11007/Justice is Due

Justice is Due
Date of Scene:	01 May 2022
Location:	Streets of Brooklyn
Synopsis:	Jon enlists the help of Moon Knight in tracking down the man who shot Cael. Upon finding him and taking his statement, Jon metes out his own goddess justice upon the man in retribution.
Cast of Characters:	Jonathan Sims, Marc Spector

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Jonathan Sims has posed:
    It's been nearly 24 hours since the shooting, by the time Jon returns to the spot where Cael was shot. He hasn't slept, so he's pushing past 36 hours awake by now, and he's aware that maybe his judgement is a little off. That's why he's trying to just follow the impulses Ma'at is giving him, and those impulses have told him to at least find the guy and take his statement.

    Jon grabs a coffee on the way, a venti caramel latte with an extra pump of caramel, then opens a portal directly from the alley outside the Starbucks in Westchester to the alley where Cael was shot. Right there, no difficulty pinpointing, and he frowns slightly. He still doesn't know /why/ he has trouble with portals sometimes and not others, but now isn't really the time to figure it out.

    They stand there, sipping the coffee and frowning as they really look at the scene. There's still blood on the ground where Cael laid when she died, but what they're looking for is the tracks that they saw before, the magical trail that will let him track down Javier Hernandez.

    Then they open their phone and make a call. They shouldn't do this alone, but there's only one person they can think of that would understand what Ma'at needs to do here, and Cael /was/ traveling at night when she was hit.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The trail is as fresh as it was the night before. Perhaps the emotional residue surrounding the event made it more "real" or perhaps it's connection to Jon was just that strong. Whatever the reason, the sparkling trail of teal motes on the ground leading away from the stained pool of blood pass out of the alley and take a sharp right at the end of it.

    It is a start at the very least. Tinges of a sickly green linger among the glowing motes of teal of the path. The emotional resonance of the young man who did the killing. It doesn't bode well for his mental or moral state to linger in such a fashion. Cael wasn't his first victim if the color and feel of it is any indicator. And for Jon's eyes... it definitely is.

    A few minutes pass and then a white shape falls from the sky to land near Jon. Moon Knight straightens and presses a button on his gauntlet to tell the Angel Wing to find a seculded rooftop to park. He's in his suit, the white gleaming in the streetlights. "Death here... recent too..." he says, looking at the stained pavement. "Part of your change?" he asks. "Has the Archivist become a field agent?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon follows the trail around the corner, frowning at the green tinges. That doesn't give him confidence in being able to do what Cael wants, to bring him to prison rather than killing him. But he stands and waits for Moon Knight, drinking his coffee as he does.

    He also stopped by his quarters, picking up his ICER and his staff, putting on his tac gear. The choice of staff over khopesh was deliberate. The staff hangs off his belt like a baton, so it doesn't stand out as much as the sword would. And the staff is more of a defensive weapon, less likely to kill someone in combat. He's /trying/ to do what Cael wants. He's trying to ignore the ancient goddess in his head who is quite calmly stating that somtimes, justice means death.

    He doesn't like how much he agrees with her, these days.

    As Moon Knight drops in next to him, he says, "Cael was shot. She's alive, thanks to the graces of the Witchblade, but..." He flexes his glowing emerald hand. It doesn't take a telepath to read the fury in that glower. "Ma'at wants justice. And I want him dead." A beat. "I don't know if those things will line up. Cael says he was a kid, that she ruined his life. And maybe she's right. Maybe I'll change my mind, on seeing him. But I'm exhausted and furious, so I'm letting /her/ drive this business."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight strikes an intersting constrast to the Archivist. One in tac-gear and a green cardigan, the other in a shining white harsuit. It's clear that the Moon Knight is making himself the obvious threat on purpose. "Not a terrible choice of action, especially if you think your own judgement is clouded."

    He follows along his friends side. "Am I to assit you in your passions or hers?" he asks. Knowing Moon Knight, he could go either way. The Fist of Khonshu -is- Vengenance incarnate after all. But he is also Khonshu who respects the will of Ma'at.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "When it comes to Cael, my judgement is /always/ clouded," Jon mutters. "I tried to... I wouldn't /be/ here if she'd told me to stay. I'd deny Ma'at, for her." Moon Knight, at least, should know what that means. "I try to... to stand firm in my beliefs, to tell her that I think she's wrong in things, and I just... she looks at me and I just crumple. I'd do anything to keep her happy."

