Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marc is staring.

When he was little, he remembers relatives used to say he had a problem with it; something about how he would stand in the corner or sit at the kitchen table during large gatherings, and not move from there. Instead, just observing everything around him, silent until someone spoke to him. He can never remember if that was a habit he formed before or after he learned what water felt like filling up his lungs. It’s still a problem.

Now, he’s only able to tear himself from his stupor because of Jake (who shoves him hard enough it hurts behind his nose) and Steven (who’s bleeding over anxiety, and nerves, and something that tastes like blood when Marc presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth). It gets him moving at least, patting down Frenchie’s face and saying, “Hey, hey. Frenchie? Can you hear me?”

Marc taps him harder across his face than he likely should, but he needs to know that he’s okay — that he isn’t completely conked out, or well on his way to death’s door. Steven and Jake are quiet enough to let him focus but still close enough that Marc is able to keep breathing. Fuck. This hurts. This hurts a fucking lot.

Finally, Frenchie groans, his head rolling forward into Marc’s hands when he tries to pull back. He breathes out a sigh of relief that makes his veins ache but his heart beat steadier. The rhythm picks up again, however, when Frenchie peels open his eyes to look at him. His pupils are blown and his cheeks dark underneath the scruff of a beard that hasn’t seen a razer in a few days.

But there’s recognition there, when his eyes finally land on Marc. That opens the floodgates.

Marc, can you please explain who that is? Steven asks. Do you know each other?

Frenchie squints at Marc, though his puffy eyes seem to make that difficult — one is definitely blackened. Blearily, the other man asks in his familiar thick accent, “Marc? Is that you?”

Oh, shit! Jake exclaims. It’s the French asshole!

That doesn’t answer anything!

“Yeah, it’s me.” Marc breathes out, though it comes off more bitter than he meant it too.

The only thing holding Frenchie to the chair is a thing of thick rope, so it’s easy to cut through with a crescent-dart. Honestly, Marc’s seen Frenchie wiggle his way out of tighter bounds before, so whatever this gang had been doing to him before this point must have taken him out. And here Marc thought these people were low-level in the grand scheme of things.

The anger that sparks through him at that thought is familiar. It makes him focus on Frenchie’s black-eye, the cut across his temple, his raspy breathing. Of course, Marc also knows he doesn’t really have the right to be angry. He probably doesn’t even have the right to grab Frenchie by the shoulders to prop him up against the back of the chair so they can talk face-to-face, but he does it anyway.

“What are you doing here?” Frenchie is the first one to speak up, which makes Marc realize he was staring again. He shakes his head.

“That’s what I asked you.” And he still hasn’t gotten an answer. Steven is still nearby in his head, pushing hard enough at the front that his vision is starting to waver.

“I asked first.” Says Frenchie as if this is a fucking competition — which he would lose anyways, because Marc is the more lucid one here right now.

“No, you didn’t.”

Steven gets closer. Marc gently tries to push him back — similar to how he would always bite his tongue as a kid, when he didn’t want to think about whatever was bothering him at the moment — but unfortunately, his alter is persistent. Besides, Jake is right behind him, and neither seem like they’re going to leave him alone anytime soon.

Not that he would want them to leave him alone. He knows, without a doubt, if they weren’t here right now things would be way worse.

Marc! Steven exclaims.

Marc facepalms, but more or less just ends up smacking his forehead as if that will transfer onto the guy currently only existing in his head. “Fuck, I’m getting to it.”

Just in general he’s getting to it, because yeah, they need to get moving. Especially now that Frenchie is — that he’s here. This was not part of the fucking mission.

Why in the ever loving shit is he here, anyways? Frenchie had always been in the same business as Layla (and Marc, before everything went to shit) but he typically just did recon work. Frenchie was the getaway driver or the intel specialist or whatever stupid title he would come up with to make them roll their eyes. Also, Marc had been pretty certain that this gang didn’t engage in kidnapping and tying people to chairs and likely punching them in the face multiple times (Marc knows what it looks like when people get punched in the face multiple times.)

“What?” Frenchie mutters. Marc is glad that the mask hides his grimace since he forgot he can’t speak aloud right now.

“Nothing. Ignore me.” He says, adjusting his grip in preparation of lugging Frenchie up and out of the chair.

Frenchie, suddenly, snaps out and grabs onto his cowl. Marc tenses up and inches back, prepared for the tug-of-war that’s about to begin — but Frenchie just sits there, squinting at him, and he can hear the rustle of the moon-bright fabric that loosens underneath his fingers.

“Three years of nothing. Radio silence and dead air and unanswered calls.” Frenchie laughs; Marc doesn’t have the chance to tell if it’s bitter or amused before he suddenly coughs, pressing a fist to his chest until it subsides. “And you’re still just as weird.”

Marc would have rather been punched in the face multiple times. Steven, gently, goes, Oh.

But they don’t have time right now. Whatever happened before all this, that goes out the window when things get tough — just like it had with Layla when it came to Harrow. Marc’s known Frenchie for long enough that he knows the guy will understand that there’s more pressing things to deal. If need be, they can talk while they run.

“Look, we can catch up later.” Marc soothes, when Frenchie’s fingers slip from his hood and Marc grabs him by the shoulders to pull him to his feet. “First, let’s get you out of here.”

Frenchie stumbles as soon as he gets his left leg on the ground, but Marc catches him before he topples over and loops his arm around his shoulders. Frenchie’s not any lighter than the average person he has carted around before, which is a good sign since it means Frenchie hasn’t been here long enough to start starving. He does mutter something under his breath that Marc doesn’t like the sound of, though, but he’s used to Jake’s insults by now to ignore it.

Steven, pushing at the front, asks testily, Marc, can you at least tell me who this is?

He’s an old ally. Jake answers instead, though the way he says it leaves Marc with a bad taste in his mouth.

He’s a friend. Marc corrects. This calms Steven down a bit, but he’s still prickly, and there are slight sparks in his skull from Jake’s displeasure as well. They both, at least, back off when they realize, with mummered apologies that soothes that ache across his bones.

Frenchie is a friend. He didn’t lie. He’s just not sure if disappearing for three years on him still constitutes using the title. He can’t call Layla is wife after running away from her and sending her divorce papers even she still hasn’t technically signed them, so he probably can’t call Frenchie a friend after doing the same for him. Minus the divorce part.

Would Frenchie believe him if he said he had also been kidnapped for three years? No, he’s probably still in contact with Layla. It’s only been seven months or so since Harrow so he has no clue if she would have mentioned it to him, or if they even talk on the regular enough for it to have come up. They all like each other, but their line of work meant keeping weekly or even monthly contact is difficult. Then Marc went off the grid. And he couldn’t stomach the thought of calling Frenchie, even after everything.

Honestly, if Steven hadn’t answered that call from Layla all those months ago — if she hadn’t found him running out of that storage unit — Marc isn’t sure he ever would have called her, either. Even after he found Steven and Jake; or they found him, more aptly. He still finds it hard to give her a call sometimes.

Marc’s thinking too much. He needs to focus.

They limp out into the hallway, and Marc takes them down the corridor, back the way they came. Hopefully Frenchie is lucid enough to make it out the window, because otherwise Marc has to carry him, and he really doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to be doing any of this right now but it’s also not like he gets a choice in the matter. It seems he never fucking does in his stupid life.

“So, you didn’t come here just to rescue me, then?” Frenchie asks, as they make it down the hallway and take a corner.

Marc opens his mouth to reply, but doesn’t get the chance — instead he has to stumble to a sudden stop thanks to the giant-ass bird god that is standing at the end of the hallway now.

“Fuck!” He exclaims. Frenchie tightens his grip around his shoulders, but doesn’t let go.

Marc Spector, you cannot leave yet. Says Khonshu. You haven’t completed my mission.

His heart misses the next beat. “I don’t —“

Oh, wonderful. Steven snarks.

Marc takes a deep breath, grinds his teeth. He knows Steven isn’t complaining about him, but it does remind him that doesn’t have the option to fold here. Khonshu’s bullshit goes out the window when something else takes precedence — like Frenchie’s laboured breathing, or Steven radiating contempt at the possibility of Khonshu not letting them not getting the injured person out of here.

“I have to get Frenchie out of here first.” Marc says. “I can come back later if it’s really that important.”

He knows it’s not, but Khonshu still huffs (as much as he can when Marc isn’t sure if he has working lungs). That was not what we agreed.

“I thought protecting the travellers of the night was our main goal.” He stands his ground. Against his side, Frenchie makes a noise that sounds similar to a laugh if he only had the air capacity of a deflated balloon. Steven humphs as well, but it’s more of a mental feeling across his lips than an actual sound.

At least he doesn’t have to worry about Frenchie thinking him insane, since he figured out everything with Khonshu pretty much the moment it happened. It took forever for Marc to actually explain it in full to him, but Frenchie knew something was wrong the second Marc came back as the only survivor of that job in the desert. Frenchie probably only thinks him insane because of, like, all of his other behaviour.

Khonshu clicks his beak. Yes, but this is not —

Marc doesn’t have the chance to find out what the rest of the complaint was going to be, since Steven taps at his eyes and he is more than happy to slip back and let him come in. It’s a seamless thing that has their heart beat slow down to the usual rhythm, familiar and faint, as the cape melts away in the shining suit jacket and Steven feels the buzz of the moon over his skin.

“Oh, piss off.” Steven growls, not even trying to be menacing, just promising. The new slump to his shoulders has the man leaning against him groan, and quickly that takes priority, so he readjusts and ducks down so their face-to-face. “Hey, hey, c’mon. It’s going to be alright.”

Goodness, this guy is heavy — thank some-other-god-who-isn’t-theirs that Marc keeps the body fit enough for this line of work. This close to the man, Steven can see there’s a faint scar over one of his eyebrows, and it makes him think of Marc and all his scars he’s littered across them all, and whoever this guy must be to him. Nobody can blame Steven for wanting to figure that out, right? He just wants to see it too.

He can also smell the blood on him when the french man asks, “Marc, what the fuck?”

Steven drops away in an instant. Marc, filling out the space he left, commands, “Let’s go.” and continues on their way.

The path that Khonshu once blocked is clear. Even if Steven isn’t fronting to yell at him, he knows better than to test his patience. Steven’s the only one Khonshu listens to; Marc thinks it’s because he’s the only one who actually understands what he’s saying all the time. He’s good at parsing at bullshit. It’s probably why he annoyed Harrow so much.

Marc’s described what Khonshu looks like to Frenchie — even tried an artist’s rendition that was throughly burned after Frenchie laughed his ass off about it — but he’s pretty sure he got the picture. Frenchie is smart enough to know, at least, that Marc had to listen to him. Not so much anymore. But times change.

People change. Three years is a long fucking time — three years is a horrible, agonizing long time when you can’t even remember half of it.

Frenchie figured out the stuff with Khonshu after Marc came back from the desert. It’s a terrible pattern to admit to, but he hadn’t been planning on telling anyone — Frenchie was the only person he could’ve told, at the time, and Marc still hadn’t been sure if he had been completely losing his mind. For the most part, everything is blurry of those few months after accepting Khonshu’s deal.

