Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You didn't wait long enough. 

Marc stirred the tea with a spoon. He had waited five minutes before pulling the tea bag out of the mug, just like Steven told him to. He glanced at the tea bag now resting on the counter near the sink; he didn't think he could put it back in. 

'The water looks dark enough.'

It needed to rest a minute or so more. Why didn't you time it? 

He didn't like when Steven's voice took this lecturing tone. Taking out a tea bag too early wasn't such a bad thing.

'Do you always time your tea to the right exact second?' He asked.

If you wanna know, yes, I do. Now just - get some milk.

Marc did as told but didn't shy away from showing his irritation. He was used to being told what to do -  just not by the guy inside his head, with that British accent that could sometimes sound so annoying.

'Do you want me to pour it into a measuring cup first?' He couldn't resist but snark.

Marc. Steven sounded exasperated. It shouldn't be that difficult.  

'I don't drink tea. I'm doing that for you, by the way.' 

I do appreciate it. I'm still just - there's some adjustments to our new life left to do.

'Yeah, there are.' He nodded. That was an understatement. 

They had stayed 'awake' at the same time for almost every moment since they...came back to life. There was no other way to put it. That was what had happened. Marc still had a hard time making sense of everything that had happened in the Duat, so he pushed the intrusive thoughts away. 

Both of them being at the wheel at the same time had felt amazing, exhilarating, and so rewarding for Steven, he knew. Their switching back and forth, handing the torch over and over to each other during their fight against Ammit and Harrow had felt almost natural, like the flow of a river. However, returning to the reality of day-to-day life had been quite the opposite. 

Marc was grateful for Steven's presence alongside him, but mixing up their oh-so-different lives together, their different habits and routines, their different priorities, and the different ways they reacted to them wasn't easy. 

They had barely come out of Steven's apartment since they’d come back to London. They only went to Marc's locker a couple of times to move some of his stuff into the apartment. And after that, there had only been the odd trips to the grocery for food and Marc's regular runs. 

Marc needed those runs. 

He needed them because of everything that had happened in the past few weeks. Because their situation was still so new to them, and because Layla was still not back from Egypt. He needed them because he didn't know what to do next, and because all of this scared him. 

What would it be like, once they needed to get out of Steven's place more regularly? Once Layla was back in London? 

He put the hot mug down on the closest table, took the books resting on the seat and stacked them on the already pretty high pile at the far end of that small table. He had tried to clean this place up as much as he could, but it was still filled with books everywhere. Most of them he had no idea if he'd seen before in his life. Did Steven read all of them? Marc wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. He hadn't read a book since...he didn't even remember when was the last time he'd read a book. He felt a pinch in his chest. Layla would've gotten along so much more with Steven. And he wouldn't have left her like that, alone, with no explanations. 

Marc scrubbed his hands over his face, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Being permanently together meant that he couldn't pass the torch to Steven anymore. He had to be there, present, all the time. If he decided to 'hide' and leave Steven alone, maybe Steven would worry, and he didn't want to get into this, didn't want to worry him. 

He dragged a chair near the table and sat on it. He relaxed, and let Steven take control to drink his tea.

'We'll get the hang of things eventually,' Steven, now in control, said aloud.

Yeah, eventually. ..Marc thought. 

Steven was so optimistic, and he'd become more so since they came back from Egypt, if that was even possible. The only thing Marc could do was listen to him and keep his skepticism to himself. 

Marc observed Steven take the cup slowly between his hands and blow on its surface, making small ripples on the tea.  

They still had a lot to talk about, but on most days, Marc couldn't bring himself to broach those subjects. He didn't want to jinx it and disturb whatever was between him and Steven. Break this harmony - peace? Something like that. And he didn't want to be responsible for upsetting Steven again. He could remember how Steven had looked at him before, the things he'd said–

'You okay, Marc?' 

The face looking back at him from the window's reflection was frowning in concern, in a way Marc had never seen himself do. It was too soft. Too… empathetic. It made him uncomfortable. 

Marc mentally shoved his thoughts away again, Yeah I'm fine. Why'd you ask?

'I felt - like a -- it's still so strange innit? I'm still not used to feeling you there. You responding to me in our head, that's fine, but this—' 

Steven didn't finish his thoughts, taking a careful sip of his drink instead.

Yeah , was Marc's only response. 

He knew what Steven was trying to say, or at least he thought he did. They felt each other's presence more when they were both 'awake' like this. How often Marc had been barely on the surface, listening, watching him, throughout their lives. That was one of those things Marc hadn't told Steven yet but probably should. There was still so much Marc didn't know himself. How much could Steven sense like this? Was he able to feel Marc’s emotions? Or just a trace, like he himself did. 

Steven's voice echoed again in the quiet room, taking Marc out of his thoughts.

'It's good that we're having this time, outside of all that crazy stuff that happened, outside of...Layla,' Steven continued.

You're aware that it looks like you're talking to yourself right?

'And you're aware that there's nobody else but us in this flat? Who's gonna hear me talk to you? Or see me like this?'

Still, we shouldn't make a habit of this. We can't be doing that in public . 

'I've always been seen as odd before we started talking anyway. It wouldn't change much.'

Steven.

'I'm not saying I'll start talking out loud in public, chill out mate.'