    He frowns. "Probably not healthy. I need to... work on that. But not right this moment."

    He sighs, and looks over at Moon Knight. "You're here for Ma'at. You're the only one I know who understands... Sara thinks it's like Witchblade, where she's supposed to be a... a balance to him. Keep him in check, keep him focused. You and I both know that's not how our deals work." He gulps down the last of his coffee and tosses the cup into a garbage can.

    "We are the instruments of the gods' will in the world. I am an instrument of Ma'at. I can't lie anymore, do you know that? I try, and I choke on the words. She won't /let/ me." He sounds faintly bitter. "We don't get /choices/ the way other people do. Not really."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight shakes his head. "No. We don't. And in the end, for some of us, stability is not an option." He give Jon a look and says, "I'm envious of you in that at least. You've found a pair of partners who understand that." He kneels down and runs a hand on the stain of dark brown where Cael died the evening before and then he rises.

    "How do you want to do this?" he asks. "If I am here to help Ma'at dispence Justice..." his tone carries a frown. "Khonshu doesn't deal in half measures. If the Fist of Vengeance is there... blood calls for blood."

    He takes a breath. "But Khonshu also respects Ma'at and her place in the heirarchy is significantly higher than his." He looks up at the moonless sky. "A hell of a night to call on me, you know. I'm not going to be as... formidable as you may hope."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I could probably handle it myself, but... what if I can't?" Jon shrugs. "I'd rather nobody get killed--including the shooter--because I rushed in half-cocked." He sighs, and gestures. "I can see the trail. Let's follow it, and see where it leads."

    He starts to walk, following the trail around the corner and out of the alley. "Ma'at... would rather nobody was involved but the shooter himself. Javier Hernandez is his name. If all goes perfectly... we find him, I take his statement, Ma'at judges him. He dies, or turns himself in, or is let go." He glances aside. "But he's in a gang. The Alhambras, out of Phoenix. He's probably got help--he wouldn't be stupid enough to walk into another group's territory without contacting them first."

    He frowns. "There's a BOLO out. Maybe we even call the police, but..." He shrugs uncomfortably. But Ma'at is /insistent/ that /she/ has to deal with this, and he can't quite understand why. "Any idea who runs this part of Brooklyn? I am... not as up on that sort of thing as I should be."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight follows Jon for a while. "This part of town?" he asks. "The Trinitarios and Latin Kings vie for territory. Currently I think the Trin have it. Dominican based... drugs, murder, prostitution, the usual. They're small comparitavely but what they lack in numbers they make up for in brutality. The working girls I saved the night we sparred? Money grabs for the Trins."

    The trail stops at bit outside the alley and then moves on. Perhaps Javier got into a vehicle of some sort. It doesn't really matter to the sense of Justice that drives Jon's feet, the trail is just as clear regardless of the change of locomotion. Two more turns and the trail leads towards a solitary row house of dull grey color. It doesn't look like a den of murderers, but that is likely the point.

    There is a Lincoln towncar parked next to the house with the teal motes pooling around it before trailing inside the dark building. Jon could feel his quarry inside, but there is interference. Two other minds, alien and easily dismissed if not for the fact that there is heightened senses of curiosity and apprehension in them. Moon Knight can be stealthy when he wants to. But tonight, he isn't hiding who and what he is and where he is standing.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I've heard of the Latin Kings, which means they're big enough that I doubt they'd care about some kid from Phoenix. Even if they did... I doubt they'd be /stupid/ enough to go after /Cael/. I mean, sure, she was on TV--but she was on TV /fighting angels/, you know? Her boyfriend is one of the leaders of the Justice League Dark and an avowed SHIELD agent. Her roommate's NYPD, even aside from the Witchblade--which they might not know about, but still. Cael herself is FBI. Did they really not think...?" Jon shakes his head. "Fool," he mutters.

    Jon stares at the building across the street for a long moment, considering. They could try to sneak in, but even with the ability to put veils over himself, he's not great at that--and they've already noticed him and Moon Knight. They could kick in the door, but it's entirely possible those other minds are relatively innocent or at least peripheral to the matter. He frowns, and snugs his cardigan around his tac gear. He's aware he looks very much like a cop, and they might not open the door--but then again, they just might.

    For a moment, he hesitates. He looks like a cop. He... kind of /is/ a cop. He despises modern policing and its methods. And he's running off doing this, not answering to anyone, no warrant, no trial by a jury of peers, just him and Moon Knight and Ma'at, stepping in to bring justice. Maybe he should just call the NYPD and tell them he's found the subject of the BOLO.

