Plot:
Marc Spector has no idea how troubled he truly is...and will be.
Three times cursed: prisoner of his mind, prisoner of the will and deceits of a vengeful god and prisoner of a love he cannot fully bask on. Loving Layla El-Faouly had been the hardest and most wonderful thing Spector has ever faced in life.
After his deal for freedom, he once more relishes the joy of his marriage to Layla, as his coexistence with Steven Grant becomes harmonic.
His former servitude as the avatar of Khonshu, the Egyptian God of the moon, does not come at a small price. Little does Marc Spector know his newfound happiness shall be soon shattered, as Khonshu has plans to reunite the three of them.
This written work contains several references from the comics and takes a lot of inspiration of them. This fic looks to "adapt" a few Moon Knight stories from my own personal selection.
Word count: 2.654
Sorry for any typos, since my first language is not English (Chilean spanish for the win lol)
Warnings: 18, NSFW, pre, during and (mostly) post Moon Knight, flashbacks, blood and violent content ahead, supernatural themes, very sensitive issues, strong sexual themes, light BDSM, mild voyeurism, Dom/sub undertones, male insecurities, heterosexual sex, very, very explicit sex scenes (later chapters), dirty talk, DID, existential/identity crisis.
I.The man under the moon (Marc)
Dessert serves as the anteroom of hell. A silent martyr is about to be formed. Injured and hardly able to walk, Marc Spector leads his steps towards an ancient temple. Death is a breath away from claiming his existence.
Moonlight enters the sacred place, enlightenment gives it a special aura. Marc can feel a cold, deadly shiver crawling up his spine. Like a dying animal, Marc crawls slowly.
All those people murdered. Because of greed and his own incompetence. The faces of the executed devastate his mind, contributing to his final emotional disintegration. Blood stained and disgusted at himself, Marc is willing to pay for his sin. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather enough willpower to pull the trigger. Peace was one bullet away. Until a deep, otherworldly voice echoed through the temple.
"What a waste."
He froze, loosening his grip on the gun.
"Huh?" Was all he could articulate, terrified, instinctively eyeing towards the direction.
The horrid, ominous voice pronounced itself again.
"I feel the pain inside of you."
Confused, Marc frowns. He wouldn't let fate mock his misery.
"What the hell are you?" he demanded, surprised at his courage to demand an answer.
Marc couldn't avert his eyes from the gargantuan, anthropomorphic statue holding a staff, with petrous solemnity. The moonlight rays added a bluish hue, contrasting with the darkened zones.
"I am the god Khonshu… in search of a warrior," he finally replied.
A loud scoff emerged from his mouth.
"A warrior" Marc at least found it funny, "Well, good luck with that."
The voice didn't stop there. Whoever it is, it now proposes an offering, despite Spector's shameless derision.
It was the quest for a champion, a warrior to become its hands, eyes and vengeance. Marc kept his eyes shut, unable to ignore what that mysterious being was saying, as if it was the devil itself talking him out of his suicidal intentions. Protect the innocent, who he called 'night travellers' at all costs by punishing ruthlessly those who meant them harm. Only the undeserving ones.
"Do you want death or do you want life?"
The mercenary seemed to forget he was a breath away from being a corpse. What was so elegantly spoken was nothing but a devil's deal.
"I don't know," he mumbled, cast down.
"Your mind, I feel it. Fractured. Broken. Most fascinating. You are a worthy candidate to serve me during this time," the voice suddenly pronounced about his tormented psyche.
The moonlight undoing the darkness suddenly nests the idea of redemption. Even if that meant abandoning his humanity. Reducing himself to a tool to pour the blood of all of those deemed unworthy.
With an ominous voice, an oath echoed. Marc Spector would arise as the powerful last word against those who commit evil deeds. A benign monstrosity to diminish mankind's suffering through his own ordeal.
Or maybe it was just a way for him to keep being what he had always been. A killer.
"Yes," Marc Spector swore, with an honourable last breath as an atonement for everyone he had wronged.
A sudden shiver ran through his being, sensing the painful rebirth renewing his strength. A glowing whitish hue took over his dark irises, arms open to embrace this new identity as a vessel of justice. Soon, he was fully enrobed with an imposing, fearful armor that granted him immortality.
From then, oblivion would be a rare joy, constantly wishing to fail and so, meeting the natural end that should have never been altered. There was no life in him, just a deeply disturbed individual, an artist of survival.
The healing ended up being a curse.
Blood.
Red, extended stains replaced mostly the light hue of sand. His eyes widened at the looted small village, looking for the answers in the several corpses surrounding him. Those were the first things to be shocking enough to bring him back into the moment. Wails and screams go unheard while regaining control of himself but it was always those crimson droplets, like wounds on the silvery armour that reminded him of the merciless slaughter.
