Chapter One
It was a rare occurrence where Marc and Layla had a mission together. Usually if there was a specific task the old bird needed done, he’d demand Layla not attend. He’d usually excuse it with some bullshit wisdom Marc only understood half the time, but he's pretty sure the god just doesn't like Layla; especially after she refused his offer for her to be his avatar.
This time, Khonshu had (seemingly reluctantly) requested her involvement.Based on his wifes obvious wince, Taweret was ecstatic about the team up. Basically, they were after a group of Harrow’s followers who’d somehow escaped capture a few months ago when their leader was defeated. Since Layla knew just as much as Marc when it came to the followers of Ammit, Khonshu thought it was best to allow her assistance.
They’d been after them for three weeks now, rotating through countries until they arrived in Spain. The group of about a dozen was surprisingly slick, and had thus far managed to escape them in Cairo, then Libya, then Tunisia. Spain was their last chance to catch them. From what intell Marc managed to collect, the group was fleeing to Mexico. With the combination of Marc’s mercenary past, the unfamiliar territory, and a collection of Mexican laws, they’d be untouchable if they reached their destination.
After losing them for a few days when they crossed into Spain, The godly duo finally caught wind of the Disciples, tracking them down to a port in Lekeitio. Marc was still helming the body, though Jake hovered close to the front. Jake wasn't normally interested in anything going on in their lives. But on the rare(ish) occasion that he or Steven were in trouble, he was sure to linger.
It took them a while to warm up to the third alter. Jake was gruff, and vulgar and overall just..not fun to be around. For a while, they struggled to get along. Like when Steven met Marc, the two would often wake up in the middle of nowhere, unaware of who put them there. They’d wake up in the midst of brutality, showered in blood and viscera neither of them could place. It was Khonshu who introduced them to Jake, and even with his presence now known it was impossible to coexist. Jake would often front and refuse to switch, despite the fact that it gave the trio constant migraines. For now, they’re left in strained coexistence. They can tolerate eachother, and for the most part they work together, but they’re certainly not friends.
Marc and his wife stuck close together, each being as stealthy as possible even if their glowing white and gold attire didnt exactly help this effort. The pair settles on the edge of a shipping container stack, watching for any movement below.
“Got a plan?” Layla questions, accented voice exceedingly hushed.
“Not really.” He grumbled in return. Even if its just the two of them, his voice is still more hoarse with the cowl on. “They cant get away. Whatever it takes.”
Before he even turns he can feel her glower. “Marc.” She warns, voice low and hostile.
“Yeah yeah, I know. I didn't mean anything..” He defends with a short mumble.
Killing has been a long standing disagreement between the two. Layla thinks that killing should be an absolute non-starter in their line of work. Marc, while he partially agrees, believes that sometimes it's necessary. Despite this, it's nearly the only thing they argue about consistently. It truly came about after the first time Jake fronted during their fight against the Disciples of Ammit. Layla, thinking it had been Marc who slaughtered about fifteen relatively innocent people, lectured him for weeks about the incident. Marc couldn't even remember that, but sort of just assumed he’d done it because it sure as hell wasn't Steven.
He’s nudged out of his thoughts by Layla throwing an elbow into his side. Before he can complain, she gestures towards the water, drawing his attention to the movement below. Its the group. Ten shadows slink through the shipping yard, weaving between crates in an attempt to hide their tracks better. They’re heading towards the water, a small speedboat idling at the nearby dock.
“Got it.” He replies to her nudge, no longer bothering to keep his voice low.
Marc steps back, taking a running leap from his height and diving towards his opponents. His cape flairs as he jumps, ballooning into a crescent moon shape as it catches the wind to slow his descent. Having closed the distance between them, the former mercenary materializes two golden crescents from his chest, hurling them at the nearest collective. He hears a cry as his weapons find their mark, the figure stumbling into a shipping container with a metallic clang. Marc ceases his momentum with a roll, releasing two more crescent blades from their ribbon-esque confines before coming to a stop in a crouch.
He whirls into battle, slinging his blades like an extension of his fists. He spins with his arms extended, landing a duo of slices on the nearest disciple.
“Marc-!” Jake’s not the most expressive tonally, so the minor alarm in his tone is enough to wholly draw the Moonknights attention away from the fight. Marc’s head whips around, finally spying the assault rifles the majority of the group now brandishes.
“Shit..” In as short of a reaction time as he can manage, Marc spins himself so his back is facing them, grasping at the edges of his cape to pull it around himself. The flurry of bullets merely bounces off his back and he cowers behind the shield for as long as possible before the telltale click of unloaded guns meets his ears. He takes this moment to get out, dashing for cover as they reload.
