVICE TO MY WILL, AND WHEN THE MOON IS AT IT'S FULLEST, NO ARMY IN THIS WORLD COULD STOP YOU . . . DO YOU ACCEPT?
Back to the present, MARK has finished savagely beating in the face of the last of the men. Their masks are off, revealing them to be the racists from before.
GINA and her kids have managed to escape the fire and see all the men MARK has beaten into unconsciousness.
MARK collapses from exhaustion and rips off his bandage-mask.
The family runs to help him and is shocked to find JAKE covered in other people's blood.
GINA: Oh my God, is that JAKE?
RAY leans over him and tries to wake him up.
RAY: JAKE, are you okay? Come on, say something.
Meanwhile, a MAN IN WHITE stand over MARK – it's KONSHUE, and we finally see his face … he has a giant fucking bird skull for a head. He asks his question one more time, and we finally hear MARK's answer:
KONSHUE: DO YOU ACCEPT?
MARK: . . . Yes.
CUT TO BLACK
[End of Act 3]
[End of episode]