[ Assuming she got his number after they successfully protected the motel from robbers or something, who knows. Being able to check in with friendly faces without actually having to see them is kind of a marvel, so it only takes One Heatwave before she's messaging Marc. ]
Hello, this is Lucina. I hope you've found a way to stay cool in the weather. [ If this reads awkward, it's because it is. ]
( marc, entirely contrary to any natural inclinations, has shared his (quote-unquote, rip to the poor soul who had it before him) number with a handful of people he's met over the course of INDETERMINATE NUMBER OF DAYS.
that doesn't mean he expects any kind of message, let alone anything to do with the weather. still— )
Hello, Lucina. ( he's great at casual textual communication. ) White's generally recommended as the color to wear in hot weather.
( three-piece suits though, marc? no, but he's going to ignore that. )
[ The downside of having long-distance communication become 'instant' overnight — she may or may not be staring at the phone until it buzzes. It's the novelty hasn't worn off yet, and it probably won't for some time. She's trying.
This doesn't mean her messages are coming any faster. ]
Is that so? I hadn't realized color had an effect on the temperature. [ Said the girl wearing blue from head to toe. She probably ditched the cape for the time being though, so she at least gets a tiny leg up over Marc on the practicality stand point. It's really not much.
But oh, she got ANOTHER MESSAGE while she was responding to the first one. ] I have been well, thank you for asking. The resort seemed to be cooler, though the lack of work made it difficult to justify any long term stay. [ And you know, the whole diffusion zone thing. But she's still learning about that, so. ]
( when it's put like that, marc's aware there's no real way of explaining that it doesn't affect the temperature per se, it can just make a difference in the sun, which isn't entirely an issue when your sleeping habits make you functionally nocturnal, and again: suit.
so— )
Light colors can make it more bearable.
But I've spent a lot of time in hot countries. Uncomfortable weather's nothing new. There's at least no sand here.
(better! don't make him admit his own impracticality. )
What do you call work?
( or: AGREED, even if it's quite clear that marc is not immediately thinking of TRADITIONAL OPPORTUNITIES FOR EMPLOYMENT. )
[ She notes the new information for later, the lack of relevance to Marc's circumstances or otherwise. She doesn't know he's basically nocturnal, why would she doubt him. ]
I see. Then I'm happy to hear it. [ She is. ]
Whatever I can find. There have been a number of advertisements for odd jobs around the city, to start. [ Nothing long term or stable, really. She's just slowly amassing funds. Getting used to everything. ] They have been helpful in allowing me to map out the area. There have been a small number of crescent moons I've found through it, as well.
None of the advertised jobs fit within my skillset. ( is it that, or is it that marc's a picky fucker? stay tuned.
but he doesn't miss the fact that her answer is less than specific, not that he knows her well enough to guess at whether it's indeliberate or inadvertent. ) And I know the risk in stretching yourself too thin.
The city's not friendly to everyone who ends up here.
But I'm glad you've found a way to make it work for you.
[ It's 100% because she's stupid and didn't think people would be actually interested in her days at the construction site. But the fact that Marc thinks she could have a good reason for doing so is very touching, thank you. ]
I'm not certain if I would go so far as to say I've made it work... There's still much for me to learn. [ Like learning multiple texts can form one coherent thought, unlike letters.
Using what she's just learned: ] Has the city not been kind to you?
(oh, that is absolutely not how he meant that at all, soβ )
It's been fine. ( by a certain definition of the term, anyway. he's definitely had worse experiences. ) I just meant between opportunists and ( honestly, if this were an iphone, this message would have that cute little typing bubble for longer than will seem strictly necessary once the message gets sent, purely on the basis of marc TAKING A MOMENT to decide on his preferred phrasing. ) however anyone ends up with enough beef to get their head caved in with a bowling ball.
[ Oh. Yeah, that. She frowns from her side of the screen, just a little. Not because of the wording ( any other time, she may have found it funny ), but because— ]
I'm not sure I follow. Was the excess meat the reason for the man's life being taken? [ I'm so sorry ]
[ ... ] I see. [ Why is it called beef, then... questions she'll never get the answer to. ] That was the incident over by the barbershop, was it not? It was a rather odd choice for a weapon... [ Said by someone who always carries a sword, thus never having this problem. ( She does not murder people. Mostly. ) ]
( marc is truly not the man to ask for explanations of anything. )
Not if you want to make sure it hurts. Or if you want people to know exactly what's going to happen to them if they make the same mistake.
Most people don't want to get stabbed or shot, but there's always a chance it's going to be quick. A bowling ball's messy.
That's to make a point.
( marc also (mostly) does not murder people (these days) (unless he's angry) (or very upset) (so it does still happen), but he is very familiar with using unconvential weapons.
and for blunt force trauma, when he hasn't wanted to use his truncheon, a baseball bat has always been a favourite. )
[ There's a pause — longer than all the other pauses up until this point — that has her consider the implications of what all of that means. Someone wanted to kill a man with a heavy, blunt object, and wanted it to hurt. It needed to send a message.
This isn't a war, where death is a constant, looming force; where each life is simultaneously precious but also another body to add to the pile. There are many fallen soldiers — comrades, until they weren't — she remembers the faces of, but not always how they fell. This wasn't in battle. The victim may have been involved, but— ]
Have you visited the scene yet? [ Maybe it is worth a trip, after all. ]
( his first answer is 'no' because despite everything, despite how he's been better on that front — reese, soldier, badr, greer and even jeff — dying has thrown a spanner in the works. not knowing and being alone has left him unmoored, and his first instinct is to withdraw, to adopt his perpetually comfortable I'M BETTER ALONE mindset, even if—
even if he knows that's not actually true. he's always been worse alone.
the no. I'm fine, thank you. that he'd typed but hadn't got as far as sending gets deleted and replaced by a— )
[ He can't see it, but there's a tiny little smile on her face at the agreement.
( If he hadn't agreed, she'd have made sure he would have had someone going with him anyway. He's right, the city isn't a kind one. That goes for him as much as it does anyone else, and how much or little she knows all the faces she's met in the last few weeks doesn't change that she wants them to be alright. ) ]
I'm available now if you are. It should not take me long to get there.
[ It's late enough in the evening that caffeine is probably ill-advised, but— ]
Only if it would not be out of your way. Thank you. [ Otherwise, that's the last message from her; she's a responsible driver who uses both hands on the wheel, she's not going to be texting and driving.
The Pulq-Esth Barbershop has yellow tape running across the entrance, but the shop is abandoned otherwise. Whatever law enforcement have already come and gone with no real interest in returning. No one to enforce the comings or goings of nosy individuals, if they want to look at the bloodstain on the ground.
She's ducking under the tape to try the door by the time Marc comes around. It is, unsurprisingly, unlocked — but she finds that surprising, apparently, blinking at the knob before she looks around. That's when she spots him. ] Oh. [ Hi. ] ... I thought we'd have to find another way inside.
( it may be evening, but thanks to his tendency to sleep only for a few hours in the afternoon, marc hasn't been awake all that long. while he could go without coffee, he'd prefer not to, and so he's not surprised to see that lucina's already there when he turns up. his motorbike's been parked elsewhere, and he has in his hands two to-go cups of not great coffee, but it is coffee and that's all that matters.
in contrast to their first meeting, marc is not dressed all in white. it's thanks to necessity, not choice — he still presently only has the one suit versus the multitude he'd owned at home, and getting rid of stains is unfortunately not as easy as it had been. so where lucina's first meeting with marc had been more a mr. knight affair, this is all marc spector — a black turtleneck that's a little faded, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; the closest thing to tac pants he'd been able to find (also black), and boots.
it's not his preference, but beggars can't be choosers, so here he is.
he looks to her for only a beat, his attention quickly sliding away towards the windows of the building. unsurprisingly, there are no lights on inside, but it's easy to tell that there's no coating to the glass — if there'd been anyone around, they'd have seen what had happened. visibility, the chance of being recognised — none of it was a deterrent.
or at least, that's what marc assumes.
he holds out a cup, two sachets of white sugar (just in case!) balanced carefully on top, for lucina to take before he ducks under the yellow tape, glancing at her other hand still curled around the doorknob before— ) I can pick locks. ( a simple, blunt statement of fact — not thin, not grim, just an admission that gaining entry wasn't a concern that'd occurred to him at all. he doesn't add that he doesn't usually need to do it — his preferred method of entering locked buildings tends to be less subtle, more akin to their last meeting but, you know, he can do it. )
The coffee's black. No milk, ( he adds as he steps inside, free hand going instinctively to one side of the door, then the other as he searches for a light switch.
(he might spend a lot of time in the dark, but that doesn't mean he can see very well in low lighting. he's still just a man.) )
[ Why are both of them the type to wear turtlenecks in the middle of a fucking heatwave; does the impracticality of it all know no bounds? Apparently not. They're both wearing turtlenecks. Her's is navy. Her tunic and pauldrons and cape are gone now that she's had long enough to establish that the city isn't under constant threat of ambushes, a more pared down version of what she's arrived in. She's still got the sword at her side, the strap of the sheathe over her chest and shoulder, fastened with a belt around her hip.
Baby steps on the blending in with the locals front, apparently. It doesn't look like she minds either way, taking the coffee from him with a quiet 'thank you'. She pockets the sugar packets for later — she'll find a use for it at some point — and lets the door swing side open for the two of them to enter.