    Then again, if things go the way he'd prefer, nobody has to get killed. Nobody even has to get hurt. The cops kill people.

    "Take the roof, or the back way. I'm going to go knock on the door... you can back me up if it goes badly. But there are other people in there, and I want to give them a chance to get out of the way." There's a chance for Moon Knight to stop him and insist on just kicking in the door, of course.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight stares at Jon like the man grew a beak and horns for a moment before he shakes his head. "You're going to..." he snorts. "Of course you are. Very well. I'll be monitoring the situation... the moment things go south" because of course they'd go south, "I'll be there." He jumps into the air and grabs hold of a window sill on the building before climbing up it to the rooftop.

    A jump from telephone pole, the streetlight and he's on the roof of the row house, perching on the edge of the roof as he looms to keep an eye on Jon's appraoch.

    After he knocks, the door opens enough to show a chain lock. The face peering through the crack is dark skinned with a number of tattoos on face, neck and the hand holding the door open.

    The Archive would recognize prison tattoos and transpose their specific meanings in Jon's mind. The teardrops under the man's eyes. Either he was raped in prison or he's killed before. The trio of dots on his neck, a mark of the Sur X3--ties to the Mexican Mafia. A number of other tattoos, scripture from the Bible in Spanish and a cross need no introductions from the Archivist's knowledge, but make it clear the man--while spiritual in his own way--is still a hardened criminal.

    He eyes the Archivst, in his tactical gear and cardiagan and frowns. "Who the hell are you?" he asks gruffly.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I am Jonathan Sims. The Archivist." Jon hesitates only a moment to let that sink in--if the man even has any clue who he is--before going on, "I'm here for Javier Hernandez. He shot my girlfriend the other night. Hand him over, and I'll forget he was ever here."

    He doesn't look nor sound half so hard as the man behind the door, at first blush--gold-rimmed glasses, English accent, fading violet hair, that /cardigan/. And he doesn't have the stance of a man who's killed before. But there's a kind of quiet self-confidence in him that might make the tattooed man pause. Or it might be taken as threatening. Hard to say.

    Of course, it's also entirely possible that a man with tattoos from the Bible on his body is going to /hate/ someone who's most famous for squaring off against angels.

Marc Spector has posed:
    "You don't look like no Devil worshipper" the man on the other side of the door says. Oh, yeah, he's fully aware of who 'The Archivist' is. "You look sorta like a bastard to me" he says, making a fist on the door to show of the stylized ACAB on his knuckles.

    "I think you got the wrong place, -pendejo-" he says. "I don't know no nobody with that name." The ripples of emotion in the air tell Jon it's clearly a lie if the trail wasn't enough of an indicator. "Maybe check across the street..." he says with a contemptable grin and a chuckle. All the buildings across the street are abandoned with their windows boarded or busted in, no one is living there. Even so, the man moves to close the door in Jon's face.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon reaches out to put his arm through the door, to hold it open--and it's the glowing emerald one, clearly not normal. He grabs the staff off his waist with his left hand and shakes it out, putting it in the way of the door closing as well. A shield shimmers up around him from the ground up, just in case there's a gun involved.

    "One more chance," he says, firmly. "Hand him over and nobody gets hurt." He's not in the mood to debate 'devil worshipper' or not, and he can't really argue on the 'bastard' thing. He /does/ look like a cop.

    Surely this man can see it in Jon's eyes--he's reluctant to make this a fight, reluctant to kill. He's trying, almost desperately, to make sure nobody gets hurt. After all, a man who fought angels surely could take care of a couple of gangbangers without much trouble.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The emergence of the unnatural arm makes the man step back a few beats and he stumbles when he trips over a pair of sandals in the entry hall. The staff draws an "Oh shit!" from him before he draws a gun from his waist and calls. "Javi! -Vamos! Puerta trasera!-"

    He looks at the chain on the door and shakes his head. "You going to do me like you did God's messengers?" he asks, fear is racing in his tone as he levels to gun on Jon through the crack in the door.

    "The angels... they were going to save us all... and you what... decided your better? Fuck that!" he says, spitting onto the hardwood. "You can try and take me out... but I ain't goin' without a fight. That's a -promesa-."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "The angels," Jon spits, "were going to /kill/ us all. Or do you think you'd go to Heaven, with all that darkness in your soul? What's the plan, repent just as you die?" He focuses his will and flexes the magical arm, forcing the door open by the expedient of ripping the chain, mounting and all, from the door frame.

