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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.

Chapter Text

He didn't tone it down that night. He didn't have the time or energy to hold back.

Khonshu ran him ragged, the city streets a blur below him as he rushed from end to end, criminal to criminal. A mugging on sixth, robbery at the corner store, drug deal in that alley all the way across town. Bodies, bodies, bodies.

He just hoped Marc wasn't watching.

"Your work at the store has been reported," Khonshu informed, his voice a nagging baritone in his ear. Jake gave an imperceptible nod in return as he scouted the current task.

It looked like a typical street thug, maybe a drug deal gone wrong. Either way, the big guy's fist lodged itself into the smaller guy's face in a way that was sure to leave an ugly imprint. The rings adorning his fingers weren't helping.

Jake readied himself to attack, pulling a knife and solidifying his stance—

"You're still beating people in alleyways?" a red and blue clad figure taunted. "At your big age?"

Jake ducked down, letting this random—apparently—hero take the reins. He would've left entirely if it weren't for the youth in the guy's voice. He was a brutal murderer, sure, but he wouldn't leave a kid to be beaten to death in a dirty alley.

That was the entire point of 'protecting the travelers of the night,' wasn't it?

The kid was rewarded with a fist in his face which... looked like it hurt.

He retaliated, shooting something from his wrists and launching forward. The sound of feet hitting chest boomed around the alley, but the man didn't budge.

"Go home, kid," he spat, pushing him back and reaching for—

...Even if the kid could handle that, Jake would rather not chance it.

The blade pierced his palm before the gun could be drawn, and the masked kid landed his gaze on Jake above him.

"Holy—" he swore, cutting himself off with a hand over his already covered mouth. "That's the serial killer!"

Jake ignored the muffled awe and fear, amused.

His feet hit the ground heavily, breath even in his lungs as he brandished his daggers.

The criminal huffed, unearthing the blade from his skin and letting it fall to the ground with a clink. Crimson dripped from his wound to the handle of his gun as he aimed it.

Jake's head tipped to the side silently, letting the white glow of his eyes do the talking. He could see the man's fingers shaking—could feel the anxiety in the air as the living nightmare regarded him.

What step can you take when you're already dead?

The gun went off, and the man's eyes widened even more with every bullet that pierced Jake's skin until...

The kid in red and blue swore again as the metal dislodged itself, clattering to the ground in a cacophony of promised death. Jake didn't make a sound.

Instead, he took a step forward. Another as the gun sounded. Another as the bullet hit the earth.

His hand shot up, wrapped itself around the mans neck, and squeezed.

The kid in red and blue was gone before the body hit the floor. Must've taken the victim with him—Jake never saw him leave.

Steven didn't take too kindly to the turn of events.

"You're a right twat, you know that?" he grouched, glaring into the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He was lucky Jake told him at all—even if he'd only wanted information about the kid.

Steven knew everything, Jake would stand by that. Walking dictionary and all that.

"What'd I do?" Jake asked, glaring back half-heartedly. "I didn't let him get killed."

"I'm not worried about that, mate. He can take care of himself." Steven paused, washed his mouth out, and pushed the door open. "It's you not being kind enough to talk to him that bothers me. He probably thinks you're as vile as the media makes you out to be."

Jake scoffed, the sound echoing through Steven's head even though he couldn't see him anymore. Who cares what some random hero-wannabe kid thinks of him?

"What did he do now?" Ah. He wasn't expecting Marc at this hour. Of course he'd come around the one morning Jake would prefer he stay down. Steven, however, took it in stride.

"Horrible first impression with Spiderman." Steven informed, and Jake's internal annoyance bled through.

Spiderman—'course. That one kid who wormed his way into the hearts of the Avengers, even becoming one himself. Jake had presented himself as the bloodthirsty killer the papers described him as, and Spiderman had an in with the only people capable enough to detain him.

At least, that's how Marc took it.

To Jake, Spiderman was nothing more than a fly on the wall of a conversation he wasn't welcome in. Sure, he could go tattle to the Avengers, but Jake wasn't betting on it.

He wasn't worried.

Chapter Text

"There's a bounty on your head, Jake," Marc deadpanned, staring down at the newspaper in exhaustion. A week had passed since Jake's run in with the kid in red and blue—Spiderman, apparently—and the general populous still couldn't solidify a stance on his nightly activity.

Steven had continually chided Jake on his manners, arguing that "Spiderman could sway public opinion even farther against you than it already is if he really wanted."

Jake... couldn't care less. The only opinion that mattered was his own, and the thought of playing nice with a kid half his age for nothing but brownie points left a sour spot on his tongue.

Steven chided him further when he told him as much.

The newspaper seemed the prove the brit's point, though. The incriminating words glared heavily at him, rebellion disguised as justice.

'The serial murderer—dubbed the 'Dark Knight'—took the lives of 18 criminals in the past week. Anyone with information is urged to report it to the police immediately.'

Dark Knight, huh. Nice ring to it.

"How did you manage to end up with a 'Knight' name without even trying?" Steven commented rhetorically.

It really was about time to give his vigilante persona a true name like the other two—even if theirs were collecting dust in a metaphorical storage closet. Of course he would fall into Knighthood the same way he fell into their lives: unintentionally.

