12031/Sun King Ascendant: Supermoon Super Barque

Sun King Ascendant: Supermoon Super Barque
Date of Scene:	12 July 2022
Location:	The Midnight Mission
Synopsis:	Layla helps Marc go through a ritual that allows him to meet with Khonshu and Tawaret. With their help, he shows Steven and Jake their shared history and origins. Then they all prove to Khonshu their unique abilities that will help them serve him jointly going forward.
Cast of Characters:	Layla Abdalla El-Faouly, Marc Spector, Jonathan Sims

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Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
It isn't just a full moon tonight, it's a supermoon. Marc's strength should be at it's peak, his tie to Khonshu at it's strongest. And it will hopefully give them a little extra time as the moon's light will take longer to fade from the sky. She's chosen to set up at the base of Taweret's statue (obviously), having set up a small altar to the Goddess with offerings of fresh beer, bread, some nuts and fruit, and a large bowl of pure water gained from one of the few remaining truly clean springs in the world. Layla herself has donned her ceremonial garb and is is spreading out a bedroll for Marc, covering it in fresh, clean, simple white egyptian cotton. A few red and white candles are lit on the altar, and preparattions are complete.

Standing, she turns to await Marc's appearance (in whichever 'form' he's most comfortable in) so they can begin the ritual. Glancing up towards the heavy, bright moon overhead, she murmurs a quick prayer to the Egyptian Gods, then lets out a breath, and readies herself.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc arrived once his own preparations are complete. He spent a lot of time meditating on what he needed from this as well as doing as much internal dialogue as he was comfortable with. Admittedly, it wasn't a lot. BUt it would have to do be enough for this. He's stripped out of the white suit that he uses as Mr. Knight's uniform while working at the Mission and closed up the temple for the evening.

    He arrives in the main hall in simle undyed cotton. The shirt and pants have the look of hospital scrubs or pajamas, unadorned by any sign of identification of make. His feet are covered by simple oof white house slippers.

    He gives the statues of Ma'at and Taweret cursory glances before fixing his eyes on the statue of Khonshu. That's who his focus needs to be on. If he's to fully understand the changes his connection has undergone and to fully fix what issues his mind has been struggling with. Taweret is facilitating the meeting but the struggle will ultimately come to his ability to wrest his own desires from Khonshu's pact with him. On stable ground... without the threat of death hovering over him.

    He smiles to his wife as he approaches and looks at the bedroll. "Glad I locked up shop tonight... would hate to think what the locals would think if they saw this ritual," he offers with a small smile. "I never asked, but... you have done this sort of thing before, right?" he asks the woman with an arched brow.

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
Layla smiles lightly when Marc enters the room, appreciating and agreeing with his choice of simple clothing. She doesn't move as he goes to the Khonshu statue, knowing that he needs to be able to do this at his pace. It wouldn't work otherwise. She does watch, however, and perhaps sends her own silent plea to Khonshu to work with him tonight.

Her eyes draw back towards Marc and her smile widens a touch, "That you were cheating on Khonshu with Taweret, and there was going to be Duat to pay?" Chuckling, she gives a small nod, "A couple times. It isn't something that's necessary a -lot-... but more than I would have expected." Glancing up towards Taweret, the smile shifts towards wry, "That said, this will be the first time I've done this for an Avatar, so it should be an interesting try. I'm hoping that it will be similar to how it handles with a pregnant woman."

She motions to the bedroll. "When you're ready, just lay down, get comfortable, close your eyes, and relax your mind. Easier said than done, but you want to be focused inward. Trust me to watch over your mortal body while your mind, heart, and soul travel. Taweret will greet you on the other side and she will help to guide your journey, but this will largely be something the three of you need to work out amongst yourselves."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc nods and moves to the bedroll. "I expect it won't be too hard. I did some exercises to help with that before coming out here. They're as ready as I am from what I can tell" He lies down and clasps his hands over his chest, looking up at her. "I trust you and I trust her." He smirks a bit. "I just hope there isn't two small versions of me when I come back, otherwise there's going to be questions..." he glances at the statue representing the hippo goddess of childbirth.

    After another slow deep breath he closes his eyes and nods slightly. "Alright. I'm ready. Do what you need to do?" His breathing evens out, an easy thing that he learned from his time in the military and then more while he was undercover for the CIA. Breathing techniques were necessary for infiltration jobs, after all.

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
"Good, good," Layla kneels next to his chest once he's laid down, smiling at him. The comment about two small versions has her blinking, then laughing, "YOU'LL have questions? As the other half of that, I would not only have questions, but some very choice words." Shaking her head, she wraps him loosely in the Egyptian cotton, like a lightweight, barely there sleeping bag.

As he closes his eyes, he'll feel the light brush of a kiss to his forehead, then the gentle, warm touch of her hand at chest and forehead. Then her own eyes close and she starts to focus, channeling Taweret's power through her, helping to ease his passage. His heartrate slows to nearly dangerous levels as that bridge is formed for him between this world and the next.

It takes some minutes, but he'll finally start to notice that the silence of the Mission has been replaced with a soft susurrus of sand shifting against wood, the creak of a ship as it rides gentle waves... and a vague sense of being watched.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I'm still not sure about this." The voice is all too familiar to Marc. Khonshu, his patron, sounding irritated. Which is his usual attitude, at least with Marc himself. "We've been re-joined. Is this really necessary? I have what I need in Marc. Helping him be more stable might damage our bond."

    Ahh, yes. Khonshu, forever presuming that Marc needs to be /completely/ insane in order to work best as Moon Knight.