She blows into the tiny hole at the top of the lid, hoping to cool it down before she takes a sip. She scans from one end of the space to other as she does, though. To note—
Some of the furniture ( mostly the barber chairs ) seem to have been rearranged when they took the corpse, but the remainder of it seems well-preserved... enough. In that there's still blood stains ( long dried, flaking ) and scuff marks on the ground. A low table by some couches has been left askew. Her gaze drops down to her feet. ]
... No one entered via force. [ Both her hands are on the coffee cup now, and she's shuffled off to the side to try and take everything in. It's about now she finally takes a careful sip of coffee. The abundance of caution means that her tongue isn't burned. ] But there appears to have been an altercation nonetheless.
[ She nods toward the furniture markings. A moment later— ] You mentioned that they would want to send a message. [ What kind? is the unspoken question. ]
( marc has pointed out to reese that he's not much of a detective. he'd positioned mr. knight as a concerned citizen, someone capable of assisting the cops (mostly detective flint) only because moon knight had been a wanted criminal, while he thinks that marc spector is still a wanted war criminal.
the facade had ceased around the same time that flint had retired, around the same time that ryan trent had opted to become the black spectre (number two) — no-one else on the so-called FREAK BEAT had the patience to pretend that they weren't aware that mr. knight was moon knight was marc spector, particularly after the age of khonshu. but — but — the separation in identities and costumes had stuck: moon knight was for the violence (mostly — at least, whatever was planned), whilst mr. knight was the one that invited conversation.
neither of them were designed with investigation in mind — and it's not anything that marc had bothered with as far as formal employment went.
but it is thanks to his own lifestyle that he notes the scuff marks first, before giving the flaking red-brown of dried blood his attention. he lifts his head, looks towards the main window, then the door, then the other door, the one that leads to the ubiquitous BACK. he'd guess it's not much more than a glorified cupboard — mop, broom, vacuum and whatever other cleaning supplies a barber needs, and maybe a through-line to an alley.
when lucina stops speaking, he mms around a mouthful of coffee, his footsteps as he circles the room uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the evening, but there's no indication whether his utterance is to her first remark, or the start of an answer to her second. at length— )
It was personal, ( he states. what does he have to back up that belief? the fact that a fucking bowling ball was used as the murder weapon. that's not impersonal. ) Probably thought that if he let them in, it'd go better for him.
( the low thrum of threat, intimately familiar.
"you mentioned they'd want to send a message," she'd said, and it'd been a question without a question mark.
his gaze settles on her, level and firm. he doesn't know if she means it as an echo of their first meeting and marc's own given reasoning for the crescent moon left on the door. ) Power's built on currency. Sometimes that's money, sometimes that's fear. All of it's word-of-mouth and belief.
If people don't think you're willing to back up what you're promising, you've got nothing — and this is a place with enough debts owed. ( a breath. ) You show how far you're willing to go, fewer people are willing to push.
[ The life she led usually had her be the one doing the killing, as opposed to investigating one. Purely out of necessity; the alternative was the end of her own life. War does not take kindly to hesitation. Neither does the ruin of a country. There's no complicated motive behind two opposing forces, no elaborate plan behind a soldier's death on the battlefield. It either happens, or it doesn't.
But the skills are transferable, she realized at some point. Reading the flow of battle means she has to watch how the environment changes after a strike from a weapon. How many villages had she walked through before she started connecting the bandits to the raids? ( If someone told her she'd be in a barbershop investigating a murder on a completely different world back then, she would have been convinced they'd gone mad. )
She doesn't know much about motives or the message that's being sent or the why as a whole, but she doesn't need it to understand the what. Her eyes trace the path of both the victim and the assailant ( one? Perhaps two— ) before the final blow was struck. Notes the way the blood has splattered, to see if someone used something that wasn't a bowling ball. None of it is a perfect science, but it's information nonetheless.
There's another sip from her coffee, as her gaze finally returns to meet Marc's. Takes a second to reorient her perspective based on what he's saying — Emmeryn's death was a message as well; an exhibition of power to show how far Gangrel was willing to go. The thought nets her a deep furrow of her brows, the muscles in her jaw tensing. ]
And the reports would announce their ... resolve. To whoever the message was intended for. [ Suddenly, she can't help but wonder if the identity of Billy Yrix even mattered in all of this. The next exhale through her nose is harsh.
Lucina glances back towards the mirrors, eyes narrowing at the splatters of blood that made it that far. There's a tilt of her head towards it, in case Marc hasn't caught it himself. At the same time— ]
The Runners that were supposedly behind all of this — do you have something similar where you're from?
( he follows the tilt of her head. it's ugly, the arcing pattern of the blood — mirrors, glass, walls. it's one of those things like sand, only more insidious, that seeps and sinks into crevices and corners you can't begin to imagine, and each time you think you've managed to wash it all out, you find more. it's been a long time since marc's had to worry about sand, but blood? he knows well enough that he'll never be able to wash himself clean, and he doubts that whoever did this will be able to either.
he's willing to hedge bets on three — two inside, one to do the deed, one to stop anything going south, and a third at a door, though he can't begin to guess at whether that'd more likely be the front entrance or the rear.
he lets her question hang between them as he makes his way to the other door. much like the entrance, this one's unlocked, and there's a soft click of the latch as he pulls it open. the smell of damp greets him first — a mop left to dry, a bucket still containing remnants of water — and then the slight draught of the outside filtering in through a poorly insulated door.
no signs that entry had been forced through this door either, nor that anything's been disturbed — at least, not overtly, and marc looks back over his shoulder. )
Yes.
( he leaves the door open and strides back to the rearranged barber chairs. he looks from one to the second to the third, seemingly assessing before he inhales a breath and, quite suddenly, chooses to sit on the third. he doesn't recline, it's more of a perch — marc doesn't look as if he knows the definition of the word 'relax', and he rests his arms on his knees, weight and centre of gravity forward, coffee cup held perhaps surprisingly delicately between both hands. )
I usually don't bother with them unless they're causing problems. They keep to themselves, stay out of my territory, then we don't have any reason to meet. Most of them prefer it when I don't want anything from them.
( there's a breath of a pause and marc sits up, just a touch, almost as if he's deliberately loosening a fraction of the tension that seems to sit almost permanently within his skin. )
Besides, there are other people who help keep the streets safe. ( it's oddly dismissive in tone, not quite light, but as close to an 'and anyway!' as marc's gotten. ) The problem with here is I'm still learning. It's been a while since I've had to build from the ground up.
( —well, that's not quite true. he's had to work at rebuilding his reputation several times over, but that's quite different to starting from scratch. )
Edited (lol word repetition) 2025-06-15 12:44 (UTC)
[ She follows — at a distance — when he opens the back door. The rest of the salon really is unremarkable, save for the way the blood will seep into every nook and cranny at this point. The grout between the tiles are already stained. No amount of cleaning will save it — especially if they don't take care of their supplies. Which they aren't, judging from the smell.
It's not going to stop her from stepping into the room after Marc leaves though — Lucina beelines straight for the door, trying the knob. This one is locked. Nothing else in the room looks like it's been jostled the way the front of the shop is.
She frowns. So they entered in through the front — were let in, willingly — then had no issues leaving through the same way. Yet no one cares enough to determine the killer.
She closes the door behind her when she returns, walking over until she's standing by the first chair. Her back is to the mirror — her head turns just enough to face him, but occasionally her eyes dart over towards the window on the other side of her. There's the occasional passerby ( completely apathetic to the fact that the building someone was murdered in is lit and there are people inside, apparently ), but it's quiet otherwise. Old habits just die hard. ]
But you wish to do the same here? Keep it safe? [ There's no judgement that colors her tone, just curiosity. ] What is it that you're building from the ground up?
( he listens to lucina's questions without fixing his gaze on her. it helps where, like reese and like soldier, lucina doesn't question marc in a way that implies there's something disagreeable about his approach. he knows quite well that his judgement isn't always sound, that he needs people to remind him of where lines lay and when he's about to cross them, but the benefit of moon knight is that his lines are quite different to almost everyone else's. he's afforded himself that much. )
Moon Knight has a reputation, ( he answers first. it doesn't seem to occur to him that he hasn't mentioned who moon knight is — or, if it has, he seems to think lucina will guess he's referring ostensibly to himself. ) A mission.
( it's at that, that his gaze does flicker up to meet hers. it's fleeting, punctuated by a mouthful of coffee. he knows he'd mentioned khonshu, but he hadn't exactly explained anything beyond that and, instead of continuing, he stands and makes his way to the window. panorama isn't new york and it's not chicago. it's nowhere he knows, but it manages to be familiar in texture and feel, and he hasn't managed to reach a conclusion on whether that's a good thing or not. )
I told you, Khonshu protects the night's travellers. ( it's said to the reflection of lucina in the glass, his gaze raised enough to be able to watch the few details that are mirrored. ) And for that, he needs a fist.
( it lingers, not quite awkwardly, but for long enough that's clear that marc's thinking about how to continue, how to actually give an answer to her question.
abruptly, then— )
—Marc Spector owes more than one debt. The one I owe to Khonshu came long before whatever Yom Crook thinks he's owed, and none of what's to be paid has changed just because I'm here. ( is what he settles on, turning back to her. (NAILED IT.) (don't mind the fact that it's all questionable as far as answering the questions lucina's actually posed — marc thinks they're answers enough.)
that apparently done, with barely a breath of a pause for lucina to interject, he follows up with, ) There's nothing to be found here. ( or, nothing he can do anything with, anyway. ) If they took the bowling ball from the alley next door, someone there will be able to give more information. ( beat. hmm. ) Unless they've been asked not to.
