EVENT ∞ LOG — July 125

[thediadem]

Event ∞ Log

In the Flesh

Jump ⇅ :: Visits — First Contact — Hitchhikers — Notes

∞ Prologue ∞

It's not real, it's not real.

Somewhere in the Blocks, late at night, a young woman repeats the words over and over, fumbling with her room key. She doesn't dare look over her shoulder again, begging her hand to obey. Her fingers are stiff and smooth, and it makes each movement more difficult. Eventually, the door gives way. She stumbles into the apartment, slamming it behind her and locking several bolts.

Leaning back on the door, she lets her key ring fall to the linoleum as she holds her hand up to her face. It isn't just her fingers now. Painted plastic has taken over her entire right hand, spreading up her forearm toward a ball-jointed elbow that creaks painfully. She grabs her neck with her flesh hand, sucking in a sharp breath as she tries to steady her heart.

It's not real, it's not real...

She takes another breath, then turns on the light. The bulb flickers. Hazy light flood the room with an incessant buzz.

She freezes.

A figure stands in the opposite doorway. It doesn't move, stuck in a pose with an outstretched hand—one made of flesh and bone. Her hand.

She screams.

Info & Mechanics — NPC Forum Post — Event Interaction ::: ⇅ Top

Strange Visits

Panorama

For the first week or two of July, life goes on as usual. You have a lot on your plate—jobs, loans, rent, that creep who won't stop staring at you when you're filling up your car—and the last thing you've got time for is other people's problems. Or maybe you find room to listen, anyway? Whatever the case, it's mostly a lot of stories and pointing fingers: a shopkeeper accuses his friend of stealing from him, somebody claims their boss must've skipped town to avoid paying the employees, and a woman is frantic about her missing husband. He never goes anywhere without telling her.

If you decide to look into it, none of the incidents seem connected. After all, people frequently go missing in the Diadem, friends betray each other, and businesses often go bankrupt, leaving their workers to pick up the pieces. Funny thing, though: here and there, you swear you glimpse a figure who isn't entirely flesh. Their features are just...a bit odd. Is it your imagination? When you move in for a closer look, something gets in your way and the figure disappears.

On the other hand, you think to yourself, it's not as though everybody on this planet looks standard. If a man can have horns, why can't his skin also be a bit plasticky?

Use the Event Interaction comment any time you need specifics or some direction for an element you're engaging within the event. This can be an NPC victim your character is questioning, an aspect of the diffusion zone your character is testing, or anything along those veins. While you're encouraged to make things up on your own, too, if you're ever unsure of the results or the answers you might get, approach us there!

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First Contact

The Fringes

Inevitably, you take the risk and head back into the Fringes. It has what you need, and the bizarreness in Panorama isn't making the city feel like much of a refuge, either. Besides, long trips aren't unusual for anyone in the Diadem. As you drive, you might even find yourself reluctant to return to the city. After all, there's so much across the multitude of diffusion zones that regardless of how dangerous it can be, perhaps some part of you is attracted to the thrill of the unknown.

If the promise of loot isn't enough, a note on the Forum might be. Here, you'll scroll across a brief message from who else but the ever-eager Felix Bjurstrom, joined by his daughter, Olive "Ollie" Bjurstrom. (Looks like he's got a new phone again!) If nothing else, the investigative or curious nature in you gets you going. What if this is a piece of the puzzle you need to go home?

If you want your character to scavenge items, check how that works. The Map identifies where each Quadrant is located.

Among the Shadows — Abandoned Mall

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 10-hour drive from Panorama, a standard American shopping mall rises through the cracked and broken highway. A portion of its vast parking lot melts into the road ahead and behind. There are cars in the parking lot, each one perfectly preserved: no rust, no dust, nothing.

The mall's lights are on. The moment you step inside, you'll notice that you're not alone. Inside, shadow corpses are everywhere, frozen in time. Their bodies show no signs of distress. If you try to touch them, a dark, ashy residue coats your fingers. You see a young couple linking arms, a mother bending over to pick up her child, and a man ordering his last meal at the KFC. It's as though they all just...stopped. While eerie, whatever force swept through here is long gone.

The upside is that nobody will bother you while you look around—aside from other fluxdrifts, of course. The shops and their offerings are stuck in the 90's. Big electronics are cosmic touched, rendering them worthless, but smaller electronics like cassette tapes, CDs, and Walkmans are all viable. You can also grab clothes, snacks, and (cheap) jewelry.

And, as you pass by the store windows, you see many mannequins on display. That's normal, so you don't think twice. At least, until you swear one of them keeps moving around the store. Though its pose never changes, it almost appears to...follow you? That can't be right. You must be seeing things.

