Marc Spector swooped down from above, circling the rooftop of the hospital where Marlene and Frenchie were incapacitated. Any other day, they would be by his side. Frenchie in the ‘copter, hovering close by, gun at the ready. Marlene, quick and smart and silent, picking people off as if clearing a chess board, one piece at a time. Any other day. This evening, they were in hospital beds below. It hadn’t taken Moon Knight long to deduce that this was his final target, that he wanted to kill Steven and Marc’s friends. His family. His new family.
He could easily spot him from above. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just like years ago– or was it months?-- in Central Park, and his fractured skin was on display. Moon Knight– no, Marc had done that. The initial fracture had spread like fault lines across his skin, as if he were stained glass, and just as fragile. He looked on the verge of shattering. Marc couldn’t stall any longer. He had to drop in now. He didn’t want to keep his brother waiting.
“Randall!” Marc called out, drawing his glider cape to his sides and landing lightly on his feet with practiced agility. Marc watched Randall’s back straighten in startlement, but not surprise. He had practically been invited. His brother turned to face him, a manic smile spreading across his fractured face.
“Little brother,” Randall sneered, and lunged forward, ax in mid swing.
The first strike was messy, unpracticed, rushed. Clumsy . He put his whole weight behind it and stumbled slightly when Marc stepped out of the way. Moon Knight would have grabbed the ax. Moon Knight would have pummeled the assailant, using his own momentum against him. Moon Knight would have taken the opportunity to end the fight as quickly as possible. But Moon Knight wasn’t there then.
Marc underestimated Randall’s recovery time, and paid for it. Randall used the movement to turn, clipping his shoulder. Marc had sidestepped the worst of the blow, but he could feel heat welling, blood spilling. Instantly adrenaline kicked in. Marc would feel it, but he wouldn't feel it now. He was lucky his arm was still intact. Moon Knight would have returned a blow. Marc recoiled and moved out of range.
“Light on your feet, as ever, brother.” Randall snarled, growled.
“You’re slower than I remember,” Marc shot back instinctively. Randall cackled, swung again, this time more controlled. More lethal. Marc took a step back but stumbled, and Randall didn’t miss a beat. The ax wound back, and acting quickly, Marc drew a crescent dart and let it loose. The silver grazed Randall’s knuckles, enough for him to release the ax and Marc to kick it out of range. Randall howled and lunged, fist connecting with Marc’s jaw. Marc grabbed the arm that hadn’t hit, held it tight.
Moon Knight would have twisted until he heard a bone snap. Moon Knight would have levered the arm to get the attacker on the ground, placed a heel on a neck and waited for cries of mercy. Moon Knight would have broken a finger, just to ensure he was remembered. Marc released the arm, and dove for the opposite end of the rooftop where the ax lay inert.
Randall grappled him before he could move fast enough. The two toppled to the ground, Randall rolling on top of Marc, knees pinning his arms, and sat straight up. His smile was illuminated by the light of the moon, teeth bared, triumphant. He punched down, Marc’s head recoiled, and he saw stars.
“Randall–” Again, Randall’s fist made contact with Marc’s temple, knocking his blurred vision sideways.
“Randall, please–” Blood began flowing from his nostrils, catching in the fabric of his white mask now stained.
“It’s me, Rand–” Left fist, vision snapped right.
“Please–” Right fist, vision stuttered.
Moon Knight would have yanked an arm free, clawed at the assailant’s face, found soft purchase in the eyes and dug. Moon Knight would have swung his hips down, jolted forward, knocking his opponent to the ground. Moon Knight would have returned the pain dealt ten fold, carved reminders in their skin. Moon Knight would not accept another hit.
Marc accepted four more before twisting suddenly, forcing Randall to regain balance and using the time to dig his elbows beneath him and regain footing. Randall toppled, sprawled forward and fought towards the ax just out of reach. Marc stepped on the handle, and Randall took the opportunity to seize his ankle and tug as hard as he could. Marc fell to his knees, Randall climbing his back and fitting him into a chokehold. Gasping, Marc fell backward, Randall pinned between himself and the rooftop of the hospital.