    He's not right nearby. He's off on the far side of the vessel on which they float, wrapped in his ceremonial robes, carrying his staff, standing there glowering as much as a bird's skull can reasonably glower without eyes.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc opens his eyes and finds himself on the boat. "Don't worry... I'm certain I will still be insane when we're through here" he says his own irritation coming through his voice. He opens his mouth to continue bantering with the god before another voice chimes in behind him.

    "We just need to be certain that you understand you are in a bargain with all three of us." The voice is a bit higher pitched and carries a sort of prestige and sophistocation. Steven looks identical to Marc. Same face, same frame, same hair and eyes. BUt it doesn't take a double glance to see they are very different people. Stephen's scrubs are slate grey in color. His hair is combed back and and his face clean shaven in contrast to Marc's mussed and 5 o'clock shadow.

    "And we mean -all- of us" a final voice replies flatly. There is a thick Chicago accent to the voice. Jake's scrubs are black and loose fitting. His hair is longer than Marc or Steven's and a bit more haphazard in how it sits, like it's usually under a cap. His face is also covered in a full salt-and-pepper beard. His own dark eyes narrow suspiciously at the god of the moon. "If we're all going to share the body of your avatar, I feel we all need a write up of the terms."

    Steven nods. "That seems only fair. Unless you don't want -all- of us under your watch. Though it seems a bit silly of you to have an avatar only when Marc is around; but your ways are your ways."

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
"Now now," comes a higher pitched feminine voice with a bit of a posh edge to it. "We're here specifically so you boys can work out your differences and find a balance. ALL of you. You can't keep expecting Steven and Jake to take a backseat all the time. They exist to help Marc cope with a truly tragic childhood, and it isn't doing his spirit any favors to be constantly at war with itself." From slightly behind Marc, handling the wheel of the barque, is Taweret in all her glory. The plump body topped with the head of a hippo, mouth filled with the teeth of a crocodile, black hair in braids and capped with gold under a fancy headdress. That leathery crocodile hide running in a broad stripe down her back into a thick tail that runs out from underneath the gown to sweep the deck of the barque behind her. Lion's paws at hands and feet tipped with a wicked-looking claws.

She puts a loop of rope around a spoke on the wheel, locking it in place as she ponderously makes her way to the foredeck. Pointing to the scales where a trio of hearts rest, milky white and translucent, in a constant slow see-saw against the large crane feather on the other tray. "Look at that! They can't continue like this, it will tear them apart and then NONE of them will be able to be your Avatar! They would exist only in a fugue state, completely separate and unaware of one another, unable to tell when each shift would happen or for how long. And YOU," she points one clawed finger towards Khonshu, "would have no more control over them than they would have over themselves. The contract would be broken and you would doom all three of them to a life of confusion and torment. I can't even be sure they could be properly sorted at death should this continue. I think we have had enough upset in the afterlife already, thank you very much."

Turning towards Marc, Steven, and Jake, Taweret offers a toothy smile that manages to be friendly and terrifying at the same time. "Hello, dears! It's lovely to meet you all. I'm afraid we haven't time for tea and gossip tonight, however. You've a lot to work through over the course of the night. Best hop to it!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Oh, terrific. The pompous idiot and the angry ragamuffin." It's not hard to decipher which one is which, to Khonshu.

    "It was working perfectly fine for quite a while," the god grouses. "And then /that/ one," he points at Steven, "decided he needed to get more involved and made that 'Mr. Knight' persona. And /that/ one," he indicates Jake, "decided to take over the duties entirely for a while. I'd blame 'therapy' but the therapist never told you any of that, did he?"

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc recoils a bit from the visage of Taweret. She is incredibly terrifying, especially that crocdilian smile on the face of such a massive creature like a bipedal hippopatamus. He swallows and then turns back to Khonshu. "He didn't suggest anything like that no" Marc says glancing to Jake who strolls up on his left. "What Jake did was--"

    Jake cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "What I did was unfortunate, yeah" he says gruffly, glancing waryily from Tawerert, all this is more than he ever bargained for. But he had his taste for what the god's power in his hands could do and how it could be used. "I took over and used the power without hesitation. Without discretion. Without understanding that there is aspects of protection involved in what Moon Knight and Khonshu represent. But I did that because I didn't know, not out of any sense of malice or anger at Marc."

    He thumps the man on the shoulder. "Marc's a friend and he and I have an understanding. When shit needs doing, I do it." He smiles wryly. "I don't mind getting a bit dirty in the process. Especially if it helps him sleep at night." He then looks at Khonshu. "But we can all work together for you. We understand what we can do for you and then do it. Together. All of us. Think about it. You get three capable avatars instead of one fractured. Sounds like a win to me."

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
"Khonshu!" Taweret turns that fierce visage towards the God, a frown on her face. "This is NOT helpful. You need your Avatar. Your Avatar needs balance to be able to function properly. Right now you are getting one third of an Avatar because of your own pettiness. Now knock it off and LISTEN for once!" She tamps one clawed paw on the deck, glowering at him for a long moment. It's not hard to see where the protector part comes in.

Turning back to the trio, her features soften, as much as they can, and she nods to the men. "You two seem to have a good idea of what you want. But what about you?" Taweret shifts her attention to Steven. "You're being awfully quiet, young man. What is your take on all this, hm?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Khonshu, again, somehow glowers at Tawaret and then huffs. "I agreed to go along with this, didn't I? I suppose everything's changing. Ma'at has an avatar /and/ Ra has one, so why shouldn't I have three? It'll help me deal with that stuck-up jerk anyway."

