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