Catching his breath, he hears a scream and watches as Layla lifts a man off the ground, dragging him the few hundred feet through the air and unceremoniously dumping him into the ocean. Marc flashes her a thumbs up, which makes her laugh.
Marc quickly returns to the battle, shooting off another trio of blades before ducking behind a shipping container to avoid their bullets. Usually a mere ten people would be a cake walk for Layla and Marc. Unfortunately though, with the shipping yard being mostly a straight line of tightly packed shipping containers waiting to be loaded up, they’re at a general disadvantage. They have to take the fight head on, risking running straight through the volley of gunfire. There's an unspoken agreement between the couple to play it safe here.
With Marc essentially chasing the group, the battle has naturally pushed them closer to the waters edge. Because of this Marc found himself quickly running out of cover.
“Let me in, I’ll kill them for us.” Jake snarls. Marc glances down, catching a brief reflection of his hungry expression in a nearby puddle.
“No killing. We promised.” He explains kurtly, having no patience for any sort of one sided argument. He can hear the recognizable twang of metal on metal, correctly assuming it was layla trying to close in the gap between them.
“¡Esto es inútil!” Jake retorts ”Get it over with, they don't deserve mercy.”
“Jake, enough!”
Marc rushes into the fray again, trying to tone Jake out as he continues to swear at him in spanish. He’s stopped in his tracks by a slow buzzing noise. His eyes roll back into his head, eyelids fluttering. He feels his consciousness drift away from the front, Jake forcing himself into his place. Marc groans loudly in response, Managing to clamp his eyes shut to keep himself in the front. His mind is foggy, even if he managed to keep his seat in the front. The former mercenary blinks sluggishly, trying to remember what he was doing.
A bullet whizzes by.
Another finds its mark, sinking into his shoulder.
A third finds its way into his thigh.
Disoriented, Marc is silent, hardly able to recognize the pain through the haze of his newly replaced mind. On autopilot, he stumbles backwards a few steps, quickly realizing that he’d run out of ground. The drop between the edge of the yard and the ocean cant be more than a few feet, but it feels endless. All too soon he hits the surface, immediately swallowed by its darkness until there’s nothing left to see.
its dark in the cave. It had been eerily quiet for far too long, but the pounding of rain on rock isnt much preferred. Marcs hand is closed tightly around Randalls, desperately dragging him along as the torrent of rainwater follows them trhough the small passage. They’re covered in small scrapes and gashes, sharpened stone tearing at their clothes and skin. Randall’s crying. Marc’s sure he is too.
He desperately tries to keep his breath, arms and legs tearing at the water in an attempt to resurface. The bullet wounds throb, preventing him from moving his limbs correctly to be able resurface. The depths of the water around him tint red, and though he can't see it through his haze, the copper twang invades what little sense he has left. Jake is painfully silent, not a whisper to calm his mind.
The water level’s risen to their chests, and he can't remember where the entrance is. It's impossibly dark still, though he’d childishly hoped some magical light might guide them home. His mother was right. He should have listened. He’s going to die down here. The water level continues to rise, and Marc plays brave for his brother. “Dont let go Randall!” His voice is small and high pitched, scratchy from trying not to cry. He manages to suck in another breath before his head is underwater, curls plastered to his forehead as the water rushes past him.
The currents are stronger than he, and he feels what little grounding contact he has left slipping from his fingers. The eldest Spector desperately claws at his brother's hand. It's no use. His familiar grasp slips from his hand, and he’s horrifically alone.
He flails his arms desperately, one pull sending an electric jolt of agony through the limb. The last of his breath leaves him, a desperate inhale filling his lungs with yet more copper filled salt water. His body feels like not his own as he’s dragged towards the bottom. He’s not sure how long hes been down here, but its long enough for him to be sure he’s not getting out of this. His back lands softly against slimy sand. He’s reached the bottom.
He’s dying. Stevens dying. If he could muster up the life to do, well, anything, he would. His protective armor feels like an anchor, tying him to the depths as if to ensure he’s never found.
His shoulder strikes a corner and he grasps for it desperately, digging his bloodied fingertips into the rock. He finds a hold, managing to pull himself above the rushing water and into the smallest pocket of air. He clings to the rocks, wedging his tiny fingers into any crack he can find. With his head above water, he cries.
He was lucky once…
He wont be lucky twice.
“Steven, Im so sorry…”