“Familiar, little brother?” Randall whispered into Marc’s ear as he choked. “You never could beat me, even when we were children. It always ended this way. It always will. I deserve this victory. I’ve earned it.”
Marc could feel the handle of the ax with his fingertips. He could grab it. He could use it.
Moon Knight would have.
But Moon Knight wasn’t there.
Marc spasmed, kicked, twisted, eventually snapping his head back into Randall’s nose. Randall released, and Marc fought away from him. Not fast enough.
Moon Knight would have grabbed the ax.
Randall did.
Metal connected with soft meat, and Marc fell to the ground as his left leg was opened.
Randall loomed, heaving irregular breaths, ax almost slack in his hands. Marc was propped up on an arm under him, leg twisted uncomfortably, pooling blood. His mask hindered breaths, as congealed as it was with blood and grime. His hand was outstretched, placating, defensive. Pleading.
“Please, Randall, please–”
“It’s my right, it’s my birthright! I earned the title of Moon Knight, I’ve earned it!”
“Then take it!” Marc’s hands shook as he fumbled with his cloak, its white mantle stained with blood, his own and his brother’s. He couldn’t tell the difference. Was there any difference? His brother’s blood was his own, his own was his brother’s. He yanked the cloak from his shoulders and held it out to Randall. “Take it, please, take it. I don’t want it, Randall, I never wanted it. I never asked for it. Randall, just take it, just take it please! Please, Randall, please, just take it. Just stop.”
“It’s my right–”
“Randall–”
“I deserve to be Moon Knight–”
“Randall please–”
“Why did he choose you?” Randall screwed his eyes shut, shaking with fury and adrenaline and fatigue. “I watched him choose you, why? What’s the difference between you and I, what’s so good about you? What did he see in you that he can’t find in me? What’s wrong with me?” Randall’s face was fractured, his features contorted in pain and fury and he was sobbing now, he was crying. Marc had never seen his older brother cry.
“I wish he had chosen you.” Marc’s voice wavered as he choked on sobs of his own. “I wish Khonshu had chosen you over me. Randall, I would give anything to go back to that night and find you in the desert. I would give anything to see you again.”
“Why didn’t he choose me?”
“I can’t see you, Randall,”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re right in front of me, and I can’t see you.”
“Why?”
“Can you see me?” Marc struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his right leg, his breathing irregular and ragged. “Look at me, Randall.” Randall shook his head, furiously, his grip tightening on the ax he held close to his chest. “Randall, please, just look at me.” Marc hazarded a step forward, and Randall’s eyes squeezed tighter, tears falling down his face making clean tracks through the blood and dirt. With one hand, Marc gripped the back of the mask and tugged it off, his face bare in the moonlight. He reached for his brother, slowly and carefully wrapping the mantle around his bare shoulders. Randall’s eyes snapped open.
“Randall?” Marc kept his hands lightly on his shoulders, hesitant and unsure, trying his best just to keep standing.
“Marc?” His voice broke, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“I’m here, big brother.”
“Marc–”
“I see you, Randall, I’m right here, I’m right here,”
“I messed up, Marc, I– oh God I’m so sorry, God, I’m so sorry,” Randall stumbled forward, Marc catching his shoulders and slipping into an embrace so familiar. Randall’s legs gave out, and the two slumped to the ground, Marc cradling Randall’s head, arm around his shoulders, and his brother cried. It was five minutes later when Marc tried to move him, that Randall fell apart.
The fracture lines across his skin went deeper than Marc had thought, had hoped. His shoulder broke with barely a sound, just the pooling of blood and the slap of skin against the pavement. Randall looked up at Marc and stifled another sob.
“What–?” was all Marc was able to get out.
“Treatment.” Randall made a sorry attempt at a chuckle. “I knew. I didn’t- didn’t care.” He shut his eyes as his left jaw slipped, Marc catching it with desperation.
“Oh, God, brother, what have you done?” Marc cradled his brother’s face, holding him together, watching the pieces fall away. “Randall, what have you done?”
“Don’t– don’t leave me, Marc, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–” Marc hushed him and cursed under his breath.