Jake hasn’t said anything, but Marc’s pretty sure the two of them were working pretty closely at that point; though Marc was obviously the one who didn’t realize it He isn’t even sure if Jake fully remembers those times either. Steven definitely doesn’t. Khonshu probably does, but he won’t tell them jack shit. So Marc’s pieced together the main bits — that he was going to fake his death anyways, run off, follow the new voice in his head and see where it led him because it wasn’t like he had anything else fucking going for him —

But Frenchie tracked him down after hearing the rumours and figured shit out the moment he saw that Marc was still alive, refusing to talk about the details, save for the bare-bones he needed for a convincing cover story. It did help that Frenchie also caught him summoning the suit so he could jump out a window, but he is also sure that Frenchie would have figured that bit out too as soon as reports of a bandaged knight crimefighter started hitting the news.

Marc has no clue if Frenchie ever figured out anything else about him. Why he attached himself to Layla, why he was discharged from the army, why he never went home or called his family or why none of them were invited to his wedding. Why he hated the water and why he made him watch shitty c-list movies between their missions.

Jake’s never said anything. Steven has no clue who Frenchie is. If Frenchie does know, he did a damn-well good job of never giving a hint about it.

“So, still got a god in you?” Frenchie asks once they make it to the end of the hall. Marc startles, but hopefully Frenchie doesn’t notice. He does seem really concussed.

“Did the suit not make it obvious?” He fires back.

He’s thankful that Steven and Jake are quiet, just hovering around, observing at the moment in case they need to take over. Because the way Frenchie laughs is familiar enough to almost make him smile.

“Ha! You’re here for the relics then, yes?” He replies.

A stab of guilt twists between his ribs, and Marc only keeps upright because of Jake — right there, humming a tune — and Steven making a soft noise like clouds clearing from the sky. It’s stupid. He didn’t come here for Frenchie, and he had been debating even doing this mission at all. He almost didn’t drop in, and then what would have happened?

Marc doesn’t have the time to dwell on the what-ifs right now. If he did that for every decision in his life, he’d be comatose by now. Still, it gnaws at him, like a beetle pinched into skin.

“I was here to collect some.” Marc admits. “Didn’t realize you were here, or else I would have come sooner.”

Frenchie sighs, nearly trips over Marc’s foot with his weak leg before he rights himself; Marc pauses to give him time to adjust, since splitting his attention between walking and talking seems to take more out of Frenchie then it should. “Yeah, it was my own fault ending up here. Here I was, just trying to hunt down some old sleezer, but I guess they paid their delivery guys extra good since when I was following them —“

A crash from the stairwell cuts off whatever he was going to say.

Marc swears, and flings them through the nearest door. The sound seemed to have come from the one direction they hadn’t yet tried — the direction Marc’s pretty sure the stairwell is. Still, the closest hiding spot is a room that seemed to have been some sort of admin office back when this place still functioned as a factory, since there’s big old desks still pushed up against the walls it smells of old paper and rust and lemons when he shuts the door, leaving them in darkness.

The glowing eyes of the suit, he has learned the hard way, do occasionally give away his position — so instead Marc presses his ear to the door and lets the enhanced senses do the work. Frenchie hovers behind him, and even with a concussion, his instincts must kick in since he stays as quiet as a mouse and manages to stand on his own two feet without wobbling.

The group of gang members passes right by the door. Marc catches their voices, but it isn’t anything useful — “It’s funny, I always begged my mom for a snake as a kid. Now look at us.” — “A real snake would be more useful right now.” — “Yeah, sure. And who’s gonna make sure it doesn’t bite any of us?” — “Duh, I would. I know all about them. Couldn’t well ask my mom for one if I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

Frenchie mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely sacrilegious.

When they leave, Marc breathes out a sigh. However, peaking out the door reveals that they didn’t continue on their merry way; instead, the group stopped at the end of the hallway, still arguing about snakes as one of them pats down their pockets as if they forgot something.

There’s only five of them. Three that had been talking, and two that seem more focused, keeping their handguns loaded and ready to shoot. The chatty three also have guns holstered at their waists and two have what seem to be tasers, and one of the at-ready ladies has a baton over her back. All of it looks makeshift, though, as if they had to piece it together themselves.

They’re still talking. Two chatty and one ready are still in view of the doorway, the others partially obscured around the corner, so only three pairs of eyes that could see Marc sneaking up behind them. “I think I forgot my cigs downstairs.” — “Jesus, is that it? I thought it was something serious.” — “There’s more in the breakroom.” — “Not mine! I don’t leave my shit just laying around like Monech does.”

The whole group, however, is blocking the way to the room he had climbed in through.

Marc could take them easily.

He glances back at Frenchie. The danger’s still here, but Marc sees the way his chest is heaving, and how he has to lean against the nearby shelf for support. It’s rickety enough that he worries about it falling, so he leaves the door cracked open, strides over to grab his shoulder. He jumps underneath Marc’s hand. He retracts just as quickly.

“You good?” He whispers in the dark. To Frenchie, all he can see is the glowing eyes, and the slip of yellowed light through the door. He hopes it’s comforting.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Frenchie replies. Marc, of course, doesn’t believe him. It was a dumb question to ask in the first place — but he’s used to having to ask Steven now all the time, so it’s a bad habit.

He flinches again when more voices come from outside. More footsteps. Nobody notices the open door — but Marc counts at least four more shadows that pass on by. The delivery downstairs must be done, so everyone is packing up and going on break. More people to spy them. More eyes to pry.

They need to get out of here.

“What’s the plan?” Frenchie asks.

Marc shushes him when the noise from the hall suddenly jolts, but nobody says anything along the lines of, hey, did you hear that weird noise from the supply closest over there that definitely sounded like someone hiding? so they’re in the clear.

Still, sneaking out isn’t the best option right now with Frenchie’s current state, and Marc wants to try and get out of here with the least amount of fighting involved for the same reason. So. Shit.

“Stay here.” Marc tells Frenchie, before he stalks to the other side of the room to look for … something that will help them get out of here. Or mostly just to look busy, and to hide his thought to the other two of, Anyone have any ideas?

… punching? Steven suggests, very slowly. You love to punch things.

Marc does like to punch things. Steven does say that if they could spare the extra expense for the gym membership right now, he should use it to let out some of his aggression. But — No. Frenchie’s really bad, and there’s a lot of them out there. As soon as they notice him they’ll go ballistic trying to get him back and we need to avoid that.

Steven wilts, and Marc can feel it through his collarbones, cracked across the middle. Jake hums in thought.

Old places like these have tons of old nooks and crannies. He suggests. Maybe we should just hide in the wall.

For how long? Until they leave?

It’s only like, three AM! They might leave soon!

I doubt it. Marc sighs. Frenchie, across the room, shuffles on his feet.

“Found anything?” He asks. “Or are we punching our way out of here?”

I can see why you two are friends. Says Steven.

Marc sighs again, but takes Jake’s suggestion since it’s the best idea they have so far. It’s funny how between three minds, half the time they still can’t figure out foolproof plans — it also doesn’t help that Frenchie has decided to disregard Marc’s orders of not to wander around in the dark and is definitely poking around the creaky shelf. If it falls on him, he has nobody but himself to blame.

The room is pretty cluttered, anyways. When Marc crouches next to the desk, there’s trash strewn everywhere, and what looks like old, yellowed paper caked into the floor. Dust bunnies roll away from the force of his hands as he grabs onto the leg of the desk and, as carefully as he dares, picks it up by one side to move it away from the wall.

The side still on the ground scrapes but luckily the old paper keeps the sound muffled. Lo and behold, through the glowing white of his night-vision eyes, Marc can see a vent grate screwed into the wall.

It’s rusted and the wall is splitting apart where it’s screwed in, with two of the screws even having disappeared into oblivion somewhere. But it’s big. More than big enough for two grown men to crawl through. If Marc has to guess, it’s leading into a crawlspace — safety regulations meant jack shit when this place was operating, so having man-sized holes in the wall that anyone could climb through isn’t surprising.

Works just as well for them, though. Thanks, you old architects from over a century ago. Maybe architectural history can be useful.

“Frenchie, over here.” Marc whispers, and Frenchie hasn’t knocked over the shelf yet, which is a good sign. He does make his way over quickly to crouch down beside him, which Marc accounts to the glowing white of the mask. While it gives away his position occasionally, it does help people find him easier. Then, to everyone, he asks as he rapt his knuckle against the metal, “Think this could lead us out of here?”

Jake sighs. Yes, likely.

“Probably.” Says Frenchie.

Steven starts, Marc, do not say you’re going to —

He prys open the grate and the two remaining screws go flying out into the room. Frenchie yelps, but none even got close to hitting him, so he’s just overreacting.

“You still don’t have any allergies, right?” Marc asks, since a cloud of dust billows from the crawlspace directly into his face. Steven, who always seems to sneeze more than him or Jake, cringes away from the front. “Or any open wounds?”

“You are so not serious.” Frenchie huffs, but he crawls through the hole without further complaint.

It’s a slow, meandering climb down the crawlspace. If Marc was by himself (or as by himself as he can get), he probably would have just let go and let himself free fall until he got to another opening. But right now, he has to manoeuvre himself in front of Frenchie so his body will catch his if he falls, and try to navigate their way out of here while making sure very step he takes can be redone by a man currently functioning on probably zero hours of decent sleep.

At least the crawlspace is — well, spacious. The beams connecting the walls are flat enough he can fit his whole foot, and the handholds feel sturdy enough. He was a bit worried about something breaking under his weight, but he supposed if this place is still standing after this long, there was probably some stability to it.

The smell of dust and something tangy with rot is an assault on his senses, though, and even with the night vision it’s a bit hard to find his way. Mostly because he gets turned around by the first corner they have to take, and by the time they drop down to what he presumes is a lower level, he’s completely lost. His cape protects his back from brickwork behind him but things still feel choked in here, even as he takes a careful step down to the next beam and the space opens up by a few inches.

“C’est stupide. Voilà où nous en sommes, tâtonnons dans le noir encore, tabarnak! Il ne change jamais, ostie de —“ Frenchie mumbles behind him.

“What did you say?” Marc calls back. He can’t hear any voices outside, which likely means nobody can hear them in here. Besides, they’re in a fucking wall. Anyone that hears voices coming from the wall is going to doubt themselves before they start shooting anything. Hopefully.

Frenchie grunts. “Nothing.”

He said something about the dark. Steven informs him. Marc blinks — right, he forgot that Steven was learning French. He wanted to be able to read more books or something. And tobacco?

Oookay, they can figure out translations later.

“I think I see another opening.” Marc says, when he twists his head around the other way and sees a glimmer of light a few feet below him. Either it’s another vent opening, or some old bootlegger decided to hide their funds in the wall. But at least it’s something.