You better . Marc wasn't really worried. He hoped Steven could sense the tease in his voice. 

Steven took another sip of his tea, then came back to a subject Marc had hoped he'd drop. 'What are you going to do when she comes back?' 

*If* she comes back , Marc replied.

'Why wouldn't she? She lives in London too, don’t she?'

Yeah I meant...I'm not betting on her contacting us again. She'll probably realize that I’m not of much use after defeating Ammit and getting rid of Khonshu. Marc bitterly remembered her words from a few days ago—it was so recent yet so far away at the same time.

'You're wrong,' Steven calmly said in between two sips of tea.

Silence stretched between them as they observed each other through the reflection. Steven took his time drinking his tea before continuing, 'I was there. I listened too y’know. She was mad, rightfully so, I might add, but she still cares about you.' 

Doesn't mean it's not better for her to be without me.

Steven's frown changed into something else, something even more unbearable for Marc to see on their face. Marc's gaze fixated on something else, avoiding that look. 

If - if you want to talk to her again, I wouldn't stop you , Marc said, resigned.

'So I'd talk to her while you, what? Stay aside? We're together now, I don't think it'd work.' 

We don't always have to be 'awake' together.

'So you'd let me interact with her all by myself? Do you think she'd want that?'

She likes you better than me at the moment. And you won't give her as much grief as I did.

'Marc, have you listened to a word I said earlier? She never wanted you to disappear from her life.' 

But I did.

'And you want to keep it that way?' 

Another silence stretched between them before Marc could answer.

No.

'Then why you telling me all this? If I ever get to see her again, you'll be there too. And she'll be happy to see you.'

What makes you think she's forgiven me? For everything?

'She doesn't need to forgive you for everything, but that don’t mean that she...that she wants a divorce. Let me point out that neither of you signed that paper.'

Steven stirred his tea, probably waiting for a reply from him. That reply wasn't coming. Marc didn't know what to say. He hadn't looked back at their reflection, still too afraid to see Steven's expression. He couldn't. Why did they need to talk about her? 

'Why don't you call her?' Steven kept going, 'So you'd be clear on it before she comes back.' His voice was way too cheerful behind that concern. 

And tell her what?

'I think you'd have a lot to talk about, so why not start by saying you miss her?'

No response.

'If you won't call her, then I will. You said I could, right?' Steven said.

You don't need my permission to talk to her. But why would you—you'll just try to make me talk to her, won't you?

'Yes, you saw through my brilliant plan.'

Marc couldn't help but grin internally at Steven's quip. He finally returned his gaze to the mirror to see Steven grinning back.

Marc was still not confident this was going to go well, however. 

I need—I need more time, he said.

Steven raised one eyebrow in the window’s reflection. 

I don't know what I could possibly tell her, Marc continued, how I could even go about telling her anything that would make things better between us. 

'You saved the world together, Marc. I think that's a start.' 

And that would make her give me another chance?

'Maybe, maybe not. You won’t know ‘til you ask. Do you want her to take you back?'

She shouldn't.

'But do you want her to?'

Yes.

Oh, how much he wanted her to. 

'Then tell her, it's that simple.'

Simple... 

Look who's giving relationship advice. Have you ever had a girlfriend?

'You don't know?'

I don't know everything about your life, Steven.

'If you wanna know...no, I never had that chance. I don't see how that's relevant though.'

I was just poking fun.

'Layla told me she likes honesty, so I'd say my advice is pretty good' 

Honesty isn't always the best course of action.

'But it is more often than you think. Being honest with her about things that are difficult to talk about, is the best way to get her to trust you again.' 

Marc had tried to divert the conversation to something else without success. Steven was determined to 'fix' his relationship with Layla. 

Why do you care so much about my relationship with Layla anyway?

'Because you want her back. Why wouldn't I help you with it? If there's something that can make you happy...happier,' Steven trailed off. 

It was strange, hearing Steven reaffirm outside of the Duat that he cared about him. It reminded Marc that Steven's sacrifice to save him had been real, even if it hadn't been in the physical world. Steven still wanted good things for him after all they'd been through, and he still wanted him to stick around. Marc had almost expected Steven to want to get back to his life alone in his head, but he didn't ask for that. He hadn't brought it up since then.

'And because I'd love to see her again, and it would be proper awkward if she only talked to me and not you, even if you say you'd be fine with it. I wouldn't be,' Steven went on.

Yeah, but that was a possibility to expect , Marc thought to himself. Thanks, for having my back, he said to Steven.

'It's natural really. It's what I should've been doing from the start.' 

You did, you really did. Even if you didn't know.

'Now I can have a more active role in it, and helping you is helping us both,' Steven replied.

How had Steven's perspective changed so much in only a few eventful days? Marc couldn’t understand it, but he was glad for it. He could admit that he felt a lot better with Steven's company. He had never been alone, but being able to talk to him like this was another level entirely. Even if they still had some adjustments to make with each other—and were still annoying each other from time to time—it was far better than he ever could've imagined. 