“I’ll call someone, I’ll–” Reed Richards, Dr. Strange, he was a fucking Avenger they had to have some genius on the pay roll, there had to be someone who could fix this.
“No, no. No. Don’t go, please,”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.” Randall tried to grab Marc’s arm, but his fingers cracked, fell. Marc barely contained a scream as Randall began to cough and spasm. “Please, Randy, I’m not going anywhere, I’m here, I’m here. Look at me, I’m here,” His brother fractured, split, slipped. “Khonshu–” Marc gasped, raised his voice. “Khonshu! Please, save him, he has the mantle, please! He has the mantle, he’s your fist now, so do what you did for me, time and again, please! I never asked for this, I never–” his voice hitched as Randall’s smile crumbled, and Marc screamed. “Please, God, oh fuck, Khonshu! Khonshu, please, please!”
“Marc–” Randall’s words battled through blood, he gurgled and spit. “I’m sorry–”
“No, Rand, no it’s ok, it’s ok, just stay with me brother, stay with me, Rand– Rand?” He had stopped spasming, stopped coughing. Stopped breathing.
“Randall?” Marc’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Randall?”
It was two hours later when Steven took over. It took him a moment to collect himself in the mess of blood and body parts– he rarely surfaced in the costume. For a moment there was a fog he hadn’t felt in years, a gap in his memory unrecognizable yet familiar in a past life. Help Marc was the first thought of his own he recognized, and the second was help Randall. He fought the panic down that rose in his throat when he looked at the mess that had been a brother. Marc’s brother. There was a duty here he couldn’t name, an obligation he never knew he had. With care, he collected what was left of Randall into the mantle now stained red. He tried to focus on the abstract, on the objects being moved rather than the truth of the matter. He ignored the warmth of the blood on his hands, the flakes and splotches drying on his arms, his face. He didn’t know if he could feel clean again, he didn’t know if this would ever leave him, stop making his skin crawl, his stomach turn. They’d all been through this once, twice before. How did he even begin?
He decided he needed a body bag. If there was ever a time to rely on tradition for an answer on where to go from here, it was now. Steven gathered the mantle in his arms, and made his way to the door leading to the hospital below. He limped and dragged his way down the stairwell slowly, pausing each time he thought he heard a door open, counting to one hundred before continuing his descent. Steven avoided focusing on anything in particular, ignored the throbbing in his leg, the shadows in the corners. Even the metal railings held reflections he didn’t want to see. He was most comfortable in a well lit board room, analyzing numbers and calculating budgets. He was most comfortable in a crowded gala, soft strings supplying a score for a night of charm and surface smiles. He was most comfortable next to Marlene, in a bed with a thread count he didn’t even know, didn’t care to know. Steven Grant didn’t frequent morgues.
He opened the door to the cold, tiled room. Polished metal doors surrounded him on all sides, and Steven was forced to face his own reflection, behind which dead bodies lay in wait. He didn’t recognize himself. The suit, the blood, the brother– they weren’t his. He couldn’t find himself there, the scene wasn’t his own. Steven was an understudy for an actor who didn’t show. He had to play the part.
He selected a body bag and made the gentle, careful transfer. An impasse was met– he couldn’t walk out of the hospital with a body bag, not in his condition. He had barely made it down the stairwell with his leg. A slow panic crept its way into his mind; he didn’t know who to call. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t call Frenchie, couldn’t ask Marlene. His connections were burned, the Avengers spurned Moon Knight. He couldn’t fly the chopper, neither could Marc, so all that was left was driving. Jake took over from there.
Jake found a window, and when it wouldn’t open he broke it. With utmost care, he lowered himself and the bag to the ground in the alleyway outside. He didn’t have a cab parked nearby, but he didn’t want to make the others handle it. For all it was worth now, he would get them home.
A car was acquired. He would return it, cleaned, good as new. Grant had the money. Right now, Lockley had a duty. The bag was laid in the backseat, and after stripping the wires and a little finessing for a minute, they were on their way to Grant’s. He took the fastest routes he knew, didn’t have the energy to turn on the radio. He made a call to the hospital asking after Frenchie and Marlene, confirming they were alright. They were fine, of course they were fine. The man hunting them was in the backseat of a stranger’s car. Calls, they would have to make calls. He needed to be buried in Chicago, soon. They needed a casket, a plot, a headstone, they needed discretion, they needed a grave. They needed a grave. He needed a grave.