The next step is a bit lengthier than the others since it’s at a weird angle, so Marc balances himself on the wall with his feet, and jumps around to get to the next beam. It creaks under his feet but manages to hold, and he twists around to offer a hand to Frenchie. It’s even more awkward than his jump was, but the other man manages to grab onto him so Marc can swing him around the bend to balance on the beam next to him.

Marc pretends not to notice the way his hand shakes when he lets go.

“Alright, here we go …” He mutters, shuffling back as much as he’s able. Luckily the vent grate is screwed on from the outside, so Marc can just bend his leg back —

Oh, dear lord! Steven startles when he kicks the grate off, and sends it flying into the room on the other side of the wall. Jake chuckles at the reaction, but doesn’t flinch, because he never seems to fucking flinch. It’s actually very annoying.

“Fuck!” Frenchie swears beside him. “Warn me, next time.”

“Yeah, sure.” Marc drops to his knees to crawl through the hole, and definitely hears Frenchie mutter something under his breath behind him. He’s know him long enough to pick up on a variety of his insults, so he’s also probably better off not trying to understand what he said.

There is, at least, no immediate shouting or gunfire upon him getting to his feet, which is definitely a good sign. A bad sign is that there is no clear exit anywhere — instead, there is just collections upon collections of boxes. Some taped up, some open and empty, but spread out everywhere like a shitty discount store. Steven loves shitty discount stores, so yes, Marc does know what he’s talking about.

He turns to offer a hand out to Frenchie, but he’s already crawled out and gotten to his feet, and maybe the adrenaline from their near-escape has helped him a bit since he looks less wobbly. Marc then takes the opportunity to get a bit deeper into the room, to get a better lay of the land — if he had to guess, this was likely a second factory floor, since the scuff marks on the floor indicate heavy machinery once used to operate here. Plus, of course, the conveyer belt system that sits stationary, just as a loading area for more boxes.

Curious, he peaks over the edge of an open box, then sucks in a breathe through his teeth at the curved beak of a bird-shaped stone statue staring back up at him.

Well, looks like Khonshu might get his relics after all.

There is, luckily, windows in this area — not leading to the outside, just separating the side rooms from the main factory floor. They’re shiny enough that when Marc looks up and turns around, he has twin faces staring back at him. Steven, throughly unimpressed; and Jake, grinning like a maniac.

Please do not ever do that again, by the way. Steven huffs. Almost as bad as when we fell down that cavern.

Next time, can I jump down the crawlspace? Asks Jake.

“Did you see this?” He asks instead of gracing either of them with an actual reply.

“See what?” Frenchie asks, coming up from around one of the conveyor belts from where Marc had left him. “What is this, a packaging facility? I did not think they had moved to Amazon.”

“You’re the one that got kidnapped here, not me.” Marc says, but he looks back into the box anyways. It takes a bit more focus than it should for him to keep his next thought internal. Steven, is this one safe?

Yes, I told you, nothing here should be — Steven gasps. Ooh, that one’s Thoth!

Marc grabs the thing before he can think better of it, in part because Steven is clearly very interested — and also, he really wants to fuck with these guys. Later, when he doesn’t have to worry about carting Frenchie around, he’ll definitely come back and actually fuck these guys up.

For now, he slips the relic into the folds of his cape. He isn’t like Steven who managed to manifest fancy pockets for his fancy suit, so Marc has to make do with the magic bullshit with his cape that somehow stores whatever objects he wraps it up in. It honestly seems to just get swallowed by the shadows, but it always comes back whenever he pats around for it later. He just assumes it goes into the place where his infinite supply of crescent-darts comes out from.

Steven is content at least. That’s the important thing. And Marc knows who Thoth is by the amount of books piled in their flat — turns out, if you do a lot of research about Egyptian mythology to gain more knowledge, the god of knowledge is going to pop up.

“What’s our plan from here?” Frenchie whispers but his voice still echoes around the room. It’s the ceiling; high and vast, broken up old beams that don’t do anything to muffle the sound.

“Finding a way out still.” Marc replies, doing a circle to see if he can spy any doors. There’s multiple exits, but none of them are clear to him. “We’re not on the ground floor yet, but there might be something we climb down if we make it to an exterior window.”

“Good plan.”

He sounds distracted. Marc turns, and sees that Frenchie is now peering into another open box, but when Marc grabs it by the cardboard flap to pull it out of his eyesight, Frenchie has the gall to huff indignantly at him. A quick glance reveals a cat-shaped statue sitting wrapped in bubble packaging; hey, at least they’re being safe about it.

“Do not go poking around here.” Marc warns him. “This stuff could be dangerous.”

Now Steven huffs, This stuff is fine, Marc.

“Please, I’m the one that’s been tracking these guys for a year, and they’ve tried to use all these fancy things on me.” Frenchie waves his hands about, which is overall a good sign, since at least he isn’t clutching his stomach anymore like he’s about to double over in pain. “None of them even work!”

“You don’t know that.”

“And you do?”

“Yes.”

No. Jake is also entirely unhelpful.

Steven adds, Marc, I think it’s a Bastest statue in there. Can you grab that one too?

Marc sighs, but picks it up and wraps it in his cape. Frenchie splutters, but before he can say anything, Marc says, “If they are dangerous — which there is always the chance they will be — it’s better I touch them than you. Khonshu can protect me from any weird magic shit, remember?”

For some reason, that makes Jake bristle, and Marc has to bite his tongue to stop from instinctively pulling back so Jake can come front. Steven hangs back — but that it just because he’s definitely more confused now, which is somehow even worse. If Marc stealing old relics for him can’t brighten him up, then things are definitely off.

“Fine. Let the weird bird creature that cursed you into serving him fuck around in your brain some more.” Frenchie rolls his eyes. “See if I care.”

He knows about all that?! Steven exclaims and Marc hopes that he hides his wince well from the dagger of pain that juts across his nose.

Yes, of course he does. Jake replies for him. He’s seen the suit, Esteban.

I meant that he knows about how Khonshu —

“It’s not like that anymore.” Marc interrupts; Steven before he can finish, and Frenchie before he can begin. “I’ll explain more later, but — we really should be —“

And because the universe like to play tricks on him, Marc is the one who can’t finish his sentence now, since there is a sudden, loud cry of, “HEY, WHAT THE FUCK?!”

For a moment, Marc hopes that the voice sounds louder than it is because it’s echoing from somewhere else in the room — but no. He turns, and there in the doorway is a smuggling member. She’s got her hair up into a tight bun, but that’s the only distinguishing feature about her, since otherwise she wears a thick work jacket and equally as lumpy pants and boots. Still, there’s a gun in her hands, and that’s the main thing.

“Shit!” Swears Frenchie, and Marc grabs him to pull him out of any fire line.

“Hey, stop!” Shouts the goon, but they’ve already made it halfway across the room towards the nearest exit. Even if it isn’t the right one, they’ll have to make do.

The sound of the lady behind them shouting and stomping after them is somehow louder than the pounding of his heart. He’s trying to run while also blocking Frenchie was any possible fire which is a shitty way to run and he fucking hates it — because Frenchie stumbles and Marc has to catch him and knocks into a crate that screeches from his weight hitting the side. He grabs into the edge, gritting his teeth, and when pulls away to keep running his gloves are stained grey.

The lady keeps chase. Frenchie stumbles into a conveyer belt before managing to swing his legs over top even if he clenches his teeth at the movement, and Marc is able to vault it. They slam! into the ground on the other side. Boxes go flying; one lands on the floor with a distinct thump of stone, and before Marc can grab him, Frenchie ducks down and picks it up.

“Look, another one!” He yells, rummaging for the relic and ending up pulling out another bird statue — seriously, how many bird gods are there? At some point, you just have to say enough is enough.

Because Marc can never catch a break, Frenchie ducks out of his coverage, and throws the empty box at the goon chasing after them. He misses; the packing peanuts that fly out from it do shower over the lady chasing them and make her scream, “Goddamnit!” when one lands on her eye.

Holy shit. Jake comments but Marc can’t tell if it’s impressed or in disbelief.

Marc grabs the relic from Frenchie’s hand and shoves it in his cape. Steven says, Marc, keep moving! which isn’t something he was planning on not doing, but he appreciates the encouragement.

They’re within ten feet of the door with a conveyor belt between them that Marc catches the distinct sound of running footsteps that don’t belong them.

Two more people, similarly dressed in black and well-armed, thunder into the room from the door they were just about to duck into it. One, short hair with a beanie, and the other looking like a guy who has never once decided to shave with a mirror for a reference point. Well, shit.

“SHIT.” Shouts Frenchie and Jake at the same time. Steven also says something, but it’s less so words and more just panicked noises that sound a lot like blubbering and rain against a window.

“Hey, what the hell is happening in —“ The beanie one yelps. “What the hell, what is that?!”

They point at Marc. Steven, still wobbly, manages to comment, Well, that’s just rude.

“Oh my god, that’s the guy they had upstairs!” Says the guy. “Shit, shit, shit —“

He goes for his gun and aims for Frenchie’s head, and Marc dives to cover him; fortunately, beanie’s eyes widen in horror at their companion’s weapon, and they similarly launch themself at him shouting, “Not in here, you dumbass!”

Marc isn’t one not to take the chance given to him, so he grabs Frenchie by the back of his jacket before they can get any closer and yanks him to the side, slamming into the wall but he’s at least between the unarmed, unguarded injured man and the crazy people with bullets. The lady chasing them from behind also shouts something about the gun Marc doesn’t quite catch — but what he does catch, when he turns around, is the bullet that fires.

It’s not even close to hitting them. In fact, it goes so off course that the only way the gun fired was when the two lackeys had been grappling with it in the air. The bullet veers left into the sea of packages and manages to fly through the empty boxes, and bury itself deep into one of the larger crates that sit in between the conveyor belts, that Marc had knocked into earlier while running wild.

He glances down at his gloves and sees the grey, ash-like substance that stains them.

This gang doesn’t just deal in historical smuggling, then, and decide to mix their businesses when it comes to storage. Because ancient relics certainly don’t react like the crate is reacting right now when shot with high-heat bullets. Really, when it comes down to it — if it looks and smells and sizzles like gunpowder, it’s probably gunpowder.

Frenchie, from between him and the wall, yells, “Marc, get down —!“

The explosion hit before he can think to turn his head.

• • •

His head hurts.

This isn’t an uncommon occurrence. His head hurts a lot — their head hurts a lot, more accurately. It’s one of those things. Multiple thoughts, multiple memories, multiple streams of consciousness running parallel. Sometimes it’s hard for one head to handle. Sometimes it hard for three.

He tries to grasp at his head to help with the ache but his hands move slow. Slower than he likes. There’s something pushing at his hands, his hearts, his heads. Water. Water, water, water, he’s under water, he’s drowning, drowning —

When he gasps the water is sweet enough to the point it clots. He can’t tell if his eyes are open or close because it’s the same either way; darkness that swallows him as much as he swallows it. The current continues to push but the panic that seizes him makes it easier to push back, easier for him to kick and pull himself up, up, up to what he thinks must be the surface because the pain his head increases and his eyes burn and he still can’t breathe.

