( 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}
no subject
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. )
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. )
no subject
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.