    The gun goes off, and Jon jerks back from the force, though the bullet squashes itself into the shield and drops to the floor. He glowers at the man and something staticky and sharp runs through his words as he speaks. "Don't. Move." There's heavy telepathic compulsion in those words. "I'm not here for you. Just... stay still while I find Hernandez."

Marc Spector has posed:
    The fact that the gun didn't do anything to the intruder makes the man's eyes widen. He drops the gun and starts muttering a prayer in Spanish. Still the compulsion settles over him and he doesn't move as instructed. The sound of wood splintering comes from the back of the house and a man grunts after the sound of a dull impact.

    As Jon makes his way through the house he passes a set of stairs. Moving past it leaves his back open to the attacker under the stairs. He has an axe and yells at Jon as he charges, fire-axed raised to strike down the intruder with murderous intent.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon strides on past the praying man and starts for the back of the house, expression grimly set. He's fairly certain Moon Knight won't just up and kill Hernandez, but he wants to get there before there's too much damage done. If Cael's right, then Hernandez is a kid who doesn't deserve any of this.

    He's so focused on this that he doesn't notice the other assailant at all. The axe strikes and sends Jon stumbling, though like the bullet it doesn't really connect and injure him, his barrier flickering out after having taken two potentially-fatal wounds for him. As soon as he catches himself, Jon whirls, staff swinging in a wide arc and catching the axe as it swings down again.

Marc Spector has posed:
    This man is older, somewhere in his 40s with more tattoos on him than the first man had. A career of crime and destruction written in imagery on his body. He spits expletives at Jon as he tries desperately to kill the Archivist. The powerful strikes from the axe, if unarmed, would leave Jon a mess but the staff's indestructability and his own skill in combat gives him an obvious advantage despite being caught unawares.

    The frozen man starts to sob as he prays, sure that they're all going to die here by the Archivist's hand. Still he doesn't move as Ma'at imperative continues to hold him.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon could just hold this man in place, too, but he's not certain he can put compulsions on two people at once. If he releases the man with the axe, then the other might shoot him.

    He's had enough practice with the staff to keep the axe from hitting him, but the other man is desperate and more used to fighting in close quarters. Jon shifts his weight back, stumbles on the stairs he was only vaguely aware were there, and the axe slips past his guard and lances across his right shoulder, slicing the cardigan and drawing blood.

    For a moment, Jon is in another room, a stone room with the endless expanses of space beyond the single window, and Michael is coming at him with a fiery sword to remove his arm.

    The Archivist yells in anger and surges forward, staff wrapped in pure force as he slams it into the man's chin in a vicious uppercut.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The sound of bone snapping precedes the man's limp body falling to the ground. Lifeless eyes stare up at the Archivist even as a slow trickle of blood drips from a small cut on the man's chin. The other man continues to whisper his prayer as he watches the Archivist kill a man before him with mean strength.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    For a long moment, Jon just stares down at the dead body, eyes wide. He shudders, and shakes his head. "No... I didn't mean..." For a moment, he seriously considers summoning up his healing water, but he knows it will do no good. The man he was fighting is dead, by his hand, and there's no way to twist or turn, to try to say that it isn't his fault. It is /entirely/ his fault. The shock of it is surely enough to release the other man from the compulsion laid on him.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The praying man blinks as he drops to his knees. "Munoz?" he says. "You... you kill him?" he says staring at the Archivist, pain and accusation and fear all plain in his expression and in his thoughts.

    "You... you're a monster!" he says, stumbling back toward the open door. "I... I'm not going to die here. Not by you. You can't... you can't take me you monster!" he says as he tries to fling himself away from the sight of the Archivist the gun forgotten.

    There is another grunt and the sound of wood shattering before Moon Knight's voice calls from further in. "Archivist... hurry up!" There are three gunshots after these words followed by a few grunts of pain from the Fist of Khonshu.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon almost turns toward the fleeing man, not to follow him, but to... what, to protest? To apologize? Beg forgiveness? What can be done?

    Maybe to shout agreement. After all, nobody's going to be calling the cops except for him--and they'll sweep it all under the rug. Special Investigations. Weird mystic bullshit. And anyway, he was a member of a gang. The cops would probably just say he got better than he deserved, with a quick death.

    They turn away, drop the staff, and stumble to their knees, retching violently. Cafeteria curry and tea come up as they vomit up everything they'd eaten in the past few hours.