He needs a grave . I don’t know– I don’t know who to ask– can we get him next to Elias? He should be buried next to Elias, right?
I’ll handle it, focus on the road. Steven looked put together in their mind, he always looked put together in their mind. They were bleeding, they were bruised, but he looked put together in their mind. Maybe Jake just couldn’t see him right.
You don’t– I know you handle the finances, Steven, but this seems different–
The road, Jake. I’ll handle it.
He got them home. They were safe, they were home, he did his job. He suffered his way up the stairs, carrying the bag with him. Jake put Randall down carefully on the bed, and Marc was triggered to the front–
“No, no no no, I– oh.” He collapsed next to the body bag, lying on his side and heaving. It was thirty minutes before Steven could regain control.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry–” He wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to. Marc? Randall? Jake, himself? Himself, himself–
He was supposed to take care of things like this. He would take care of this, he had to take care of Randall, he had to take care of them. Burial. He needed to take care of the burial.
It took five phone calls, three favors, and too much money, but they had a private flight to Chicago leaving in an hour, a casket waiting, a burial plot being prepared, and a death certificate in the works. Flint hadn’t been happy about the latter, but it must have been Steven’s tone of voice. He didn’t put up a fight. Now they just had to look vaguely presentable. Steven looked down at themselves– still in stained costume, left leg butchered, hands… his hands soaked. He cautioned a glance at the body bag still on the bed. Marc’s brother, their brother, still on the bed.
“Randall, I’m going to take a shower.” He wasn’t sure why he did that. “I’ll leave the door open, there’s supposed to be someone with you at all times. It’s the rules, something… I don’t know, something Elias would have known about.” He wasn’t sure why he did that either. He wasn’t sure why he actually left the door open as he moved to the shower. He handled the finances, he was presentable, he was a face to the force. He didn’t handle bodies. Steven Grant didn’t orchestrate funerals. It had always been Marc’s realm of expertise, but circumstances dictate. Circumstances.
He bandaged the leg, just temporary before he could get it properly fixed. He picked an appropriate suit, took him twice as long to tie the tie with his shaky hands. He hazarded another look at the bag.
“I would offer you a suit to borrow–” He cut himself off, sighed. He sat down next to Randall on the bed, placed his head in his hands. “I’m sorry.” Himself? “I’m so sorry.” Who else was there? He tried to gather himself, failed. He had to get them to the airport. They had to be on that plane. He was tired, he was so tired, and he couldn’t breathe right, he couldn’t breathe. “Please, I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t–”
Jake was back. He wasn’t sure why, things weren’t cohesive anymore, he couldn’t remember everything. He sighed, and collected Randall. Plane. He remembered a plane. If someone needed to get from point A to point B quickly, he was their man. He had another job, and he would do it. Just one task after the other. He would do it. He had to.
We should call someone, right?
The road, Jake. And I already called everyone, we’ll arrive in Chicago and head straight to the funeral home. They’re expecting us, and with a little under the counter funds, they allowed us to make the… the transfer, to the casket–
No, Steven, I’m not talking about logistics. I mean, should we invite someone. I know we don’t… there’s no one family-wise–
Jake, just focus on the road.
Would an Avenger show up?
Why would we invite an Avenger?
I don’t know, I just thought– someone should be there.
Who would even take our calls?
I don’t know. We could’ve checked out Frenchie–
He needs his recovery time.
Yeah, and we need him!
He can’t be at our beck and call every second. He needs rest.
So do we.
Just because– you know what, just focus on the road, will you? You’re drifting.
The roads were practically empty this time of night. They moved from one streetlight to the next, silence permeating the cab.
Captain America.
What?
We could call Captain America–
Why would Captain America come to– the road, just–
The road is clear, Steven! I could do this with my eyes closed. If he knows this is important–
This is not a Captain America situation.
He deserves someone there!
He’ll have us!
