( the mannequin's gaze doesn't drop and it doesn't blink; there's no comprehension in its expression and there's no lack of it, either. it just is, although it does shift its weight enough that the man pinned beneath him is released. what do you think you're doing?, the girl — woman? someone not like him — had exclaimed, and the mannequin doesn't quite know how to put into words that it's doing precisely what it was made to do. he's marc spector, moon knight, a primal force stripped of emotion — isn't he?
in the brief silence, there's a groan, and the mannequin looks down at the man. enough has been done—, and so he steps over the body — still alive, still breathing, and closes the distance between himself and fern. marc prefers to leave them alive when he can, but he doesn't always succeed, and HE isn't that precious. the lack of willingness to kill is relatively recently, a trait that ebbs and flows — waxes and wanes with the phases of the moon? no, not quite — but he knows how thin the line is, between want and relief and shame and regret, and— ) He deserved it.
( a blunt remark carrying marc's accent, his cadence, and it's punctuated by a hand brushing at its jacket. it doesn't look comfortable, doesn't quite look natural, but it might not be easy to tell why beneath dirty, flickering neon lights, might be easy to explain away as an injury based on the trail of blood left behind. ) Vengeance. Protecting the travellers of the night. ( it's not as articulate as marc would be, perhaps, but it's a reflection of the reasoning.
there's a pause. it'd be weighted, heavy if the mannequin were anything else, but as it is it's just quiet. ) You're a daughter of the sun.
(well. she might not be, but the closest it can get in terms of recognition is a memory that isn't his, an echo of a conversation held between god and avatar. the cat-woman is aligned with the sun. )
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in the brief silence, there's a groan, and the mannequin looks down at the man. enough has been done—, and so he steps over the body — still alive, still breathing, and closes the distance between himself and fern. marc prefers to leave them alive when he can, but he doesn't always succeed, and HE isn't that precious. the lack of willingness to kill is relatively recently, a trait that ebbs and flows — waxes and wanes with the phases of the moon? no, not quite — but he knows how thin the line is, between want and relief and shame and regret, and— ) He deserved it.
( a blunt remark carrying marc's accent, his cadence, and it's punctuated by a hand brushing at its jacket. it doesn't look comfortable, doesn't quite look natural, but it might not be easy to tell why beneath dirty, flickering neon lights, might be easy to explain away as an injury based on the trail of blood left behind. ) Vengeance. Protecting the travellers of the night. ( it's not as articulate as marc would be, perhaps, but it's a reflection of the reasoning.
there's a pause. it'd be weighted, heavy if the mannequin were anything else, but as it is it's just quiet. ) You're a daughter of the sun.
( well. she might not be, but the closest it can get in terms of recognition is a memory that isn't his, an echo of a conversation held between god and avatar. the cat-woman is aligned with the sun. )