"You better not get us arrested," Marc warned, sipping his morning coffee. Sunlight bled in through the curtains, brightening the flat enough to see Layla's tired form emerge from the bedroom. "Morning."

She hummed in response, pouring her own cup of coffee and plopping down next to him.

"Please don't get arrested," she said as she shifted the newspaper enough to read. Jake huffed internally, not gracing her with a response.

Marc, of course, threw him under the bus.

"He's sulking," he said, smirking into his coffee. "Sighed angrily and everything."

"Púdrete."

"Now he's accosting me."

"Soplón."

Layla huffed amusedly, squeezing his hand a moment before going back to her coffee. Marc enjoyed moments like these—moments where they could all just exist in uncharted domesticity.

It made the nightly crusades even more heart dropping. He wasn't worried about the police—Jake could vanish in plain sight before they'd even catch sight of his cape—but running into Spiderman brought the issue of the Avengers to light.

What if the protectors of the universe decided that the serial killer roaming their streets needed a reality check? Could Jake get away from someone with every resource at their fingertips?

Somehow, Layla convinced Jake to take the night off. The information bounty seemed to be cause enough to mix things up—make his route a little less regular.

If her plan was to get it off her mind, though, she'd be disappointed.

After years of vigilante-turned-superhero-turned-celebrity superhero, the public seemed to take the new face in the media the same as always: either a crazed teenager with an attention problem or the real next big thing. Jake could hear them whispering about him as Layla pulled him through the crowd to the bar.

Of course, they didn't know the topic of their conversations was actually in their presence.

He couldn't tell if he liked it—if he deserved it. The silver locket burned against his chest.

Layla pulled him down at the bar, ordering inaudibly as the crowd hummed. He had to trust her judgement as he took the offered drink.

"Isn't this more fun?" she asked, speaking in his ear to overpower the crowd. He hummed to himself more than her, as if he couldn't quite decide.

He stuck to the routine for a reason. Blowing off steam and cleaning up the streets at the same time was a hard thing to turn down.

"Más o menos," he said, taking a sip of whatever was in his cup. Not bad.

"No way the streets are better than this." She leaned into him as she spoke, sipping her drink between sentences. "I got enough of fighting in Cairo."

"It's different. We had to fight for our lives in Cairo. Nobody's strong enough to hurt us here."

Layla hummed, downing the rest like a shot. He could hear the murmurs around him thin out into whispers, the TV on the wall catching their attention.

"It seems our Dark Knight has gained some attention from the higher ups! The Avengers have taken the case."

Marc swore.

The crowd's reactions were mixed—outrage bleeding into sympathy bleeding into relief.

"Finally, some competent law enforcement on the job!"

"Hippocrates! You've killed criminals, too!"

"I'll sleep better once he's caught."

Layla took his arm as the crowd roared, argued, fought. They left when the first beer was thrown.

"You should lay low," Layla breathed, still holding his arm as they walked. The night air chilled through his jacket, frost creeping up his limbs.

"Can't," Jake denied. "I'm in too deep now."

"Not if you stop," Marc commented in his ear. He gave him a mental shove in return, bordering on locking the door entirely.

He couldn't stop if he wanted to. He was still tied to Khonshu. While he was making sure to enjoy himself, servitude was still servitude.

"If they catch you, you're not the only one going down."

Her words were arrows in his heart. He knew that. Of course he knew that. As much as he wished Marc and Steven could be clear of it all, that wasn't reality.

Reality was the bird god ruining his night any chance he got.

"You shouldn't be here."

He sighed heavily, leaning into Layla a little as he spoke.

"El jefe es here."

Layla sighed along with him.

"Your time is wasted here. How many were hurt because of this break?"

"In case you didn't hear, I'm being hunted now," he spoke, staring ahead if only to disrespect his 'master.'

"By the Avengers," Layla added.

Khonshu hummed disapprovingly, hovering over their shoulders like a ghost.

"I am confident in your ability to evade them. Do not neglect the travelers of the night again."

He vanished—always one to have a dramatic last word—leaving Jake simmering in an anger he wouldn't have an outlet for that night.

Chapter Text

Even Jake knew he was overdoing it.

The nights had been getting quieter since he started going out. Maybe the criminals were getting smarter—maybe he'd thinned the pile.

Or maybe he was the dumb one for hoping.

The night had been busy, from gangs to peddlers to overly-friendly drunks. Jake took it in stride, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, crime to crime. He was never one to count up the bodies—but if he were, he'd have lost count by now.

He could see the museum lights ahead of him flicker and die, darkness overtaking it as the overnight employee held up his hands. He reached for a dagger, ready to aim and throw until...

The criminal inside tipped his head, turned around, met his eyes. His blank gaze sent Jakes stomach reeling, ice in his veins, stones weighing down his shoes.

It was almost beady, like a mosquito possessed a human and held up a museum. He couldn't look away.

The man held up a hand, twisted it, and fog filled the windows. Jake couldn't see.

He finally unstuck his foot from the ground and jumped down with a hmph, neglecting the slow-falling effect the cape would've offered. Something was wrong, and he didn't have the extra seconds for a comfortable descent.