Calling Layla meant facing her rejection. He didn't even want to think about what he'd do if that happened—devastated would be too weak a word for it. Even though he was the one who left her, leaving her meant he didn't have to face that—rejection, he could avoid it. Now Steven wanted him to stand right in front of it, totally open for Layla to shut him down. She'd want the divorce, he was sure she still had the papers somewhere. Knowing his luck, she’d most likely stay in Egypt and send him the papers from there so she wouldn’t have to see him.

But Steven would be there when it'd happen. He wouldn't be alone facing this. He wouldn't be alone.

****

Her phone rang in her back pocket. She took it and looked at the screen. Marc. The number of his Razer phone. Her finger hesitated on the green icon; the phone was still ringing. She didn't have much time to answer a call at the moment, whatever reason he was calling her about.

She had spent the last two weeks in Cairo, seeing her mother’s sisters she hadn’t seen in as long as she’d been away from this country. Her aunts and cousins and the children of her cousins had greeted her warmly, doting over her and lamenting how long it had been since they had news from Abdallah little’s scarab. It was enough to reassure Layla that she’d taken the right decision in retracing their old family residence. 

She couldn’t leave the country of her formative years, the country she had so much fought for, for as long as she had. The ghosts of the past — as Jeannie had said — would always be there, but they wouldn’t haunt her anymore. She hadn’t let anything else in her life get in her way of what she wanted, it was time this one stopped blocking her path. She had still been on edge for the rest of her stay, since she had also planned to rekindle with some of her former informants on the artifact black markets. 

Mixing the two, however, was a very bad idea. Her father had been infamous among Egyptian archeologists before his untimely death, and Layla had suspected for years — until very recently — that one of her father’s more fervent critics was responsible for his death. Some of them were still good candidates for that sort of act. Making them aware of her return to Cairo might put a target on her remaining family’s back. She had been painstakingly careful to not make her two very different worlds in Cairo be aware of each other. 

Uh , she huffed ironically, just like Marc had done when they lived together in London.  

The phone stopped ringing. 

Shit.  

The street she was on was too loud for her to hear anything clearly in a phone call. It was a busy commercial area and she had to dodge people left and right as she walked. Even if she had wanted to respond…She needed to find a quieter area if she wanted to answer it. As she looked around the busy street, she made sure no one was watching her — she couldn’t be too careful in Cairo, even if it was the middle of the day — She double-checked she wasn’t followed as she made her way through the crowd of people walking in the suffocating heat. She passed a few shaded alleyways where shops received their cargo for the next day and others were resting from the sun, before she found a narrow one that was deserted. With one last look behind her, she sneaked between the buildings and sprinted into the alleyway. A movement in the distance almost made her jump, but it was a stray dog at the other end of the alley. There was no other side of life in that small passage shaded by roof tiles but them two. 

Layla kept walking until she found a depression between two small shops. She stopped and took another look at her phone screen. Marc hadn't tried to call again. 

She hid in that cavity, letting the shade of it cover her entirely, and rested the phone against her chest. 

She'd told him–told them –that she'd stay behind to get her affairs in order. That she hadn't talked to her aunts, her remaining family, in years. She had told them the truth, but she also worked on securing her position back in Cairo. She needed it, if she ever came back — when she'd come back. 

In truth, she also needed that time away from them. To breathe. To know what she was going to do with Marc—and with Taweret. She hadn't expected him to call. She thought that maybe he’d take that opportunity to disappear again. But now there was someone else in the game, Steven . 

Layla looked back at the screen. Still nothing. 

Her thumb hovered again above the 'call' icon. She hadn't decided what she was going to do yet. Things couldn't simply go back to how they were before, and Marc certainly wouldn't want that. She wouldn't. But she wanted...

She pressed call, waiting for the ring sound to reach her ear, then counted each of them. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

Someone picked up the phone on the other end. 

'Layla! Hello!' a familiar voice with a soft British accent responded. 

Layla was taken aback for a few seconds. Right. It hadn't been Marc who called her. She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed by that fact. 

'H-hey! Steven! How have you been?'

'Oh I'm good, yeah. We're getting all settled in our flat. I had no idea Marc would be such a neat freak!'

Layla chuckled softly.

'How have things gone on your side?' Steven asked. 

'I'm—okay. Still sorting out things in Cairo. Family stuff, mostly.' She didn't want to get into the black market artifacts thing with Steven—or her still being a god's avatar. Marc wouldn’t like that, she was sure. 'Sorry I didn't get your first call in time…was it you who called?'

'Yeah, it was. I wanted to see how you were feeling, if you’d been up to much, that sort of thing. We didn't get much time to talk after... y’know. The Harrow stuff.' 

Layla agreed with a humming sound. After Harrow. 

After they had brought him to authorities, Marc had felt so different, like an immense weight had been lifted from his shoulders. She hadn't known if coming back from the Duat was behind it, or if the shame he felt from Steven was no longer there, but something had changed. Had it been because he’d saved millions of lives from being taken by Ammit? Or because he was finally free from Khonshu? It could have been any of them or all of them. She still didn't know the answer, but she had been happy to see him like that. And he had been looking at her…the way he looked at her in that boat on the Nile, the way he used to look at her. Steven had still been there—present? Conscious?—talking to her sometimes. Saying a few words here and there. Without the suits to differentiate them, it was disorienting at times. 