His hand breaks the surface first. There’s no change in temperature to indicate that he’s managed to hit the air, but his heart still clenches and gives him the strength to get his head above the water. If it even is his heart. Last time he had been drowning, his heart hadn’t been in his chest. Someone had taken it from him. Someone had taken them from him.

He breaches the water and still, there’s no sudden chill or burst of heat, just a change in pressure that makes tears spring from his eyes. Or it might just be leftover river water, steaming down his cheeks and tangling in his hair. It’s itchy and soothing at the same time like clothes that he wears sometimes which aren’t actually his. But then, when he opens his eyes, he realizes he isn’t actually swimming the river anymore, and instead there’s firm mud underneath him, and he’s able to stand enough that the water only reaches his waist.

He’s standing in a river.

It’s a large fucking river since when he looks to the horizon he can’t see the end, but when he tears his gaze away from the infinite skyline, there is something that looks like a shore some feet away. A swathe of tall reeds block the actual land but it’s better than just standing and letting the current wash at his feet, so he starts to make his way over.

It’s difficult since the mud grabs at him with every step and there’s enough pebbles hidden beneath the water to scratch his feet every few inches. Every step he takes sends ripples out into the banks, disturbing the fish he hadn’t even realized we’re swimming alongside him; one jumps from the water in a wide arch, shimmering gold against the inky blue of the water. The water that, at least, gets lower; while the waves never get high enough to reach his head, he can breathe easier knowing that it can’t enter his mouth unless he falls in.

He stops. He realizes, suddenly, that he isn’t actually breathing. He hasn’t been breathing the entire time and yet he still had been drowning.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

So he keeps going.

He’s just about to reach the shore when his foot catches something buried in the shallow mud, and he trips ungracefully into the reeds. All he gets is a mouthful of sweet-tasting water for his troubles, and when he manages to push himself up so he’s sitting with his legs folded underneath him and his hands buried in the mudbanks, what he’s greeted with is just the dark sky above.

There are stars, though. That’s a relief. He likes it when there’s stars.

They’re not in the shape of any constellations he recognizes, no bears or spoons or archers. Instead, there’s something that looks a bit like a bird in flight; one smattering is arranged similar to a gun aimed at the forehead of a long-haired man; and another looks like a weighted scale that has his eyes darting away before he can trace the full shape. Then, in the middle of it all, is the moon.

Well, that’s incorrect. There’s actually three of them. One in the sky directly above him when he cranes his head, shining as bright as full silver coin. The other two are half-hidden behind it to the point they seem to meld together into one misshapen lump in his blurry vision, clogged sitll by the river water. One, half-dipped in ink; and the one with only a silver of white. It doesn’t drift across the sky in the usual pattern, instead just hanging there, motionless, waiting for the light to fill in.

Carefully, he pushes himself up from the mud even though his legs shake. The mud still stains his hands and feels sticky like blood, but he knows from habit that wiping it off won’t make it go away. Instead, he just needs to keep moving — towards the moons, most likely. The moons are the only thing that feel right at the moment and in this moment, whatever it is, he needs something right. He needs something good. He needs whatever he doesn’t have, whoever it is he’s missing, whoever it is he isn’t being —

A crunch splits the silence.

He jumps out of his skin and looks down at his feet, at what is buried in the mud he just stepped upon. When he stumbles away he finds, sticking out from the new sprouts of reeds, are hundreds of silver bones. As sharp as knifes and as bright as the moons, they’re scattered around the river bank in a path that leads as far as the river flows, that melds into the skyline then dripping into the constellations.

But the one he had stepped on, that he cracked in half the skull of, is clearly of a person. It stares at him unrelenting and unforgiving through the empty sockets. In the jaw of it where teeth used to sit, there is the still-rotting carcass of a blinding white bird. It’s feathers have been plucked and the wings seem to have been torn from it’s sides, leaving knobs of burnt and torn flesh that tastes like river water across his tongue.

The meat across its head has also been stripped away. Sinew hangs from its neck and bits of blood stain the bone. In the jaw of the human skull, it turns its head, and looks at him.

My Knights. Says the dead bird. Wake up.

• • •

“Marc? Marc, tu dois te réveiller —“

It’s a struggle to open the eyes, since every part of the body seems to be fighting against them right now. It takes as much strength as they would have needed to throw a punch with much more terrible results, since when they’re finally able to blink the grime away, all that’s in front of them is a beat-up face, way too close to theirs.

Oh, yes, it’s Frenchie. Their friend-ally. Or Marc’s friend-ally; Jake is impartial, Steven has no clue. This doesn’t really look like the Frenchie he (Jake? Marc?) knows. He’s bleeding from cut on his forehead, his one eye swollen and lips split and scabbed. His hair is very grimy and everything smells of smoke and gunpowder. He cringes away, but that just sends a wave of pain through his head that makes him wince and close his eyes until it subsides.

Everything fucking hurts. It’s like a board cracked in half then whammed against his skin, splinters that dig into the flesh that to be fished out with a nail that then cuts up the cuticle. It isn’t fun. Of course, they’ve been hurt worse before; he can tell there’s no bullet wounds this time.

“Oh, Dieu merci.” Frenchie gasps, but it doesn’t quite sound like him, either. It wobbles like he’s holding in a cough, and his face is squiggly around the edges, too. The shape of him is more weathered and worn from what he can remember.

Besides, he isn’t suppose to be here at all. Frenchie hated having to go to London. He didn’t mind Europe in general, but something about Britain strikes a nerve. So, whoever this is, it probably isn’t the real Frenchie. Hallucinations are half the battle in their head. This isn’t new. But when he manages to get the mouth moving, he still can‘t help but be confused.

“Frenshie?” He says, but it comes out as slushed as snow, with how slow his tongue is working. “What’a you doing ‘ere?”

“Saving your sorry ass, apparently.” The fake-Frenchie replies with a chuckle. “Didn’t you learn from last time not to take fire to the face?”

He has no clue what he’s talking about.

“You don’t remember? You were trying to fix a fire to our engine, then the thing just combusted. If not for that fancy suit of yours you’d be half-a-Spector.”

What?

“Okay, you must be really scrambled.”

“Tell us about ‘em!” He laughs, but that doesn’t seem right either. “No, tell me about him. What?”

It’s probably best if he stops talking now, since fake-Frenchie is looking at him funny, as if he suddenly grew multiple heads. That would make talking easier, because one of the heads is bound to have a working mouth, and it would definitely make it simpler to tell if there was only one person or two or three trying to talk right now. He’s pretty sure there’s only one person right now, but he isn’t too sure since it’s a harder thing to be sure of than people think.

Fake-Frenchie is still looking at him, and there’s something digging into his ribcage. It actually ends up being Fake-Frenchie, propping him up against a wall, and the brick scrapes hard against the back of his head. It’s annoying. He wishes his mouth worked better, then he could tell it off.

“Oookay.” Fake-Frenchie whistles. “Let’s just stay here for a bit, yes? That explosion pretty much collapsed the whole storage area — had to drag you all the way over here. Still, I think it blocked out the lower entrance, or at least distracted them for a bit. We can rest here for a minute then carry on our merry way since I don’t know how much more I can carry you up. Does that sound good?”

He looks around and sees that they appear to be in some sort of stairwell, sitting on a landing. The whole place smells like gunpowder and the smoke that comes off newly-demolished stone. In fact, there’s even smoke billowing up from a few levels below them, but by the time it reaches their hiding place it’s no more than wisps of rubble.

On the bright side, the ceiling seems stable. No cracks. He really doesn’t want to get caught in a cave-in, thankyouverymuch. Being pinned under rubble is no fun at all. There was one time, when Marc got crushed inside a cupcake van by a rockslide; or was that Steven? Steven was there, and so was Jake, and it definitely hadn’t been Marc who had been pinned under the twisted metal of the van roof. He didn’t do well in small spaces.

Not-Frenchie pats at his face and his touch stings every bit of skin that connects. “Marc?”

That’s not right — the stairwell stoop is too low for Marc to be here right now, it almost suffocates them. So he knows he isn’t Marc right now, and at least he’s got that sorted. Still doesn’t help the Not-Frenchie situation, though. Or the headache. Or the reason he can still taste blood across his teeth.

“Not my name.” He sings. “You got it wrong.”

Fake-Frenchie blinks at him, and there’s a split across the top part of his lip. “Pardon me?”

Oh, shit, he isn’t suppose to talk about that. Or talk at all. When he’s pretending to be Marc (or pretending to be Not-Marc, before he got his name), he tries not to speak too much, because people will notice the infliction isn’t quite right. It’s the same vocal cords, but he still can’t mimic the accents, and never really got the hang of the consonants.

“Sorry, it’s slipping. Or at least I think it is.” He frowns and the stinging across his face worsens; maybe it hadn’t been because of Fake-Frenchie touching him then, instead all the cuts and bits of pebbles stuck to his skin. “I don’t — why’s it all —“

He reaches up to grab at his face, his head, his hair — anything he can — but Fake-Frenchie snaps out and grabs his wrists before he can. He sneers, bares his teeth, hopes he sees the blood on them.

“Just slow — slow down. What’s slipping?” Fake-Frenchie asks, not even blinking when he rips his hands out of his grip to pat his face down. It still stings, which shouldn’t happen, since the suit is suppose to heal all his injuries — at least the places where it’s summoned.

When he presses his fingertips against the cuts, he can feel the blood ooze out and stain underneath his nails. The mask is gone. His head is gone. That’s not right.

“My mask.” He mutters. “We should go.”

Trying to stand up, however, is roadblocked by Fake-Frenchie. He lunges forward and grabs onto his shoulder. “Marc, sit down. Marc!”

“Ey!” He’s shoved back against the wall — but it’s an easy feat for Fake-Frenchie, given how his legs wobble still. “¡Come mierda, no hice nada!”

Oh, that he’s definitely not suppose to say — Marc doesn’t like to speak in Spanish, something about his mother or his tongue or his mother tongue. Fake-Frenchie definitely knows this, with how he’s squinting at him through his one good eye.

“Are you concussed? Come on, Marc, seriously? Only one of us can be concussed right now.” Fake-Frenchie groans.

“It’s not —“ His mouth still isn’t working, and he runs his tongue over the chip in his front tooth, that Steven always frets about and Jake always says looks cool. “Just give us a second. I can’t think straight.”

He slides down the wall until he collapses on the floor. Standing above him, Fake-Frenchie just huffs.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” He mumbles, before he sits down next to him.

These spaces are … weird. These blurry, fuzzy, messy spaces. They don’t happen often, because everything is suppose to be good now, but sometimes Steven has a bad day, or Jake is strangely cagey, or Marc can’t stand to pick up the phone. Things just overlap then, bleeding into the next, running down the wall like melting streaks of paint. Moonlight dipping into the ocean and crashing against the shore in a pool of milky white.