Zone Effects
Touching any of the frozen shadows will cause the victim to believe that their companion(s) have transformed into monstrous creatures. Attempts to approach you will only register as an attack rather than placating gestures, while words will sound like snarls or spoken threats. An induced panic will make it more difficult to think logically and see through the hallucination. The illusory creatures can take the form of anything that might frighten or threaten you the most.

You can break free of the illusion through a variety of methods, including your own willpower, being knocked out by your friends, or seeing/hearing something that makes you realize it isn't real. The hallucination isn't overly intense, but it can cause a bit of havoc among you and your companions...and increase the likelihood a mannequin might make contact unnoticed.

Wall of Refuge — Strange Temple

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 6-hour drive from Panorama—and on the way to the abandoned mall above—stands a geometric structure made of metal and stone. Sharp angles shoot up from the ground to form a distorted hexagon. The gateway is littered with sigils: some weathered by time, others freshly carved into the rocky surface. They glow when you drive forward, beckoning you closer. Come in, whispers an unknown compulsion in your mind. You are home.

You may succumb to the whispers for any number of reasons: sleep deprivation, desperation for a place to rest overnight, or a need to hide from raiders or dangerous creatures lurking in another nearby zone. Regardless, you give in and enter the triangular entrance. The stone gate lifts to grant you passage, revealing an effigy of a multi-limbed being. A deity? A symbol of power? Though you're unsure, you continue deeper. Your footsteps echo across the cavernous halls.

Behind you, the heavy gate slowly closes with a rumbling finality. Despite the chilly entranceway, the interior of the temple is warm and inviting. Candles line the walls. Fountains flow peacefully. You can enter one of the many rooms to find a soft bed, fresh cakes, succulent meat, and fine wine available for you. Behind a silk curtain is a steaming bath lined with soothing floral herbs and oils.

Meanwhile, throughout your explorations, you might sense a figure or a shadow in the passageway. A glimpse of shiny plastic appears oddly out of place in a temple of this kind.

Zone Effects

• If you are a believer and decide to trust the gifts bestowed upon you, then you may safely indulge. The wine will warm you up, the food will fill your belly, and you can sleep through the night. When you awaken, you can safely leave the temple refreshed. Your vehicle will be outside, untouched, as if some power within was protecting your belongings.
• If you are a heretic and doubt the offerings you've been graciously given, the gifts will begin to rot and all amenities will crumble to dust. The more your cynicism betrays you, the more the temple will take until nothing remains except the oddly textured walls bearing down on you. As you examine the surface, you realize the stone is built from a manifold of dozens—no, hundreds—of twisted bodies. Their arms are raised in reverence, piled upon each other like human bricks. Their gaping mouths are frozen in a silent scream. As for you and your companions...what fate will await the nonbeliever?

The Last Stop — Foggy Town

©

In Quadrant 4, about a 3-hour drive from Panorama, east of the currently unused train tracks, a thick mist rolls through the highway. Here, the sky darkens rapidly into night and the temperature drops. If you've traveled unprepared, presuming the heat in Panorama spreads into the Fringes, you'll find that's not so. A chill spreads into your bones and creeps up the back of your neck.

Then the ground rumbles. The tremors shake your vehicle. Maybe it even makes you lose control briefly or sends you swerving off-road, straight into the fields. And in the middle of the fog, you see it: a figure standing in the middle of the field. Behind it are a few houses, making up a tiny rural town. The houses are dilapidated, many crumbling. Supplies within are minimal, and many items are broken or spoiled.

Do you approach? Do you drive past? Merely staring for a second too long will be enough for the hitchhiker to choose you as its ride, but its appearance may not be all that keeps you in place. In the distance is another bigger shadow. A much bigger shadow. It looms in the distance without true mass or form. Within the void of its body, a searchlight sweeps over the misty town. It does not move. It simply looks while the ground shakes. Each time its light catches a glimpse of something that doesn't belong—an animal, a vehicle that drove too deep into the tall grass, a raider that went too far into town—a sonorous howl reverberates through the zone.

Then the shadow will teleport to its target and crush the intruder without mercy before retreating back to its watchful post. And the intruder is indeed crushed: any living organism caught by the Light Guardian will be flattened with a horrifying crunch of broken bones and squished organs.

Zone Effects
While the Light Guardian can't be defeated or confronted, you can outrun or hide from its sweeping beam. If you stop far enough on the side of the road, it won't notice you...but you can still watch as it mangles an unfortunate raider or traveler. Possibly, you see the spray of blood or hear the screams before you run. Perhaps you realize how easily you could've met your own gory fate.