The doors crashed open against his weight, slamming against the walls and sending an echo through the museum. Empty.

He tipped his head toward the windows, watched as the fog became mist became dew and cleared up. Unnatural.

Something slammed into his side, sending him crashing into the wall and holding him there. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't see as the claustrophobia set in.

He was in a closet, in a sarcophagus, banging on the door of each in a desperate attempt to be heard. By who? He couldn't say.

He struggled, fighting for a breath as his chest constricted against some invisible force. The suit flickered around him, brightening and darkening in his blind panic.

Marc blinked into agonizing awareness, the suit settling into his mummy wrappings harshly.

"I know you."

He jolted, eyes finally solidifying on the presence in front of him. Guess this is how Jake felt all those years being thrust into danger without warning.

"Moon Knight, from Cairo," he continued, still holding a hand up toward him. In the age of superpowers, Marc couldn't be surprised at the telekinetic feat he was demonstrating. "Should've known you and 'Dark Knight' were one and the same."

Well. Close enough.

The invisible force cut deeper as the man's hand clamped closed, and Marc writhed uselessly in its grasp.

"Who are you?" he gasped, trying and failing to reach for a crescent dart. The man frowned, loosening his grip.

"I am Bilal, unofficial avatar of Seth. You are in my way." Marc dropped, catching himself roughly on his knees as the man backed away.

He still couldn't breathe, couldn't see straight as Jake's lingering panic bled over.

"Unofficial?" he rasped, pulling himself up harshly. Bilal didn't turn around, didn't elaborate, didn't explain. He waltzed easily through the museum while Marc stood there agonizingly, mapping the information with his remaining energy.

He was gone before he could interrogate.

"People don't just have telekinesis," Layla argued, staring him down from her place on the couch. "And he didn't have an artifact? He'd have to be an official avatar to operate without one."

Marc hummed, tapping his finger against the side table unconsciously. Jake lingered against his subconscious, offering information he could've used in the museum instead of right then.

"He didn't have a staff like Harrow, and I didn't see anything else that looked artifact-y."

"He really called himself an unofficial avatar? He's gotta have something connecting him to Seth." Jake commented, unhelpfully.

"It was dark. Maybe I missed something." He paused his tapping, glancing at Layla as he thought. She'd eventually gotten used to the one-sided conversations after Cairo, but it didn't stop him from feeling awkward answering the voices in his head out loud.

Artifacts came in all shapes and sizes—maybe Bilal was wearing earrings or a ring or a necklace or anything that could be easily missed.

If only they had technology that was able to search his name reliably.

He sighed, slumping back against the armchair in annoyance. It was just one thing after another. The public, the newspapers, the information bounty, the Avengers, and now this avatar-wannabe going after the museum for... why was he at the museum?

"I'll see if anything's missing when I go for work in the morning."

Ah, Steven. Right on time.

"If he already has god magic, what would he need to steal artifacts for?" Layla asked quietly, and only silence answered.

They didn't know. There was simply no reason for it—unless...

"Maybe his power source isn't enough for him," Marc tried, but Jake denied immediately.

"Seemed like enough when we hit the cement wall. Speaking of, why haven't you whipped out the Tylenol yet?"

Marc ignored him. Sue him, he was tired.

"Screw it."

One thing they'd learned about Jake after his impromptu reveal—he could take the metaphorical wheel with little to no effort most of the time. It took energy to fend him off if he really wanted front, and it often left them unable to do anything else in the moment.

That was to say, fighting Jake made the mind mush.

So Marc found himself booted to the back, watching exhaustedly while Jake hauled himself to the cabinet. Guess he really wanted that Tylenol.

Layla watched in silence as he went, obviously having picked up the switch through the change of atmosphere. Something was off.

She wanted to pry, but she knew she wouldn't get an answer out of Jake. He'd retreat—maybe leave entirely for a drive—and leave her there to wonder what she was supposed to have done.

The thought left her tongue bitter.

"I'm going back out," he declared, but she was not having it.

"You can't keep doing this." Her lips pursed as she regarded him, determination in her steady gaze.

"Listen to her, mate."

Marc was silent.

Jake ignored them, moving towards the window in practiced ease.

She beat him there, crossing her arms in defiance.

"Let me out."

("Let me out! What did I do?")

"If you need to let off steam so bad, get a punching bag." Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, hand on the windowsill if only to highlight the wall she was erecting. "I'm tired of reading about the body count."

Jake could get through her. He could push her aside easily and launch himself up and out. He could be on the next rooftop before her angry voice reached his ears.

But he respected her. He'd never tell her that, but the truth of it burned a hole through his chest beneath that stupid locket.

He turned slowly, ripping the door to the bedroom open and letting it close silently behind him. He needed something, and Steven just so happened to have unearthed a forgotten journal not so long ago.

He eyed the closed book where it sat on the shelf of their closet, blue-stained pages a reminder of where he'd come from. He hadn't opened it since the night they had, but the debate bounced around his head like a tennis match.

Writing had given him purpose once. Maybe it would give him reprieve when he needed it most.

The museum was closed the next morning, recovering from the theft of an entire exhibit. Unsurprisingly to Marc, it was Seth's exhibit that had been rendered empty.