It’s hard, sometimes, getting out of these spaces. He wouldn’t say it feels nice because it mostly doesn’t feel like anything. The thing is, when they’re blurry like this,  everything else is strange too. People’s faces get wobbly around the edges, their eyes unable to focus on the details, and a falcon can look like a duck when they come across one on the roof. Hands falter when they try to grab the ledge. Feet tremble when they land from a jump.

That’s the stupid thing about all of this. His brain never stops hurting, the callouses on his hands never go away, and he still can’t dunk his head under the water without thinking he’s going to drown — when he swallows he tastes the sand and the ash and the blood of the desert and the reeds he had to run from. When he blinks he thinks he sees goldfish, swirling around his feet, and the scent of the smoke from below them smells as sweet as sugarcane.

Movement next to him. Fake-Frenchie — because Marc fucked up his friendship with the real one, and Jake thinks he’s an asshole who doesn’t know when to mind his mouth, and Steven has no clue who he is. He has to close his eyes again and the goldfish go away. Then he wants them back, but opening his eyes isn’t an option right now, with the ache still twirling around in his head.

This is fucking terrible. He misses Gus, and Not-Gus, and Not-Not-Gus; and Layla and the real Frenchie, not the fake-Frenchie beside him. He misses Marc, and Steven and Jake, and whoever he’s suppose to be right now and whoever he isn’t.

He takes a deep breath. Still, he’s gotten out of worse spots before. They’ve all gotten out of worse spots before.

“I think you must be really concussed, you keep switching accents.” Says Fake-Frenchie. “I didn’t know your suit switched, either. It’s all mashed-up.”

Somehow, the nagging sound helps, even if it’s still a bit muffled — maybe from the explosion, maybe because his brain hasn’t caught up to everything yet. Still, he grabs for it and focuses on it. Fake-Frenchie’s breathing is also a good aid, since he can match his own to it, and the rise and fall of his chest reminds him of the bruises wrapping around his ribs.

Right, they’re injured. An explosion. A mission. A rescue attempt. All for Frenchie, but the others need it too. Marc isn’t here right now, he can tell that much by the fact that Fake-Frenchie is still looking at him funny. And he also doesn’t know where Steven is — hopefully the same place as Marc, because he gets stressed out in these types of situations, and he is no longer is chewing his lip like he wants to rip his skin off.

He has to get them out of here. It’s his job to get them out of here. It’s Jake’s job to —

“Huh.” Says Jake. Oh, and that’s good. He can tell that he’s Jake. That helps a bunch.

He looks to Frenchie. Now that he thinks about it, this is definitely the real one, because he looks like he’s been beaten to hell and back, and only one of Marc’s friends would still be cracking jokes during a time like this. The explosion didn’t seem to aggravate his injuries too badly at least but that’s because when Jake pulls for the memory, he can vaguely recall the feeling of both of them slamming into the wall. Marc, taking fire to the face, like he always chooses to do.

Whatever. They’ve sat here for long enough. They have to get out of here.

Jake groans, but collects his remaining energy to stand up even if he had to brace his hands on his knees when his head spins. Nausea roils in his gut but he swallows it back because throwing up is the last thing he wants to do right now (second to maybe, like, dying). Frenchie rises as well, a bit slower, using the wall to stand. He’s glad they’re the only ones here right now because they definitely look like two idiots who just got into a bar fight. Jake once had to drive a pair like that home in the cab, and he shudders at the memory.

“Okay. Okay, let’s go.” He straightens up and squeezes the sides of his head. It doesn’t help focus him at all — what does it is the smell of the smoke billowing from above and the sting of the cuts across his face.

“Marc?” Frenchie asks, not quite wary but not quite easy, either. “What is happening?”

Jake doesn’t know if it’s the concussion that makes him ask such stupid questions, or if he’s gotten dumber the past few years — Jake didn’t see much of Frenchie at all in the times before, since he would pretty much only front when in battle, and there Frenchie was adequate enough at his job. Marc, usually, managed to take back over before Jake had to engage in anything other than surface-level conversation.

He tries to find Marc now; but all he hears, worryingly, is faint humming. He grits his teeth. It’s going to be fine. Steven isn’t here either, but he’ll find Marc wherever he is. Jake’s the best at locating things but Steven is easy to find. If Marc’s drowning somewhere right now, Jake knows that no matter what, Marc will be able to find Steven like a lighthouse at the shore.

It’s just a bit strange. That’s all. Jake’s fronted on his own before, but he’s gotten used to the other two always being around — not suffocated under the blankness of his own mind like he pushed for before. Of course, it doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t mean he can’t get them all out of here.

And Frenchie too, for good measure. Marc would be really upset if Jake left him behind.

“You’re being rescued.” He replies to Frenchie’s early dumb question. He’s met with a raised eyebrow, which would likely have had more effect if his one eye wasn’t swollen black and blue.

“I meant with you.” Frenchie hisses out and a drop of blood spills down his chin from his split lip. “You show up out-of-the-blue, more flighty than usual —“

That’s insulting; Jake is very responsible. “I am not flighty.”

“You left. For three years.” Frenchie steps forward and finally, he looks mad, the blood on his face in the shape of birds and fish. “At first I thought you were on a mission, but then — then Layla got those papers. Every call went unanswered but the line never disconnected. We knew you weren’t dead because we would catch glimpses of you in the night through the grapevine, but you were still gone. To us.”

So, the thing with their new normal — Jake cares a lot about it, which is strange, because he’s never cared much about their living situation before. He didn’t enjoy being at home in their childhood, and he didn’t enjoy sharing bunks in the army, and even though he doesn’t well remember the home made with Layla, it wasn’t something he would have asked for. Jake, if he had to admit at gunpoint, really likes how their lives have turned out now.

Not that he doesn’t want Marc to be happy — which he was with Layla, and he was with Frenchie, when they used to work as a little group. The three of them together in those early knighting days. Jake, again, can’t remember those well. Only snapshots of when things got tough and he had to hold down the body until Marc came back. But here he is now. He gets to have both Marc and Steven knowing about him, working together, and —

It didn’t come in the best way. Mom dying. Steven out on his own, talking to an empty phone. Marc sending everyone to voice mail and throwing himself into missions like he didn’t care about seeing the next one. Jake, behind the wheel, always with bloody hands.

But it all turned out fine by the time everything was said and done. If the end justify the means, then Jake will do it, and so he can’t find it in himself to care about Frenchie’s pleading. Layla fits into this all well enough to their current situation. Frenchie … he has no clue.

“It was complicated.” He replies, which is a cop-out, but Frenchie isn’t his old comrade. Marc can figure out how he wants to explain himself, because nobody is going to like what Jake wants to say.

Frenchie sneers. “Was complicated? So it’s easy now?”

“This isn’t the place to talk about this.”

Another cop-out that he intends to end with, but when he goes to turn around, a hand grabs his elbow. Jake rips himself away as the nerves in his skin alight, lips curled back into a growl, before he even realizes that it’s just Frenchie. He doesn’t look hurt that Jake pulled away from him, necessarily. But his hand stays in the air for a few tense seconds before he lets it fall.

The spot where he touched on his elbow burns. Jake resists the urge to grab at the skin, pull the suit off of him and scratch at it until he bleeds.

“We are friends, Marc.” Says Frenchie, cracked around the edges. “Whatever trouble you got into, I could have helped. Yes? That is what we do together.”

He’s earnest to the point that Jake almost thinks he’s looking at his own eyes in the mirror, except the accents don’t match up; Frenchie is much too rough to ever make a decent bookshopist. “Whatever you say, Frenchman.”

On cue, the rubble that has been protecting them below groans, from either the weight of an old building finally starting to collapse or from many people trying to get through to the other side. This likely isn’t the only stairwell in the place either, so the distant sound of shouting and running and general outrage from a gang at having their operation explode in their faces isn’t a good sign either.

“Jue puta.” Jake mumbles. Louder, he says, “We have to go.”

Frenchie takes a deep breath, but then manages to straighten out his shoulders. It doesn’t help much. He still looks like shit — but Jake supposed he doesn’t look much better right now, and neither of them will get better until they get out of here.

“Lead the way.” He says.

Jake doesn’t like his tone, but reprimanding him will cost time and waste energy he doesn’t want to spare, so instead he turns to start his way up the stairs. Of course, he’s the one that has to get them out of here. He’s always the one that has to get them out of here. But he knows the way, because he always knows the way, in the same way he always knows where a new fare is waiting for him while driving around the city.

Of course, he isn’t driving right now — a cab, that is. He likes to say he’s still driving even if it’s not a vehicle, but if nobody is around to hear his joke, there’s not point in making it. Even if he can still work on his own without the other two, talking to nobody is a habit that’s harder to keep up after he got used to having someone reply.

Frenchie isn’t an option, obviously. The only option right now is getting out of here.

• • •

The staircases shake under their feet.

Despite being made out of what is likely concrete and wood, Jake can feel every vibration as they thunder past each level. His goal is to just get as high as possible — to a place where the least amount of people will be milling around. Quite a few open doors they pass on the stairwell have voices coming from within, so Jake drags them past, and just keeps going up, up, up, until finally the stairwell shakes too much to keep going, and he ducks through the doorway.

Frenchie slams into his back when Jake suddenly stops just before stepping onto the hallway.

Oh, goddamnit, they’re back at the fucking floor they started at!

“What is it?” Frenchie asks, batting his cape away from his face. Jake just shakes his head.

“Fuck me.” He says. “Come on.”

He starts walking again, letting the back of his mind lead him the way he needs to go, and Frenchie follows a few seconds later. However, they only make it about halfway down the hall before Frenchie suddenly sucks in a breath, and Jake whirls around, expecting the worse — but instead Frenchie is just leaning against the wall, clutching at his side.

“Do we need to look at that?” He asks, moving closer with his hands raised. His annoyance flashes hot and violent between his ribs, because he doesn’t spy any blood but if Frenchie is hiding injuries, then he’s going to be very pissed off. More than he already is at any rate.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Frenchie gasps. “Just think a rib’s broke, but I’ll manage.”

Jake opens his mouth to tell him to get it together, but loud shouting from the direction they’ve been heading in makes them both jump. Well, Jake doesn’t jump; he just turns around but finds nobody there, just voices echoing from down the hall. Frenchie tries to stand up by himself again, either from being startled or just instinct at hearing a fight he’s not apart of. He doesn’t get far, still, immediately pitching forward.

“Woah, there.” Jake catches him by the shoulder before he faceplants. He’s met with a lot of squirming and a harsh push to his shoulder — well, harsh for a guy who can’t even stand straight.

“Let me go, I just have to —“ He spits and Jake sighs. Is this how Marc feels whenever Jake suddenly jumps into a fight? He might have to go apologize to his alter; on second thought, no way is he admitting that. At least one good thing about Marc being hazy right now is that he didn’t think any of that.

“You are not in any fighting condition.” Jake tells him. He pries Frenchie’s hand off where he managed to get a grip on his pauldron, and at this point, if he breaks a nail on his armour it’s entirely his own fault. “Stay here.”

