catch-all.

[vestments]

Who: marc spector + VARIOUS
Where: AROUND
When: june(ish)
What: catch-all, tdm overflow

Warnings: general moon knight content warnings apply, specifics tba

Comments

[tirejacked]

[Honestly one could make the same argument about Alfred. (Ex-of her majesties's special forces and all.)  Maybe they’re actually in the right line of work after all.  Why is there such a badass-to-housekeeper pipeline, we just don’t know.

Predictibly, Priest earns an equally deadpan look. Sure you are. Even in Gotham City, he's never seen a priest throw a punch like that.

Oddly, calling back to the woman they'd sent off downstairs seems to kick another little spike of defensiveness into his posture. His chin raises, hands gone still on his newly-looted pistol.  Like Talia making a point of calling him out on his extracurriculars.  Irrational on some level, of course, because it's not like he's been all that subtle. Marc isn't particularly incorrect in the assumptions he's probably making.  But it itches at his nerves that the guy thinks to make them. (He's probably not exactly correct, either.)

He thumbs the safety back onto the gun and tucks it away under his jacket. Dry—]  

Spooky. 

[Jury's out on whether Spector (Spectre?) is a name or a pseudonym, and he's got the right background to wonder. Could be either, really, though to be honest, it's all kind of the same to him right now. There's a moment where he's clearly weighing if he wants to meet him halfway.]

Jason. [He's kind of deliberately between monikers, at the moment. And between jobs, since he doesn't have anything quite as interesting to offer as Priest. Instead—] I'm just passing through.

[New in town, y'know?]

[vestments]

( neither nedda nor samuels ever managed to be quite on alfred's level, but there's only so much time one can spend in the company of two former mercenaries and not pick up a thing or two. jean-paul, former pilot, former engineer, former friend, might have always been more approachable than marc, might have always been better with people, but that'd never made him any less dangerous.

and though he knows jason doesn't know enough to make an informed decision either way, it's funny how that bothers him, sits uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. at one point he'd have given almost anything to lose the reputation, to have had the chance to just be ...not moon knight. (he didn't want to be marc spector either, but—.)

perhaps he doesn't scream vigilante, but jason's incredulity around the idea of PRIEST is fair enough. it's a title marc's given himself, entirely self-described — it's not as if he worships khonshu, not as if he leads service in his name, not unless anyone decides to classify the violence marc does as a fist of khonshu 'service'.

(khonshu does, of course.)

and in kind, it's the reason why marc doesn't assume jason's a vigilante by trade, either. someone who's grown up around violence, certainly, someone who speaks that, who uses it as a lingua franca, but there are more people with that than those who run around beating up bad guys in the dark. what he does offer is an mm at the 'spooky', a hint of satisfaction in his tone. a remark about being a spectre of the moon, about being a ghost sits unsaid, and he lifts a shoulder in a vague approximation of a shrug.

where jason tenses, where he seems to hold an internal debate over what he makes of marc's response, marc is controlled, feigned ease. he's not comfortable, wouldn't know the definition of the word, and it's easy to note he's watchful, but there's less coil there. )

Nominative determinism. ( as dry as jason's retort, enough that it says it really, really isn't. ) From what I've gathered, most of us are passing through.

( and passing through isn't the same thing as indifference, is it? )

[tirejacked]

[There’s a reason—besides just keeping his identity under wraps—that he’d opted for a full face mask for his planned reappearance in Gotham’s criminal underworld.  For one, it probably wouldn’t strike a ton of fear into the mafiasos if the new threat in the scene couldn’t even buy booze yet in the more reputable parts of the city. But also—he’s just never been all that good at clamping down on what he’s feeling. He has to put intention into obfuscating it, when someone knows how to look. It writes itself into everything he does.  

So, yeah. He’s never been all that good at indifference, either.  (Even when he’s tried to convince himself otherwise.)]

That’s the story. 

[When you put it that way. Of course, “passing through” implies a way out.  The locals have been a lot less solid about that, so far. Some of them say they've been here for generations. 

He toes the door back open to get a better look at Marc’s handiwork with mook number three, still slumped abandoned and unconscious inside.