"What all was in that exhibit?" he asked into his morning coffee. They'd just gotten the call that Steven's tour guide services would not be needed that day.

"Artifacts," Steven supplied. "Seth's ankh, a couple steles, and an amulet."

Great. This guy had potentially dangerous artifacts and they still had no idea what he planned to do with them. Fantastic.

"Ideas?" Layla prompted, taking a seat beside him with her own coffee. He hadn't seen her get up.

"None," he offered uselessly, shrinking in his chair. "Bilal stole Seth's artifacts, but we don't know what for."

Layla hummed, thinking for a moment. She took a tentative sip of her coffee before offering input again.

"What about Seth? Where is he right now?"

"Seth is banished. Dead."

Marc sighed as Khonshu appeared behind him, unnecessary breathing berating his space.

"Khonshu says dead." He took another sip of coffee, ignoring Jake's glare.

"Then how is Bilal using magic?"

"Remember Harrow's staff?" Steven interjected. "It was Ammit's 'gift to her last avatar.'"

Marc remembered, but what did that have to do—

"Maybe Bilal came upon a similar artifact. Has Seth ever taken an avatar?"

"Has Seth ever had an avatar?" Marc asked aloud.

"Decades ago, yes. Before his banishment, he took many in the name of destruction."

Steven took front then, pushing Marc's coffee away to his chagrin.

"He must have an artifact, I'm sure of it."

"He wasn't wearing anything," Jake stated bluntly.

"There's no chance he just happened upon magical powers and then happened to call himself an 'unofficial avatar of Seth,'" Steven deadpanned. Silence fell for a moment as they processed, only the clink of Layla's coffee mug breaking it.

"We're gonna have to assume the powers are unrelated until we see him use an artifact," Layla said delicately, and Steven huffed in return.

He threw Jake up front in his exasperation, leaving the conversation entirely. It felt like they went in one big circle, landing right back in a time where no one took what he had to say seriously. Steven almost hoped they were right, for their own sake.

Chapter Text

Jake didn't go out expecting Bilal, but he did go out prepared. Mentally, at least—prepared to throw Marc up front at the first sign of telekinetic voodoo.

He wasn't too fond of the feeling of suffocating or being trapped or darkness or closets or—

OK, enough of that.

Khonshu had been quiet for the most part, sparingly throwing him directions at his leisure. He couldn't tell if it was for lack of crime or for lack of focus. Either way, the body count was low that night.

He did take Marc's advice in being less brutal. He didn't kill every criminal, but the ones that deserved it didn't get the kid gloves. Holding back made everything a little harder, but he couldn't deny the lack of weight on his heart where his locket rested.

He perched easily on a rooftop between directions, taking a moment to appreciate the city skyline and the half-moon accompanying it. He couldn't quite see the stars through the light pollution, but the sight was easy on the eyes anyway.

"Behind you," Khonshu warned lowly, but he didn't turn around. He'd already heard the boots pounding against the roof, the botched stealth attempt.

He stood, gazing out lazily as they approached, and finally turned when he deemed them close enough.

Clint Barton, Hawkeye, stared uneasily back at him.

"I don't suppose you're gonna make this easy," he said, grimacing in place of a smile. Jake didn't grace him with a response, backing off the roof instead.

Clint watched him fall—glide—to the pavement in exasperation.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need backup here."

Jake didn't look back. Hawkeye's presence meant other Avengers were likely around too, and he wasn't too keen on playing mouse that night. He ducked until an alley, emerging out the other end if only to distance himself.

He failed to see the webbing spanning from the walls, just shy of the pavement.

HMPH. He hit the floor, and that same red and blue clad kid stood feet in front of him with Iron Man at his side.

He swore, shooting to his feet and backing up. If he could get back through the alley, there was another alcove he could escape from.

If it weren't for the new flying Captain America blocking it at least.

Spiderman at his front, Falcon at his back, Iron Man to his left, and Hawkeye finally appearing to his right—he was entirely cornered. He wouldn't be surprised if there were others lurking around, waiting for him to show his hand.

He could glide—shoot himself far in the air and angle himself away—but there were at least two flying Avengers accompanying him already. It wasn't a safe bet by far.

"Guess that 'maybe' became a 'no,'" Tony Stark commented dryly, and it took Jake a moment to remember what he was referencing.

Right—his 'potential allies list.' While he hadn't exactly wanted a place on it, he loathed the thought of the enemies list even more.

"Are you gonna talk this time or do I have to wait for the mummy suit?"

Jake glared lowly, growling a little as he debated his options—of which there were few. Running was out of the question, they'd just corner him again. He could try to explain, but his reputation seemed to proceed him. They wouldn't believe he was sane, let alone trustworthy.

That left one option, fight.

He reached slowly for a dagger, preparing himself to injure before—

"Have you gone mad?" Steven exclaimed before switching in violently. The four Avengers eyed him distrustfully as the suit morphed white, taking on Steven's Mr. Knight version.

"Guess no mummy," Stark breathed, and Steven cleared his throat.

"I think there's a bit of a misunderstanding here," he said, standing up a little straighter. Stark's face plates retracted, showing the exasperated look beneath.

"You're not British."