He shoves Frenchie back around an alcove, hard enough so that he hits the wall and will hopefully be dazed for long enough for Jake to deal with the gunfire. Unfortunately, Marc likes to keep similar company, because Frenchie is a stubborn dickbag who immediately lunges for him.

“Don’t you dare, Marc!” He shouts. Luckily he can’t see Jake’s grin, because as annoying as it is, it is also very funny seeing how red his face is.

Or maybe that’s just the blood, and it’s not funny. Still, Jake must take his jokes where he can get them.

“Sana sana, culito de rana —“ Jake sings, then he turns the corner and is immediately shot in the head. “Fuck!”

“Esti de marde!” Shouts Frenchie, not helping.

The guy — well, gal — who shot him looks shocked that she even did so, since she immediately reels back with her gun shaking in her hands. Or that could also be because Jake stumbled, ducks down, bent at the middle — but when he looks up, he knows his eyes are glowing. He’s always liked that about the suit, since it makes it easier to hide what he would rather people not see, and the night vision is an added bonus. It’s still dark enough in here that he’s sure Frenchie is having trouble seeing, from where he still spitting out curses from behind him.

His shooter has managed to regain herself enough to aim the gun at him, but pain is blossoming across his face from where the bullet managed to land square across his forehead. Luckily, the suit absorbed the impact so he isn’t bleeding out in a tomb of dirty water right now, so he’s able easily step forward and grab the goon — dressed in the same dark clothes as the rest of them, and looking woefully unprepared for a hand-to-hand fight — by the collar of her shirt and slam her into the wall.

Something crunches. The gun clatters to the floor. She doesn’t get back up.

Jake doesn’t feel bad about it. It might be hard to believe, but he doesn’t much like being shot in the face.

Unfortunately, without realizing he’s wasted a couple of seconds just staring at her, and a pound pound pound of more people coming his way make him turn around just in time to meet the next group head on.

Just like with Marc’s suit, he’s able to summon crescent-darts from the emblem on his chest, but Jake prefers not to use them. The spikes embedded into the knuckles of his gloves are easier to use, anyways, and less likely to get lost (Steven’s batons are laughably endearing for someone like him). There’s probably way more random bullshit in all of their suits Jake could probably pull from, but he needs to get this done quick. No time for creativity.

Not that he isn’t going to enjoy it, though. These guys really are assholes.

It’s a straggling group of five that round the corner to meet him; one, wisely, immediately shouts, “Fuck no!” and runs right back the way she came. Two of the others hesitantly raise their guns, and the other two come running towards him.

“Ah, tout de suite ils ont trop peur de nous faire chier.” Frenchie mutters behind him, and Jake would spare a glance to make sure he isn’t doing something stupid, but then the first runner reaches him and Jake has to catch the punch before he’s smacked in the face again.

He doesn’t get the chance to twist the goon’s hand until it breaks, since a kick to his knee makes his leg buckle, but he answers it by launching himself at their middle and slamming both of them into the wall. This is stuff Jake is good at; the mindless things. He doesn’t even have to think — just throw himself into it, just hit and kick and bite. Instinct has him swinging his head up to head butt the goon in the chin, the rattle of his skull making the smell of blood all so stronger.

Up until the second runner comes up behind him, grabs his cape, pulls him away.

The strength of the suit means he doesn’t go far and is able to tear himself from the lackey’s grip easy enough. A gunshot pings overhead, though, and distantly — Frenchie yelps. Jake turns and sees he’s taken cover behind an alcove of the wall, but one of the gunners has noticed him and is trying to get close, and Jake grits his teeth and his ribs start to bruise. He’s good at this, too. The protecting thing. Even if Steven and Marc aren’t here, he can’t let Frenchie get caught up in this, because Marc will be mad, and Steven will be upset, and the two of them feed into each other in their angry-sad cycle like a broken washing machine.

Jake’s not sure where he falls into the cycle, though. Maybe he is the part that spins? Or maybe, like Steven tells him, ever since they escaped the Duat — he’s caught in the spinning, too. Or something like that. He’s gotten hit in the face a lot tonight. He’s probably a bit scrambled still.

Even if he doesn’t like the damned things, the darts are good enough ranged weapons, and throwing three at the two gunners knocks them out easily (first hits a stomach; second hits a wrist, the third the knee; both people eliminated). Frenchie yelps and jumps back from the falling, groaning body even though it was nowhere close to falling on top of him. See, this is why he’s so aggravating all the time, Jake always has to be the one to —

He doesn’t get the chance to turn back around before the guy that grabbed his cape earlier now latches onto his hood and pulls — Jake grunts, feeling the tug through the roots of his hair, because the hood does not come off easy like that and his whole body ends up getting dragged with it. Doubled over, back exposed, he tries to twist out of the hold — “Fuck you, fuck off — let me — ¡suéltame!”

“Marc!” Frenchie yells, something torn in his voice.

Whoever’s still holding onto his hood keeps a tight enough grip that someone else (probably the big guy, his brain catches up a millisecond later) can stomp his back and send him to the ground. Small miracle that his spine doesn’t crack in half, but Jake’s never been one to account miracles to gods, as miracles aren’t real and if they were, the gods he knows wouldn’t ever grant them.

It’s himself, then, to which Jake accounts the fact that he’s not a rag doll on the ground right now. Mostly because the stomp made the first goon let go of his hood, and they must think he would take longer than he does to recover, because his chin has just slammed into the ground (blood, he tastes, on the back of his teeth; dried underneath his fingernails). So he snaps out, grabs the hood-guy by the ankle, and pull his feet out from underneath.

Jake did not plan this well, though. The guy falls on top of him.

Jake is really not enjoying how this night ended up turning out.

It knocks the air from his lungs and the plating of the suit digs into his chest. The knees that hits his spine also doesn’t help his earlier injury and Jake, for a moment, thinks that he’s seeing goldfish in the blood spatters across the floor. Still, the second guy does his job for him of getting the other one off, since just as sudden as the crash occurred, the weight is gone. The first guy is tossed to the side by the second who got tired of waiting their turn.

Jake twists around enough so that his back isn’t exposed and gasps in one ragged, burning breath before he’s pinned down once again.

This time, the hands go around his throat. He can see his attacker; they’ve got a fucking baseball cap on, of all things, cloaking their face in shadow. The same shadows that now spot his vision from the lack of air — Jake’s drowned before, they’ve all drowned before, he knows what it’s like to not be able to breathe — and digging the spikes across his gloves into the guy’s face doesn’t work since they don’t even notice the long cuts blooming over their cheeks.

This was suppose to be a smuggling ring. Jake isn’t sure when they suddenly got good at their work — they did capture Frenchie, after all — but Jake’s also good at what he does so even as the goldfish swim in his eyes he reaches into his cape to pull out something, anything, Khonshu better give him something because —

Blood splatters across his face.

His eyes widen as the guy on top of him suddenly cries out, clutching at their shoulder and falling over to the side. Not one to let an opportunity go to waste, Jake sits up and swings his leg around to dig his heel into the bleeding wound. They scream again, but the pain is very quickly too much — coupled with the cut across his face from Jake’s earlier hits — and they pass out a moment later.

Figures.

When Jake gets his feet underneath him and crouches, in position to spring forward again, he spares a glance over to where the shot came from. Frenchie is peaking out from behind the wall with a smoking gun in his hand; the unconscious body a few feet away from him, decidedly gun-less.

“Lucky shot.” Jake grunts.

Frenchie grins at him, all teeth. Why did Marc like this guy again? He’s way too smug.

He’s just proud, that’s all. Says his head, but it isn’t him, of course.

Marc sneaks back into the head with all the stealth of a baby bird learning how to fly, fumbling slightly, pressing up against odd parts of his skull and his scalp, still trying to get his bearings. Jake gets it. Being forced away from the front and trying to come back, sometimes, feels like pushing against a tidal wave when you never passed your swim class. Still, it’s a pressure that’s familiar and comforting, and Jake feels Marc’s surprise at their current situation echo against his teeth.

Jake doesn’t have the chance to revel in the feeling his alter being back since another pair of goons comes around the corner. They’re smart enough to notice the dead bodies, but not enough to realize the warning they bring — because they both raise their guns and come running at him with a cry of rage.

“There you are!” He laughs, as the first one makes it close enough to him to get hit. He sweeps out with one leg, and the crash of the goon slamming against the floor coincides with Marc’s loud groan.

Sorry, things were too blurry for me to stay here. Another gunshot makes him duck and Jake feels the whizz of it against the top hood. Oh, shit!

Or it could have been the feeling of Steven, who comes near half-a-second after Marc, and Jake can remember the sight of the two of them holding hands in the Duat; now, just entwined close together in his head. Blimey, that was close.

“Glad to see you too.” Jake brings the cape up to block the next gunshot, and when the goon gets closer to try shot point-black, he flings his arm out and the guy cries out when he’s smacked in the face by the fabric. It leaves him open for a punch to the face that crumbles him.

Frenchie, from behind him — how close has he been fucking listening?! — asks aloud, “You’re glad to see them?”

He whips around and sees that Frenchie has, once again, left his post to take position a few feet behind him. The knocked-down gang members groan on the ground around them, but there’s a lot of shouting coming from around the corners, and Jake knows they don’t have much time.

Either they keep fighting, or they run. Jake’s not adverse to the first option — but Frenchie doesn’t seem like he’ll last much longer. He’s wobbling, his grip shaking around his stolen gun, one eye swollen shut and laughing at nothing. It’s just spelling disaster. If he isn’t going to stay in fucking place, then yeah, fighting isn’t the best course of action here.

Why were all of the people in his life so aggravating? If they just stayed where Jake put them, then this wouldn’t be a problem.

I’ll deal with this. Says Marc, sounding only slightly annoyed by the insult. It’s fine, Jake. Don’t worry.

That’s fine by Jake, because Frenchie is still looking at him, waiting for an anwser. When the suit slips into Marc’s familiar bandages he does blink in surprise, and even readjusts his grip on his gun so it doesn’t slip from his hands. Marc, for the record, does immediately step closer to him in case his leg finally gives out on him from the shock. Even if his lungs feel like they’re constricting themselves.

Jake’s still nearby, at least, and so is Steven. Hovering just on the edge of his eyes to take over at a moment’s notice. The rest of the gang is likely coming to beat their asses, so he needs to get Frenchie to calm down, then get them out of here.

“What are you talking about?” Marc says. “That’s not what I said.”

It doesn’t sound believable even to his own ears. Steven does the equivalent of a facepalm when you currently don’t have control of the face or the palm. Jake, even less helpful, laughs at him.

“What did you say, then?” Frenchie squints at him. His words are so slurred Marc wouldn’t be at odds to think he was drunk; or, of course, very banged up in the head.

Marc really needs to get him out of here. “You are very concussed.”

“Yes, that is what happened when people give you a concussion.” Frenchie dead-pans.

Okay, at least he’s still aware. Marc moves close, so he can lean around to survey the state of Frenchie’s face. Most of the cuts have stopped bleeding, but there’s about a dozen new ones that hadn’t been there when he found him that chair — Jake reminds him quickly with, right, the explosion— and his pupils are blown as wide as crumb-filled plates.