“Normative determinism,” huh. Name, then. Probably. The carefully easy posture Marc holds up doesn’t do much to ease off his wariness, though that’s pretty par for the course. Jason spent the last several months hopping around the world with some very deadly people. From the League of Assassins and miscellaneous merc groups to explosives experts to hand-to-hand masters. So on, so forth.  So, y’know. He likes to think he has a feel for the type.  (That is: dangerous, by trade. Whatever shape that trade might take. Makes you wonder. Shame about the bloodstains if the suit is supposed to be some kind of cover. What with him being a priest and all.)]

Heard much about that during your sermons?

[vestments]

( marc's found that you say priest and people have a very specific idea of what that entails, what that looks like. he knows he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on, knows it's quite a particular image he's invoking when he uses the term, but that doesn't stop it from being useful.

he watches as jason re-opens the door to the room, and rather than look back in at the sight of the man slumped against the wall, he watches jason instead. watches the way his expression does or doesn't change, watches to see where his attention falls. there's very little mistaking the type of man marc is, that's the point. mr. knight might be the more comforting persona, moon knight might be the one that's brutal, but marc spector had come first. there was no moon knight without him — the lines between moon knight and marc have always been thin, and for as much as steven-marc-jake might have tried their best to emphasise the differences—

—they weren't really there. moon knight was who marc had wanted to be, as efficient and as brutal, but without the lingering emotions.

and so he offers a hum of acknowledgement, his weight shifting as he glances first one way down the hall, then the other. it's quiet. not the sort that implies something worse is to come, but the sort that settles after unpleasantries. the sort that's still but unwelcome. uncertain in its own way. )

I just got here, ( he answers bluntly, roughly, gaze returning to jason. it's true enough — a week or two is hardly enough time to gain the measure of a place. barely a breath of a pause and he jerks his head towards the room, before adding, ) How much room for talking d'you think my sermons leave?

[tirejacked]

[He doesn't quite turn his back, this time. But he gives the interior of the room a quick once over. A fucking mess, after getting ransacked, but doesn't look like there's been much left behind but the mook. Even from a distance, he can see that the guy slumped against the wall is very still, out cold...but alive.

He adjusts his evaluation of Marc by a hair. Knocks his knuckles against the doorframe, like an answer.]

I think you get your point across.

[Clearly. A bit of well-applied pressure is worth a thousand words.

He lets the door swing loose again. Steps back.]

What next for you? Going door to door?

[It's what he'd been doing when he found him, after all.]

[vestments]

You know what they say, ( he murmurs, a ghost of humour evident in his tone, in his expression as his attention flits to the room and then back to jason. this time, he resists the urge to adjust his tie, although he does raise a hand, gestures tightly with his fingers, a half-wave as if to say 'well.' ) A picture paints a thousand words.

( it's grim in intonation, but jason might intuit that's the point. marc may be serious, but there's a solid portion of it that's entirely for show, that's entirely him leaning into his own image just to see what the reaction is. it works better at home, of course, when moon knight is a known entity, but it's not as if he's opposed to building moon knight from the ground up. he's done it before, will probably have to do it again, if he's honest with himself.

but as for the question—. his gaze swings left, then right. a beat and, dryly, he remarks, ) Think the neighbours are out. ( probably not the case — they more than likely heard the ruckus and, for better or worse, chose to keep themselves to themselves.

marc doesn't watch to see what jason makes of that, whether he has any intention on lingering. instead, he reaches into a pocket, comes up short, reaches into another pocket and— ah. a chalk marker. white. he'd prefer spray paint, but beggars can't be choosers and it's a touch more awkward to carry about on the fly, and so— )

But it's a nice night.

( he adds as draws a crescent moon on the door (apologies to the woman—). it's not as crude as one might expect — on the contrary, it's drawn with practised ease, like this is something he does a lot. there is, however, a momentary pause before he starts to fill it in, the kind that's usually signified by an inhale of breath or a sigh, even if neither are visible or audible but for the way that marc presses his lips into a thin line and his brows pull together.

(tedious.) )

—Good time to get to know people.

( 'yes'. )