"What the hell happened?" his voice could only articulate. Despite his (new) majestic and gallant appearance, he still felt vulnerable before that hated uncertainty. He gasped, seeing golden, sharp moons over dozens of men, piercing eyes, ripping throats. A crimson festival of guts, and horrified expressions in their faces. He saw himself in a broken mirror from another, unfortunate victim, laying dead with a couple of scarlet holes in the chest.
All of them saw two glowing, white eyes before meeting a gruesome end at his hands.
"Behold your deed, my Moon Knight. Those widows live because you have accomplished your task as a vessel for my will," Marc heard that voice again.
Scared, he looked up. His heart beats with the fury of a war drum. There was satisfaction in his voice. His eyes, glowing with a beautiful white, crescent moon are now dark as an abyss. Hood and mask also fade.
A whitish silhouette appeared as he looked back. He quickly turned around just to look up to the sky, a full moon embellished the celestial vault that so many horrors had he seen.
Marc suddenly realizes his hands are filled with blood and chunks of meat. One still holds the clothed neck of the unlucky man, from whose smashed skull still drips gory lumps of flesh. He gasps in disgust at himself.
The gurgling sounds and overflowing blood from the mouth of his victim soon end. If Marc hadn't looked back at him, he wouldn't have noticed it. Guilt nests in his heart.
Did he really rip off all those lives in such a horrific way?
This deity stares at his work from above, the height accentuating his grim appearance.
"Every single one of them deserved it, Marc. Remember it", Khonshu descended from the tall columns, almost comforting the consciousness of his avatar. He brought a waning moon staff even taller than him.
It was that horrifying hybrid with a human body and a giant, vulture skull for a head.
A moon-shaped staff in his hand, bony and wrapped in worn out bandages finally confirm that this wasn't a dream. Khonshu did not give life back to Marc Spector.
He just had turned him into an walking, murderous sarcophagus.
Violence, insanity and death had always been the bane of his existence. The cold flavour of whiskey helps to cope with the horrified expressions of those slaughtered in the village. Even cheerful sounds coming from outside the Egyptian bar reminded his nightmares, imagining the distorted faces howling in horror.
Another sip distracts him. He preferred a cold drink, combating the suffocating heat in the Middle East. Whenever he's not fighting, his thoughts dwell with murky truths.
Being the living tool of a vengeful god had its tolls on the little sanity he had left. Sleepless nights saturated his brain with the weight that meant to be not only Khonshu's mortal last word against evildoers, but also posing as his High Priest on Earth. He ruffled his hair, trying to enjoy the fucking drink.
He had the opportunity to catch a sight of himself in a mirror that night, as he could remember from his nightmares. Marc Spector, togged in a ceremonial armour, designed to inspire terror by contrasting with the darkness of the night. A spectre that didn't hide. A spectre that knew beforehand that, no matter how much of a good target he was, they would never stand a chance against him, for none of them would hit the moon.
It spoke thousands of words about the baleful nature of that entity he now served.
His private and quiet suffering seems irrupted by a local hubbub. Marc turns his head toward the noisy multitude. It was outside, in the market place. Maybe just another altercation between merchants, and back to sipping more of the whiskey.
He left a few bucks on the table and left. The hot weather burned his skin, obliging him to look for shelter. Shadows offer freshness, to keep diving in his personal hell.
Nightfall darkens the sky. Marc doesn't see the moon, he just sees the eye of Khonshu watching over his life.
Suddenly, the beaked, mummified creature croaked from the shadowed corner of the room. Marc almost threw his drink over the table.
"Do you have to appear like this every time we talk?" He hissed.
"Evil doesn't rest, Marc. You made a deal with me to protect night travelers in exchange for your life"
"I know what I did. It's not easy to deal with all the those people killed."
"I will repeat it only once, Marc Spector. Those fallen under your hand deserved to die."
Marc closed his eyes, trying to wash away all those horrified faces.
"Cease this pointless guilt. It will only make your task more difficult"
"What do you propose?" Marc asked.
"Look at the looted tombs. Innocent blood claims for justice. Do what you must, Moon Knight" and with these words, the deity disappeared into the night.
Soon, Marc Spector summoned the ceremonial armour, flying over the Egyptian sky to find himself near the place that changed everything in his life. There was a convoy of four jeeps, all of them driven by Arabic speaking people. A cold shiver froze his spine when he recognized that familiar voice.
"Look at this. Look at all this fucking shit," an angry complain was all he could get clear from the murmur.
Marc peeped out of the dune, seeing Bushman carrying a rifle on his shoulders while smoking a cigar. He was walking around a small bonfire, apparently speaking with a few men near him.
"If it wasn't for that fucking insurgent, I wouldn't be in these newspapers!" Bushman screamed fiercely, "now all of Egypt knows I'm riding tombs, and all because one man decided to play noble at the last moment!"
The vigilante gritted his teeth.
'Killing the witnesses wasn't part of the plan, you piece of shit' Marc wished to reply.