    He looks between the three man and says, "If you're really serious about this--all three of you--then you have to know where you came from and where you're going. Tawaret and I can facilitate that. Show you your past, and help you come into balance. But it will not be easy. And it may be that your hearts will be too heavy for the scale, in the end." A pause. "That is why I worry, and protest. I don't want to find another avatar just yet."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Steven has been listening and contemplating. "I did help facilitate the concept of Mr. Knight didn't I?" he asks in response, smiling at Marc. "A fatherly figure of advice and comfort. I have no objections to our seperate abilities being used in conjuction. I welcome it. I'm the one with most of the understanding of what -you- truly stand far after all" he adds, nodding to the gods present.

    He places a hand on Marc's shoulder. "We'll get through it, just as we have everything before. If it's hard... then better that we do it together. We're different people, but we each represent something Marc needs and together we can accomplish great things." For a man who is more business than heroing, he at least has the right attitude about it.

    Marc smiles at Steven, always the protector and one to step up if things needed words over action. "He's right..." he replies. "If we do this together, I'm sure our hearts will balance out well. Just... tell us what it is we need to do."

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
Taweret smiles brightly, "And me! My very first Avatar! She's a real pip!" Looking quite pleased with herself still, the Goddess nods to Khonshu, "You did agree. Which is why you need to take this seriously. I understand and share your concerns. But they have to do this if they're going to continue to function in any sort of meaningful way." Pausing, the upbeat hippo Goddess smiles once more, "And if they're as good as I think they are, you may even end up with a tighter bond in the end! Once the three are in agreement and have come to terms with everything, they won't be fractured and you will be able to interact more seamlessly with all of them."

Nodding to Steven's agreement, Taweret makes her way towards the deceptively simple-looking 'hut' that sits atop the deck, the one that leads into the belly of the barque. She moves to stand by the door and turns to face all three, her expression turning grave. "You three will need to learn of, and come to terms with, everything that each of you has lived through. This is especially true of those things you would wish to hide from one another." Her gaze falls first on Marc, then Jake, then Steven. "You each have done things in your life that you keep hidden from the other two. And that imbalance, that fracture, is what is hurting you now. Trust in one another, be open, be honest. You each believe yourself to be protecting the other two from something. It is time you all face those things together. You may call on us if you get lost, we can help to put you back on the path, but once you start down the road you MUST finish the journey or all three of you will be lost forever inside your own head."

Pausing, Taweret cocks her head, then smiles and adds, "Layla says good luck, and reminds you that you have six missed anniversaries to make up for, so hurry back." Pulling open the large door, she motions the three men to head inside. "Remember. Trust each other. And call on us if you need help."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "A real... pip? I thought that was the indent on the side of a six-sided die?" Khonshu doesn't have eyebrows to raise, but there is a definite sense of raised eyebrows. Maybe a bit of a smirk. He's always been something of a jerk, though. Being the Greatest of Gods will go to one's head, even if it wasn't forever.

    Then he straightens to his full height and gestures with his staff toward the door. Beyond is a hallway of sterile white, lined with doors, a hallway Marc knows all too well: the halls of Putnam Psychiatric Hospital, the first mental institution he found himself spending time in.

    "Go," the god booms. "Go, and face yourself."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc peers between the pair of gods and their banter and then looks into the corridor before him. "Oh..." he says, his face falling. "Putnam..." He swallows and sighs. "Of course it starts there..." He looks at Khonshu and takes a tenative step forward. "Tell Layla I'll be sure to make up for what I missed."

    Steven places a hand on his shoulder and catches his gaze. The mirrored eyes meet and the former smiles. "It's as much a home for me as it is for you, Marc. After all, I was there just as long." He wraps an arm around the man and leads him into the hut.

    Jake follows behind the pair his own expression resigned to have to walk their memory lane for a time until his own part comes into play. There is a wariness though, something hidden from them both. He knows the halls of Putnam himself. Some of his own earliest memories residing there.

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
"Oh you ARE in a mood tonight, Khonshu. Just remember, MY statue still graces houses to this day. My followers never stopped believing in the protection I can provide." Taweret flashes a rather sharp, if cheerful, grin towards the moon God, looking quite pleased with her rejoinder. Then she's looking to Marc and smiling brightly, no hint of the ferocity displayed towards her fellow God. "Yes dear, I'll be sure to let her know! Now hurry along! You've got quite the journey ahead of you!"

She watches Marc and Steven pass through with that same bright smile, though it turns a touch pensive, even concerned, when Jake trails after them. Reaching out with one paw-hand, she touches his shoulder just long enough to get him to pause. Crouching down so she can get on his level, meeting his gaze, Taweret murmurs, "I know your concern Jake Lockley. Have faith in Marc and Steven. You are as much part of them as they are each other. Show them, don't let fear of the unknown stop you from taking your place with them." Offering a close-lipped smile to hide the sharp teeth, she nods, then rises up and motions for him to go through, "Go on now, hurry on and catch up."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The halls of Putnam are strangely empty as the three men enter. No sounds of other people, no footsteps or talking or clattering. Just their own movements, and breathing, echoing down the too-white corridors.