Steven huffed, ignoring him.

"I'm not a threat." He punctuated his statement with his hands slightly up, as if to signify the innocence he spoke of. He could feel Jake trying to push him out lightly so he could fight like he always did, but that wouldn't help here.

"Tell that to the mortuary," Falcon added behind him. "He's not worried about job security, but that therapy bill's gotta be sky high."

Steven huffed, internally cursing Jake's gore habit for the umpteenth time. It was hard to defend the reputation of a man he didn't agree with, but if it kept them all out of prison...

"Murderers, rapists, pedophiles, etcetera. Only the worst. You don't see me killing innocents, do you?"

The group was silent for a moment, but the anger simmering through the air spoke for them. They weren't impressed.

Steven almost tried again, but then Marc was there pushing both alters back with a vengeance.

"You're both idiots," he seethed internally, and they finally took their hands fully off the reins.

"Oh, so we do get to see the mummy suit," Stark commented, but it lacked his usual humor.

"You have bigger problems than me," Marc started, but Stark interrupted him.

"No, it seems to me that you've got problems. And you spinning the wheel of accents to decide your next persona every minute isn't helping."

Marc glared, fighting every impulse to chuck a crescent dart and flee. But this had to be resolved. They couldn't live with the Avengers breathing down their necks forever. It wouldn't work.

"Something like Cairo could be happening again. Here."

Silence again, but dimmer anger. Good, they're listening.

"Proof?" Barton asked.

"The Met was robbed last night," Marc started evenly. He could see their hesitance. "They claimed to be an unofficial avatar. Cairo happened because of an unofficial avatar. He's your threat, not me."

He could see Spiderman's head tilt sideways out of the corner of his vision, and the silent observer finally spoke up.

"Like the blue people?"

"See! It wasn't far fetched!"

"Steven, a kid making your mistake isn't helping your case."

"Avatar of an Egyptian god," Marc specified, not facing the kid. He could almost hear Stark's eyes narrow.

"You said it was just a cult," he started lowly. "What makes avatars different?"

Something told Marc that telling them he was an avatar was not going to help his case.

"They inherit a piece of their god's magic to use for their cause. This 'unofficial avatar,' Bilal, has telekinetic abilities. He threw me against the wall without breaking a sweat."

"Seems like you could've handled that. Why's this guy still alive if you think he's a threat?" Stark asked—accused. He obviously thought they were teaming.

"He got away."

"Why are we talking about him?" Barton interjected, stepping back a little and readying his bow. "It has nothing to do with you killing people."

Marc huffed, readying a crescent dart in response.

"I already told you, I only kill the worst of the worst."

"Not your decision to make," Stark stated, and the battle was on.

Marc jumped, dodging a blast from the Iron Man suit as he glided to the rooftop. He could hear their gear whirring as they followed him, thrusters giving away their location. He could use that.

"Marc, let me front," Jake pushed, but Marc held firm.

He dodged an arrow, glancing back at Clint while neglecting the arrow type—and it blew up in his face, literally. He recovered, feeling the suit do so as well while he jumped to the next rooftop.

Falcon rammed into him, sending them both flying forwards until Marc hit the roof's edge, glancing down into the alley in quick thought. It wouldn't be a good hiding spot, and he was almost sure Hawkeye's exploding arrow had revealed his face for a moment there.

Civvies might not work. Couldn't risk it.

He launched a crescent dart, nailing Hawkeye around the corner. If he could just lessen their numbers... where's the kid?

HMPH.

There he was, ramming his feet against Marc's back like that criminal in the alley. It didn't work then, but his timing had apparently improved.

He could feel the webbing wrap around one wrist, so he turned harshly and kicked.

Next rooftop, next, next, until Iron Man blasted a line in front of him. He paused, glaring up at him and debating just letting Jake end it. He couldn't do that, though. Jake may not kill them, but the brutality wouldn't clean their slate.

Running wouldn't either.

Webbing cuffed the other wrist, and he let it happen.

Chapter Text

He wouldn't admit it, but the potential Cairo part two had Tony's attention. Maybe that was why Dark Knight had been bound to the tower instead of turned over to the Raft.

He had information, and Tony wanted it.

The Avengers—or what remained, at least—apparently had very bare bones knowledge on Egyptian gods.

("What, like The Mummy?"

"Close enough.")

That was to say, they knew nothing at all. Tony couldn't claim to be much better, but that was what FRIDAY was for.

"FRI, what do you know about avatars of egyptian gods?" Tony prompted, throwing himself in a seat and leaning back. The AI hummed as she calculated.

"No results."

Tony sighed dramatically, but he had expected as much. It was part of the job to know secrets that the internet didn't.

"How about camera feed? Got anything from the Met two nights ago?"

FRIDAY hummed again, returning quicker with a video. Tony sat up, pressed play, and watched.

Dark Knight had been truthful about the telekinesis, but he neglected to mention whatever it was he'd done with the windows. He also neglected to mention the mangled right arm, which would make identifying the guy much easier.

"What'd he say the guy's name was? Bilal?" FRIDAY picked up the underlying question, returning instantly with facial recognition results.