“What did they do you?” Marc asks through sharp, gritted teeth. Frenchie, casual as a clam, shrugs.

“Dunno. Just hit me a lot.” He frowns. “They tried to do some weird things with those relics of theirs, but they couldn’t get it to work. Yes! They were very mad. Them and their snakes. It was hilarious.”

He laughs at his own not-joke, and Marc is once again at a loss. But at that same moment, the gang finally get their shit together and a group of four round the corner. The two in front have raised their guns by the time Marc has turned his head, so he shouts, “Get down!” and pushes Frenchie down the hall.

His feet lead him towards where he hopes the exit is — as does Jake, who exclaims, Right! Right! That door! That one!

Marc shoves Frenchie in front of him when there’s more gunfire, but all the shots go wide and bury themselves in the wall. Frenchie yelps and covers his head with his hands, but Marc makes sure to bring his cape up to keep him covered as they run in tandem. The pounding of feet matches the pounding of his heart and the pounding of his head, as Jake pushes him in the right direction and Steven flits around, pressing in and out of awareness to see what’s going on before flitting away again.

If he’s actually concussed, this is not helping. Steven comments, before humming in thought, and Marc’s tongue presses to the top of his mouth without him realizing. Why am I tasting jam right now?

“Because we are also concussed.” Says Marc. “Here, over here —“

He grabs Frenchie to drag him down the hallway, though upon opening the next door they come across he has to let go of him to block the gunshot aimed directly to his face. An elbow to the gal’s nose causes her to careen backwards, blood gushing like a fountain, and when Marc ducks his head intending to barrel her through — he doesn’t get the chance, since Frenchie ducks around him to pistol whip her across the temple.

She hits the wall and crumbles. Frenchie, panting, stares at her unconscious form before Marc grabs his arm to drag him after him.

The next run through the room is a struggle, since Frenchie keeps tripping every other step and is holding onto the wall for dear life. When he does actually fall to his knees and bangs his head against the wall, Marc gives up any semblance of letting him have independence, and just grabs him around the waist to drag him out of the room down the next hall — this one, at least, he mostly recognizes.

This development is not taken well. “Va chier, lâche-moi!“

“Jesus Christ, come on.” Marc hisses, setting him down to avoid the elbow aimed at his nose. “Not the time for this.”

Luckily, the door behind them is easily jammed shut with a crescent-dart buried into the woodwork (he isn’t worried about leaving it behind — it disappears the moment the suit retracts, and also burns anyone that tries to use it who isn’t him-adjacent). Frenchie at least accepts Marc grabbing him by the shirt sleeve to pull him along aside him down the corridor.

Left, left — Marc, take a left! Jake shouts, over top of whatever Steven is mummering about. No, your other left! Have you never seen a compass before? Just move over.

Marc is going to kill him one day, he swears. Still, arguing in his own head isn’t helping the headache still ringing about since the explosion, so he lets Jake slip in to take them down the other path. Behind them, the crescent-dart clatters against the floor, and loud voices shout about, corner them! and where the hell are they going?!

“Oh, this way now.” Frenchie comments when Jake makes a sharp turn, from the opposite direction Marc had been going. Technically, it isn’t the best way out, but Jake does know the best route to confuse the assholes behind them. Plus, they got in this way, so they can get out this way.

“We got in this way.” He explains to Frenchie, tightening his grip so he doesn’t try to slip free at hearing a different accent again. “Come on!”

Half the group following them go down the other path, and half go down the same one as them. They aren’t quick enough around the next corner to avoid detection since someone shouts about how they’re down here, over here, come over here! but they’ve reached their entry point room again, which means they’re almost home free.

Jake pushes Frenchie inside then slams the door behind them. Another crescent-dart keeps it locked tight; and when he turns around again, Marc is there to push Frenchie towards the window.

“Come on, come on.” He mumbles, against a Frenchie who seems determined to make this more difficult than it has to be.

“Through the window?!” Frenchie exclaims. “Not all of us have fancy flying suits, Marc!”

“It’s fine, it’s just like skydiving.”

It’s not at all like skydiving. Says Steven and Jake.

They’re right, it is not at all like skydiving, but Frenchie doesn’t complain. More likely because he reaches the window and has to grip the sill to catch his breath before he doubles over, and not because he actually agrees, but Marc will take what he can.

The door starts to shudder with the sound of angry, violent voices. Marc grimaces.

“Come on, hold onto me.” He instructs. The nearest rooftop is at least lower down than the window height, so it should be an easy jump, even when carrying an injured person. Hopefully none of this earlier injuries were exacerbated by the explosion because that would just be the cherry on top to this shitty, shitty night.

Frenchie goes to loop his arm around Marc’s shoulder again when Steven suddenly exclaims, Wait, Marc, grab the relic!

It comes with a push at his legs to go grab the thing, and it startles him so badly Marc nearly drops Frenchie against the window. “What, why?”

“What did you say?!” Frenchie says, to be ignored.

Marc’s head turns towards the table, and the snake statue he saw earlier. It hasn’t moved since the last time he saw it but the cobalt gemstone of the eyes suddenly seem a lot more menacing. The stone fangs likely sharp enough to take out his flesh. Right, he had forgot that was up here. He wasn’t suppose to worry about it, Steven said it was safe. Why the hell was that even up here again?

That’s the one Frenchie said they tried to use on him! Steven explains. Grab it!

Marc doesn’t have time to argue, so he does as asked, and carefully sets Frenchie back on the window sill. There’s an ugly scratch of his fingernails against the stone. He darts over to the table, grabs the relic, and tucks it into his cloak.

Just as he turns to head back to the window, though, the door bursts open.

“Shit!” Says Frenchie, and Marc leaps forward with a crescent-dart in hand before he can think.

It’s a group of three that run into the room — not great, but doable. One goes down from the dart he tosses, embedding itself in the person’s shoulder and sending them running right back out of the room, clutching at the wound. The second gets close enough that Marc can punch them in the throat then half-a-second later kick their knee in, bone and sinew snapping and colliding.

Marc doesn’t want to kill them. He’s never really wanted to kill anybody; he stayed as Moon Knight because he wants to help people, and most of the time that involves hurting people. It’s not something he actively wishes for anymore. Not since Harrow, and Steven, and Jake. Steven still gets upset by it sometimes. He still asks them not to use violence until absolutely necessary.

He gets around this, at least, by trying to take out — not kill. But if Marc never checks the bodies, then he doesn’t have to hold the weight on his conscious. Besides, most of the time, he’s never the one that ends up crushed by it.   

The third lackey that came in hung back from the other two, and as the second person lays silent on the ground, Marc looks up to see why. Frankly, it’s obvious; the third one is the cavalry, because all they’ve been armed with is a small pistol and a handheld taser, but they’re taller than Marc by a good foot of height, and have likely never skipped a day at the gym since they were ten-years-old. Maybe working for a smuggling ring allows you a good expertise regiment.

Behind him, Frenchie hisses something that sounds like, “Marc, please, don’t be stupid.” Jake is tense and there’s a humming in the back of his mind, likely from Steven, tucked away somewhere where he doesn’t have to watch this or feel the bruises blooming across their skin. Marc, for now, just puts his fists up.

The lackey doesn’t even have the decency to look excited when they come forward. Instead, they go first for the taser at their hip. Marc steps forward to meet them halfway and is greeted with a electrifying hit to his ribcage. Of course it doesn’t really work through the suit (the only weak spot, Marc has found, is the back of the neck if a person manages to land a hit underneath the hood), but it does sting like he walked into a thorn bush. Not enough to even make him flinch back, or stop him from being able to grab a crescent-dart to stab the guy in the shoulder.

The dart lands. It buries itself in the guy’s shoulder — they swear and take a step back enough to pull the weapon out, dropping the taser as well in the process, which had been Marc’s main goal, so good for him. The lackey does try to throw the dart back at him, but it bounces harmlessly off his suit. Marc manages to grab it before it can hit the ground, rises up, arm back and dart in-hand, ready to stab this guy’s fucking eyes out —

A punch square to the bridge of his nose has Marc careening backwards; by the time he’s managed to get his arms up to block the following gunshot as the guy grabs the pistol from his belt to shoot at him, he hasn’t even realized that he’s slipped back and Jake is the one snarling. He launches forward, grabs the gun by the barrel and manages to rip it from the lackey’s hand, but he can’t do much with it since one click to the trigger reveals the chamber is empty. Fuck these stupid assholes, and their tiny stupid guns.

There’s blood dripping down his face underneath the mask and his vision blurs around the edges; blinking makes it worse, smears the blood or the sweat or whatever it is across his pupils like blinding rays of moonlight.

Jake licks his teeth and the bitter makes him focus.

He tosses the gun out of his hand but his opponent clearly doesn’t see the need for it either, since they swing a punch right at Jake’s face. He blocks the hit with his forearm; but that leaves his chin open to get slammed upright by their other fist, knocking his teeth together so hard he’s surprised they don’t fall out of his jaw. There’s blood in his mouth when he pushes the arm he’s blocking away and dives for the opponent’s face, bitter and bile, which isn’t helped when he grabs them by the shoulders to smash their foreheads together.

His assailant steps back. Stumbling, stuttering, spitting out curses — or maybe that’s Frenchie, behind him, yelling something or other and shouting, shouting, shouting.

It’s the third major hit they’ve taken to the face so far and he can feel it; the way his vision doubles then triples, and his feet drag like he’s encased in concrete. In the few seconds between the hit and the ringing in his ears subsiding, the lackey grabs him by the neck and slam his head into the corner of the table.

Stars and goldfish explode in his eyes. There’s a sudden pull at his back, someone’s gotten a handful of his cape and is trying to pull him, and there goes the doubling, the tripling, the doubling again —

“Dear Lord.” Steven gasps, staggering to his feet. “What in the —“

There’s a haze between his eyes that always comes with sudden switching, and he has to hold onto the edge of the surface beneath him — a table? — while trying to get his feet underneath of him. His hands are buzzing; his face is slick with blood underneath the mask; and wherever Marc and Jake are, it certainly isn’t here.

Hands around his throat from behind have his heart leap from his chest. “Oi, ger’off —!”

Steven’s not great at fighting, but the body certainly knows what to do, and throwing an elbow out behind him manages to dislodge the attacker. He twists around before they’re on him again and bloody hell — how is this bloke still standing? Their nose looks broken ten ways to Sunday and the amount of blood on their face looks like it belongs on the cover of the cheap horror novels the bookshop just got in for the Halloween season.

Steven isn’t sure why his brain decides to focus on that over the fact that the attacker is lunging for his throat again, but some wires must get crossed, because all he manages to say is, “Hey, stop it! Back off!” and grab them by the wrists they he try strangling him again.