And at the airport before they could part, Marc had kissed her. Or she did. She wasn't sure anymore. The way his lips touched hers was nothing like the kiss Steven had given her days before, it was...like he'd kissed her for the past eight years. Eight years, where he knew what happened to her dad. Where he had witnessed it, and didn't say a word. How could he have kept that up for eight years?

She had been the one to break the kiss, to put her walls up this time. Not knowing what would come of it, or where their relationship stood with him. What would become of them? She didn't know if Steven had been there for that. She suspected he had, since he hadn't left them since they’d come back from the Duat.

'Layla?' 

'Oh' Layla said, pulled back to the present by Steven's voice. She realized how long she had been silent, lost in her thoughts. 'Did you just call me to get news from me?'

'Yeah,' Steven replied quickly. 'Well—' He paused. '—actually, not really.'

She waited for Steven to continue, but he didn't add anything. 

'So? Why did you call?'

'Well—’ There was another pause. '—there was something, something I wanted to tell you, umm…' It felt like Steven was looking for his words. Was he nervous? She had heard Steven being nervous before. He didn't sound like it this time. 'See the thing is…the thing is that...Marc…well, he wants to talk to you.'

'Steven !' another voice shouted.

'Marc?' Layla said, frowning. She was trying to follow what was going on on the other side. 

Another silence. Longer this time. Almost interminable. She was about to repeat her question when she heard Marc answer ‘Yes’ quietly. 

'You wanted to talk to me?'

Another long pause with only the background noises of the bustling street behind her to keep them company. If Marc was going to respond this slowly to every question...

'I—' she heard a long sigh, then a resolved grunt, 'I miss you.'

It was her turn to pause. 'I miss you too,' she responded softly after a few seconds.

'I'm sorry,' he went on.

She frowned again, 'For what?'

'Everything.' 

Layla looked down at the ground, counting the uneven pavement's rocks scattered at her feet. 

'There's a lot we have to talk about,' he continued.

She hummed a 'yes'. They had already agreed to that before he left for London. He didn't want to have that conversation right now, did he? This wasn't the right moment. She was busy. 'I'd prefer to do it in person,' she said.

'I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to see me again,' he said. She almost didn't hear him, his voice was barely above a whisper. 

'I never said that.' 

Another silence; she didn't have time for that. She sighed and touched her brow with her hand.

'You were very cold with me when we were in Cairo—,' she continued. Up until you died. A shiver ran through her body. She crossed an arm tightly against her chest. '—pushing me away. Are you sure you want to see me again?'

'I didn't do it because I wanted to. I wanted—'

'—to protect me, I know. Steven told me.'

'I listened,' he said. So Marc had been there for their whole expedition. Her own voice from days ago resonated in her head: Can he hear me?

'You know you never had to protect me, what I want—'

'I don't know if I can give you that,' he responded quickly, before she could finish her sentence. 

'You can't be there for me?'

'I meant the...opening up.'

'Unless you have completely changed in the past two months, then I'm not expecting that,' she replied.

'Do you want to try again?'

'I—we need to talk in person—but yes. If we can agree on some things, I'd like to. Did you sign the divorce paper?'

'No. You?'

'I haven't either,' she admitted. She had brought them to his—or rather—Steven's place, hoping they would get this settled. She had been annoyed that he had sent her an empty document, that he’d not even signed it. But she hadn't been able to do it either. She'd thought, maybe if he did it in front of her, she would be able to. She still loved him, how could she not? What if she said it again now? What if she told him? 

I love you. But the words couldn't cross her lips. 

'What about Steven?' She said instead.

'Steven?'

'Does he still want to see me?'

'’Course I do!!' a British voice responded gleefully. She smiled fondly. She was growing to like hearing that voice, the sheer unabashed enthusiasm of it.

'Then I'll see you both there.’ The joy was back in her voice in an unconscious response, mirroring Steven's. 'I'll be back—' she caught herself before the word home could come out '—in London soon.'

'We'll see you then!' Steven replied. 

She waited for Marc's goodbye, but it didn't come. She hung up. 

*****

'So, when I'm in control—see—it's called fronting, or consciousness.' 

Steven heard a faint 'hmm hmm' that wasn't his own in his head. 

'And you and I being both 'awake' at the same time would be co-fronting or co-consciousness.' Steven frowned to himself, he was still not sure of the difference between those two terms. They felt the same to him, he’d need to investigate it more. 

He heard another bored humming sound. 

'Are you even listening, Marc?' 

Not really, the voice responded.

That was just splendid. He had done all this research, pulled up all these psychology resources and books to consult at the library, and for what? For ‘ Mr. Mercenary’ to not even listen to him? Steven didn't know why Marc even bothered to front with him if he wasn't even paying attention to what he was doing. 

'Can you please at least listen to what I'm telling you? You don't even have to read it.'

Why do we need to know all these words anyway? We know we have this condition. We don't need books to tell us. What does it matter if I know what dormant and fronting and whatever else means? 

'It's not a condition. It's a disorder,' Steven corrected. He heard Marc grunt in annoyance. ' Dissociative Identity Disorder . It's important Marc! It's not only about the words. It helps us understand–' 

It helps *you* understand.

'It *only* helps me understand because you don't listen! '

I did listen, two days ago. But you're recycling the same stuff you've told me before.  