    Khonshu's avatar needs you, Archivist.

    "I know. I know." A pause, and then, in a whisper, "I don't think I can do this."

    I would not have chosen you if you could not. You can hate yourself later. Now, you have a duty.

    Jon sighs, and wipes his mouth with the back of his magical hand. "I /know/," he growls. Then he pushes himself up, picks up his staff, and heads toward the back of the house.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The back room of the ground floor looks to be a kitchen. Or what is left of it. One thing Jon is certain of about Moon Knight is that he lacks any sense of subtlety. The kitchen is a work of art in that respect.

    Almost every surface of the room is saturated from a broken sink that continuously sprays water from the fragments of its faucet. What was once a table lays in pieces and splinters on the floor. A number of the cupboard doors hang from their broken frames, many others are on the ground. The refrigerator is on its side and open, the contents already thawing and spilled on the floor.

    Moon Knight, for his part sits on the door of an overturned oven that appreared to haven been ripped from the wall mountings. He's got a few holes in his suit and is pulling out a shattered bullet from a small hole in his gauntlet. A young man's muffled screams of protest and the pounding of fists against plexiglass come from inside the oven.

    "You took your time" Moon Knight says flatly. "I had to find somewhere to put your target." He raps his fist against the glass of the oven, drawing more screams and return pounding from within. "I was going to go with the fridge but I'd have to bend him in half to get him in there. Which would defeat the purpose wouldn't it?" he says.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "You couldn't hold him by the scruff of his neck?" Jon's tone is not bantering; he's irritated. "I was having trouble out there. A man is dead." He says it bluntly, curtly. A glance around the room, and then, "Looks like you had a bit of trouble too. Or are you /looking/ for reasons for SpectreCorp to have to give the property owner an anonymous donation?"

    He peers at the oven door and squares his shoulders. Huffs. "Let him out," he says. "I need his statement. And then... and then we see what Ma'at's judgement is."

Marc Spector has posed:
    "If Steven has to he'll buy the block and renovate the area..." Moon Knight says with a shrug. He stands up on the oven and hops off. As soon as his weight is off the door bursts open and a small man in his early 20s erupts from inside. He's covered in soot and grease. He tries to bolt for the open back door but Moon Knight grabs him by the callar of his coveralls and lifts him in one hand.

    "Not so fast..." he says gruffly. "My friend the Archivist wants to have a chat with you... or to put it better, you're going to talk at him and after that... well... that's up to you..." He tosses the man onto the soaking floor and moves to position himself in the open doorway, blocking any chance that the man can escape from that route.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon glowers at Marc. "So long as he doesn't push all the original residents out of the area. You know how I feel about gentrification."

    Then the young man is pushed in front of him, and the Archivist moves to loom over him, glowering down at him. "Are you Javier Hernandez?" There's the force of telepathic compulsion behind his words, the resonance of the power of Ma'at. "Are you the one that shot Cael Becker last night?"

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight's unyielding expression carries as much disgust as it can without showing any true features. "Please, Archivist, Steven's Jewish..." he says, like that should explain everything. Still he folds his arms and watches the exchange.

    The man on the ground is holding his ankle like he might've twisted it. Or Moon Knight did when he threw the man down. At Jon's words he looks up, drawn by the power and command behind the words. "I... I... I am." He says in response to the first question. He shows confusion at the second question. "Cael Becker isn't her name. Her name is Shelley Mason. And she's a -maltida traidora-! And now she's fucking -muere-!" He spits on the ground, though most of it dribbles down his chin as his head is focused on Jon's face and the voice of Ma'at working through them.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon has to push down the fury he feels at the way the man talks about Cael. He /wants/ to grab him by the collar and shake him, or go grab the gun out in the other room and shoot him. It's Ma'at's influence, standing behind him, that reminds him of his duty. He has to get a statement first, see the truth of Javier's life, and then offer him a chance to change his ways. Ma'at seems to know what that chance will be, even if she hasn't quite revealed that to Jon yet.

    So the Archivist regards the man grimly. "Do you know who I am?"

Marc Spector has posed:
    The man nods. "-Asesino de angeles. Demonio.- The Archivist. Jonathan Sims" he says, spitting again, managing the turn his face enough to send the wad of mucus to the side this time without the grip of Ma'at's words holding him in place.