[ She's in no position to start questioning people yet — there's so much she doesn't know. The whole city is full of people who have led wildly different lives, from the circumstances they were born into to the technology they had at their fingertips. She would be a fool if she were to disagree on the principle that things didn't make sense to her.
No better way to learn than listen, after all. And listen she does. Marc may not be the most straightforward, but the gist of it is there for her to follow once she's knit her brows together. Take a sip of her coffee. Thinks of the crescent moon spray painted on the door, the debt that caused him to take up a mantle. The reputation and the mission he's trying to build, in order to continue to act as an extension of a higher being's will ( or ... at least that's what she thinks is the answer to her question; it makes sense, anyway ).
Suddenly, viscerally, she's aware of the weight at her hip.
( The people of Panorama are not Naga's to watch over. Her mantle is not a debt, but an exchange; an agreement between two parties passed on from generation to generation. One — if she were to be particularly harsh about it — she failed to uphold in its original terms, only barely managing to scrape by with a second chance that costed her home. Where does that leave her now? Ylisse is safe, but she's not in Ylisse. The mark on her eye is still here and the sword has not suddenly become dull in her hands. What will is there for her to carry, here? )
She releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. He's looking at her expectantly, and that's enough for her to set all of it aside. ] ... Right. [ A beat to clear her throat, then— ] Some of the nearby shops may be familiar with Billy Yrix as well. [ They don't know who did it, but they do know who died. She walks over to the front door to pull it open, holding it for Marc. ]
We can still begin at the bowling alley — if they cannot tell us about the weapon, then perhaps they'll be speak on who he was.
( it doesn't occur to marc that lucina might get some of it in her own way. he hasn't explained enough for her to piece it together — not strictly out of reluctance, though there's a thread of it, but because he wouldn't know where to begin. his death in the sudan had been an inevitability — if it hadn't been at raul's hands, it'd have been someone else, someone similar.
he hadn't been a kind, gentle man, and he hadn't deserved a kind, gentle death. still doesn't, he thinks, and he's yet to know one — drowning, explosions. dehydration and blood loss, thanks to the courtesy of being stabbed and left alone. khonshu had been a choice, and marc will never argue that it wasn't a choice, as much as the circumstances had been poor — elias would never have given up his covenant with god and marc had, that's all there was to it. he'd chosen to live, chosen an existence that furthered his dedication to everything that'd set him on a path separate to his heritage.
and how do you say I am who I am because I made bad choices without it sounding a kind of brag? you don't. there's nothing of marc spector here in panorama, no news reports or clippings, no records, no anything that tells of who he was before khonshu, and how he'd struggled since. the mistakes.
what he gives her now is as best he can manage.
perhaps once she meets moon knight, perhaps once the delineations between him and mr. knight and marc are clear.
'what I'm doing here, I'm doing because I have nothing else.' that's what it comes down to: marc has no idea who he is without moon knight, no matter how often he's wished he could bury moon knight all the way down in the same way he (they'd—) tried to smother marc, back when it was steven-and-marlene, back when they (he'd) tried to argue that moon knight was an unemotional, impassive tool of vengeance. marc had too many emotions, that's always been his problem—.
and so, much like lucina, he says nothing of it. instead, he hums. it's a noise that's part acknowledgement, part consideration at her suggestion. abruptly, he thinks that this — hitting the streets — is far more of a jake affair, and his fingers press tighter into the cardboard sleeve encircling his coffee cup. not now, not here, not yet, and he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. )
I'm not interested in the weapon, ( he remarks instead, brows knitting together momentarily. ) I want to know how it was taken. ( if it was asked for and given freely, if it was snatched. if there was a game of pretence, or if this kind of thing was expected.
where lucina might be surprised by the lack of interest and shock in billy yrix's death, marc very much is not.
he wavers in the doorway for a minute before acknowledging, tone a little softer, ) —But asking at other establishments is a good shout. Give us more of an idea of what kind of person he was, whether or not he had it coming.
[ What are either of them without their sense of purpose, anyway? There's a mission in front of them — self-appointed or otherwise — and that's where her focus should be; not on the feeling of the rug being pulled out under her feet. Her work is done. Ylisse is safe. If nothing else, she should be happy. There's nothing that needs to be done anymore.
And yet she finds being here — away from home — a blessing. Even worse, she doesn't want to. Her new circumstances are enough to keep the aimlessness at bay, but it's not entirely gone; it's that reminder that she can't seem to shake off, all of a sudden. And it's not that Lucina's not envious of his certainty, but—
She really does need to stop thinking about it.
Back to the present, properly this time. She shakes her head for good measure, finishing the last of her coffee while she comes to terms with everything he's said. ]
I suspect he's not one who will be missed. [ No one's honoring his death. No cries for justice, for revenge. She's careful to close the door behind them as they leave, eyes scanning the sidewalk for a place to throw out her empty paper cup. ] Though I suppose that in itself will be telling.
( marc didn't think he'd ever miss his iphone, but it's only after he sends the response that he's aware of 1. how blunt it is, and 2. that she'll have no idea he's typing an addendum.
(does he even want to attempt to explain it?) (no.) )
It's not like that.
( —eh, it kind of is, kind of isn't. it's the excuse he's given on occasion, but it's not the reason for it. the reason is 'if I go by mr. knight, then I don't need to be marc spector', but that's not really something a person just says. )
But who a person asks for gives me an idea of what they want.
( it sounds like a lot of work. his explanation doesn't really explain much to her, other than the fact that maybe marc just like being complicated about these things; she barely knows the guy, so who knowsβ )
okay.
( not quite nailed... but it passes. on to what she contacted him for: )
my roommate made a lot of extra dessert-y things. do you want some? with tea?
Sure. ( it's ... not quite the truth. he doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, and he tends to eat for function over pleasure, but being impolite isn't really the image he wants to cultivate. ) If you don't win me over on the merits of tea, the dessert will make up for it.
( wanda finds herself riding her bike up to the lodges; it's not too far from her own motel, just some streets down, but it's good practice for her driving and she needs to make a run to the laundromat afterwards. stopping her bike on the allocated parking lot of the motel in question, wanda gets off and walks to the entrance proper. she's got a backpack (with said laundry) and a tote bag on her shoulder for Tea Time.
she sees marc, steps up to him. )
Mr Knight.
( βshe's kidding, but it's still said in the form of a greeting. )
( he starts to type out a response, an acknowledgement that no, she didn't, but who else gives a shit about whether dessert goes with tea? but then the 'see you soon' comes on through, and he doesn't bother.
he wouldn't have guessed that she'd ride a motorbike — some kind of estate feels like it'd suit her more, but he wouldn't be able to say why.
in contrast to the first time she'd met him, and perhaps a little more in-line with the whole MR KNIGHT thing, marc's dressed in an all-white three-piece, complete with fussy crescent moons serving as cufflinks and buttons on his waistcoat. it's not as pristine as he'd like — at home, he'd had the benefit of owning more white suits than he'd ever, ever admit to, while here it's presently just the one.
still, it speaks to a certain image, an impression that's typically slightly beyond marc. truth be told, it's a little more steven grant, but steven's never really cared for moon knight, and so— )
Wanda. ( marc, steven, the minimally elaborated upon 'mr. knight', it barely matters. that working-class chicago accent is still present in the vowels, in the way he says her name. in spite of himself, it's not distant — it's effusive, more of a 'hello' than he'd admit.
his gaze shifts to the bag, notable, but he says nothing; a beat, he looks to the bike. it's a lingering glance, although for now he doesn't say anything. he'll offer later, if she wants. )
( white makes sense in this hellish weather. it's definitely better than wanda's choice of wear of jeans and a shirt, but she isn't looking to fight off the heat when she opted for the last few of her cleans clothesβwanda just wanted to have something clean to wear.
his pausing, as if building up to what he wants to say, makes her wait for a moment before shrugging and nodding, following him towards his motel room. )
βthe all white's a look. Very... what's the word, elegant?
( white would make sense, if it were linen. if he insisted on less layers. as it is, he wears a shirt and a waistcoat, the jacket otherwise draped over a chair back in his room. dress pants. chelsea boots. gloves. all of it the very opposite of practical, all of it designed for an impression more than practicality. fortunately for him, he's used to spending time in hot countries, and he's used to spending time in locales that are humid. slightly less fortunately, it doesn't mean that he's impervious to sweat, doesn't mean it doesn't affect him, and in spite of himself, there's a dampness to the way his hair curls across his forehead, a slight frizziness, an altogether air of less put-together than he'd like.
it's punctuated by half a glance over his shoulder when wanda speaks. ) I was hoping for approachable. ( compared to moon knight, it likely is.
compared to anything and anyone else, bereft of reputation— well, wanda's assertion is likely more on the nose.
he unlocks the room he's rented with a soft click of the key. the inside is tidy, almost impersonal but for a few plants, placed close to the singular window and on a surface that serves both as desk and whatever-other flat table one might require. the kitchenette is small, but marc wouldn't opt for much else even if he could afford it. )
Mr. Knight's a priest, ( he offers, belated and in answer to a question she hasn't asked, but the one he thinks she means by her statement, the one she probably has after her 'I thought this was [Specter]' remark. )
( she mutters with a light chuckle, hiding it away behind a hand should he turn his head to question her about her retort. there's no doubt in wanda's mind that he's older than herself, with at least a decade of life experience over her own, and that much makes her feel a bit juvenile.
the last thing she wants to do, though, is to say something that he may consider disrespectful.
approachable or not, however, wanda feels comfortable enough to enter his rented room without worry or hesitation. marc doesn't say to make herself at home, but wanda does, anyway, setting her backpack down against the wall and taking the tote bag towards the kitchenette without prompting.