Steven took a deep breath to calm himself. He didn't want to snap at Marc, but sometimes he didn’t make things easy. Marc thought Steven had been repeating the same thing to him for three days, because he had stopped listening after an hour, two maybe? Steven had not been repeating the same information. He had looked through the various studies, clinical reports, and first-hand accounts to see if there was anything that would ring true. Wanting to find anything that would speak to them. To him anyway. 

He'd found a plethora of useful information, and he'd barely scratched the surface. Steven was at a loss as to why Marc felt so blasé about it. Didn't he want to know more? Didn't he want to get explanations for what they had been living through? 

'Did you know any of this before?' Steven asked. 

Not really, Marc answered. 

Very helpful, as always, his headmate. 'Headmate', that was another word he should tell Marc about. Oh, why bother? He thought to himself. 

'You didn't come across anything? Maybe with a therapist or—?' 

No, I didn't. We didn't have the best of times at the psych docs. 

We? Was Marc talking about their strange journey to Dr. Harrow's office?

'I've never had a therapist before…' At least not a real one , Steven thought. 

Marc only hummed again. There was something he wasn't telling him, wasn't he?

'Did you? Have one?' Steven pressed on. 

Pff yeah, when I was a kid. Didn't work out.

There was definitely more to that story. Steven felt his irritation brewing again. Was this going to be something else he would need to pry out of Marc?

'And they didn't diagnose you with anything? Didn't tell you about DID or MPD?'

No.

Well, that was a pointless conversation. Nice chatting with you, Marc, Steven thought bitterly.

He went back on to his research, scrolling through the webpage. 

'Oh! Here! Switching, that's when...' Steven stopped himself, his enthusiasm lost. 

When what?

'You really wanna know?'

Well you were about to tell me weren't you?

'That's not very encouraging.'

Marc gave the longest sigh Steven had ever heard. Please Steven, tell me what switching means. 

'When we exchange consciousness or—' Steven stopped again, 'Look Marc, I really think this is important.' 

I'll call it switching next time, if it's so important to you. 

'It's not just for us, you know.' 

For who else? We're not about to shout from the rooftops about our con— our D.I.D., he enunciated.

'No, course not. But it be nice for when we talk about it to Layla to help her understand more about what it's like,' Steven said. 

I don't think she'd need these to understand. It's easy to explain.  

'Because you did such a great job with me.' 

I did explain!

'About Khonshu, maybe. Not about you. Why didn't you tell me I wasn't the original?'

Because...because that’s not—it wasn't—I don't know, Marc said. That wasn't much of a response. Would you even have believed me? Marc continued.

'Maybe not,' Steven admitted. 

He turned away from his laptop and reached for one of the psych books piled in front of him. He read the title: It was about trauma therapy. It made him pause before opening it.  

'We'll also need it for our therapist,’ he added.  

Which therapist?

'Our future therapist.' 

Are you looking for a therapist? 

Marc would know if he were, wouldn't he? But then again, he'd proven that he could pay so little attention to what Steven was doing when he was 'at the wheel' —fronting. He needed to get used to these new terms.

'Not at the moment but—'

—We're not getting a therapist, Marc cut him off. 

'Marc, we need—'

—We're not getting a therapist, end of story!

Marc sounded angry. No…he sounded livid. What was his deal with therapists?

'It's not going to be Dr. Harrow,' Steven said, trying to be reassuring. 

Steven, stop, Marc growled.

What if he needed a therapist just for himself? Would Marc stop him? This co-fronting wasn’t always the easiest thing to deal with. Getting adjusted to each other's routine was one thing, but disagreeing on something important like this? 

Steven didn't add anything, at least nothing Marc could hear. Even if they were sharing such close quarters as their own head, he was glad they couldn't read each other's minds. He went back to his reading, maybe a little too forcefully.

I'm sorry, Marc said after long minutes of silence. I'm not always in the best moods. 

That was an understatement. But Marc hadn't felt particularly moody earlier today, what happened?

‘Did I say something that got you all in a mood??'

You didn't. I was just thinking back on some…stuff. 

Layla's phone call from yesterday, maybe? Steven thought. 

'Everything's gonna turn out alright Marc,' Steven tried to reassure him. 

You're so confident. 

'I'm not, but what’s the point in wallowing in defeat?' 

You're right.

'So, does that mean I can get us a therapist?'

Steven please….I'd really prefer if you didn’t. 

'Okay,' Steven replied. There was no point in insisting. Not for now. But he was determined to  get an answer for that distaste of therapists sooner or later. 

He turned his attention back to his reading.

*****

The black car rolled up to the intersection, sun glinting off its tinted windows. The god of the night sky was patiently seated in the back, looking out. He felt it. He gave a slow silent nod to his driver, his aristomache, who returned him a brief look from the rearview mirror before unlocking the doors. 

The men rushed inside, seating in front of one another in the back passenger seats. If he’d been corporeal, the blond one would’ve bumped into him. How rude. 

The shorter one readjusted his blazer before signaling to the driver, ‘12 Abercorn road, hurry.’ 

His aristomache turned in his seat, lowered the glass separating him from them, and pointed at his phone where a — web-site, a GPS he called it? — was displayed as he said, ‘lo siento, señor, eh, sir.’ 