Not just him, I mean– Marc. Marc deserves someone there with him. We deserve someone there.
There was no reply. Streetlight to streetlight, shadow to shadow. Dust to dust.
The plane ride was quiet, uncomfortable. Jake shifted in his seat, the bag propped up in the seat next to him. He tried humming a tune, one that played in Gena’s diner often, too often. He always told her to change the station, but she had said– she had said– he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember, why couldn’t he remember? He gave up on humming.
He called the hospital again, even though he had called only two hours before. Jake had never spent much time with Marlene, personally, or Frenchie for that matter, but they mattered to Steven and Marc, so they mattered to him. He wouldn’t have minded sitting with them now. Frenchie in the cockpit, Marlene sitting across from him. What would she say to him now? What would they both say? Marlene had been at Elias’s funeral, had helped Marc through his father’s death. Frenchie, Frenchie had been with Marc at many a friend’s passing. And now, now. The nurse told him they were fine, Marlene was still sleeping, Frenchie watching a program. He thanked her and hung up.
“So…” Jake looked at the bag next to him. “They’re fine.” He tapped out a rhythm on the armrest, checked a watch Steven had put on. Maybe if he could see out the window… but Randall was in the window seat. He wasn’t sure why he had placed Randall in the window seat, why he sat next to him in the row, why he couldn’t just shift over to the row across, look out the window on the other side, but he couldn’t move. His hand clutched the smooth fabric of their slacks, bunching it up and releasing, bunching it up and releasing, over and over and–
You’re going to make wrinkles, Jake, we’ll look unprofessional.
Who else will see us, Steven?
Regardless, he smoothed out the fabric on the pant leg, turning again to Randall. He stared at the black body bag, surveying it critically, then turned away.
“Least we’re matching. Black, I mean.” Jake sighed. “I know you’re… well, you’re not technically my brother, are you? Are you?” He resumed tapping on the armrest. “Jake Lockley doesn’t have a brother. But we’re related. Were related.” He wished he had brought a book. Or a magazine. Or a friend. “I’m sorry, Randall. You– I– I don’t know what to do. I–” He had to calm down, had to settle down fast. The others didn’t need this right now. A to B. He was in control. Jake Lockley. A to B.
A car was waiting for them at the airport, courtesy of Steven Grant. Jake took the keys and thanked the driver for his time, paying him a tip and sending him on his way. The bag was placed in the backseat once more, and Jake drove them to the funeral home. He turned the radio on, then off, then on, then off again before they arrived at the home in the early hours of the morning. A singular attendant greeted them at the entrance, giving the body bag a wary look before guiding them to a back funeral parlor. She insisted they would not be bothered and said they would be waiting with a prepared hearse, and left the room quietly. Jake stood immobile before the casket.
“She probably thinks I’m gonna harvest your organs or something.” Jake tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out right. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I don’t…” He set down the body bag, the weight of Marc’s brother, their brother, only becoming real in its absence. “I don’t know… I don’t know what to do.” He looked from the body bag on the floor to the casket, beautifully stained wood, walnut maybe. He didn’t know. He sat down on the floor, next to the still unopened body bag.
He couldn’t ask Steven, much less Marc to do this. He would transfer Randall with care, he could do it. A to B. He had gotten them this far. A to B. He had to do this, the others couldn’t, he had to. A to B. He placed a hand on the zipper. A to B. He took a deep breath. A to B. He could do this. He had to do this. He needed to do this. A to B. A to B. A to–
Jake tugged the zipper down.
“Oh, shit.” He sat there staring at what was left of Randall Spector. He then ran to the nearest potted plant, and vomited. “Oh fuck,” He wiped his mouth on the suit sleeve, then cursed again. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry Steven, I– haha, oh, I—” Jake sunk to the ground, laughing and sobbing intermittently, clinging to the flower pot. It took him ten minutes to get a deep breath, five more minutes to work his way back to the body bag. Back to Randall.
A to B.
“Needless to say,” Jake coughed, wanted to spit but held it in, “you’ve looked better, brother.” He removed the suit jacket, folded it carefully and laid it on a nearby chair, unbuttoned the cuffs, and rolled up the sleeves.
