( in panorama, marc's mannequin busies itself in much the same way that marc tends to busy himself, and unfortunately for marc, his tendency to cover himself from head-to-toe and to keep conversation to a minimum means it's difficult to discern whether what's being dealt with is him or whether it's something wearing him as a disguise.

the mask doesn't help, either. it's crude, like it's perhaps been made out of bedsheets or a pillowcase, with a red crescent moon drawn on the forehead in — blood? maybe, or maybe it's just red pen — either way, don't worry about it too much.

while marc's attentions have been focused predominantly on thugs, on low-grade, low-rent criminals and the odd request for help posted on the forum, the mannequin is much less discerning. it can be found inciting — or is that inviting? — a fight in an alley, or breaking and entering into motel rooms — yours? a neighbour's? — to steal cash and valuables and weapons alike, and where marc has left spray-painted crescent moons here and there, infrequent but noticeable, the mannequin leaves them each and every time, a little from me to you, moon knight.

he — it — errs towards brutal, not seeming to care how he leaves those he has altercations with — or, even, what it might do to him. there are those that get left tied up, fairly minimal as far as things go, but then there are those that get branded — on occasion it's a crescent moon cut into clothing, sometimes it's more permanent. in any case and whichever circumstance, if he's interrupted, he'll pause, uncanny plastic eyes seeming to glow in the dark and he'll offer a low, ) Nice night.

( marc, meanwhile, takes reports of the mannequin's activities with a stunning lack of grace. he's more irritable, more short-tempered, he's sleeping less — a remarkable feat, really, given how little he tends to sleep in general.

he's read the forum, he knows there's a chance it's just — just! — a mannequin, something impersonating, pretending to be him, but that doesn't stop the doubt, doesn't stop the worry that some of it is him. it's what he's done before, isn't it? it's what he does, just— with less care. it's less deliberate. and after the temple, after the silence from whatever called that place its home and the silence from khonshu, it's—

—not like it'd be a surprise.

and so, much like the mannequin, marc can often be found on the streets of panorama, almost always at night, almost always dressed in white. he favours his right side, although it's unclear whether it's thanks to an injury — hey, given the reports, it seems likely, right? — or whether a limb's more plastic than it had been when he'd first returned from the mall.

doubt as to what's him and what's it means his focus is entirely on finding it. maybe you come across him when he's stood over an unconscious runner, truncheon in hand. he's still, tense, and he whips round as soon as he senses someone present. )

You shouldn't be here. ( tight, tired, as much a warning as a threat.

or perhaps you get a careful, appraising— ) Are you looking for Moon Knight?

( or maybe you find marc crouched at the edge of a rooftop. his truncheon's set to one side, oddly clean, oddly bright, seemingly ignored. it could be that he's studying the street below, but there's equally a chance he's lost in thought. it might be to himself, then, that he says— ) I'm gonna kill it. ( sharp and vitriolic.

or wildcard it! )