"Bilal Mostafa; 28 years old; hailing from Cairo, Egypt. Criminal record includes armed robbery, assault, and trespassing. Multiple offenses."

The picture she provided matched the museum feed, and Tony found himself wondering why he didn't fog up the cameras like he did the windows. His record made him seem like an amateur—especially considering the amount of times he'd been caught. It was entirely possible that he just forgot.

Of course their master criminal was an idiot.

He wouldn't be an issue under normal circumstances, but Dark Knight had called him an 'unofficial avatar' just like the perp in Cairo. The display of superpowers didn't help, as well as the fact that he wasn't caught for likely the very first time.

He sighed, standing up as he rubbed a thumb across his brow. He didn't want to talk to Dark Knight. He'd rather go back in time and talk to Moon Knight, the guy who didn't kill every criminal he came across.

He knew from the start who that serial killer was, and the alias had been his own idea—more of a quip than anything, but it had stuck. What had caused Moon Knight's shift into this bloodthirsty variant?

"Get me a location on him."

FRIDAY paused.

"There have been no sightings since he robbed the Metropolitan Museum."

Tony huffed, making his way towards the door.

"Alert me the moment he shows."

Marc found himself occupied in smoothing over Jake's blinding anger.

His alter had been wrestling for control since the moment Marc gave himself up, and the rapid Spanish in his ear didn't exactly sound happy. The man swore like a sailor, and oh were the waves choppy.

He'd been escorted to the tower, to his surprise. He'd honestly thought he'd be jailed, maybe sent to the Raft as punishment for Jake's crimes. Whether it was a good or bad thing remained to be determined.

He wasn't alone, of course. Falcon stood sentry across from his place by the window. His presence rendered Marc unable to react to Jake's internal outburst, and he could feel the tide pulling him under.

He was grateful for the armor still shielding his face for masking what was undoubtably a criminalizing facial expression.

Just when he thought they'd sit there in silence,

"You're an avatar too, aren't you?" Falcon asked, but Marc figured he already suspected the answer. Jake didn't register the new voice, and darkness pricked at the edges of his vision. At his lack of response, Falcon continued.

"The mummy getup and magic changing suit kinda gives it away," he started, crossing his arms casually. Marc couldn't tell if the comfortable stance was real or performative. "What's up with that anyway? The suits and accents?"

Marc huffed, staring daggers out the window as his suit flickered black, white, black, white. Falcon didn't comment, but Steven's attempt at calming the raging storm that was Jake became a hammer in his head.

"You gonna answer me or just brood?"

Marc yanked his eyes harshly from the window, finding Falcon's instead. He needed distraction—silence. He needed a break.

"Loud in here," he murmured without thinking, and suddenly it was quiet...

For all of three seconds.

"Marc, you can't say that!"

"Pendejo! You're making it worse!"

"What's loud?" Falcon asked as the suit flickered again. Jake was increasingly stubborn, and Marc wasn't sure how much longer he could hold him back.

His hand fell heavily on the back of the nearest chair as he allowed it to take his weight, but the blur of his vision didn't fade.

"Nothing. What were you asking?"

Falcon hummed noncommittally, seemingly throwing out the old question entirely.

"Forget it," he said. "What should I call you? Moon Knight, Dark Knight?"

Marc flexed his fingers experimentally, but he couldn't feel them.

"Depends on the suit."

"Marc!"

"Just say Moon Knight, idiota!"

"There's different names for each suit?" Falcon took a tentative seat as he spoke, as if sensing the tension in the air.

"No. Yes? I don't know."

Jake swore, pushing harder if only to save the situation. The suit responded, morphing black and finally staying black.

He took a breath, orienting himself quickly and removing what had become a death grip on the chair. His eyes landed harshly on Falcon, narrowing a bit as they did.

He noticed.

"They're all different people, aren't they?"

He was saved by Stark's dramatic entrance, the doors smacking harshly against the wall.

"You," he said quickly, pointing a finger at Jake. "What else do you know about avatars?"

Jake swore internally, gaze flitting from Falcon to Stark and wondering just how he'd get out of this. Falcon had guessed their avatar status, but he wasn't about to confirm it.

Besides his own experience, he didn't actually have much information on the topic. Marc and Steven had done all the technical work in Cairo, while Jake had handled the physical work when they failed.

Something something... staff?

He had no idea.

"Tony..." Falcon started, still staring at Jake. Right, he'd guessed they were different people too. It should be a bad thing—a very very bad thing that they never should have allowed to happen—but Jake couldn't call it that. Maybe it was the knowing look in his eyes, but he just wasn't worried. "I don't think he knows."

Stark scoffed, sending a pointed look at Falcon as he walked in further.

"He's the one that brought up avatars to begin with. He at least knows more than us."

"Nope, that was mummy suit. This one never even spoke." Jake backed up as they bickered, Falcon hinting at their disorder like a one-sided game. Stark didn't seem to pick up what he was putting down.

"I spoke to him in London," he denied. "He did the whole accent swap thing then too. Actually spoke Spanish to mess with me."

Jake huffed a laugh under his breath. He couldn't help it—it was one of his better moments. Tony didn't find it as amusing.

"Look, mousse cake. This is serious. You wanted us to catch that guy, we're looking into it." Steven's internal laughter at the nickname wasn't helping the situation. "We just need some information."