    Marc can sense that what is behind the doors along the corridor may not be the actual rooms of the hospital he spent time in as a child. He can't say exactly what is where, but more lingering emotions--this one is associated with fear, this one with joy, this one with anger, this with lust and passion. The signs next to the doors are all cartouches written in hieroglyphs, in the language of the Middle Kingdom. So Steven can read them, but Jake... well, Jake is still out of place. Out of touch.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc eyes the doors warily, allowing Steven to lead the way for a time. He nods as he reads the signs denoting the doors. He stops at one and frowns. "I think, this might be a good starting point..." he says. "The sign says 'Bedroom - Age 10'" he says somberly, taking note as the color drains from Marc's face. "I think you know what is there... I know I do. But Jake... doesn't. Are you ready?" he asks and steps forward to take hold of the handle on the door before turning it and opening it.

    A boy's bedroom is inside. It's the early 90s and the walls and furnishings note as much. There are a few baseball player's posters--the Cubs, of course--and another poster of Captain America hands on the door. Not surprising to find the hero of World War II who fought the Nazi's in the room of a Jewish kid.

    "My old room" Marc says wandering in with the other two trailing him. He looks around fondly, touching on a few of the books on a shelf. Running his hand over the desk, fondly. "What are we doing he--?"

    He's cut off by a scream of anger. A woman's scream of absolute rage. "MARC! WHERE ARE YOU?!" the woman screams. The words almost incoherent and another figure shows up in the room. Under the desk hides a young boy. His hair is dark and his features are soft but clearly recognizable as Marc's own. Both of the Marc's flinch at the scream and the one under the desk covers his ears in fear.

    The door bursts open and a woman who shares Marc's dark hair and eyes stumbles in. Her face is tear stained and a bottle of whiseky, mostly empty is clenched in one fist. "Thought you could hide and get away from me? Get away from what you -did- to us, huh?" she says, acid and booze in her words.

    Jake scowls at the woman. Steven watches soberly, his expression unreadable. "This is where it started really? Oh, sure, Rabbi Pearlman had a hand in it, but it started here... didn't it?" he asks. "With your perceived crime of what happened to Randall."

    The name Randall causes Marc to jerk suddenly as if struck. "No... no I don't... I don't want to..." he moves to the door, turning his face on the spectacle of horror occuring between his younger self and his mother. Steven moves behind him and places a comforting hand on Marc's shoulder. "It's okay... I was there to help then and I'm here to help now."

    He looks at the poster on the door. Captain America, throwing his shield. "You know what his name is?" he asks, nodding at the poster. Marc looks up at it, wincing at the sounds behind them that Jake watches with narrowed eyes. "N...no... I mean, yes, Captain Steve Rogers."

    Steven smiles and shakes his head. "Look again..." he says, pointing at the bottom of the poster where Captain America's name is written in stylized font and in smaller print his full name is given: Steven Grant Rogers. Steven. Grant. Marc's eyes goes wide and he looks at Steven who smiles and nods. "We notice the small things when we're afraid don't we?" he asks. "You needed a hero to save you from what you endured and I was right there guarding the door every time."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Steven smiles at Marc and turns around, guiding Marc to turn with him. The young man under the desk is no longer Marc. The features are quite similar, enough to be a brother or close cousin. He's taller if still young, with stronger shoulders and manages to move with Marc's mom's beatings. Lessening the severity of the strikes being delivered in her drunken rage. "You couldn't handle it..." Steven says, offering a sad smile to the scene. "So I took it for you. Every time."

    Jake turns to Steven and Marc. "Hero of the day, huh?" he says dryly. "But why is she...?" he gestures to their mother.

    "Randall..." Marc says hesitantly. "My little brother. We went to a river nearby to fish. We fell in... I survived... he didn't." He shudders, holding back a sob that threatens to let loose a damn of emotions that he's held closely for... nearly 3 decades. "But this is where you... what... where you were born?" he asks, looking at Steven.

    "That's one way of putting it. Splinterd off is more accurate. You needed someone to carry the trauma and I was that person. The hero who guards you from the demons that come after you." Marc's horrified gaze falls to his mother, as she spits on the young -Steven- and strides out of the room.

    Steven shakes his head. "Not our mother. The demons weren't her. They were in the bottle more than in her. Grief combined with the booze." He makes a face and shakes his head as he meets his own younger gaze. "But yes... this is where I came from and how I was a hero for you long before you met Khonshu." He moves back to the bedroom door and opens it, revealing the halls of Putnam once more.

    Stepping back into the empty corridors they look around and Jake sighs. "Where do we go now?" he asks the others. "A good question," Marc replies, looking to Steven. Steven meets Jake for a moment and frowns. "Why are you here? I mean... this isn't your source is it?" he asks. "I mean, me and Marc ended up here when he was 13. But you didn't come into play until his mercenary days, right? The village?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The halls shift a bit as if in answer to the question, doors shuffling around until a particular one sits in front of them. Marc can feel the pull from it, fear and anger--and Jake can feel an odd pull, too. This, presumably, is /his/ source.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc looks to the door and then looks at Jake. Jake is as closed off as usual but then sighs. "Let's get this over with..." he says stepping forward. Steven's own expression is one of confusion. "That doesn't... it says 'Cafeteria - Age 15'" he looks at the back of Jake and then again at the sign before following after the man. Marc brings up the rear with his own expression of confusion at the revelation.

    They pass through the door into the Cafeteria of Putnam Psychiatric Hospital. The tables are filled with the patients in their plain, solid colored scrubs of various colors. A teenaged Marc is seated at a table alone.

    He remembers feeling like an outsider even there. His condition didn't present itself as aggressively as a number of the others. He always felt like he didn't belong there, that his place there was a waste of space and resources. But family services seemed to think he was a threat and so they put him in. He was eating when another patient in light yellow scrubs approached his seat with three others and sat down around him. Wallinh him off.

