Chapter Text
Jake would never regret moving to New York, and the higher crime rate was only a bonus. Marc and Steven would disagree, but the busy nights sparked something in Jake.
London had its pickpockets and passive crime, but it left him bored most of the time. New York was a different story.
(He dropped from his perch on the rooftop, landing heavily on a thug before he could make good on his threat to the girl in front of him. She screamed, backing against the corner while Jake wrestled his way on top of the criminal.
"This has nothing to do with you," the guy breathed, struggling against the weight on his back. "Leave it alone, man."
The woman cried as Jake drew blood, his rage substituting any reply the criminal was hoping for.)
It became an outlet for him. He had his cab and his cigarettes and his fish that Steven had so enthusiastically adopted on his behalf, but he couldn't quite lose that simmering rage lying just beneath the surface.
Layla called it 'anger issues.' Jake called it a 'side effect of protecting idiotas from an abusive puta for so long!'
Whatever it was, beating the daylights out of more deserving men than him seemed to help. At least, it helped for a night. And then the next night. And then the next.
Marc was starting to complain about the lack of sleep.
But Jake took pride in his ability to—so far—break any opponent with relative ease. He struggled with the fallout, though—never exactly got a chance to practice social skills.
(He watched the woman sobbing in the corner through squinted eyes, blood seeping invisibly through black fabric. No course of action crossed his mind—no word of comfort, no guiding palm, no reassurance.
Where he could only fail, Steven succeeded.
"Are you alright there, love?" he asked, taking a knee in front of her. She couldn't be older than 20, old enough for pain yet too young to numb it.
Her eyes trained themselves on him—on the white of his suit jacket over his now-visible frame. Her hands shook steadily over her knees.
"Is he dead?" she cried, voice fading faster than it came. Steven eyed the body behind him with internal nausea, unconsciously angling himself between it and the girl.
"What say we get out of this alley and call the police, hm?" If she noticed the sidestep, she didn't call him on it.
He walked her to the alley's mouth slowly, holding back at the edge and pushing Jake forward. He'd done his job.
She didn't see the suit's color drain—didn't see him vanish back to the rooftop before she could turn around.)
No, Jake could never regret coming to New York. He had too much work to do.
"People are noticing you," Marc griped into his morning cup of coffee. The newspaper glared at him with a promise of unwanted fame.
"Don't worry about it."
Marc seethed silently at the uncaring tone.
"Didn't take you for a celebrity wannabe, Jake." He took a sip if only to spare himself the view of his alter in the reflection. "They're calling you a dangerous serial killer."
"Serial killer?" Jake gasped, snatching front without warning.
"Hey!"
"Do they not see the crime rate going down? I know the people I saved are thankful." Jake seethed as he flipped through the newspaper. "¡Aquí! Witness statements."
Marc sighed internally as Jake read, silently mourning his steadily-cooling coffee.
"The girl I saved a few days ago says I'm kind and british..." Marc snorted, to Jakes annoyance. "But some of these just say I kill bad guys and leave. I'd just do that all the time if Steven didn't have a bleeding heart."
"You can't just leave the victims there," Steven butted in, apparently just coming around.
"They're fine. Once the danger's gone, they can walk on out." Steven huffed, disapproval bleeding through.
"Can I drink my coffee now?"
The museum buzzed with energy when Steven walked in, punching in his employee number through his gossiping pair of coworkers.
They paid him no mind, talking around him in more focused voices than he'd ever heard from them.
"You can't be serious," one said, laughing a bit as she processed. "He's a murderer."
"Who only kills criminals! Sounds more like a superhero to me. Every avenger has murdered someone at some point."
Steven wouldn't usually call himself an eavesdropper, but he could feel Jake's attention hone in on their conversation without his permission.
"Oh yeah—common thieves, powerful space aliens threatening to kill millions—same thing."
"I said what I said, the full black suit is hot. I could change him."
Steven walked off with the other girl's defeated sigh still echoing in his ears—alongside Jake's howling laugh.
He couldn't find reprieve elsewhere, though. Everyone seemed to have something to say about the morning news.
"Where are the police?"
"This guy is just running around killing people with absolutely zero restraint."
"Did you see the photos that got leaked? Those bodies were mutilated."
"Dude's got a screw loose—"
He tuned them out.
Jake didn't.
"My best friend would be dead if he didn't show up."
"I hate to admit it, but he's solving the problem by... getting rid of it."
"It's brutally efficient. I can't decide if I hate it or not."
Yeah, he was doing something right.
"You've gotta tone it down a little," Marc said slowly, seemingly calm in his ear. "They call you a serial killer instead of a vigilante for a reason."
Jake didn't know where it came from. He hadn't even been out yet. Steven had just gotten off of his shift, collapsing bonelessly onto the couch and surrendering front to whoever would take it—which left Jake face down on their decorative pillow.
"Can I have more than two seconds in the body before you start nitpicking how I put down criminals?" he groaned, pushing himself up and towards the kitchen.
Marc didn't feed himself, Jake noticed. It typically fell to Steven to keep the body taken care of—especially since Jake couldn't claim to be any better than Marc—but he often fell short after a draining work day.
That left Jake rummaging through cabinets for anything that could keep his engine running during his own shift. It didn't have to be good, it just had to be.
"Been long enough for ya?" Marc griped, bleeding sarcasm. "I don't care how brutal you are, just—for the love of God—stop killing them!"
Jake scoffed, sticking bread in the toaster and calling it good enough. Marc was an excellent fighter, but he was weak stomached when it came to the heavier stuff. The heavier stuff that Jake found necessary.
"If I leave them alive, they'll just go do the same cosas estúpidas again." He leaned back against the counter as he spoke, resting his eyes for what would be the only time for hours. "I'm ending their rein of terror."
"You're ending their lives," Marc breathed, a sheer whisper of disbelief against him. "You're starting to sound like Ammit."
Jake winced, crossing his arms if only to give them somewhere to be. He was nothing like Ammit. That reptile killed innocent people with the presumption that they would someday taint their own souls. Jake purged those who'd already blackened theirs.
And if that included a simple drug dealer that ticked him off on the wrong day, he'd call it... preemptive... justice...
Maybe he did need to dial it back.
He wouldn't admit it, though. He couldn't. Admitting it meant he'd have to stop, and he couldn't stop. Not yet at least.
Maybe if enough of their blood covered his gloves, they'd stop magically cleaning off and finally stain his hands the way they look in his minds eye. Their blood didn't matter after all—it was just sludge from a destroyed machine.
What truly mattered to Jake was the blood of an innocent still seeping into his skin, watered down and hollow in his brittle bones.
"Maybe Ammit had a point," he whispered, clutching the cold locket so it wouldn't hit his chest. "Maybe he'd be alive if..."
He didn't continue. He didn't need to. Marc's silence spoke volumes until his absence took its place, louder still in his empty head.
He'd go on patrol alone again then. Well—unless Khonshu's grating instructions counted as company.
He didn't think they did.