If you've left your car and gone too deep into the town before you realize the danger, you can do one of two things: you can risk hiding in an abandoned house in the town and hope that the sunrise comes. In zones like this, the day/night cycle is unpredictable, and many places are permanently cast in darkness. Or, you can try to run back to your vehicle and pray you don't get caught.

Alternatively, you've plowed directly into the field when raiders in pursuit force you into the zone. Should fortune favor you, they'll be obliterated by the Light Guardian while you flee. The beam tracks quickly, but can only shine in one direction at a time so the key is to bob and weave.

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Hitchhikers

Anywhere

Not everyone who enters the diffusion zone will pick up a mannequin, but the possibility is there. Once you make first contact, you will gain a hitchhiker. Unlike most aspects of the diffusion zones, this one has gathered into a storm, meaning the effects will breach even normally stable and anchored strongholds like Panorama.

Some fluxdrifts will brush off your problems while a few might believe you. Others will offer solutions in their own way, including a doctor who'll pay to obtain strange plastic limbs. Not everyone will pitch in to help. The city's big, populated, and somebody on the street turning doll-like doesn't affect them (...until it does). They've got a job to get to and mouths to feed.

Unwanted Passenger

When do you first notice your passenger? At any point, really. Perhaps it goes like this:

You glance in the rearview mirror and glimpse a figure in the backseat. When you spin around, there's nobody there. Then it happens again. This time, you realize it's not a person, but a dummy. A mannequin. It's sitting upright. And is it...wearing a seatbelt? Or maybe it's thrown itself across the back bench as though somebody tossed it there, uncaring.

This time, when you look back, it's still there. You pull over and dump it on the side of the road. That's taken care of, you think. You drive some more. For a few hours or even a day or two—depending on how long you've traveled—you don't think much of it. Then suddenly, it's back. And it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to get rid of it.

Or it goes like this:

You return from a standard trip into a diffusion zone. It went pretty well, you think. You found some clothes at a creepy mall and now you're ready to get some sleep. When you open your trunk to retrieve your belongings, you notice a mannequin stuffed inside, limbs bent at odd angles. You're a little weirded out, but you decide to dump it on the street and move on.

You shower. In the bathroom mirror, the mannequin suddenly appears behind you. Over the next few days, this continues. The mannequin appears in a booth across the diner as you're eating your eggs. It's behind a shelf in the corner store. It's in your closet. Each time you check, it vanishes...but then, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's right there in plain view. It'll even let you throw it away, burn it, anything you can think of. But it always comes back.

However it plays out, you realize that people around you do notice it...sometimes. That doesn't mean anyone will believe you that things are just that weird. Most people have better things to do. They don't know you, after all, and even if they did, well, this place does have a habit of driving people a little crazy. Witnesses casually push the mannequin aside and tell you that's a funny prank. Your regular waitress pats your shoulder and suggests you get some sleep. You're not looking well. The shopkeeper demands you take that thing before you go. He's not responsible for your junk.

But there's a small chance you run into someone who seems to be going through what you are. Unfortunately, they seem to actually have it worse and aren't making much sense. Still, you can try questioning them and see what answers you get. At least, before you lose them for good. For some of you, the victim you run into is in especially bad shape...and you have to wonder how long before you end up the same.

Trading Places

For some of you, the mannequins might not do more than be a nuisance. While that's not ideal, either, it doesn't completely upend your life. Others are less fortunate. If you're one of the latter, you'll begin to notice symptoms.

The first time it happens, you're startled to hear the mannequin speak. To begin with, its voice might be guttural and unnatural, incapable of stringing more than a few words together. Then it seems to learn. It talks in full sentences. Its voice smooths out. It starts to sound more and more like you...right down to your speech patterns and accent. As symptoms progress with varying intensity—over days or weeks—you realize with dawning horror that you're losing parts of yourself. When you wash your hands, you notice a part of your skin is smooth and shiny. The next time the mannequin appears, its previously plasticky appearance is more flesh and blood.

Eventually, the mannequin becomes independent. It shops with your money. It steals while wearing a face that looks nearly identical to yours, especially from a distance. It calls your friend and says the things you would never say out loud to them. They're thoughts you've had, sure, but you know better than to hurt your friend's feelings...except apparently, you have. And now you can't even use your own voice to explain yourself. Your leg has been getting stiff. Your joints don't bend properly.