‘Bloody hell, again, didn’t you tell Corbyn I didn’t want any of these blokes who can’t speak a lick of proper English?’ the blond one said with disgust in his words.  

‘Looks like it didn’t go through. We don’t have time for this Berker, just plug the address in so we can get the hell out of here.’

The blond man sighed and ripped the phone from his driver’s hand. If Khonshu could, he would’ve narrowed his eyes, how impertinent. No matter. The earth would soon be cleansed of them. The man typed something hurriedly on the phone and gave it back to his driver.

‘Gracias señor,’ he said, nodding emphatically, before closing back the separating window. 

Khonshu crossed his legs and examined his two subjects .   

The taxi left the intersection with a jolt. 

‘Damnit, don’t he even know how to drive? Which company did you take him from?’ The taller man snapped, readjusting his jacket and gripping the grab handle above the car door.

‘Iberocab,’ the other replied with a monotone voice, not glancing up from the file of papers in his hands. 

‘Next time we hire a personal chauffeur. I'm tired of these barely-able-to-drive drivers coming from the worst parts of Europe.’

‘If it makes you shut up about it,’ the shorter one said, ‘maybe you’d concentrate more on our current problem.’

‘Problem?’ The other sneered, ‘that’s not a problem, it’s a nuisance, at best. Cole will take care of it tomorrow.’

Khonshu exchanged another knowing look with his driver through the rearview mirror. 

‘And what if Dixon talks before then?’

‘He won’t, he’s a pissant, he’ll be dead before he can even think about what to do with that information.’ 

The smaller gent gave the other an icy look. 

‘What?’

‘You’re really cruising for a bruising.’

The blond man opened the refrigeration compartment and took a small drink from it. Opening the bottle and reclining in his seat, ‘and you, my friend, don’t know how to have a good time.’

He took a sip of the drink, ‘Are we bugged?’ 

‘Not as far as I’m aware.’ the other man patted himself, ‘but—’ he pointed with his chin in the direction of the driver’s seat. 

‘That guy? You heard him, he can’t understand a word we saying. Even if we were screaming it with the driver’s screen down.’ The blond man knocked on the separation window. 

The driver waited for a red light, and lowered it. 

‘Hey hi,’ the tall unworthy said.  

‘Hi sir’, his aristomache replied affably. 

‘Where'r you from my nice fellow, with the nice — cap? Spain?’ the blond man rudely pointed to his avatar’s head. 

‘Disculpe, sir, no entiendo, soy nuevo en este ciudad—’ 

‘Yeah I don’t understand shit of what you saying mate,’ the blond cut him off, ‘Sí Sí,’ he said with exaggerated gestures of his arms to get the window back up. 

Khonshu wanted him dead last. 

‘Still not what I’d call discretion,’ the one still looking at a pile of papers said. 

‘Discretion is for the ones who want desperately to climb to the top, we —’ he took a long sip of the drink ‘— don’t need that.’

The taxi took a sharp turn and the taller man spilled the rest of the drink on his — most likely expensive — suit. 

‘Jesus Christ,’ he desperately looked for something to wipe the spill in the car, ‘after his job’s done, Cole is gonna take care of this idiot.’ 

‘It’s London, there’s traffic, Berker.’

‘We’re still not in bloody New York!’  

The taxi sped up and the two men finally stayed in silence. The blond one had not yet cleaned his costume. He was smelling like liquor. 

‘Get them to the back of the edifice,’ Khonshu instructed.  

His aristomache smiled and made a right turn.

The smaller man looked through the side window, ‘Did you put in the right door number?’

‘Uh?’ the other said ‘we’ll get through the garage, that’s fine.’

‘You wrote the garage’s address instead?’ 

‘I don’t remember. Who cares?’ 

The smaller man didn’t respond, but he put a hand through his hair and held his case file against his chest.

The taxi made another turn and slowed into a street that wasn’t well-lit. They passed through a few doormen-guarded addresses, and entrances that would’ve been palaces’ entrances if it weren’t for the lack of lighting, then doors without windows, and buildings without doors. 

Khonshu had wandered on this path many years ago. It still attracted the worst of the worst —  times hadn’t changed. 

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of a garage door. They waited. 

Three men, weapons hooked on their belts under their overcoats, approached the vehicle. 

The smaller man reached for the door as if no one was sitting next to him. Khonshu could see his scalp under his short greasy hair. The man lowered the window.

‘Oliver G. Harvey and Archie S. Berker.’

‘You have IDs?’ 

‘That security is shite. Where’s the iris scanner? As if we don’t have the budget,’ the other said with sharp insolence.  

The man handed two silver cards to the guards outside, before replying to his ‘friend’, ‘it’s a new complex, and Cole plays it old fashioned.’ 

‘Discretion again?’

‘Something like that.’ 

The other scoffed. 

His aristomache waved to the armed men outside with an amiable smile. He unlocked the doors to let his ‘clients’ out, ‘Gracias Señores.’ 

‘Yeah Yeah,’ the blond said, stepping outside and buttoning back his jacket. 

‘You didn’t leave any tips?’ 

‘With that kind of driving? Hell no. Get me Corbyn on the phone so I can get us a better chauffeur.’ 