    Jake watches with a tight frown, his eyes narrowing again as one of the newcomers speaks to Marc. "Say there Marc... how about you help us real sickos out and give me your pudding... it was mighty tasty..." he says eyeing the pudding cup on Marc's tray."

    He reaches for the cup and Marc's own hand flashes out to quickly cover it up. He man smirks at Marc and sighs. "I was afraid you might be fond of it too. Well... looks like it's a matter of who wants it more. I know I want it and my friend here know that I want it. You going to fight us all for the cup?" he says, a chortle building up in him.

    One of the other men puts a hand on Marc's shoulder pulls Marc back, forcing the teen to the floor behind him. The four get up from the table and surround him. One of the orderlies move forward but is stopped by another. "Let's watch for a bit... see what's happens..." he mutters to his co-worker who listens and relaxes for the show.

    They other patients start kicking the downed teenaged Marc who covers his head and neck with his hands as he's stomped and kicked. After a few moments of this they lift him up and hold him by the arms while the lead man, pudding cup in hand stands before Marc.

    "Remember this little Markie, I'm the big fish around here. What I want..." he says, scooping a spoonful of the chocolate pudding out and eating it before slugging Marc in the gut, "I get" he says before he decks Marc across the jaw, sending the boy to the ground again. Marc's body starts to shake.

    The older Marc blinks that the display and then looks at Jake. "This... this was you...?" he says to the bearded man, who continues to watch flatly. "They hurt you and you weren't going to fight back. You didn't know how. You needed to stand up for yourself. Show the others that they couldn't push you around. Otherwise you were going to die in that place... I stepped up to give you the tools you needed to survive..."

    Suddenly, the teenage Marc--no, not Marc; Jake--stands up and kicks the lead man in the crotch. The pudding is dropped splattering on the ground. Jake grabbed the plastic spoon and snapped off the cup of it, leaving a sharp pointed spike at the end. The broken piece of plastic goes into the throat of one of the other men, who gags and grabs at the improvised weapon in his throat as he staggers back. Jake wasn't done though. Another one of the lackeys wraps him up from behind. Jake stomps on the man's toe and throws his head back into the man's nose, breaking it with a sick crack of cartilege. He breaks free and, in a fit of rage, throws the man into the leading bully, sending both of them to the floor. The final lackey stares in horror at his friends in various states of pain and blood and runs away. Jake is on the verge of chasing him with the orderies tackle him and inject the sedative into his neck, putting him under as the room fades to black.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc and Steven just stare at Jake in this darkened place. "How many times?" Marc asks staring at the most mysterious of his alters. "How many times did you do stuff like that?" he asks, his tone soft but terrified. He doesn't want to know, not really, but he has to to understand where Jake came from. To better understand the man.

    "How many times you get sedated?" Jake replies. "Twenty or twenty five over the course of that year. You got out the next year... that was me too. You wanted out and I had a plan, so I put it into play."

    He points a finger at Steven. "You protect him... but I give him--us--the tools necessary to fight. I do what needs to be done in order to survive. Here... that village in Sudan... anywhere it's necessary. He can't do it, you can't do it... so I do it instead," Jake says, his tone accusatory and fierce. "Sometimes hard decisions need to be made... decisions that stain you... Marc doesn't need that sort of stain... I can handle it. I can carry it. That's my job." He runs through the black, pushing past Marc and Steven and bursting through the doors back into the hospital's cooridors.

    Marc and Steven follow slowly, and the former places a hand on Jake's back. "It's okay, man. I... I get it. And... I thank you... truly." Jake shakes off the hand on his back. "Fuck you..." he says, but his heart isn't in it. "I just... you needed a push from time to time and I'm that push."

    Marc frowns. "So what's next..." he asks the pair of them. "How do we know when we're finished?" he says, looking to the ceiling for clarification or understanding.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The ceiling does not respond. Why would the ceiling respond? That would be silly.

    Instead, the floor lights up with glowing white arrows, leading the three of them around and along through a maze of corridors. There are places they could stop, doors they could examine if they wished, but without that the arrows on the floor lead them to a door different than all the rest. A stone door, the door to Khonshu's temple, although far smaller than it is in reality.

Marc Spector has posed:
    "Not exactly subtle is he?" Jake mutters eyeing the arrows and following the other two who heed the message.

    "You haven't the faintest of ideas" Marc dryly manages as they travel along the maze of winding passages.

    "Kings rarely have any use for subtlety. Their word is, after all, law. Before the rise of the cult of Horus, Khonshu was the son of the king Amon-Ra and thus Pharaoh" Steven says before looking at Marc and smirking mischiviously. "Does that mean that you and that man in your infirmary--"

    "No!" Marc snaps though he too manages a grin. "Don't -even- go there. Christ..." He stops as they round another door an all mirth fades. He recognizes the doors. "This is it then..." he says nodding to the doors. "You two ready?"

    Steven regards the doors a little apprehensively, even in their diminished size they are an imposing feature. He nods. "We'll be fine" he supplies with confidence that only touches on the heart of his feelings, with a nod of his own.

    "Let's get it over with" Jake says flatly. "I know what I can supply already. No need to hide it now." He gestures for the other two to lead the way.

    Marc pauses and then reaches to push open the doors to the temple.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    As they step over the threshold, they disappear from each other's sight. Each of them is, instead, faced with the situation Marc went through when he became Moon Knight: Raul Bushman's betrayal. Each of them is in Marc's position, and has the chance to react as they naturally would. It may be that Marc will re-create the same actions, but it may not--it may be that his experience since then, his awareness of his alters, might lead him to make different choices.