    "Shel's boyfriend, yeah?" he says, arrogance lacing his words. "Figures that she'd go in for a -monstruo- like you. She's one herself after the shit she put so many people through after she turned her back on us."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's fists clench, and it's everything he can do not to strike the man. Maybe, /maybe/ this is all just some young kid lashing out at someone he's afraid of. Maybe. It's clear, though, that 'monster' hit home; anger flashes through his dark eyes for a moment, and he takes a long, deep breath.

    "Let's see what kind of monster /you/ are, then, shall we?" His voice is deceptively calm, but there's an undercurrent of tension. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a mini tape recorder, which he clicks on. Then he leans down, and teal flashes over his eyes. "Statement of Javier Hernandez, on the events that led to his decision to travel to New York and shoot /Cael Becker/. Statement taken direct from subject, 1st of May, 2022."

    "Statement begins."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight's never seen the Archivist actually take a statement before. At the emergence of the tape recorder he arches a brow. But then Jon speaks into it and recognition dawns on his impassive features. A recording of those judged. After all, the Archive and its Archivist are more than simply mystical components. They're solid. They have substance that can be touched in the real world.

    Javier licks his lips and starts to speak, compelled to pour out his life to the entity before him. And is he a piece of work. His statememnt starts with when he met Shelley Mason. He was only a couple years younger than she and her sister and he idolized the girls. Their prowess on the street racing scene. Their teamwork. He was already marked for a position as a drug runner for the gang and all he had to do was buy his time until he was old enough. Then he could get a real position and maybe impress one of the girls.

    But then Alis was killed by the Loonies and Shelley ended up drawing away from the gang. Then she turned traitor and helped the Feds track down and charge a number of them. Many of them were his family. His older brother. The man he looked up to the most was taken, charged with murder--among other things--and sentenced to 25 years to life.

    Those of his family that weren't taken... didn't survive much longer after that. His mother hung herself the night after his brother was sentenced. Javier found her body. A favorite cousin ended up getting beaten to death for mentioning Shel's name to one of the other higher ups. Javier had to bury her himself before she was fed to the dogs. And Javier himself? Without his brother's influence he had to work his way back up the ladder from the bottom in order to make a name for himself in the gang.

    He made his first kill a day before his 18th birthday. He followed a runner for a rival gang. Just a kid, maybe 14. He ran him down in his car. It was like hitting a speed bump. Just a bounce from the shocks of the car. He even stopped and went over him two more times back and forth... to make sure he did the job. Took the cash the kid was running with too and took it back to the higher ups.

    He moved up quick then. Got a reputation for being merciless and brutal. Even got a nickname: -El Toro-, The Bull. For how he ran down most of his victims and made sure they were dead by running them down over and over. With each kill he got more and more prestige.

    By the time he was twenty he had eleven names under his belt. Six of them were under the age of 16. Three were women. One might've been pregnant. And he loved it. He liked the run down. The scream that would cut off abruptly as he car crushed something vital: their lungs, their throat, their head. It was a rush.

    The words just keep coming a torrent of a confession of his sins and the life of pain and torment he's inflected on so many. He was a rapist. A murderer. He profitted on the pain of others. Supply drugs to underage kids to ruin their lives early. Making girls as young as 14 peddle themselves on the streets for cash. It was all to satisfy his craving for -power- for -validation- and proof that Shel hadn't ruined his life completely. He was powerful now to spite her. He was a god among the Alhambras and the stain of Shel was a distant memory he would wash away.

Marc Spector has posed:
    He was laying next to a pair of prostitutes (neither old enough to be called adults) when he saw the broadcast. Everyone had heard about what was happening in New York City. God coming down from Heaven to kick off the rapture. He was a Christian. Born a raised Catholic. He had been absolved of his sins in confession and once New York was scrubbed clean they'd move across the US and then the world. They just had to wait their turn and then they'd all be in paradise together.

    But the news report said that some asshole named Jonathan Sims, The Archivist had led a successful campaign and pushed the angels out of New York. And in the picture... standing right next to this Archivist. This Anti-Christ. Was Shelley Mason. All grown up and wearing Fed gear.

    If she was in New York, he had to go after her. He had to take her life. It was divine retribution for her work against God and his army a gift from God himself, telling him to avenge the angels and take back what he was owed. For the damage she had done to his own family. She was responsible for the deaths of his mother. His favorite cousin. Even his brother, who was murdered in prison a year earlier. Their blood was on her hands and her fight against the angels only proved how evil she truly was.