Jake huffed, glaring at the ceiling for a moment as he regarded the brit.

"He wants to know about avatars. Feed me answers."

"Just let me answer, myself."

He couldn't see their faces, but he could only assume his interrogators were in varying states of confusion. They didn't have time to argue.

Steven switched in easily, letting the tension fall off his shoulders as the suit jacket replaced it. He eyed the men in front of him, offering a smile they couldn't see.

"Avatars use the power of their god, right?" he offered, taking on a teacher's voice. He almost laughed at Stark's double-take. He couldn't blame him, the situation was absurd. "Unofficial avatars need an artifact of their god in order to use their power. They aren't recognized, and therefore haven't actually been allowed magic."

"Bilal didn't look like he used an artifact," Stark said, getting over the confusion quickly enough. Steven hummed in response.

"You've seen him, then?"

Stark responded by bringing up a hologram—footage from the Met where Marc and Jake fought the man. Steven watched intently until...

"His arm's all mangled."

"Weren't you there?"

...

"It was dark."

The footage continued, only stopping once Bilal had emptied out Seth's exhibit and left the building entirely.

"Maybe he had a broken artifact," Falcon offered, grasping at straws. "He could've been there to steal something more whole."

Steven hummed lowly, denying it.

"It can't just be any artifact. Harrow's staff was gifted from Ammit to her previous avatar. It was imbued with magic."

...

"Maybe he doesn't know that."

Stark's comment went unanswered, interrupted by FRIDAY's sudden appearance.

"Sir, Bilal Mostafa has been spotted inside the Met."

Chapter Text

They couldn't keep him locked down at the tower. Steven could be as stubborn as Jake if he wanted to—and he often did. He'd convinced Falcon first, and it didn't take long to sway Stark after that.

They didn't have time to learn the basics of egyptian mythology. Steven already knew it.

FRIDAY had spotted Bilal entering the Met, but it seemed that he wasn't there to cause a scene. He'd been poorly disguised in a hoodie and sunglasses—having taken tips from the Avengers apparently.

They couldn't go in guns blazing with no perceived reason, and the presence of Dark Knight would only add to public panic.

That left an option that Steven was not too fond of: dropping the masks. It would mean a total divulgence that they couldn't undo. The Avengers would forever know their face, and any chance of running would be shot down.

But he couldn't have another Cairo.

They sent Steven in first, the only inconspicuous one of them. Maybe they should've thought longer before bringing such a small group of well-known heroes. Falcon's Captain America, Hawkeye, and Iron Man were all well respected, especially after defeating Thanos.

Steven fiddled uneasily with the com in his ear as he looked around for their target. He'd already dodged his manager, offering a simple "No, I'm just meeting a friend!" to her "I didn't think you worked today?"

He really hoped this wouldn't blow up in their faces.

He navigated straight to the Ancient Egypt section, where he was sure Bilal went. He had to be after something, maybe more artifacts. If he wanted more of Seth, he'd be disappointed. He'd cleared out that section the first time. He had to have known that, so what could he have possibly come for?

"He's here," Steven commented lowly into his com. He ignored Jake's violent directions in his ear—though they would be conclusive.

"What's he doing?" Falcon asked, and Steven honestly couldn't say. He was simply reading the sign by Seth's exhibit silently, as if he were just another museum goer. Steven left the line silent, taking steps towards the man.

"Someone's nicked the whole exhibit," he muttered, eyeing Bilal kindly. "Poor bloke. Pretty sure they were only duplicates."

Bilal tensed, staring a little more intensely at the empty display. Guess he believed that lie.

"Thought they had the real thing here?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the placard.

"Oh sure," Steven started, intentionally. "They're kept in the back. Wouldn't be smart leaving them out here to be stolen."

He could hear shuffling in his ear, the Avengers catching onto his plan and moving accordingly. They really were a well oiled machine.

Bilal hummed, finally looking at Steven instead of the placard. He hesitated, shoulders tense. Finally,

"Y'know, it does suck not being able to see the exhibit." He crossed his arms, and Steven's eyes flicked to the marred skin there. It was as if the flesh was too tight for the bone, fitting around it like tensed duct tape.

If Bilal noticed the staring, he didn't comment.

"Think they'd give me a tour if I asked really nicely?"

Steven smirked, humming for a moment in false debate.

"Believe it or not, I work here. And I'd be happy to give you a tour."

Bilal's eyes widened a bit, eyeing Steven as he spoke. Surely he'd think it was too easy, an obvious trick—

"Great! Lead the way."

Stark was right. Bilal was an idiot.

He made way for the back room door, angling them away from the groups he could see just in case the guy caught on. With the way things were going, he didn't expect anything. It was still good to be prepared.

"Why the interest, if you don't mind my asking," Steven started. It was prime time for information fishing. Who knew if Bilal would talk after being caught? "Seth's exhibit, I mean."

Hesitation flashed across his face like a shooting star, gone before it really appeared. He hummed.

"I've heard... I've heard that artifacts like those are powerful." He rubbed the mangled arm absentmindedly as he spoke, stealing Steven's gaze again. "I just thought it'd be cool to see in person."