    There is a sense of a presence watching them, as if grading their performance. Khonshu, most likely.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc is barely aware that Bushman is monologuing over his body. There's just too much pain. The blade in his gut pours blood after the mad mercenary twisted it on his insides. He must've passed out at some point because when he opens his eyes again he's alone in the temple. He doesn't know why he, but something pushes him to claw his way to the steps. "Help... me..." he moans, reaching up to the face of the god's statue. "Help... me..." he pleads.

    His heart is full of emotions. Worry, for one. Guilt over the massacre he is sure Bushman likely enacted on the archeology crew outside the temple, is another. But over it all is an intense hatred. His heart cries out for vengeance. For a way to stop men like Bushman. To bring them low and lay them out for their transgressions. To stop anyone from feeling powerless ever again, to be a bastion against those who would prey on the weak in the night. He could be that shield... if only he were stronger.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The presence there in the temple is different than Marc remembers, if subtly so. More familiar, paying more attention.

    "Your strength is your determination. You have found a way to survive horrors that have broken others." A pause. "By breaking yourself, perhaps, but in so doing you have retained control. You have chosen the form of your madness, and put yourself back together in a form that is stronger. I see that now."

    There's a feeling of warmth, as silver light washes over Marc and heals his wounds, wrapping him in the now-familiar vestments of Khonshu. "To you I give the gift of flight, that you may always be able to put yourself between others and danger. Be a shield to them, continue to be my Fist, and you will continue to know my blessings."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Steven's experience is a bit more chaotic than Marc's. He was faster than Marc. More inclined for flight than fight. When Bushman comes at him in with the knife he doesn't just stand there and take it. He jumps away. The cut bleeds, but it's not fatal, not in the least. And he flees.

    The cat and mouse that follows is almost comical. Gunshots ring out over the temple as Bushman employs his weapons with great accuracy and efficiency. But even so, Steven only sustains a few more cuts and bruises for the trouble. Even so, he knows he can't keep this up forever. He's going to have to fight back. Even if it might be a futile gesture.

    That's when he sees it. A flicker at the corner of his eye. He turns to face it and... there's nothing there. Another flicker at the other corner. Again he turns, and nothing. Again the flickering comes and he says under his breath. "Instead of playing tricks on me you could -help me-" he says, peering back around from his hiding place. Bushman was not far, the hulking shadow coming up the corridor wheere he fled. "That man is going to kill me and there's nothing I can do. I don't know if you're some wayward priest or a guardian or something else... but please... I'm begging you, whatever you need from me you can have it... just... don't let him kill me."

    There is a sense of pause, of consideration, and then the wind howls. An image passes through Steve, something large with the face of an owl and the body of some demonic humanoid. It screams incoherently once it's out of Steven's sight and there is a return scream from Bushman and a spray of gunfire before a sickening squelching sound cuts off the scream and a spray of blood spatters the wall of the inner sanctum.

    Steven steps out from his hiding place and looks up at the statue of the Moon god. "A good buisnessman pays his debts... what is your price?" he asks, only a little apprehensive of the terms he placed on his side of the bargain.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Interesting," Khonshu muses in response to Steven's actions. "I've always dismissed you as a pompous fool, but you saw what Marc did not--the spirit of one of my priests that still guards my temple. That is your strength--you see what others do not, and then you put that knowledge to use. You've always used it for business acumen, and I do not see the point in my Fist. But you will not be my Fist--you, Steven Grant, will be my Eyes."

    The vestments that wrap around Steven are Mr. Knight's vestments, though in finer material, and at his belt are two escrima sticks. The knowledge to use them is in Steven's mind now, borrowed from Marc, alnog with knowledge of how to dodge and avoid hits.

    "To you I grant the Sight, the ability to see spirits and magic, that you may use it to see in the darkness. Find those who need your help, and use that information to shield the weak and wreak vengeance upon the cruel."

Marc Spector has posed:
    Jake's experience is even more different than the other two. He, like Marc takes the blade in his gut, but unlike Marc he doesn't give Bushman a chance to make the fatal twist. He pulls away and disengages. Jake's style is more mobile, more situated and calculated. He took to the shadows inside the temple. And the cat and mouse played with Steven is turned on its head.

    Jake is a predator in the darkness. Bushman has tried to hunt the wrong sort of animal. The shadows are an armor of their own and one that he knows how to use to incredible effect. "You picked the wrong man to go after this evening Bushman..." he says, tossing his voice to the other side of the room. "You see... unlike you... I don't need greed to drive me to kill." He jumps from the darkness and the blade that was in his gut is wrenched out and driven into the throat of the man who plunged it into him. "I do it for fun..." he whispers as he tears the knife out of the thrashning man and rips a scarlet swatch across the man's trachea. Blood spills on the sand strewn floor before the statue of Khonshu, Jake's and Raul's both mix and Jake draws a gun from his side and puts a bullet into the Bushman's head at five paces away, dropping the large man in a dead heap.

    He drops the knife and stumbles forth, feeling the blood loss start to take its toll over the adrenaline. "You see..." he says to Bushman's body. "Sometimes you kill as a means to an end, but sometimes you just kill because someone needs to die. Money, ambition, none of that shit really matters when it comes down to it." He drops onto the steps of the dais before the statue and leans back looking up at the viasge of the god above and the moon that is his light high overhead.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I've always been a little baffled by you," Khonshu admits. "Seeing your origin, I can understand you better, but you have been bloodthirsty in the past. I /do/ sometimes need someone more ruthless than Marc is willing to be. Vengeance is sometimes brutal, and he will sometimes balk at what needs to be done. But what I dispense is /not/ indiscriminate violence. We do not kill those who can be redeemed. Why do you think I put up with Thoth and let my Fists work with his Archivists?"

