Silhouettes in Light
By Cobra Commander
Author's Note: Moon Knight is the creation of Marvel Comics. In the early eighties, he was released and succeeded with a stretch of over 100 issues in two volumes of Moon Knight. Moon Knight is the mercenary Marc Spector, who disbanded from the commando group led by the terrorist Bushman. Before resigning, Spector was the right-hand man of Bushman. When differences came between the two, Bushman beat Spector to near death and left him in the tomb of Seti. There, the moon god Khonshu resurrected him to be the knight of the moon, and to protect the innocent. Spector then retained two other identities: millionaire Steven Grant and cab driver Jake Lockley.
Chapter One: Altered From Candor
"At dawn, in the Sudan, the memory of the night's merciless cold lingers in the bones while the day's withering heat has already begun to sear the flesh…"
Two feet were up on a desk. In the hand was a cigar; the other, a remote. It controlled various monitors that surveyed the estate. It was a vast one, the estate, one that had been taken by force rather than inheritance. Now the entire system and company were dominated by the erroneous owner. He was a man of the past, of Marc Spector's past. He lowered the remote to the table and reached to unbuckle the holster on his belt. Out he twirled a colt 45. It spun on his finger before he stopped the motion with his thumb and gave a grin. The light that was dim suddenly became apparent and reflected the metal within his jaw.
The two guards at his office door were holding a weaker man, one that had been beaten within an inch of his life. The man could only look down as blood spew from his brow. The guards gave the man a good shake, and his head slowly looked up at the gun-toting mercenary.
The mercenary closed his mouth, gave a quick frown and returned his revolver to its holster. The military boots retracted from the desk and reached the floor. He stood, taking a last puff of the cigar before reaching for the ash tray. Before putting it out, however, he looked at the weak man, and once again his face produced a grin. He walked to the weak man, put his finger under his chin, and looked him straight in the eye. Their eyes met, and then one became totally blackened and swirled with pain.
The now defused cigar lay on the floor. The two guards turned their heads away. Never before had something so gruesome been laid to them. The mercenary took hold of the weak man's arms and lifted him to his feet. The guards let go and stood at ease. Once again their eyes met, only now there were three instead of four.
"Bushman, I had the money… the police caught me, though. It wasn't my fault." Bushman, the ruthless mercenary, licked his lips. "Please, Bushman."
Bushman shook his head, no.
The weak man's eye became filled with tears of fright as Bushman grabbed his hair and pulled his neck back. Bushman licked his lips and sunk his jaws into the pulsing flesh. Following that was the sound of a rip, followed by another rip. However, there was no screaming.
Bushman led the two guards to where the body would be dumped. He had assumed beforehand that Lasuras would fail him, and lo! he was right. As the guards dragged the corpse through the courtyard, several other guards who were unaware of the situation stopped or strewed from their posts and routes to see the sight. Bushman came to a slow stop and glared at his employees who were not doing his bidding. He unbuckled his holster and shown his teeth. The guards quickly backed away to save their questions for later.
The pace started again, and they exited the courtyard and passed through the garden. It was late at night, and the stars were glistening, something that had become a rare shot in New York City over the past few months.
The moon was out in full. This made Bushman frown. He distracted himself by looking at the flowers that had just been planted. They were white tiger lilies. Bushman tried to create a smile, but the moonlight bounced a reflection of jet silver, the color on the attire his arch-nemesis wore. The heads of the flowers turned to heads of apparitions. They all appeared as Moon Knight, and the images started to flow through Bushman's head.
His tempo grew slower, and the guards tried to catch a glimpse over his shoulder to see what the matter was. Bushman rubbed his face and increased the rate of movement. His eyes set straight. Moon Knight was not out in force. He was not out to get Bushman.
At the end of the garden, which was enclosed by a cement wall, a large, four by seven hole appeared in the ground. It was at least six feet deep. Bushman turned and waved his hand towards the abyss. The guards gave one final tug before plunging the body inwards. Two more guards arrived with shovels.
All four began the process of covering the body. Bushman barked one last order, to burn their clothes when they were done. Bushman would have to do the same thing. He wiped his lip with his fingertips. The blood was still fresh. He licked it off as if it were sugar, and wiped his saliva on his pants.
As he made his final pass through the garden, one last guard passed him toting a bag of soil and seeds for white tiger lilies. This was not the first time Bushman had ordered this operation.
The rows of white tiger lilies already imprinted in the ground screamed silently, and even though it should have eaten Bushman to his inner core, it could not even scratch the crust. The stone hub that lay in his chest throbbed with a beat of anger, jealousy, fear, joy, assertiveness, and insanity. Only one other thing had entered his heart, but it had exited almost as fast as it had appeared.
Before entering the courtyard again, Bushman stopped at the very first few rows of tiger lilies that danced in the light of the moon. There was no plaque or grave, but Bushman knew very well who lay under the debris, and Lord was he proud of his victim. Beneath the dust, who lay in dust, who died in dust, was the previous owner of the estate, and the company, for that matter.