They were clearly not anticipating that and Steven just needs them off, off, away from him away from them off off off so he pushes them as hard as he can. The assailant stumbles back, blinking at him confused with blood dripping over their eyes, and — and — and — he wishes Marc or Jake were here, but they aren’t, because this guy definitely did something, putting up a fight, and —

“Fuck, Marc! Hold on!”

There’s Frenchie, by the window, yelling for him. Or at him, and not at him, at Marc, for Marc, who’s gone, and now all that’s left is him.

The baton come clean from his jacket pocket, so smooth Steven hasn’t even realized he’s gotten them in his hands until he holds one between both hands and hits the attacker across the face as hard as he can. There’s a nauseating crunch of bone snapping in two. Metal reverberating from the blow. They cry out in pain, flings themself back clutching at the spot, but the second strike to the side of their chin finally knocks them to the ground.

They don’t get back up again, and all that’s left is him, standing there, breathing.

“Marc!” Shouts Frenchie. “Fuck, we need to — we need to go!”

Steven startles back into himself. He hadn’t even realized he had been drifting away until the shouting, and he refuses to look at his baton when he tucks it back into his jacket. When he turns, Frenchie is staring at him wide-eyed, clutching the window sill like his life depends on it.

It probably does. Well, it depends him. Steven isn’t still quite sure how he’s the one that ended up here — but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s dealing with freaked-out people. He deals with Marc and Jake and Khonshu all the time, and two out of three of them literally live in his head, and the other one is out in the ether world. He can deal with this just fine.

He doesn’t look at the body at the ground. He just thinks about the desert, and Cario, and Harrow’s followers — they’re not close to the same. But they still wanted to hurt them, above all else. You can’t reason with those types of people. That’s what Steven tells himself.

“Right, right, yeah. Sorry.” Steven rushes over to Frenchie, having to step around another (hopefully) unconscious body that has him making a disgusted noise from the nasty angle of their legs, and he reaches the other man to take him by the shoulder. “Hey, are you alright, mate? Did you get hit?”

Frenchie stares at him, then finally shakes his head after a long three seconds. Steven just nods back at him.

“Okay — okay.” What had Marc been planning on doing? Right, getting out through the window, because all of his ideas were completely bonkers. “Alright, let’s get up here.”

The night seems to be taking its toll on Frenchie, since he lets Steven manoeuvre him up onto the windowsill so they can crouch on the exterior ledge, ready for the leap. It’s probably more awkward than it would have been if the other two were doing it, but Steven won’t judge himself too harshly, since he doesn’t do the physical parts of missions that often. He barely uses the suit at all, to be honest.

Sometimes, if Marc saves someone from a mugging or finds someone that’s lost who is particularly freaked out, he asks Steven to take over. Just to calm them down or make conversation while walking them home. Steven doesn’t mind that. It’s easy to keep someone calm during a situation like that when Steven knows exactly what it’s like.

To be scared. To be confused. To be completely, totally, out of your depth and out of your mind.

So there, crouched on the edge of the windowsill with Marc’s injured friend leaning against his shoulder, Steven wills himself not to falter. He takes a deep breath as more voices shout from behind them, reinforcements drawing near. Steven, at least, has his own in Marc and Jake, saying something he can’t quite parse out, scattered as they both are right now in the head.

Frenchie, against his shoulder, finally lifts his head to squint at him. “Wait, aren’t you gonna go back to that other suit —“

A gunshot pings Steven’s back like a mosquito bite and sends them careening forward before he catches himself with his free arm on the window frame. He’s out of time.

“Bullocks.” Steven swears. “Hold on!”

Then they jump.

There’s a moment of bliss while they’re in the air, where his stomach swoops and the adrenaline churns in his veins. But then the body’s instinct kick in. He grabs Frenchie with both arms, twists around mid-air so that when they land on the next rooftop, Steven lands on his back to take the brunt of it while Frenchie lands on top, yelping in either surprise or pain or both when they finally land and the air stills.

He doesn’t nail it, though. They still both go rolling across the shingles for a few dizzying seconds before hitting a brick wall of a chimney and stopping. Frenchie ends up laying between Steven and the wall; which is good, because before he can think more about any of that he grabs Frenchie, and drags him around to the other side of the chimney to cover their backs. He hates getting shot. It really, really sucks.

Everything happens so quickly Steven doesn’t even notice how hard his heart is pumping. It’s going to burst out of his chest at this rate, or at least bruise his ribs, and his heaving lungs are not helping the situation. He closes his eyes and tries to count sheep but that never works, so instead he stares up at the sky and notices that the rain has finally stopped.

Ten seconds pass. Beside him, Frenchie shifts and winces, pressing a hand against his side. Before Steven can worry about that, however, the man turns to him and blinks up-and-down.

“Okay, what the hell is this suppose to be?” He asks. He gestures at him; likely not just to the suit itself, but probably the accent, and the language, and the sudden lack of cursing at him.

Marc and Jake are still both recovering from the sudden switch then very sudden crash to the next rooftop, so at the moment, it’s still only Steven aware enough to keep control. Honestly, things are very hectic right now. How much did Frenchie figure out about Jake earlier? And what exactly did Marc say before about the suits — trying to grasp for the memories is like moonlight slipping through his fingers.

So, there’s no reason for him not to be polite right now.

“Oh!” Steven rolls over enough to offer a hand out to shake. “I’m Steven.”

Frenchie’s gaze darts between his hand, his masked face, then into nowhere in particular. “Okay, sure. Why not.”

A gunshot ricochets off the chimney they’re behind, and Steven yelps. Frenchie also flinches but he seems to be used to these sorts of things, since he just grabs Steven by the lapels to yank him up into a sitting position. Another few gunshots have them both pressing up against the back of the chimney, with Frenchie keeping one hand over Steven’s chest and Steven trying very hard not to throw up in his mask. This isn’t his first rodeo but dear lord, it never seems to get easier.

The gunshots stop and there’s a lot of loud, angry voices Steven can’t make out and isn’t sure he wants to. Frenchie gasps out a long breath, though his hand doesn’t relax at all.

“Do you have an extraction plan for this? Because I’m not in the right state to be flying us out of here anytime soon.” He says as if this is a causal thing to say to someone. Of course, all of Marc’s friends know terms like extraction plan.

“Flying?” Steven asks, but then he shakes his head since there are most pressing matters at hand. “No, no. We just walked here.”

Frenchie’s one good eye looks like a bug with how much it widens. “You walked here?”

“My flat’s close by.” At least Steven’s pretty sure it is, he hadn’t been paying that much attention on the way over. And to be fair, Marc didn’t so much as walk as he did perform parkour off of rooftops. “Um. Think you’re good enough to make it?”

Frenchie looks completely baffled, which, hey, Steven gets it. “Yes?”

Obviously with the gang still occasionally shooting at them and likely on their way to this building right now, they can’t really just stroll out of here. He also isn’t sure how well they could carry Frenchie across the rooftops when he’s still favouring his one side and breathing very hard. Even with Marc’s skills, that should definitely be a last option.

Steven.

He flinches. Frenchie must feel it, but luckily a blast of gunfire hides the fact that Khonshu just appeared on the chimney above them. When Steven cranes his neck up, what he’s met with his empty eye sockets. It makes his breath hitch. Sometimes, he worries that if Khonshu ever gets really mad at him, he’ll end up just falling into the void of his skull forever and ever.

But right now, Khonshu just inclines his beak towards the other side of the roof, where the moonlight reflects off the rusted shingles like opal stones. If you stay within the sight of the moon, you will be able to stay hidden. Keep your focus to it alone, and it will come to you.

Steven blinks and looks to the moonlit area. On second view, it definitely looks a bit unnatural. Since the clouds have cleared enough that he can clearly see the moon, the bruises Marc took to the face are already starting to mellow, and it shines in a way that makes it seem full-spooned even when covered half in shadow.

The thing is, Steven still doesn’t fully trust Khonshu — but he doesn’t distrust him, either. He knows Khonshu doesn’t want Marc dead or too incapacitated to not complete missions, and he knows that Steven and Jake have to be around for that to happen, so he’ll put up with them. But he also values his own goals above anything else and if their well-being comes at the expense of that, then so be it.

Maybe after everything with Harrow, he thinks of Marc less as a tool and more of a subject, but it’s still not a great designation. But neither are any worth to Khonshu if they’re broken. So, in some cases, he can be helpful.

Steven looks at the moon again. He knows, too, that he’s the most studious out of all of them. So he can do this.

“Okay.” Steven sighs. Very carefully he grabs Frenchie’s wrist to pull his hand off his chest, though he keeps a loose grip on it, since he doesn’t want him to get lost. “Hey — just, um, follow my lead. And if you start to feel weird, let me know.”

Frenchie frowns at him, but does end up nodding in agreement, though his head drops a bit too much for comfort. “Okay.”

When he looks back up, Khonshu has disappeared, so he feels steady enough to get to his feet while pulling Frenchie up with him. The jump through the window must have hit him harder than Steven realized, since he stumbles slightly and would have toppled over if Steven wasn’t there to keep ahold of him. He winces when Steven pulls at his arm to help him right himself, and when Steven ends up looping it around his shoulders to support him better, he doesn’t even complain.

Steven’s glad that his mask hides his frown.

Whoever this man is to Marc, Steven isn’t going to let him die here. He’ll get him back to the flat, deal with whatever injuries are weighing him down, and the details can come after. All the messy, messy details.

“I’m really sorry you have to deal with this, by the way.” Steven breathes out, since really, this does feel like something he should apologize for if Marc isn’t going to. “I’m not sure how much you know, or how close —“

Frenchie’s bitter bark of laughter cuts him off. “Marc, whatever’s going on, we can talk about it later. Let’s just get out of here first.”

It’s an easy mistake, but one Steven isn’t used to — the people who know them as Steven don’t know them as Marc, or know them as Jake, and they do try to keep it that way for simplicity sake. Layla doesn’t really slip up, but it does help that she really only ever hears them over the phone, and it’s easy to know through the dialects .

So Steven can’t help but blurt out, just to ease the sudden nausea churning in his gut, “Steven.”

Frenchie lifts his head from where it had started to droop forward, destined for the ground if Steven wasn’t there to hold onto him. “What?”

“I told you.” He clarifies. “I’m Steven.”

These things are complicated, and knowing Marc, whatever relationship he had with Frenchie is already screwed. But if Frenchie cares enough not to abandon them in a warehouse after they were knocked out by an explosion; and yell at Marc for getting into fights and refuse to leave him behind; then he’s definitely already noticed everything that’s wrong right now.

And, really, Steven doesn’t like pretending to be something he isn’t. He has his own name for a reason. He prefers when people use it correctly.

“Oh.” Frenchie squints but he seems, at least as far as Steven can tell when he still has a black eye, to be actually apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I don’t blame you.” Steven hopes that he can tell that he’s smiling. “Come on.”

With Frenchie leaning against him and the bullet spray paused for a quick moment, Steven closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Jake and Marc, somewhere fuzzy but somewhere close, press against the back of his eyes when he opens them and is greeted with the sight of the moon snarling above them.

Then, with steady feet, they walk into the moonlight.