Silence permeated for a moment as Steven considered his answer. He definitely wanted the power, then—but what did he need more power for?

Bilal still fiddled with the too-tight skin wrapping his forearm.

"What... happened to your arm?"

"Oh, this?" He paused, and Steven almost thought he'd stepped too far. Even criminals had their tender spots. He watched silently as Bilal considered until...

"Fell into a landmine on my final tour. Lucky it's not worse."

Stark's voice was in his ear in seconds.

"He's never been to war."

Steven hummed in response, opting for silence for the short remainder of their walk. He didn't expect to get much information anyway. Criminals aren't exactly known for being forthcoming.

Steven fell back a bit as they made it to the door, allowing Bilal entry ahead of him. He didn't exactly have eyes inside to see what the Avengers had planned, and he didn't want to get in the way.

The door pushed open and—

CRASH.

Oh, it was a mess. The room was not made for battle—it was entirely too small to hold three Avengers and a telekinetic criminal that caught on a little too fast.

Steven watched it go down from the doorway, avoiding the fight as the security cameras glared down at him. The Avengers may know his identity, but that didn't mean the world had to.

Stark and Falcon's thrusters filled the room with blaring noise, drowning out any conversation that could be had. They were earthbound for the most part due to the small space—but with Bilal's telekinesis, they had to use their suits just to even out the playing field.

He heard something above him, and there.

Hawkeye was aiming slowly from a place in the vent above them. How he managed to get in there, Steven had no idea.

Stark shot a hand out, leveling his gaze as Bilal targeted Falcon on the other end of the small room. They had no idea where his power was coming from. For the most part, it'd been chalked up to some invisible artifact or acquired another way.

But Steven wondered...

He watched Stark shoot, watched Bilal raise a hand to block, watched the shot hit anyway. Why?

He saw the blast. He reacted with plenty of time to spare. He should've been able to block it. So why didn't he?

No visible power source.

Arm is too tight around the bone.

Didn't take out the cameras.

Wants more power.

Glitchy magic.

"It's in his arm," he muttered, watching the magic fail again. He pushed the door open further beside him, ripping the com from his ear to speak straight into it. "You have to destroy his arm! The mangled one!"

He could see Stark hesitate, eyeing him warily. Guess he couldn't blame him.

"I'm not mutilating him!" Stark replied disbelievingly, and—again—he couldn't blame him. Jake had spent far too long making a name for himself that read like a horror movie. It didn't make trusting them easy, not with something like that.

He tried anyway.

"The artifact's in his arm! It's the power source!" Bilal wouldn't go down if they didn't take out his magic. He'd just keep going, glitching powers and all. "Please, just trust me here!"

"Tony, do it," Falcon added, and Steven would be forever grateful for the man.

Stark swore, charging up his blaster with a huff.

"If I had a nickel for every time I shot some guy's arm off..."

He fired, and it was a miracle that Bilal's magic glitched in that perfect moment. The mangled bits of his arm burned under the ray, leaving him passed out and amputated with a scream still on his lips.

Steven winced at the gore, but it was over.

Chapter Text

Bilal, powerless and artifact-less, had been given over to the police after questioning. He had apparently just come across Seth's staff after the mess that was Cairo. It had been cracked, leaking magic but still usable.

Steven could only imagine the pain it had caused lingering in his flesh. Why he'd decided to attach it to his own bone, they couldn't understand. The guy was stupid and apparently insane.

It took a fair bit of explaining and negotiating, but Steven managed to avoid incarceration on Jake's behalf. It wasn't easy in the slightest. Falcon—Sam, as he asked to be called—had been a key component in their freedom. Or, their sort-of freedom.

He'd been there for the conversation explaining the whole... "wheel of accents" and "changing suits, prima donna."

It helped that he'd seen dissociative disorders while working with veterans. Made it more... believable... to those who had never seen anything similar. Specifically Stark, who thought it was a practical joke for all of two minutes.

Marc and Jake's blatant refusal to front near them didn't make it any more believable either. Steven couldn't tell why they stayed back, but he'd tease them about being shy anyway.

Instead of being sent to the Raft, they'd basically been given a contract—parole.

They were to use their Moon Knight abilities to fight crime reasonably. No mutilation, no unnecessary force, no murder.

And they were to aid the Avengers when asked.

In the end, they had ended up on the 'allies list' where Marc never wanted to be. It was bittersweet, but a beginning nonetheless.

 

"New York Times:

The serial murderer previously known as Dark Knight seems to have had a change of heart. He has still been spotted fighting crime in the night, but there has not been a single dead body left in the past week.

Furthermore, he has been spotted working with the Avengers and returning to Avenger's Tower with them.

Not everyone seems to be happy with this turn of events, though. We interviewed every-day citizens, and their responses are violently different:

"He was doing well! Crime rates were plummeting and everything."

"Can't believe he put the kid gloves back on. Unbelievable."

"Oh, I feel safer now that he's not killing people. He still scares me, though."

"He's got a good heart. He saved me once, y'know. Walked me out of an alley and told me to call the police. I think he deserves thanks."

What could this mean for our city? Do we have another vigilante-turned-hero?

Only time will tell."