    He arrived in New York two weeks ago. He had paid $10K for the Trinitarios to tail her and find out where she lived. They found two locations. One was the Triskelion, which as federal property was a no go. But then she had a flat in the middle of downtown Brooklyn. That's where he could hit her. He had ghost gun he had built three years prior. That'd be the weapon. No way to trace a gun that the government didn't even know existed. And it'd be easy. Shot in the head and it'd be over. He'd be the man that killed Shel Mason. Avenged the deaths of so many of the Alhambras.

    But that fuckiing dog.

    It was so big and so loud. It took his shot off course and there was so much blood. He didn't like the sight of blood. Ever since he had had to bury his cousin he hated the sight of blood. And there was so much of it coming from the hole in Shel's throat. He... he ran.

    He huffs out a breath when the tale finishes. Tear streaks have run through the soot on his cheeks, two straight clean lines on his dark face. "I... I had to kill her. She took everything from me. I had to. I had to. She's a monster and she cursed my family. I had to do it" he says, pleading his case before the Archivist.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist is locked in place for the entirety of the statement, staring at Javier with something akin to hunger in his eyes, a hunger satiated further with every word. Jon's been keeping the craving for statements at bay with the ones Gertrude collected and stored in Bucoda, staving off the terrible hunger that seemed to seize him before, but that's like eating nothing but protein shakes. Maybe you can get enough calories to keep you going, but you'll never feel really /full/. He's been tempted to go pull statements off of objects or places; at least then it would be satisfying. But this, a direct statement from a living subject, one so laced with emotion... it's like a gourmet meal after starvation. Some part of his mind, the part primed by the gods to /need/ the statements, to force reluctant Archivists to do their job, is thrilled.

    Slowly, however, horror begins to grow on his face alongside the hunger. The Archivist experiences the statement in first person. They feel what the statement-giver feels, see what they saw. And so Jon has to feel the thrill this man gets from killing people, the craving for power, the hatred of himself... and then he has to relive shooting his girlfriend, from the perspective of the man who shot her. And he's going to re-live all of it in his dreams, every so often, for the rest of his life.

    By the time it's done, their own face is streaked with tears. They want to be done. They want to flee. But there's judgement to be done.

    Shuddering, Jon closes their eyes, and they change. Wings flare from their back, a circlet rests upon their forehead, bearing a black feather. Their clothing has changed, too, a long red tunic and gold trousers and sandals. Ma'at stands there with glowing teal eyes, looking down at Javier with an impassive gaze.

    "You are wrong about one thing, Javier Hernandez. I am not the Anti-Christ. I do not fit into your theology at all. I am /Ma'at/. I am Truth and Justice. Balance and Order. And I am here to judge your soul."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Horror dawns on Javier's face as he stares up at the winged figure before him. "But... no... why... she's not... she's not yours. She's Mexican. Not... not" he's not completely stupid, "she's not Egyptian. What... right do you have to judge those who aren't... you can't!"

    His body jerks as he tries to pull away from the winged figure. But it's a waste of energy, locked in place as he is. Still he struggles to escape his fate. "You can't! We're not yours. You can't do this... it's not fair!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Shelley Mason is now Cael Becker, and she has chosen to follow the gods of Kemet, insofar as she follows any gods at all. We owe her a debt, and a burden of responsibility, and so it is up to me to judge you for this infraction." The Archivist's eyes flicker with brief anger. "Besides. If it wasn't me that came for you, it would have been the Witchblade, or another. Didn't it occur to you that she has powerful friends, now?"

    Ma'at--or Jon--shakes their head. "No matter. That you *had* to shoot Cael Becker is your truth, perhaps. But there are other truths in the world. And it is time for you to see the impact you have had upon the world. And if that will make you repent your sins and lead a better life--then you will be given a second chance."

    They straighten, wings flaring out, and reach up to remove the feather from the circlet on their brow. "You have killed, and violated others, used them for your own ends. You were loved, but you have sullied that love with cruelty and selfishness. Feel the pain and heartache of your victims. Feel the love your parents and siblings had, that you have twisted. Feel it all, and know how heavy your heart lies on the scale." And they brush the feather across Javier's eyes.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The man's eyes widen even further as the feather is drawn across his eyes. His body convulses as the pain and terror of the lives he's destroyed directly or indirectly wash over him in a torrent of agony. He doesn't scream, the sounds coming from his throat are more gurgles and chokes as he swallows all the harm he's ever done.