“Cab driver,” he muttered, and began his work. One task after another.
It took over an hour to transfer Randall to the casket. Regular breaks were taken for vomiting and getting up the energy to resume. By the end, Jake was sufficiently covered in a cold sweat, hands coated in cold blood. He panted, breaths shallow and acidic, bile coating his mouth. Jake collapsed on the ground beside the now empty body bag.
“I– oh fuck, I did it. I did it.” He laughed lightly, then coughed. He looked around the empty parlor, his ghostly audience observing him analytically, reserved. “I did it,” he repeated, struggling to his feet. He limped over to a side table with a flower arrangement placed tastefully on top, which he removed and wiped his hands on the fabric below. “I’m done. I’m sorry, boys, I need a minute, I… fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Steven dressed them, and closed the casket.
The drive to the graveyard was a silent one. No radio, no phone calls, no one sided conversations. Steven had convinced the funeral home to let him drive the hearse alone, put down a deposit and an incentive just to get the keys. Jake offered to drive, but he didn’t know Chicago like he knew New York. Steven held the front.
It was nearly five in the morning when they arrived at Elias Spector’s headstone, the plot next to him open and ready. There was one attendant at the site, who had set up the casket lowering device. Steven paid him for his trouble, and to have his help carrying the casket. A look crossed the man’s face, of pity or suspicion Steven couldn’t tell. He didn’t say a word, just accepted the check and waited.
Marc, do you want to… listen, do you…
Marc stood before the hearse. The casket had been prepared, the ground opened. He placed a hand on the polished wood, dark and cold and smooth. He silently beckoned the grave digger, and together they carried the casket across the grass. The two of them were doing a six man job, but neither said a word to the other. They struggled, they stumbled, but the weight was carried. They placed him on the lowering mechanism, and the grave digger stepped back to observe. They both waited.
He stared at the casket, at the closest thing to his brother he’d ever see again. His father would have known what to say. Elias Spector, the Rabbi, he would have known the right words, the right passage, the right motions. But Elias Spector was three feet to the left, six feet down. There was no one else. There was only Marc now.
“So–” His voice faltered, wavered, broke. He cleared his throat. “So, this is it.” He looked up from the mesmerizing pattern of the wood grain to the foggy early Chicago morning sky. The graveyard was nearly empty, save the attendant, a silent sentry at a respectful distance, eyes downcast. They were far enough from the city that the sounds of morning traffic hadn’t begun to permeate the atmosphere. All that was left were birds. Neither the sun nor the moon hung above them. Open sky, as far as the eye could see.
“I didn’t get to tell you–” No. No, he couldn’t play that game. Years since they had seen each other, years of his brother presumed dead. He had mourned this death before. How was he supposed to start again? He wasn’t doing this right. He couldn’t do it right. There was nothing he could say now, nothing he could do. His brother, the last of his family, Randall Spector, was gone. He was dead.
“I never said–” It was too late. Too late to tell him, too late to ask forgiveness, to ask for second chances, to ask for his brother back. His brother was in his blood, his blood was his brother’s. They played together, ran together, fought together. And now he was to die alone. It didn’t add up, didn’t register. It wasn’t right.
“It should have been you, Randall.” Marc sniffed, didn’t dare return his gaze to the casket. “He should have chosen you, I wish he had. If I had known– fuck, I should have known. It should have been you. You’re my big brother, it’s not fair. I wish it had been you.” He couldn’t do this. Not to Randall. Not to him.
He looked at the casket, eyes settling on the woodgrain, on the cold simple fact of it all. He knelt before his brother, hand on the surface, head bowed.
“I see you, Randall. I see you now, I do. I’m sorry it took me so long, brother.” Hot tears welled, spilled down his face. “I see you, Randall. And I love you, of course I do. I was born loving you.”
There was no revenge to be had. No retribution, no retaliation. There was no emergency, no urgency, no one to save. Randall was dead. Marc had to keep going. Nothing but birds, and open sky.
“Did you see me?” Marc whispered, scared of what he was asking, scared he might get a reply. “Please, Randall, for a second, a moment, did you see me?”