    A pause, and then, "Can you swear to use your gifts in my service only to kill the unworthy? To allow Steven or Marc to stay your hand, while you do what they know must be done but do not have the stomach to do?"

Marc Spector has posed:
    Jake considers the words of the moon god for a moment, letting his blood pool in the wound. It hurts but there's a sort of focus in the pain, it lets him think. After a moment he nods. "I tasted the power you gave Marc. It felt good. But... I didn't have a good handle on it because it wasn't mine. It was his."

    He nods. "I can do what you ask. Might be better for me in the end. Too much blood on the street... no real need for me to go adding to it when I can clean it up some, right?" he says coughing a bit and wiping at the red staining his lips. "But I don't want no three piece monkey suit or whatever you want to call what Marc wears. I need something more for -me-. That fair?" he asks the moon god.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Way ahead of you," the god replies, sounding wry.

    "Your ruthlessness is your strength. You do whatever you must to get the job done. You should not be unleashed unless needed, for when you /are/ unleashed you will scorch the earth to see vengeance done. Moreover, you move in the darkness and the shadows. You undersand the world that those we protect walk in better than Marc or Steven ever could. You belong there, and you understand the people who walk to the night. So you, Jake Lockley, will be my Blade."

    The vestments that wrap around Jake are not like either Marc's or Steven's, though the material is the same. There is a cowl, like Marc's, but no cape. There is a jacket, button-down like the peacoat he often wears in cold weather, along the sides of which are strapped several throwing knives. Simple leggings and high boots, gloves like mummy's wrappings. In one hand he holds a khopesh--which he alone has been granted the knowledge to use--and in the other he carries a gun.

    "To you I grant the ability to camoflage yourself and hide in the shadows, that you may strike at my enemies from the shadows before they even know you're there." The suit shimmers for a moment and then Jake disappears from view briefly before reappearing.

    This done, the three of them find themselves all together in the temple, aware of what happened to each of the others.

Marc Spector has posed:
    The three of them look at each other with equal postures of respect. "We're a team now, huh?" Marc says, his voice carrying a smile. "That's new. But I think I like it better this way..." he says. He moves and claps each of the other two men on the shoulder. "Let's see what we can do with our newfound partnership."

    Steven nods, straightening the lapels of his suit casually, and tugging at the gloves on his hands. "A good start and one we'll need to look into more deeply. Together. I think a more direct hand in matters would be good." He looks to Jake. "For us all. Even if you operate in the shadows... you have access to channels of communication neither of us can even touch. It would do well for us all to see to it that we use what we have at our disposal."

    Jake nods. "For each other and for your wife" he says to Marc. "That cult is still out there, right? I might have word of it... there has to be a supply line coming from somewhere. It's worth a shot."

    Marc nods. "Cooperation then" he says. "I'm okay with it. We'll have to explain it to Layla, but I think... in the end she'll accept it. It's who I... and we... are." He turns to the moon god. "Thank you. For... all of this" he says, gesturing to his other two alters. "It... it means a lot to know that -we- are your avatar more than just -I-."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The temple door swings open behind them all.

    "Well?" Khonshu's voice is impatient. "Are you going to come see if your hearts are balanced or not?"

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
"Much as it pains, dears, he isn't wrong. The night's nearly through and we still need to weigh your hearts and make sure the scales balance before you lot can head back, Tawerets voice sing-songs through the air, calling the trio back to the deck of the barque. THe creak of the wood can be heard faintly, along with a light breeze. "Hurry along now!"

One can almost hear her say 'spit-spot!' without her actually having to say it.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc, Steven and Jake--all Moon Knight in their own respect--nod to one another and turn to exit the temple. Emerging once more on the deck of the ship as it sails through the sands. "So... what's the verdict?" Steven asks Taweret, under the mask of his new suit. He finds that the outfit is rather nice, the texture of the coat is something he hadn't anticipated but it does lend a very Egyptian aesthetic to the entire ensemble one the suit of Mr. Knight sorely lacked.

    "It better have worked" Jake says, kopesh hanging at his side. "Be a damn shame to find out the whole 'It's a Wonderful Life' shit was for nothing..." He moves to the edge of the barque and watches as the dunes are crested.

    Marc sighs at Jake and moves forward. "Ignore him, goddess... we'd very much like to know how we are now that we went through... well... all of that" he says, gesturing back to the interior of the barque.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Khonshu smirks at the trio and then looks to Tawaret. The skull has no eyebrows or lips, but somehow manages to convey a wry expression, the impression of a cocked brow.

    "Well, then, come offer your hearts to the scale. We do not have Anubis or Ma'at here, but I suppose Tawaret and I can do in a pinch. And you're not dead, anyway."

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
Taweret chuckles lightly and gives a subtle nod to Khonshu as she approaches Marc, "Yes dears, lets take a look at those hearts and make sure this has settled all accounts."

Lo an behold, behind the goddess is a long table covered with a ritualistic Egyptian cloth, dyed vibrant colors and embroidered with gilded threads. On the cloth is a set of scales, gilded and shining, currently swaying with empty pans. Waiting three hearts to be weighed against a feather that has yet to be produced.