    It only takes moments but through the convulsions he's fallen over. Still his face jerks up to meet Jon's. Twisting it at an odd angle that cannot be confortable. His breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps as his eyes return to normal. He spits out a gout of blood. He must have bit his tongue at some point through the exchange of his judgement.

    "I... I am -El Toro- and every one of them deserved to be trampled under my stampede. That's all life is right? -Deprededores y presas?- I am just one of the best and like a tiger, I'm patient and I got my prey in the end. -Esa perra se lo merecia.-" He spits out another clump of saliva and blood.

    

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The Archivist's expression is sorrowful as the man reacts with derision. They can tell that the man's words are true, not mere posturing. "You are no true Christian," they say. "Christ never taught that the world was predators and prey. He spoke of love, and compassion, and forgiveness." A pause. "Cael asked me to go easy on you, you know. Said you were just a kid. That she'd ruined your life, so of course you'd hate her. She understands all of those concepts better than you ever will."

    A pause, and then they smile. It's an oddly cruel smile. "Oh, didn't I tell you? We got there in time to save her. Cael Becker is still alive." A beat. "So I just need one more thing from you."

    They lean in, very close to the man's face, close enough that Javier's breath might fog their glasses. "Did you act on your own? Or will the other Alhambras send someone else since you've failed?" Compulsion to answer truthfully laces the words again.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Once again horror draws his face into a grimace at the words of his failure. "No... she's dead.. you're... you're lying..." He arches his back and releases a scream of pain as the words are not the answer to question posed to him.

    "My crew!" he cries out. "El Encierro. They know I'm here." He gasps for air as the arching of his back is released, the answer given sufficient for Ma'at's power. "If I go missing or she's not dead... they will put out another hit on her and another and another until someone does it right."7

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Well, then. I suppose we'll have to take care of that." The Archivist leans down and puts a finger on Javier's chin, tilting it up a bit. "I just want to be certain you understand... whatever happens to the Alhambras after this is because of your actions."

    They straighten, and the feather returns to their brow. They look to Moon Knight for a moment, as if considering, then sigh. "No," they say in their own voice. "I have to do this myself, don't I?"

    They focus back on Javier. "Javier Hernandez, you have been weighed and judged and found wanting. You have rejected your chance to make amends. Your life is judged forfeit, and your soul will be sent to your gods for judgement."

    Arms raised, the Archivist looks up at the ceiling. "Eye of Sekhmet!" they call out in a ringing voice. "Turn your gaze upon this wretched man!" A sense of heat grows in the room, and a reddish glow appears on the ceiling. "Enact on him the judgement of the gods of Kemet! Scour him from the land! Vengeance is yours!"

    The ceiling opens and pours fire upon Javier, wreathing his form, though it's contained to him alone. It will not be a pleasant death.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The man screams and writhes in protest and agony as the fire slowly consumes him. The flames do not spread beyond the area around him, the water on the ground flash boiling from the intense heat of the fire. It doesn't take long before what is left is a smoking and charred outline of what might have been a human moments before.

    Moon Knight watches impassively and nods when it is done. "Sekhmet hm?" he asks. "I'm sure Alya took some measure of pleasure in burning someone who had hurt you so viciously" he says, moving forward to give the charred site a wide berth.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Statement ends."

    The mini-recorder is clicked off. Jon stares at the charred spot on the ground for a moment and then sags back, the wings and circlet disappearing, their clothing returning to normal. They look like they haven't slept in a week. Exhausted, for all kinds of reasons.

    "It seemed appropriate," he murmurs, almost absently. "I was sending him to whatever Christian judgement there is, after all, not Ammit." A frown. "I need to get back to Cael." If Jon noticed the mention of his friend he doesn't indicate that, distracted and distressed as he seems.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Moon Knight nods and places a hand on Jon's shoulder to help stabilize his friend. "Come on..." he says tapping another button on the bracer on his left wrist. "I can get out of here with Angel Wing and alert the authorities to come deal with cleanup."

    "It wouldn't do anyone good if you were questioned and apprehended for this business. That's part of being what we are." He gently urges Jon toward the open hole where the back door had been as the glider of Moon Knight hovers down in near silence, drawn by the tracker on Moon Knight's armor.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I hate being what we are." Jon cannot lie, so the statement rings with truth, even without Ma'at speaking through him. "No going back now, though, I suppose."

    He lets himself be led out the back door, though, frowning distractedly all the while. "There ought to be a bodega with flowers still open somewhere, yeah? And a liquor store. Cael likes orange flowers, I think..."