(the plants are a cute touch, she should ask where he's gotten themβ)
she turns to attention, halfway through removing some cups, small plates, and a container with the aforementioned dessert. )
A priest? ( uh, ) And this isn't an undercover thing you're doing?
(sweatpants and a shirt earns a look, longer and more doubtful than he intends it, more indicative of his opinion than he'd ever put into words. it's not that marc's ever been a fashionable man — his definition of comfortable attire has always sat firmly around 'utilitarian', but more 'cargo pants' than 'sweatpants', and he thinks he's just a touch too old for the era that accepts them as appropriate for day-to-day.
but it puts them on a level-pegging, where wanda thinks he's that much older than she is and he thinks she's that much younger than him, the sort where she's an age that puts him at ease for teasing — more reese than an honest-to-god peer, and so while the incredulity sits, it doesn't linger, it doesn't become more than that, not even as wanda begins to unpack her bag. )
No. ( he assumes that by 'undercover', she means 'secret identity'. ) If I wanted to do that, no-one would know my name. Marc Spector would be a dead man. ( his attention lingers on the cups, and he almost mentions that he has some of his own, that it bringing them was unnecessary before it hits him that maybe that's the point.
instead, then, he shifts his weight. instead, he busies himself with cracking open the window, just enough for the lightest of breezes to make itself known. quite abruptly, he asks— ) What dessert?
( what wanda has gathered from marc is that he's very serious about this particular thing. there are moments of nuance, of amusement and obvious teasing, butβ )
I still have no clue why 'Mr Knight' is different from 'Marc Spector', and you're not really answering, so...
( she can assume what she wants. with a shrug, she hopes she transmits to him that she doesn't need an answer. it's just mildly confusing. which is why she gets back to something that isn't as confusing, which is setting down the teacups and small plates in some semblance of order on the counter, the container with the dessert set aside from now, and looking for the electric kettle most motel rooms have. )
It's difficult to get quality ingredients for delicate desserts, apparently, but β we made krofne. They're like doughnuts, but better in my opinion.
( they're small for the size of a donut, but she brought an assortment of them: covered in powdered sugar, some of them having a homemade marmalade filling, while others with a normal egg custard because 'that's a staple' according to her chef-y roommate.
once she finds the electric kettle, she turns back to him. )
Do you have bottled water for the tea?
( apparently this is a very straight-to-the-point tea time. )
(it's complicated is not quite the truth of it, but explaining requires going into more details than marc's inclined towards, and so her remark earns a look. it's level, not especially irritated, but it is punctuated by a brief twitch of his lips, consideration evident before settling into watchfulness as she unpacks her bag. he almost points out that he has mugs — a whole two! — she didn't need to bring them, but evidently mugs are different to teacups and so the remark hangs unsaid, albeit briefly visible in his expression.
instead, he turns to the small fridge in one corner of the room. it's poorly stocked by almost all metrics, but water is one of the few items marc has in near-abundance. he grabs one and holds it out to her.
it's at length, belated when he says, ) With everything you know about Marc Spector, how comfortable would you be going to him for anything that requires a delicate touch? ( it's blunt, a little pointed, and wanda will discover that marc is greatly serious about a great many things. humour's the rarity, infrequent and often difficult to discern, while answering things is also not a skill he has in spades, not in the way that most people expect answers. he tends towards circular, to answers that make sense to his internal logic and little else.
still.
his attention turns to the krofne almost immediately, as if that's the end of it for him, too. ) They look like, (sufganiyot, is what he almost says, the comment slipping out in spite of himself, gentle surprise evident in his tone and the abrupt way he pauses before, ) Something my parents would make when I was a kid. ( barely a beat, a deliberate, conscious choice, and, ) Jelly?
wanda grabs at the water bottle that he holds on, considering it'll be enough for their tea purposes. she wishes she had an actual tea pot, but it's not something she's yet managed to find. she purses her lips, twisting open the lid of the bottle, and filling up the electric kettle, turning it on and waiting for it to boil, leaving the empty bottle by the sink. )
I don't know that I'll ever go to either Marc Spector or Mr Knight for anything.
( right now, this? this is just tea.
what a strange man. but maybe it's that weirdness that wanda feels familiar and comfortable with, because she herself sticks out like a sore thumb wherever she goes. nowβ maybe this is what it's like to be in a sea of similar-like people. even if marc is definitely a lot stranger than her, that she won't fight him about, nor will she admit to.
rather, the surprise he shows at the treats she has brought is enough to dissuade her from wanting to 'argue' with him about these things, focusing instead on what's simple. )
βno, we decided to use orange marmalade this time. It's pretty nice.
( jelly, she will have to keep that in mind for later. she knows what he means: strawberries, plums, cherries, rhubarb... those would have been ideal, but there is so much they can get here. )
We had these a lot for Hannukkah. ( wanda doesn't seem to realize she is saying 'we', referring to her brother, still. ) We β stopped celebrating it, without our parents, but... It isn't an uncommon treat where I'm from.
( she grabs at the container, holds it out for him. )
I was going to have you wait until the tea was ready, but you can β try one. Please do.
( yes, he is talking about himself in the third person, it's fine, it's just a thing he does sometimes. but wanda doesn't draw attention to it (thankfully), and so neither does marc need to try to come up with an explanation as to why. instead, there is, just for a moment, a thin sliver of a smile when she says she doesn't think she'd ever approach marc or mr. knight for anything, and he can't help but think that's because she knows neither of them, not really.
it's not so much that he stills when she mentions hanukkah — marc isn't a man prone to fidgeting, but there's a noticeable lack of anything, punctuated by a shift of his head. his gaze settles, appraising, like he's rethinking his opinion of her, his response. it's not the we, it's not even the way she hesitates before 'stopped', nor is it the admission of being an orphan.
he plucks one from the container, with a delicacy that's not quite intrinsic, not quite characteristic, except for— ) Sufganiyot, ( he concedes. it's not awkward, not really. there's a deep familiarity in how he says the word, either with hebrew or yiddish or both, and it's an admission he hadn't planned on making. ) My father was a rabbi. ( it's what he offers instead of a 'me too' at the mention of hanukkah.
there's something shared there, in the we stopped celebrating, although marc wouldn't know how to put it into words. he stopped celebrating. he doesn't know what randall did, not really, not between joining the marines and dying. he recalls a barbeque held when they were children, where randall had picked up hot dogs from a refrigerator without reading the ingredients, where their mother had scolded randall for picking up something that wasn't kosher, and marc for not keeping a better eye on his younger brother.
it was the sort of mundane moment that'd seemed unimportant at the time, the sort of thing that marc had managed to forget until now.
he exhales a breath, and it's more weighted than he means it to be when he says, ) Thank you, ( a krofne held up to his mouth, slightly muffling the gratitude. )
( he had mentioned something like it. about his father sounding like the way she talks, likely from somewhere in central or eastern europe; there's a pause at the familiarity, then, of something that had belonged to her family but had been robbed, amidst the bombs and deaths and being made an orphan. it is hard to believe in a benevolent god when, at the age of ten, she lost everything but her life, and just barely. it was easier to put her faith in the teachers and nurses at the orphanage, at the scary soldiers from sokovia's militia who promised to liberate their country. )
Oh.
( is all she manages to say, placing the container down on the counter again. the water in the kettle bubbles, but doesn't boil, yet.
strange, really, to find another similarity with marc or spector or mr knight, or however he wants to go byβ wanda nods at his muffled gratitude, waiting for him to taste the krofne proper, give her his verdict about it. )
My brother, Pietroβ ( a heavy pause, before she bolsters forward, ) he also preferred the ones with jelly.
( there's a point, marc thinks, when potential coincidences stop being coincidences. she says pietro, and marc's gaze, sharp, rests on her for a beat too long before he redirects his attention.
(maximoff. she must be, even if she's not the one he knows—. how many now? a handful. perhaps nothing notable, not really, but it's worth keeping in mind.)
the krofne's good. sweet, and a little sticky against his fingers, but that was to be expected. he wordlessly manoeuvres around wanda to search out a paper napkin, both to wipe the sugar from his hands and in case the marmalade threatens to spill out when he takes another bite. the dull plastic click of the kettle lets them know that the water's boiled, and he glances towards it abruptly.
he could share that randall would eat anything he was given, that he wasn't that picky, but marc and randall's relationship had been difficult, fractious, marred by jealousy and misunderstandings. it's not the sort of thing to offer in return. )
Mm. ( a hum, low andappreciative, before he swallows and places the half-eaten krofne down on the napkin. ) It's good.
