( 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, so— )
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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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, so— )
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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