They both watched the two men, escorted by a few armed ones, walk across the empty underground garage to a door on the other side. 

‘No me habías dicho que esta noche sería tan fácil,’ his aristomache said with exhilaration in his voice, his eyes locked on the men, gloved-hands still gripping the wheel tightly. 

Khonshu hummed in approval, ‘There are four men in the vicinity of this car.’ 

‘Cinco,’ his avatar added when another door on the left opened to let a man in black step out, ‘la mayoría traen una pistola, pero dos traen más armas.’ 

‘They are still observing you.’ 

His aristomache‘s smile grew bigger, ‘¿Y cuántos hay adentro?’ 

Khonshu paused for a moment, listening to the hearts of the unworthy. He heard a good many of them in this same building. ‘A dozen or so, I would say,’ he told his avatar, ‘explore the area and I will tell you.’

¿Los mato a todos? 

‘Hmmm yes , there is no one to spare in this installation.’

His driver nodded silently, ‘dejaré que piensen que Cole los mató, y luego me encargaré de él.’

Two of the armed men were approaching the car. Before they could reach the doors, his driver restarted the engines. They let him pass and turn around in the parking lot, but their gaze did not leave the car until they were out of view. 

‘They are suspicious of you.’

‘Bueno, eso hará todo más fácil,’ His aristomache replied with not a silver of confidence lost. 

‘I will locate the file. Meet me inside once you are done.’

‘¿Sabes que el archivo probablemente estará en una computadora, sí? ’

‘Computers are not hard to locate.’

‘Solo sigue a Berker, yo me encargó del resto.’

His avatar had relegated Khonshu to a most boring and unpleasant task, but an essential one nonetheless. If they could not locate that file with the names of the contract executioner’s future victims, Berker would remember these names or where he had stored them. Maybe his aristomache would have to get the information out of him, which would promise an entertaining end to this evening.

‘Quince minutos,’ his driver said, and Khonshu knew it was his cue to leave and follow Berker. 

After patrolling the neighborhood a handful of times, ensuring they had well estimated the capabilities of this organization’s branch and that no authorities would show themselves in the vicinity at the most inopportune time, his avatar would come back. He would advance the car slowly near the garage doors once more, as if he were attempting to spy on the criminals. The guards, already alerted by his earlier behavior, would most certainly urge him to get out of the vehicle. His aristomache would continue his earlier act, which would annoy them. They then would bring him inside for interrogation. Even if this location turned out to be a secluded room far away from where Khonshu would be, once inside it would be only a matter of minutes before his aristomache cleared the path with the blood of the unrighteous and reconvened with him. 

Khonshu moved through the corridors, following the scent of the most wicked of them all. Oh, he wished he could witness his avatar’s work once he entered the building. He always delighted in it. So swift, so precise, the blood of vengeance was running through his veins. If he were another god, Khonshu would almost call these assassination methods an art form. 

He found Berker in a large office, sitting on a chair, absorbed by his computer , a glass of gin in one hand. Berker had changed clothes from earlier, and he was alone. The room’s windows gave on a quiet street. No one could see inside but for a faint light emanating from the study, every curtain was closed. 

Berker was looking at numbers. No names were seen. Khonshu observed the man’s actions for a few more minutes before growing frustrated. There was no sign of what they were looking for, but his senses never failed him. This man had the fate of dozens of people in his hands, and dozens more tomorrow. 

Khonshu prowled the room. There were two doors, one on the right and one facing the study. Khonshu locked the door on the right, giving only one exit and one entrance. 

The man turned his head at the sound of the lock, his stare looking right through the god of judgment. Before he could get up, Khonshu knocked the gin glass on the man’s lap. Another suit drenched in liquor for this base man. Khonshu could have his enjoyment too while waiting for his avatar.

‘Shit!’

The man jumped up from his seat, darting for a cloth at the other end of the room. Coming back with the cloth, the man let out another curse and hurriedly wiped the computer’s keyboard.

Oh.

Some of the gin had reached the computer. Liquid and computers did not make a good match, if he remembered correctly. This engine had better not be broken by such a small amount of alcohol. 

‘Shit. Fucking shit. What a fucking night,’ the man said under his breath. 

His litany of swears was soon broken by a blaring sound coming from downstairs. And another one. Something heavy hitting a wall. The sound of feet running past them in the corridor, going down the stairs. Then gunshots. Two. 

His avatar was right on time, as always. 

The man had stopped moving, listening. A shocked expression on his small contemptible face.

Before he could think of moving towards the front door, however, Khonshu swung at one of the libraries, destroying some of the shelves. Dozens of books fell down like a cascade of broken paper. The noise of that destruction had been loud enough to enshroud the sound of the following gunshots coming from the floors below.

The man jumped behind his chair, ‘what the bloody hell is going on?’ 

Khonshu didn’t let him follow that train of thought. He trashed more furniture, ripped portraits— ghosts and poltergeists would be envious of his skills. The man was well and purely terrified and distracted. Khonshu made sure to not disturb the curtains nor the lamp. And did not move the laptop. Everything else in the room, however, was fair game. Soon, the man had no more chairs to sit on and was cowering in a corner. 

At that moment, the front door opened, slowly, widening until the wooden door knocked against the wall at the end of its hinges. The lights of the corridor had been turned — or broken — off. No one could be seen in the opening of the door until steps moving forward were heard. 