( the lingering stare catches her a little off-guard, but theres nothing she can quite pick up on before he's moving around to grab for a paper napkin. she glances at him, almost expecting him to say something more, hands close together on the counter as her shoulders hunch in expectationβ
then there's the kettle clicking, and wanda's attention is stolen away towards it. she starts by placing a tea bag in each cup, then filling them up with water from the kettle, and waits in the awkward silence... until he says something. )
I told you ( she repeats now, ) the base flavor of the krofne was made with the tea's flavor in mind. They're going to compliment each other.
( you'll see!
she turns her attention towards the table, then moves the tea cups there, then looks back up at the plants opposite. )
You said, yeah. ( he hasn't forgotten! he's just not entirely convinced on just how much he is going to enjoy the tea. ) But for what it's worth, my jar of coffee claims it has, ( he raises a hand, the corners of his mouth twitching as he makes finger quotes and adds, ) 'Sweet, fruity notes'. ( the jury's out on how true that is — most of the time, it just tastes like a cup of hot, but as far as marc's concerned, that's fine.
but, you know, the krofne could complement that, too, is the implication.
at her question, though, he follows her gaze. the plants are nothing special, nothing compared to the assortment marc had back in new york. where once he — steven more than marc, although there'd been an element of him, too — had collected art, primarily as an easy way to deal with finances, marc no longer has the wealth for it to matter. plants have served as something of a replacement, a distraction, something to focus his attentions on that isn't BEING MOON KNIGHT.
besides, they require less attention than, say, a pet.
here and now, they're the closest he gets to a personal touch. he veers between being intensely, deliberately utilitarian, with little interest in anything that gives an impression of marc spector, and leaning towards ostentatious drama in terms of furnishings and decor, not dissimilar to the overstated white suit-and-moon details. )
Have you been to any of the parks? ( much of the city's greenery is overgrown, more weeds than flowers, but marc isn't especially fussed by the what, and it's hinted at in the way he offers a small lift of a shoulder before speaking. )
( maybe marc's coffee will work just as well in tandem with the krofne, but, in the same vein of stubbornness, wanda is trying to prove a point here with the idea of teatime. of the fact that it is a shared experience, a moment of coming together, enjoying the company, and leaving with a feeling of warm connection after the fact.
maybe she's also chasing ghosts, and marc is now forced to be part of this chase just because he was willing to ply to the idea of tea. )
I have.
( wanda fixes the cups further still, filling them up with the hot water, and tapping at the seconds with a finger on the counter. she doesn't need to pay a lot of attention to it, though, glancing instead at him. )
I know they're mostly overgrown, but I didn't think the soil would be good to use in a pot. ( she isn't a plant expert, obviously. in any case, ) You didn't seem the type.
( to have a green thumb. not that she knows him well enough!
picking up the cups, wanda maneuvers her way over to the small table in the room to start setting down the elements for tea. she'll bring the krofne shortly after, busying herself with the small elements of this. )
Ground can be made fertile. (well. it's evidence enough that wanda's not wrong, if nothing else.
he watches her do what she does with the cups, still not quite comprehending the person, company, connection part of it all — likely won't, either, not until it's spelled out to him. after a moment's silence, he inhales, the sort that sounds as if it's the precursor to a sigh, but then he gestures broadly and vaguely towards the plants and adds, ) And there are plants that'll grow in near enough anything you pot them in.
( there's a metaphor there, he thinks, but it's not something he vocalises, not yet, not after their last conversation. instead, he rests a hand against the cup when she sets it down, turning it so that the handle's on his right. what he admits instead is, ) They're good for making a space more inviting.
—It's not worth judging this place by Earth's standards.
( there probably is a metaphor there, and the thought crosses wanda's mind, too, especially because of the way he said that. perhaps it's a metaphor for their acquaintanceship, for how it was formed through a few brittle exchanges, and yet here they are, sharing together.
she brings the krofne over, finding a plate in one of his cupboards to set them nicely on. just in time to see him turn the cup around. )
I want them for that.
( to make the space more inviting. there is so little personality in these motel rooms, even if wanda feels attached to her own space.
finally setting down the plate and sitting herself down where the other cup of tea is, wanda motions at him to join her with a hand. )
It's weirdly similar to Earth, though, right? ( the busy city, the cars, all these small tokens that fill their day-to-day lives. ) The concept of motels seem very specific to me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text! mid-June, 125.
Hello, this is Lucina. I hope you've found a way to stay cool in the weather. [ If this reads awkward, it's because it is. ]
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that doesn't mean he expects any kind of message, let alone anything to do with the weather. still— )
Hello, Lucina. ( he's great at casual textual communication. ) White's generally recommended as the color to wear in hot weather.
( three-piece suits though, marc? no, but he's going to ignore that. )
How have you been keeping?
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This doesn't mean her messages are coming any faster. ]
Is that so? I hadn't realized color had an effect on the temperature. [ Said the girl wearing blue from head to toe. She probably ditched the cape for the time being though, so she at least gets a tiny leg up over Marc on the practicality stand point. It's really not much.
But oh, she got ANOTHER MESSAGE while she was responding to the first one. ] I have been well, thank you for asking. The resort seemed to be cooler, though the lack of work made it difficult to justify any long term stay. [ And you know, the whole diffusion zone thing. But she's still learning about that, so. ]
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so— )
Light colors can make it more bearable.
But I've spent a lot of time in hot countries. Uncomfortable weather's nothing new.
There's at least no sand here.
( better! don't make him admit his own impracticality. )
What do you call work?
( or: AGREED, even if it's quite clear that marc is not immediately thinking of TRADITIONAL OPPORTUNITIES FOR EMPLOYMENT. )
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I see. Then I'm happy to hear it. [ She is. ]
Whatever I can find. There have been a number of advertisements for odd jobs around the city, to start. [ Nothing long term or stable, really. She's just slowly amassing funds. Getting used to everything. ] They have been helpful in allowing me to map out the area. There have been a small number of crescent moons I've found through it, as well.
[ Like one or two. But she does recognize them! ]
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but he doesn't miss the fact that her answer is less than specific, not that he knows her well enough to guess at whether it's indeliberate or inadvertent. ) And I know the risk in stretching yourself too thin.
The city's not friendly to everyone who ends up here.
But I'm glad you've found a way to make it work for you.
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I'm not certain if I would go so far as to say I've made it work... There's still much for me to learn. [ Like learning multiple texts can form one coherent thought, unlike letters.
Using what she's just learned: ] Has the city not been kind to you?
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( oh, that is absolutely not how he meant that at all, soβ )
It's been fine. ( by a certain definition of the term, anyway. he's definitely had worse experiences. ) I just meant between opportunists and ( honestly, if this were an iphone, this message would have that cute little typing bubble for longer than will seem strictly necessary once the message gets sent, purely on the basis of marc TAKING A MOMENT to decide on his preferred phrasing. ) however anyone ends up with enough beef to get their head caved in with a bowling ball.
( yeah, no, that's what he's going with. )
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I'm not sure I follow. Was the excess meat the reason for the man's life being taken? [ I'm so sorry ]
help
It means he found himself in the middle of disagreements.
It's colloquial.
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Not if you want to make sure it hurts. Or if you want people to know exactly what's going to happen to them if they make the same mistake.
Most people don't want to get stabbed or shot, but there's always a chance it's going to be quick. A bowling ball's messy.
That's to make a point.
( marc also (mostly) does not murder people (these days) (unless he's angry) (or very upset) (so it does still happen), but he is very familiar with using unconvential weapons.
and for blunt force trauma, when he hasn't wanted to use his truncheon, a baseball bat has always been a favourite. )
I can guess at the sort.
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This isn't a war, where death is a constant, looming force; where each life is simultaneously precious but also another body to add to the pile. There are many fallen soldiers — comrades, until they weren't — she remembers the faces of, but not always how they fell. This wasn't in battle. The victim may have been involved, but— ]
Have you visited the scene yet? [ Maybe it is worth a trip, after all. ]
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( what else is on his list? honestly not much.
but he's not going to admit that. )
Fortunately, I've heard housekeeping's slow.
Or at least inefficient.
( is that a 'fortunately'? )
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Would you like back up?
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even if he knows that's not actually true. he's always been worse alone.
the no. I'm fine, thank you. that he'd typed but hadn't got as far as sending gets deleted and replaced by a— )
Two pairs of eyes are better than one.
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( If he hadn't agreed, she'd have made sure he would have had someone going with him anyway. He's right, the city isn't a kind one. That goes for him as much as it does anyone else, and how much or little she knows all the faces she's met in the last few weeks doesn't change that she wants them to be alright. ) ]
I'm available now if you are. It should not take me long to get there.
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( 'so I'm free' is technically what he means, but there's also an element of 'my sleep schedule does not guarantee that would be the case'.
a pause.
a pause. )
Coffee?
( "do you want?" )
> action!
Only if it would not be out of your way. Thank you. [ Otherwise, that's the last message from her; she's a responsible driver who uses both hands on the wheel, she's not going to be texting and driving.
The Pulq-Esth Barbershop has yellow tape running across the entrance, but the shop is abandoned otherwise. Whatever law enforcement have already come and gone with no real interest in returning. No one to enforce the comings or goings of nosy individuals, if they want to look at the bloodstain on the ground.
She's ducking under the tape to try the door by the time Marc comes around. It is, unsurprisingly, unlocked — but she finds that surprising, apparently, blinking at the knob before she looks around. That's when she spots him. ] Oh. [ Hi. ] ... I thought we'd have to find another way inside.