"Mr. Haerst, I thank you once again. Without you, I wouldn't have had so much room to dump the bodies!" Bushman let out a sinister laugh. "Bushman Estate as well as Straatman-Haerst Vaccines is the best investment I have ever made in my entire life! Forget my days in Egypt. My era of being a mercenary has finished!"
He passed through the courtyard and retreated to his desk. The boots rose to the desk, and a cigar became a head of fire. A few puffs and Bushman took hold of the remote again.
GRANT RESIDENCE
The library was unbelievably vast. The Grant manor was not as luxurious as Bushman's, but it fit Spector as it needed. Despite the massive amount of literature that surrounded him, Spector chose to read the newspaper.
Once again, in the back pages, the terrorist-for-hire now gone legitimate known as Bushman made minor headlines. His estate was making millions, so much it was ridiculous. The simple golf course that he added could not be raking in the cash that he was. Of course, no one dared question the money's origin.
The police also could never arrest Bushman. With his recent contributions to several charities and his extremely powerful and influential lawyers prevented them. Everyone and his mother knew that corruption lay within the chambers of the evil estate, but there was little done.
Even Marc Spector, the macabre Moon Knight, the servant of the Egyptian god Khonshu, was powerless. An attempt to break in and expose corruption last month failed miserably, nearly landing Marc in jail. It also came close to revealing his identity.
Marc tossed the paper aside with much concern. Bushman was untouchable. The whole organization was untouchable. Marc knew that the key was to find Haerst and confront Bushman with his crimes. The only problem with that was Haerst was buried in Bushman's yard, something Spector was not aware of.
Spector rubbed his forehead as he sunk into his recliner. He gave the paper one last look and saw a column with a title that sparked his interest. He got up and retrieved the article.
Apparently, scientists and archaeologists working on a dig in Egypt unveiled a series of mummies that were in the tomb of Pharaoh Seti. They were aligned with the statue of Khonshu, the moon god. All had inscriptions towards the bottom of each chest. The strange part was that the writing was in Greek instead of Egyptian hieroglyphics. There were six caskets in all, and the Greek writing was the name of each servant.
The archaeologists had opened each casket, and all but one contained a mummy. Once translated, the name on the empty sarcophagus read "Marcus Spector."
Marc's eyes lighted with bewilderment. The Moon Knights of the past! There was one from every major era in history.
The moon shone through the giant window. He looked up and saw that it was full. Without thinking, he dropped the paper on the floor once more and arose. He stalked to the window, gazing at the moon's beauty. It was calling him, beckoning him… It was time for him to return to his work, his craft of good.
Within seconds, his uniform was assembled. His weapons were all arrayed to his liking, his hood guarding his face. He was no longer Marc Spector. No longer Steve Grant. No longer Jake Lockley. He was the macabre Moon Knight…
Soon he was flying through the sky with Frenchie weaving in and out of the skyscrapers of New York. Moon Knight descended from the craft and onto the streets. He was in the projects. Local drug lords and notorious thugs were out in force. Breaking the law, causing mischief, the usual deal. He hid in the shadows, where the moon's radiant light did not intrude. As several punks and gangsters were gathered around a lamp post making some sort of cocaine deal, Moon Knight struck.
He flew in, foot first into a thug's face. He launched his truncheon, knocking two hoodlums to the ground, banging their heads against the cement. As several crooks revealed switchblades, Moon Knight smirked under his mask. He flipped over, his hands on the ground and spun his legs towards the criminals. The switchblades flew to the ground as did the punks. Soon, only one remained standing.
As the others tried to scuttle away, the last gangster opened his vest and pulled out a handgun. Before the gangster could even blink, Moon Knight struck with a fist to the face. The powers of the moon enabled Moon Knight to act stronger than usual. Tonight he could take on Bushman, if only he had the chance.
The mobster pulled himself to the lamp post and tried to scoop up the drugs. Moon Knight walked over and kicked them away gently.
"You don't need those, son. You need a rehab center," Moon Knight said, disgusted.
The gangster sputtered some words, but it was not clear what he said. He wiped his face clean of the blood and took deep breaths.
"What did you say?"
"I said they ain't for me!" the gangster retorted. "They for Bushman."
Moon Knight became terribly interested. He motioned for the gangster to go on. The man did not want to, but a glimpse of a scarab dart changed his mind.
"I don't even know what that crap is. Bushman sent us for it. It's for his friend or something. I don't know. Don't look at me, man, I just work for him!"
Moon Knight picked up the bag of what looked like cocaine and turned from the punk. The man got up and scurried away. Spector looked at the bag. Bushman's friend? This was all too odd. He would have to take it home and have it examined. The rest of the hoodlums in the projects could wait for now. This had the potential to get into the Bushman establishment.
The jet silver craft soared through the air. Moon Knight looked up as it passed over the moon. A cloud started to settle over it. Things were changing in New York, and the mercenary with a skull-painted face was getting comfortable. The days of the desert had died, and the time of the knight had come.
REFERENCES:
"Forget my days… mercenary has finished!": Refer to Moon Knight #1