His aristomache walked into the office purposely slowly, until the light of the one lamp in the room illuminated his face. A faint smile crossed his lips, his eyes locked on the cowering man, traces of blood on his chin and raised collar gleamed under the light. 

‘Disculpe, señor Berker, olvidé que tenía un asunto importante con usted.’ His avatar's face in that instant was barely recognizable from the one he had worn earlier, when he had been their simple taxi driver.

‘What the fuck are you doing here? How did you get in?’

‘The front door. You should really think about hiring better bodyguards too, not just the chauffeur.’ 

Confusion, fear, and outrage went across the face of the undeserving, ‘You...you speak English?’ 

His aristomache laughed a good-hearted laugh, then exchanged a look with Khonshu. 

‘¿El archivo está en este computador?’ he asked. 

‘I did not see it, but he is indeed the man we were looking for,’ Khonshu responded. 

‘Más vale, porque es el único que sigue vivo.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ The fear in the man’s voice was now much more evident. It was a delightful sound. 

‘A friend,’ his driver responded in the most impassive of voices.

The man called Berker nervously looked in Khonshu’s direction, ‘you’re a lunatic.’ 

‘Lunatic,’ his avatar mused, ‘ I like how that sounds.’

'I would take this as a compliment.’

‘También yo,’ his driver replied while closing the door behind him and locking it without leaving the frail man out of his sight. 

His aristomache reached the desk once more and took the computer in his gloved hands, ‘I suppose there’s a password for it?’ 

‘If you think I’m going to give you shit —’ a scream came out of the man before he could say anything else. 

A silver moon dagger was firmly lodged in the man’s shoulder, the pain had made him stumble on the ground.  

‘So, what’s the password?’ His avatar said, sitting casually on the top of the study, still holding the computer in one hand, the other prepared to throw another moon dagger. 

The man was gripping his shoulder desperately, almost sobbing, ‘who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m giving you five seconds to tell me the password, or you’re not gonna like where this one’s gonna go.’ he said, playing with the dagger in his hand. 

‘Okay okay, it’s — it’s PBS160071.’ 

His avatar rested the computer on his lap and typed the code. Khonshu could see the light of the screen change.

‘Now see if it is the same one for the file.’

‘Primero tengo que encontrarlo,’ he replied. 

Several long minutes passed. Khonshu grew to hate those engines. They took all the pleasure in enacting his vengeance away. The man even had time to stop whining and was crawling back into a standing position. 

‘Be careful. The man has risen.’

‘Going somewhere?’ his driver asked the man. 

‘You — you won’t be able to get out of here.’

His avatar only raised an eyebrow in response to that threat, going back to his search of the list. 

‘There’s — there’s men on every single floor of this building, and if I don’t contact them—’

‘They’ll what?’

The man was stunned by his avatar’s nonchalance. 

‘Want me to call them? You probably have a panic button somewhere.’

‘They’re — they’re—’

‘They’re probably not gonna respond, unfortunately, since they’re done for.’

‘How…’

‘Like I said, hire better security guards next time.’ 

‘They can’t be…’

‘Now, that hit list, what did you call it?’ 

The man did not respond. His aristomache rolled his eyes and sent another dagger flying through the man’s chest. 

The following scream resonated in the room. 

‘What.Is.The.Name.Of.That.Hitlist.File,’ his avatar enunciated each word as he came closer to the man collapsed back on the floor. 

‘Let me go, let me go, please,’ the man sobbed. 

Khonshu’s driver crouched next to the unworthy’s body, he rested one arm placidly on his raised knee. This arm held another dagger ready to go all the same. His avatar’s gloved hands let the dagger swing lazily back and forth. ‘I can’t let you go until I have that file title. I know you have it, just give it up,’ his avatar’s tone sounded almost comforting. 

‘It’s Bluedot.’ 

His driver went back to typing on the computer. This time, it only took seconds. 

‘Aquí tienes, y hasta con la misma contraseña,’ his avatar said, smiling in his direction. 

He turned back to the man on the floor, ‘See, I knew you could do something good for your last deed.’ 

Before the man was able to register these words, his aristomache sliced his throat with one swift movement of another moon shaped dagger. 

His avatar got up, closed the computer, and found a suitcase to store it in. Then he summoned the daggers back into the Moon Knight suit, unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.

He strolled down the stairs, whistling a tune, walking past the bodies of the other men who fell.

He was still whistling when he reached his car, put the suitcase in the passenger seat next to him, and drove off away from the area.  

After driving for fifteen minutes across the London streets, the black car stopped in a poorly lit parking lot. The man climbed out of his car once more, sitting against the hood; his hat hiding his face from view. He reached for items in his jacket pockets and took out a box and a lighter. He picked a cigarette out of the box and lit it up, taking a slow drag from it. 

Khonshu joined him on the car. He sat on the roof, observing the darkness he cherished so. They stayed in companionable silence, contemplating that same darkness, those same stars unobscured by the lights of the big city. 

'Well done, o émé Aristomache,’ Khonshu said in his ethereal voice. 

‘Espero que el resto de la misión sea algo más difícil,’ his avatar said, breathing out the smoke into the night. 

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