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in contrast to their first meeting, marc is not dressed all in white. it's thanks to necessity, not choice — he still presently only has the one suit versus the multitude he'd owned at home, and getting rid of stains is unfortunately not as easy as it had been. so where lucina's first meeting with marc had been more a mr. knight affair, this is all marc spector — a black turtleneck that's a little faded, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; the closest thing to tac pants he'd been able to find (also black), and boots.
it's not his preference, but beggars can't be choosers, so here he is.
he looks to her for only a beat, his attention quickly sliding away towards the windows of the building. unsurprisingly, there are no lights on inside, but it's easy to tell that there's no coating to the glass — if there'd been anyone around, they'd have seen what had happened. visibility, the chance of being recognised — none of it was a deterrent.
or at least, that's what marc assumes.
he holds out a cup, two sachets of white sugar (just in case!) balanced carefully on top, for lucina to take before he ducks under the yellow tape, glancing at her other hand still curled around the doorknob before— ) I can pick locks. ( a simple, blunt statement of fact — not thin, not grim, just an admission that gaining entry wasn't a concern that'd occurred to him at all. he doesn't add that he doesn't usually need to do it — his preferred method of entering locked buildings tends to be less subtle, more akin to their last meeting but, you know, he can do it. )
The coffee's black. No milk, ( he adds as he steps inside, free hand going instinctively to one side of the door, then the other as he searches for a light switch.
(he might spend a lot of time in the dark, but that doesn't mean he can see very well in low lighting. he's still just a man.) )
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Baby steps on the blending in with the locals front, apparently. It doesn't look like she minds either way, taking the coffee from him with a quiet 'thank you'. She pockets the sugar packets for later — she'll find a use for it at some point — and lets the door swing side open for the two of them to enter.
She blows into the tiny hole at the top of the lid, hoping to cool it down before she takes a sip. She scans from one end of the space to other as she does, though. To note—
Some of the furniture ( mostly the barber chairs ) seem to have been rearranged when they took the corpse, but the remainder of it seems well-preserved... enough. In that there's still blood stains ( long dried, flaking ) and scuff marks on the ground. A low table by some couches has been left askew. Her gaze drops down to her feet. ]
... No one entered via force. [ Both her hands are on the coffee cup now, and she's shuffled off to the side to try and take everything in. It's about now she finally takes a careful sip of coffee. The abundance of caution means that her tongue isn't burned. ] But there appears to have been an altercation nonetheless.
[ She nods toward the furniture markings. A moment later— ] You mentioned that they would want to send a message. [ What kind? is the unspoken question. ]
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the facade had ceased around the same time that flint had retired, around the same time that ryan trent had opted to become the black spectre (number two) — no-one else on the so-called FREAK BEAT had the patience to pretend that they weren't aware that mr. knight was moon knight was marc spector, particularly after the age of khonshu. but — but — the separation in identities and costumes had stuck: moon knight was for the violence (mostly — at least, whatever was planned), whilst mr. knight was the one that invited conversation.
neither of them were designed with investigation in mind — and it's not anything that marc had bothered with as far as formal employment went.
but it is thanks to his own lifestyle that he notes the scuff marks first, before giving the flaking red-brown of dried blood his attention. he lifts his head, looks towards the main window, then the door, then the other door, the one that leads to the ubiquitous BACK. he'd guess it's not much more than a glorified cupboard — mop, broom, vacuum and whatever other cleaning supplies a barber needs, and maybe a through-line to an alley.
when lucina stops speaking, he mms around a mouthful of coffee, his footsteps as he circles the room uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the evening, but there's no indication whether his utterance is to her first remark, or the start of an answer to her second. at length— )
It was personal, ( he states. what does he have to back up that belief? the fact that a fucking bowling ball was used as the murder weapon. that's not impersonal. ) Probably thought that if he let them in, it'd go better for him.
( the low thrum of threat, intimately familiar.
"you mentioned they'd want to send a message," she'd said, and it'd been a question without a question mark.
his gaze settles on her, level and firm. he doesn't know if she means it as an echo of their first meeting and marc's own given reasoning for the crescent moon left on the door. ) Power's built on currency. Sometimes that's money, sometimes that's fear. All of it's word-of-mouth and belief.
If people don't think you're willing to back up what you're promising, you've got nothing — and this is a place with enough debts owed. ( a breath. ) You show how far you're willing to go, fewer people are willing to push.
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But the skills are transferable, she realized at some point. Reading the flow of battle means she has to watch how the environment changes after a strike from a weapon. How many villages had she walked through before she started connecting the bandits to the raids? ( If someone told her she'd be in a barbershop investigating a murder on a completely different world back then, she would have been convinced they'd gone mad. )
She doesn't know much about motives or the message that's being sent or the why as a whole, but she doesn't need it to understand the what. Her eyes trace the path of both the victim and the assailant ( one? Perhaps two— ) before the final blow was struck. Notes the way the blood has splattered, to see if someone used something that wasn't a bowling ball. None of it is a perfect science, but it's information nonetheless.
There's another sip from her coffee, as her gaze finally returns to meet Marc's. Takes a second to reorient her perspective based on what he's saying — Emmeryn's death was a message as well; an exhibition of power to show how far Gangrel was willing to go. The thought nets her a deep furrow of her brows, the muscles in her jaw tensing. ]
And the reports would announce their ... resolve. To whoever the message was intended for. [ Suddenly, she can't help but wonder if the identity of Billy Yrix even mattered in all of this. The next exhale through her nose is harsh.
Lucina glances back towards the mirrors, eyes narrowing at the splatters of blood that made it that far. There's a tilt of her head towards it, in case Marc hasn't caught it himself. At the same time— ]
The Runners that were supposedly behind all of this — do you have something similar where you're from?
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he's willing to hedge bets on three — two inside, one to do the deed, one to stop anything going south, and a third at a door, though he can't begin to guess at whether that'd more likely be the front entrance or the rear.
he lets her question hang between them as he makes his way to the other door. much like the entrance, this one's unlocked, and there's a soft click of the latch as he pulls it open. the smell of damp greets him first — a mop left to dry, a bucket still containing remnants of water — and then the slight draught of the outside filtering in through a poorly insulated door.
no signs that entry had been forced through this door either, nor that anything's been disturbed — at least, not overtly, and marc looks back over his shoulder. )
Yes.
( he leaves the door open and strides back to the rearranged barber chairs. he looks from one to the second to the third, seemingly assessing before he inhales a breath and, quite suddenly, chooses to sit on the third. he doesn't recline, it's more of a perch — marc doesn't look as if he knows the definition of the word 'relax', and he rests his arms on his knees, weight and centre of gravity forward, coffee cup held perhaps surprisingly delicately between both hands. )
I usually don't bother with them unless they're causing problems. They keep to themselves, stay out of my territory, then we don't have any reason to meet. Most of them prefer it when I don't want anything from them.
( there's a breath of a pause and marc sits up, just a touch, almost as if he's deliberately loosening a fraction of the tension that seems to sit almost permanently within his skin. )
Besides, there are other people who help keep the streets safe. ( it's oddly dismissive in tone, not quite light, but as close to an 'and anyway!' as marc's gotten. ) The problem with here is I'm still learning. It's been a while since I've had to build from the ground up.
( —well, that's not quite true. he's had to work at rebuilding his reputation several times over, but that's quite different to starting from scratch. )
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It's not going to stop her from stepping into the room after Marc leaves though — Lucina beelines straight for the door, trying the knob. This one is locked. Nothing else in the room looks like it's been jostled the way the front of the shop is.
She frowns. So they entered in through the front — were let in, willingly — then had no issues leaving through the same way. Yet no one cares enough to determine the killer.
She closes the door behind her when she returns, walking over until she's standing by the first chair. Her back is to the mirror — her head turns just enough to face him, but occasionally her eyes dart over towards the window on the other side of her. There's the occasional passerby ( completely apathetic to the fact that the building someone was murdered in is lit and there are people inside, apparently ), but it's quiet otherwise. Old habits just die hard. ]
But you wish to do the same here? Keep it safe? [ There's no judgement that colors her tone, just curiosity. ] What is it that you're building from the ground up?
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Moon Knight has a reputation, ( he answers first. it doesn't seem to occur to him that he hasn't mentioned who moon knight is — or, if it has, he seems to think lucina will guess he's referring ostensibly to himself. ) A mission.
( it's at that, that his gaze does flicker up to meet hers. it's fleeting, punctuated by a mouthful of coffee. he knows he'd mentioned khonshu, but he hadn't exactly explained anything beyond that and, instead of continuing, he stands and makes his way to the window. panorama isn't new york and it's not chicago. it's nowhere he knows, but it manages to be familiar in texture and feel, and he hasn't managed to reach a conclusion on whether that's a good thing or not. )
I told you, Khonshu protects the night's travellers. ( it's said to the reflection of lucina in the glass, his gaze raised enough to be able to watch the few details that are mirrored. ) And for that, he needs a fist.
( it lingers, not quite awkwardly, but for long enough that's clear that marc's thinking about how to continue, how to actually give an answer to her question.
abruptly, then— )
—Marc Spector owes more than one debt. The one I owe to Khonshu came long before whatever Yom Crook thinks he's owed, and none of what's to be paid has changed just because I'm here. ( is what he settles on, turning back to her. (NAILED IT.) (don't mind the fact that it's all questionable as far as answering the questions lucina's actually posed — marc thinks they're answers enough.)
that apparently done, with barely a breath of a pause for lucina to interject, he follows up with, ) There's nothing to be found here. ( or, nothing he can do anything with, anyway. ) If they took the bowling ball from the alley next door, someone there will be able to give more information. ( beat. hmm. ) Unless they've been asked not to.