Taweret smiles cheerily (and a bit eerily given the 'crocodile smile') at Marc, "Right then! No time like the present!" And without further ado, she reaches right into his chest to pluck out.. his heart! Or, a spiritual representation of it, anyways. It looks like expertly crafted translucent stone with a milky occlusion in the shape of a heart, an anatomically correct heart that is.

Approaching Steven, she tries to offer a sympathetic smile, "Sorry, dearie, must be done!" Then his heart, too, is plucked from his chest, identical in size, shape, and fashion to Marc's, already cradled in Taweret's paw.

Then finally it's Jake's turn. Taweret doesn't bother with euphemisms or cheery words for this one. She merely nods at him, then reaches into his chest to pull out a third matching heart. With her treasures gathered, she toddles back towards the scale and looks to Khonshu.

"I've collected the hearts, I believe you have the feather?" There's a hint of amusement in her expression as she sets all three hearts onto one of the pans of the scales. Clearly, she's been waiting all night to ask Khonshu that.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc jerks as the goddess reaches into him and tears out a spiritual representation of his heart. It's not that it's painful; uncomfortable sure but not painful. But the process is so intimate and exposing that words can't properly convey what he felt. His out of breath as she moves on to Steven.

    Steven, for his part, has managed to undo the button of his coat to allow the goddess better access. He was waiting for this process it would seem and so only gives a mild sound of inscomfort as her hand plunges into him.

    Jake returns the nod with solemn stoicism. He winces as she fishes for his heart and produces it.

    Then, at her reference to the feather their eyes shift to Khonshu. Steven can't help but crack a grin at the banter between the pair.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Ma'at was upset she couldn't be here, you know. She's very protective of what she sees as her duty." Again, Khonshu smirks--or somehow seems to--as he pulls a single golden feather from beneath his robes. It shimmers in the light as he walks over to the table. "I told her that it's not my fault she couldn't get her avatar under control. He won't even come to the Mission, you know? I think she's out of practice wrangling mortals."

    Maybe Khonshu should join the gossip sessions, hmm?

    He reaches out to place the feather on the scale, carefully, then steps back to watch as the scales waggle back and forth, to see where they settle.

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
The scales are cruel, they teeter back and forth, creaking slowly, for long moments. Heart-stopping moments, one might say. But finally, the scales slowly settle into place with the slightest waver before stilling completely.

All three hearts in perfect balance against the golden feather.

"Excellent!" Taweret claps her hands together, gathering up each of the three hearts. Weighing each one in hand, she approaches Marc with a warm smile, "Here you go, dearie, don't you worry. I can feel your love for Layla." And the heart is returned to his chest.

Moving towards Steven, she weighs the two remaining hearts, then smiles brightly. "Ah! Here we are! The stoic bravery of Steven Grant, just as his namesake tries to project." The heart is returned to Steven's chest quickly.

THen she approaches Jake, a sad smile playing at her mouth. "And you, Jake. I can feel the heaviness you carry in your heart. I only wish I could ease the burden for you. Here you are." The final heart is returned to Jake, and Taweret turns to retake herposition at the helm.

"Alright dearies, this have been absolutely lovely, but the three of you need to return before we reach the gates. I've alerted Layla, she's starting the ritual to bring you back and wake you from your stasis. It was lovely to meet you all, and don't hesitate to reach out if you want to talk!" And with that, the trio will feel a tugging sensation at their core....

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc jerks up from the cot in the main room of the Mission with a gasp. His hands rest reach to his chest, feeling for the hole that must be there. Taweret is so massive and huge she had to have left a scar of some sort, right? Of course, there's nothing there to show any sign of disturbance at his chest at all.

    Even so, his breathing is staggered and labored. "I... I did it?" he asks, looking at Layla. "I think... I think I did it?" he says, offering her a half smile. "Or well, -we- did it. You, me, and the others. We survived and... I got a few pieces of insight into what I am supposed to do. Who we are supposed to be." He laughs. "Who would've thought, all I needed was ritualistic death and revival by a priestess."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    There's a sense, from overhead, of satisfaction in the statue of Khonshu. Maybe smugness, two. After all, how many of the other gods can be said to technically have /three/ avatars?

    He's going to be absolutely insufferable now.

Layla Abdalla El-Faouly has posed:
The very first thing Marc will get to see... is the moon. Because he was facing the ceiling and Khonshu's statue is very large.

The NEXT he'll see, however, is the smiling face of Layla. She looks completely at peace, happy for him. "Taweret said you all came through 'rather well' and that she is looking forward to the next time she can chat with the lot of you."

Then she's leaning forward and wrapping Marc in a hug, squeezing him tight, "I'm just glad you're safe. All of you." Pulling back, she offers a big grin and holds up a small bag of clearly Egyptian made marshmallows.. flatter, square, and in light pastel colors. "I think someone deserves a marshmallow!" She MUST be in a good mood if she's offering him a marshmallow from her private stash!

"Now why don't I make some tea and you can tell me all about your adventure in the Egyptian almost afterlife." That grin, a wrinkle of her nose, then she's rolling up to her feet from her crouch and offering a hand to help him up.

Marc Spector has posed:
    Marc takes the marshmallow and pops it in his mouth before taking her hand and getting to his feet. "It's... it's a long tale and there are some things in it I... you're not going to like, but I'm more than willing to give it to you" he says looking back the statue behind him in the center of the trio. His god. Their god. All off them.

    He takes her hand, and nods. "But you need to know if it you're going to understand it all. Let's go. We're going to need the strong stuff for this talk." He smiles as he leads her from the main hall to his office and quarters.