"Spector was never the guy with a conscience. Why did he suddenly care for one life when he murdered dozens?" He sat, placing the weapon at his left, "he was this close to becoming rich and he chose to turn against me at the last minute. Too bad nobility doesn't save you from a bullet"
One of his companions started speaking in Arabic, but Marc understood perfectly.
"One of the victims…"
"What?" Bushman growled, irritated.
"Abdallah El-Faouly"
The soldiers turned to each other, seemingly agreeing with the familiarity of the aforementioned man. They kept speaking in Arabic, constantly repeating a name related to the deceased man. Marc's face starts to contort in horror, deducing what is going to happen.
"What's with that woman?" One asked.
"It's his daughter," another replied, "I've heard she used to work with Abdallah during his expeditions in tombs. She's known to cause troubles in the black market recovering stolen relics"
Bushman remains thoughtful, rolling the cigar between his fingers.
"Do you know more about her?"
Marc didn't breathe to hear it.
"Her name is Layla El-Faouly. Look in the center of Cairo, merchants will offer valuable information for a good price" the first man added.
Bushman smoked a long drag of his cigar, to then toss it seconds later. He chuckled, and Marc knew too well what it meant.
"Find her and kill her," he dryly ordered, "I don't want any loose ends"
Before the men could retire to rest, Marc Spector soon flew back to the residence he inhabited. Regret starts consuming him, despite his efforts to put his thoughts in order.
It was the daughter of the man he tried to save. Oh, fate had its ways to atone people's sins. During all night his mind spent thinking on everything he could do to avoid her death. Marc couldn't let Bushman claim another victim. Dawn arrives and with the first lights filtering through waving curtains. Determination gives him strength, and at a steady pace, he walks out of the room to fulfill his mission.
The marketplace was overcrowded, which made it easier for him to sneak out, looking for any suspicious activity in the locals. Masking himself with typical clothes, Marc pays attention to every move, every whisper, every gesture.
Suddenly, he recognised one of the men in Bushman's convoy. Marc got up when he saw him calling a merchant, with a picture in hand and a bag of money in the other one. Luckily for him, they went to another room to discuss El-Faouly's daughter's whereabouts. Ear stuck against the wall, he hears the conversation in Arabic:
"People have seen her in the tombs, looking for answers for what happened in that raid," the man pointed out to the pyramids, visible thanks to the window at their left.
"Is she married? Children? Any other relatives?" The other one asked.
"No. She's Abdallah's only daughter. An archeologist. People around here won't be angry if she disappears. Maybe they will thank you for taking the matter in your hands," and then, immediately, Bushman's affiliate paid the man, who leaned his head as a sign of respect.
Marc hid in the wall separating the bathrooms and halls. Just five armed men, moving through the city in a jeep. He had to be quick, not getting attention, at his most silent.
Bushman's associate didn't reach the door once Marc shot him in the back. He didn't care about the sharp swearing, placing the knife in his throat. He warns him about a quick death if he shares vital information.
"Tell me more about El-Faouly's daughter," Marc hissed, twisting the knife over the left side of his neck. But he did not get any answer related to Layla, which only increased his anger.
"I saw you– you're– you're dead!" He screamed, terrified, "you died in the desert! How is it possible?"
"There are a lot of things you won't understand. Tell me about her!"
"It can't be–"
"Speak!" Spector spits, impatient. Things got more difficult when the man, convinced he was seeing a ghost, began to scream for help. Spector beats his ribs, breaking them with heavy, bloody fists. The man tried to call for help, but only muffled sounds came out of his mouth.
"Speak or I swear I'll leave you in the desert! Now tell me if that man said something about her location," Marc growled, carving a painful wound, causing the information to flow.
"People have seen her sneaking into tombs… Bushman– called to ambush her in an Egyptian tomb once we knew her whereabouts– Shoot to kill, at all costs… Her situation helps to go undercover"
"Son of a bitch," Marc hissed, his blood boiling. The man stared at him, puzzled.
"Why do you suddenly care so much for a woman now? You didn't hesitate to kill dozens of people back in Sudan, Jordania–"
"Shut up! Shut up!" Marc hissed, covering his mouth.
"You won't atone your sins by saving her, Spector… you're just an insane, murderous bastard, as Bushman said"
Marc gritted his teeth, slitting his throat. A puddle of blood formed on the floor while taking off his weapons. While looking for more ammo, he found a flat object that turned out to be a picture. Marc takes the photo to have a closer look.
There was this lovely woman, dark skin, curly hair cascading down her shoulders, a sweet smile curving her pink, glossy lips. Marc felt he had been hypnotized. He slides his fingers down the picture, in an instinct to touch her. There was a dedication, written in Arabic, at the reverse.
"My little scarab,
August 13th 2016"
Marc thought in the possibility it had been looted in the raid, alongside other belongings. He kept the photo to recognise her, wishing it wasn't too late.