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No better way to learn than listen, after all. And listen she does. Marc may not be the most straightforward, but the gist of it is there for her to follow once she's knit her brows together. Take a sip of her coffee. Thinks of the crescent moon spray painted on the door, the debt that caused him to take up a mantle. The reputation and the mission he's trying to build, in order to continue to act as an extension of a higher being's will ( or ... at least that's what she thinks is the answer to her question; it makes sense, anyway ).
Suddenly, viscerally, she's aware of the weight at her hip.
( The people of Panorama are not Naga's to watch over. Her mantle is not a debt, but an exchange; an agreement between two parties passed on from generation to generation. One — if she were to be particularly harsh about it — she failed to uphold in its original terms, only barely managing to scrape by with a second chance that costed her home. Where does that leave her now? Ylisse is safe, but she's not in Ylisse. The mark on her eye is still here and the sword has not suddenly become dull in her hands. What will is there for her to carry, here? )
She releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. He's looking at her expectantly, and that's enough for her to set all of it aside. ] ... Right. [ A beat to clear her throat, then— ] Some of the nearby shops may be familiar with Billy Yrix as well. [ They don't know who did it, but they do know who died. She walks over to the front door to pull it open, holding it for Marc. ]
We can still begin at the bowling alley — if they cannot tell us about the weapon, then perhaps they'll be speak on who he was.
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he hadn't been a kind, gentle man, and he hadn't deserved a kind, gentle death. still doesn't, he thinks, and he's yet to know one — drowning, explosions. dehydration and blood loss, thanks to the courtesy of being stabbed and left alone. khonshu had been a choice, and marc will never argue that it wasn't a choice, as much as the circumstances had been poor — elias would never have given up his covenant with god and marc had, that's all there was to it. he'd chosen to live, chosen an existence that furthered his dedication to everything that'd set him on a path separate to his heritage.
and how do you say I am who I am because I made bad choices without it sounding a kind of brag? you don't. there's nothing of marc spector here in panorama, no news reports or clippings, no records, no anything that tells of who he was before khonshu, and how he'd struggled since. the mistakes.
what he gives her now is as best he can manage.
perhaps once she meets moon knight, perhaps once the delineations between him and mr. knight and marc are clear.
'what I'm doing here, I'm doing because I have nothing else.' that's what it comes down to: marc has no idea who he is without moon knight, no matter how often he's wished he could bury moon knight all the way down in the same way he (they'd—) tried to smother marc, back when it was steven-and-marlene, back when they (he'd) tried to argue that moon knight was an unemotional, impassive tool of vengeance. marc had too many emotions, that's always been his problem—.
and so, much like lucina, he says nothing of it. instead, he hums. it's a noise that's part acknowledgement, part consideration at her suggestion. abruptly, he thinks that this — hitting the streets — is far more of a jake affair, and his fingers press tighter into the cardboard sleeve encircling his coffee cup. not now, not here, not yet, and he resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. )
I'm not interested in the weapon, ( he remarks instead, brows knitting together momentarily. ) I want to know how it was taken. ( if it was asked for and given freely, if it was snatched. if there was a game of pretence, or if this kind of thing was expected.
where lucina might be surprised by the lack of interest and shock in billy yrix's death, marc very much is not.
he wavers in the doorway for a minute before acknowledging, tone a little softer, ) —But asking at other establishments is a good shout. Give us more of an idea of what kind of person he was, whether or not he had it coming.
( how deserved it was, he means. )
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And yet she finds being here — away from home — a blessing. Even worse, she doesn't want to. Her new circumstances are enough to keep the aimlessness at bay, but it's not entirely gone; it's that reminder that she can't seem to shake off, all of a sudden. And it's not that Lucina's not envious of his certainty, but—
She really does need to stop thinking about it.
Back to the present, properly this time. She shakes her head for good measure, finishing the last of her coffee while she comes to terms with everything he's said. ]
I suspect he's not one who will be missed. [ No one's honoring his death. No cries for justice, for revenge. She's careful to close the door behind them as they leave, eyes scanning the sidewalk for a place to throw out her empty paper cup. ] Though I suppose that in itself will be telling.
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" mr knight "?
i thought this was specter. ( wrong spelling ) mark?
( also wrong spelling )
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marc should probably elaborate on that at some point, but despite now being an optimal time to do as much, it's—
—not his immediate response. )
Marc Spector.
It is.
( a beat. then two. then— )
Mr. Knight's what I go by at work.
( AN EXCELLENT EXPLANATION. )
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ah , so you're doing a whole undercover thing here , then?
( her comma key is sticky, give her a break. )
it's wanda , by the way.
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No.
( marc didn't think he'd ever miss his iphone, but it's only after he sends the response that he's aware of 1. how blunt it is, and 2. that she'll have no idea he's typing an addendum.
(does he even want to attempt to explain it?)
(no.) )
It's not like that.
( —eh, it kind of is, kind of isn't. it's the excuse he's given on occasion, but it's not the reason for it. the reason is 'if I go by mr. knight, then I don't need to be marc spector', but that's not really something a person just says. )
But who a person asks for gives me an idea of what they want.
( NAILED IT. )
Hi, Wanda.
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okay.
( not quite nailed... but it passes. on to what she contacted him for: )
my roommate made a lot of extra dessert-y things.
do you want some? with tea?
( what about the weather, wanda!!! )
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Sure. ( it's ... not quite the truth. he doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, and he tends to eat for function over pleasure, but being impolite isn't really the image he wants to cultivate. ) If you don't win me over on the merits of tea, the dessert will make up for it.
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( according to the chef who made the dessert... )
or something like that.
where do you live?
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( pause. pause. eventually, he sends an address for a ground floor room in a motel in the lodges. )
I'll meet you outside.
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( bingo. )
see you soon.
( wanda finds herself riding her bike up to the lodges; it's not too far from her own motel, just some streets down, but it's good practice for her driving and she needs to make a run to the laundromat afterwards. stopping her bike on the allocated parking lot of the motel in question, wanda gets off and walks to the entrance proper. she's got a backpack (with said laundry) and a tote bag on her shoulder for Tea Time.
she sees marc, steps up to him. )
Mr Knight.
( βshe's kidding, but it's still said in the form of a greeting. )
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he wouldn't have guessed that she'd ride a motorbike — some kind of estate feels like it'd suit her more, but he wouldn't be able to say why.
in contrast to the first time she'd met him, and perhaps a little more in-line with the whole MR KNIGHT thing, marc's dressed in an all-white three-piece, complete with fussy crescent moons serving as cufflinks and buttons on his waistcoat. it's not as pristine as he'd like — at home, he'd had the benefit of owning more white suits than he'd ever, ever admit to, while here it's presently just the one.
still, it speaks to a certain image, an impression that's typically slightly beyond marc. truth be told, it's a little more steven grant, but steven's never really cared for moon knight, and so— )
Wanda. ( marc, steven, the minimally elaborated upon 'mr. knight', it barely matters. that working-class chicago accent is still present in the vowels, in the way he says her name. in spite of himself, it's not distant — it's effusive, more of a 'hello' than he'd admit.
his gaze shifts to the bag, notable, but he says nothing; a beat, he looks to the bike. it's a lingering glance, although for now he doesn't say anything. he'll offer later, if she wants. )
This way.
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his pausing, as if building up to what he wants to say, makes her wait for a moment before shrugging and nodding, following him towards his motel room. )
βthe all white's a look. Very... what's the word, elegant?
( formal. )
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it's punctuated by half a glance over his shoulder when wanda speaks. ) I was hoping for approachable. ( compared to moon knight, it likely is.
compared to anything and anyone else, bereft of reputation— well, wanda's assertion is likely more on the nose.
he unlocks the room he's rented with a soft click of the key. the inside is tidy, almost impersonal but for a few plants, placed close to the singular window and on a surface that serves both as desk and whatever-other flat table one might require. the kitchenette is small, but marc wouldn't opt for much else even if he could afford it. )
Mr. Knight's a priest, ( he offers, belated and in answer to a question she hasn't asked, but the one he thinks she means by her statement, the one she probably has after her 'I thought this was [Specter]' remark. )
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( she mutters with a light chuckle, hiding it away behind a hand should he turn his head to question her about her retort. there's no doubt in wanda's mind that he's older than herself, with at least a decade of life experience over her own, and that much makes her feel a bit juvenile.
the last thing she wants to do, though, is to say something that he may consider disrespectful.
approachable or not, however, wanda feels comfortable enough to enter his rented room without worry or hesitation. marc doesn't say to make herself at home, but wanda does, anyway, setting her backpack down against the wall and taking the tote bag towards the kitchenette without prompting.
(the plants are a cute touch, she should ask where he's gotten themβ)
she turns to attention, halfway through removing some cups, small plates, and a container with the aforementioned dessert. )
A priest? ( uh, ) And this isn't an undercover thing you're doing?
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but it puts them on a level-pegging, where wanda thinks he's that much older than she is and he thinks she's that much younger than him, the sort where she's an age that puts him at ease for teasing — more reese than an honest-to-god peer, and so while the incredulity sits, it doesn't linger, it doesn't become more than that, not even as wanda begins to unpack her bag. )
No. ( he assumes that by 'undercover', she means 'secret identity'. ) If I wanted to do that, no-one would know my name. Marc Spector would be a dead man. ( his attention lingers on the cups, and he almost mentions that he has some of his own, that it bringing them was unnecessary before it hits him that maybe that's the point.
instead, then, he shifts his weight. instead, he busies himself with cracking open the window, just enough for the lightest of breezes to make itself known. quite abruptly, he asks— ) What dessert?
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I still have no clue why 'Mr Knight' is different from 'Marc Spector', and you're not really answering, so...
( she can assume what she wants. with a shrug, she hopes she transmits to him that she doesn't need an answer. it's just mildly confusing. which is why she gets back to something that isn't as confusing, which is setting down the teacups and small plates in some semblance of order on the counter, the container with the dessert set aside from now, and looking for the electric kettle most motel rooms have. )
It's difficult to get quality ingredients for delicate desserts, apparently, but β we made krofne. They're like doughnuts, but better in my opinion.
( they're small for the size of a donut, but she brought an assortment of them: covered in powdered sugar, some of them having a homemade marmalade filling, while others with a normal egg custard because 'that's a staple' according to her chef-y roommate.
once she finds the electric kettle, she turns back to him. )
Do you have bottled water for the tea?
( apparently this is a very straight-to-the-point tea time. )
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instead, he turns to the small fridge in one corner of the room. it's poorly stocked by almost all metrics, but water is one of the few items marc has in near-abundance. he grabs one and holds it out to her.
it's at length, belated when he says, ) With everything you know about Marc Spector, how comfortable would you be going to him for anything that requires a delicate touch? ( it's blunt, a little pointed, and wanda will discover that marc is greatly serious about a great many things. humour's the rarity, infrequent and often difficult to discern, while answering things is also not a skill he has in spades, not in the way that most people expect answers. he tends towards circular, to answers that make sense to his internal logic and little else.
still.
his attention turns to the krofne almost immediately, as if that's the end of it for him, too. ) They look like, ( sufganiyot, is what he almost says, the comment slipping out in spite of himself, gentle surprise evident in his tone and the abrupt way he pauses before, ) Something my parents would make when I was a kid. ( barely a beat, a deliberate, conscious choice, and, ) Jelly?
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wanda grabs at the water bottle that he holds on, considering it'll be enough for their tea purposes. she wishes she had an actual tea pot, but it's not something she's yet managed to find. she purses her lips, twisting open the lid of the bottle, and filling up the electric kettle, turning it on and waiting for it to boil, leaving the empty bottle by the sink. )
I don't know that I'll ever go to either Marc Spector or Mr Knight for anything.
( right now, this? this is just tea.
what a strange man. but maybe it's that weirdness that wanda feels familiar and comfortable with, because she herself sticks out like a sore thumb wherever she goes. nowβ maybe this is what it's like to be in a sea of similar-like people. even if marc is definitely a lot stranger than her, that she won't fight him about, nor will she admit to.
rather, the surprise he shows at the treats she has brought is enough to dissuade her from wanting to 'argue' with him about these things, focusing instead on what's simple. )
βno, we decided to use orange marmalade this time. It's pretty nice.
( jelly, she will have to keep that in mind for later. she knows what he means: strawberries, plums, cherries, rhubarb... those would have been ideal, but there is so much they can get here. )
We had these a lot for Hannukkah. ( wanda doesn't seem to realize she is saying 'we', referring to her brother, still. ) We β stopped celebrating it, without our parents, but... It isn't an uncommon treat where I'm from.
( she grabs at the container, holds it out for him. )
I was going to have you wait until the tea was ready, but you can β try one. Please do.
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it's not so much that he stills when she mentions hanukkah — marc isn't a man prone to fidgeting, but there's a noticeable lack of anything, punctuated by a shift of his head. his gaze settles, appraising, like he's rethinking his opinion of her, his response. it's not the we, it's not even the way she hesitates before 'stopped', nor is it the admission of being an orphan.
he plucks one from the container, with a delicacy that's not quite intrinsic, not quite characteristic, except for— ) Sufganiyot, ( he concedes. it's not awkward, not really. there's a deep familiarity in how he says the word, either with hebrew or yiddish or both, and it's an admission he hadn't planned on making. ) My father was a rabbi. ( it's what he offers instead of a 'me too' at the mention of hanukkah.
there's something shared there, in the we stopped celebrating, although marc wouldn't know how to put it into words. he stopped celebrating. he doesn't know what randall did, not really, not between joining the marines and dying. he recalls a barbeque held when they were children, where randall had picked up hot dogs from a refrigerator without reading the ingredients, where their mother had scolded randall for picking up something that wasn't kosher, and marc for not keeping a better eye on his younger brother.
it was the sort of mundane moment that'd seemed unimportant at the time, the sort of thing that marc had managed to forget until now.
he exhales a breath, and it's more weighted than he means it to be when he says, ) Thank you, ( a krofne held up to his mouth, slightly muffling the gratitude. )
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Oh.
( is all she manages to say, placing the container down on the counter again. the water in the kettle bubbles, but doesn't boil, yet.
strange, really, to find another similarity with marc or spector or mr knight, or however he wants to go byβ wanda nods at his muffled gratitude, waiting for him to taste the krofne proper, give her his verdict about it. )
My brother, Pietroβ ( a heavy pause, before she bolsters forward, ) he also preferred the ones with jelly.
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(maximoff. she must be, even if she's not the one he knows—. how many now? a handful. perhaps nothing notable, not really, but it's worth keeping in mind.)
the krofne's good. sweet, and a little sticky against his fingers, but that was to be expected. he wordlessly manoeuvres around wanda to search out a paper napkin, both to wipe the sugar from his hands and in case the marmalade threatens to spill out when he takes another bite. the dull plastic click of the kettle lets them know that the water's boiled, and he glances towards it abruptly.
he could share that randall would eat anything he was given, that he wasn't that picky, but marc and randall's relationship had been difficult, fractious, marred by jealousy and misunderstandings. it's not the sort of thing to offer in return. )
Mm. ( a hum, low andappreciative, before he swallows and places the half-eaten krofne down on the napkin. ) It's good.
The tea's got a lot to live up to.
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then there's the kettle clicking, and wanda's attention is stolen away towards it. she starts by placing a tea bag in each cup, then filling them up with water from the kettle, and waits in the awkward silence... until he says something. )
I told you ( she repeats now, ) the base flavor of the krofne was made with the tea's flavor in mind. They're going to compliment each other.
( you'll see!
she turns her attention towards the table, then moves the tea cups there, then looks back up at the plants opposite. )
Where did you get those plants?
( she wants to get some now... )
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but, you know, the krofne could complement that, too, is the implication.
at her question, though, he follows her gaze. the plants are nothing special, nothing compared to the assortment marc had back in new york. where once he — steven more than marc, although there'd been an element of him, too — had collected art, primarily as an easy way to deal with finances, marc no longer has the wealth for it to matter. plants have served as something of a replacement, a distraction, something to focus his attentions on that isn't BEING MOON KNIGHT.
besides, they require less attention than, say, a pet.
here and now, they're the closest he gets to a personal touch. he veers between being intensely, deliberately utilitarian, with little interest in anything that gives an impression of marc spector, and leaning towards ostentatious drama in terms of furnishings and decor, not dissimilar to the overstated white suit-and-moon details. )
Have you been to any of the parks? ( much of the city's greenery is overgrown, more weeds than flowers, but marc isn't especially fussed by the what, and it's hinted at in the way he offers a small lift of a shoulder before speaking. )
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maybe she's also chasing ghosts, and marc is now forced to be part of this chase just because he was willing to ply to the idea of tea. )
I have.
( wanda fixes the cups further still, filling them up with the hot water, and tapping at the seconds with a finger on the counter. she doesn't need to pay a lot of attention to it, though, glancing instead at him. )
I know they're mostly overgrown, but I didn't think the soil would be good to use in a pot. ( she isn't a plant expert, obviously. in any case, ) You didn't seem the type.
( to have a green thumb. not that she knows him well enough!
picking up the cups, wanda maneuvers her way over to the small table in the room to start setting down the elements for tea. she'll bring the krofne shortly after, busying herself with the small elements of this. )
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he watches her do what she does with the cups, still not quite comprehending the person, company, connection part of it all — likely won't, either, not until it's spelled out to him. after a moment's silence, he inhales, the sort that sounds as if it's the precursor to a sigh, but then he gestures broadly and vaguely towards the plants and adds, ) And there are plants that'll grow in near enough anything you pot them in.
( there's a metaphor there, he thinks, but it's not something he vocalises, not yet, not after their last conversation. instead, he rests a hand against the cup when she sets it down, turning it so that the handle's on his right. what he admits instead is, ) They're good for making a space more inviting.
—It's not worth judging this place by Earth's standards.
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she brings the krofne over, finding a plate in one of his cupboards to set them nicely on. just in time to see him turn the cup around. )
I want them for that.
( to make the space more inviting. there is so little personality in these motel rooms, even if wanda feels attached to her own space.
finally setting down the plate and sitting herself down where the other cup of tea is, wanda motions at him to join her with a hand. )
It's weirdly similar to Earth, though, right? ( the busy city, the cars, all these small tokens that fill their day-to-day lives. ) The concept of motels seem very specific to me.