Meanwhile, the mannequin is now striding around smoothly. Its appearance is still uncanny and odd if anyone pays attention, but at a glance, it easily passes as a part of the crowd. As its final act, it's even absorbed small bits of your abilities if you have any. Not all of them, but enough to cause trouble. Throughout everything, you cannot harm your hitchhiker. Some unknown force stops you any time you think about it. You simply can't.

Related Incidents

The impact isn't contained only to those directly affected. The hitchhikers' influence spreads through the city. For some incidents, it's difficult to trace back to the source. For others, that's a little easier. Regardless, these occurrences could help you determine how to solve your own situation. Alternatively, if you've escaped unscathed, you can still find yourself dragged into a situation involving someone else.

Return to Sender

July 11 — The Forum: An anonymous poster contributes this bit of information that might catch the eye of those affected. You can try the same method, but it's a risk going back into the diffusion zones. No one can guarantee the specific zone you found the mannequin in is still standing. Further, you have to remember where you made contact to begin with.

If you decide to try it, be sure to take a friend. The less independent the hitchhiker, the more likely it will stick to your side even as you return it home. If the assimilation has progressed too far, though, you might have to utilize methods such as duct taping inside your trunk or strapping it down with ropes. It may struggle and say vile things to you or your companion.

Victimless Burn Victims

July 14 @ 03:00 — The Pavilion (East End): A handful of troublemakers grabbed some freaky mannequins wandering the street and, in a drunken stroke of genius, set them all on fire for no reason other than that they wanted to. Not only has this resulted in damage to the corner store nearby, but Enforcers have linked the incident to four hospitalizations at roughly the same time. Doctors from Saint Margery's Hospital (located in the Blocks) report that all four individuals suffered massive shock and claim to have endured unimaginable agony as if they had been "set on fire."

Curiously, none of them bear any physical wounds and, by all accounts, are completely fine (trauma aside). Notably, all four individuals were also suffering from various stages of "joint stiffness" and "hallucinations"...which have since completely vanished. You might wonder, is this the solution? Or perhaps the better question would be, is it worth it?

The Sculptor

July 15 — The Pavilion (Medical Clinic): Around July 14 onward, word begins to spread that a Dr. Maggie Wright (who insists on being called the Sculptor, though nobody seems to heed this request) will not only do an amputation for free, she will pay you for your limb if you are boasting an "unusual trophic change to the skin, resulting in a smooth and shiny texture." All she asks is she gets to keep the sample. Her promise is that she will study it to find a more permanent cure and, if she does, she will return the limb to you for reattachment.

Some end up trusting her. You wonder, maybe she could help? Dr. Wright will happily accept you as her patient if you agree. Her methods are indeed proper and sterile: she'll put you under and provide you with plenty of pain meds. She appears to have all of the equipment required to preserve the limb, too.

If you're suspicious, you can also pay her a visit, but you won't have much luck getting her in trouble or sniffing out any evidence of nefarious deeds. Her office hasn't got anything strange, she is indeed a real surgeon, and there are testimonials from patients who've had success under her care in the past. Plus, nobody's going to her who isn't doing so voluntarily (they've signed waivers)—even if you could argue how much desperation plays into their decision. Still...the thing about her "title" is a bit weird, right?

Dr. Maggie Wright is 5'2, Caucasian with a light Northeastern accent and silver hair often worn in a bun. She's in her 50s and looks fairly good for her age. Her voice is soothing. She has intense, wide blue eyes, which some might find unnerving, but that's not necessarily her fault.

∞ Notes ∞

• Mannequin contact is not required. Not everybody who goes into the diffusion will make first contact, and many won't. Characters can explore the mall, the temple, and the foggy field without ever picking up a hitchhiker.
• The diffusion zones described are only examples. Others will exist where mannequins can be found, including grocery stores, gas stations, abandoned parks, and more. You can make up your own, but check with us if you have any questions about limitations!
• The speed and intensity of all mechanics are entirely up to you. Generally, the earlier a character makes first contact, the more severe their consequences.
• Investigating the zones or helping others are perfectly fine ways to participate! Since the hitchhikers are meant to be more insidious, it won't be strange if your character isn't in the middle of the action right away or notices things a bit late.

Questions? Ask here

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Comments

[tirejacked]

[The questioning look just earns an impassive (unhelpful) cant of the head. Don't give him that, it's not cute.

His posture stays guarded and combative, all raised chin and square shoulders and compressed energy. Underscored by the fresh-from-a-fight look of him. He drops his gloved hands to his sides, shaking them out as Marc stands. Clearly tracks the slow way he does it, that he leaves his weapon on the ground.  (More like a nightstick than Nightwing's favored escrima.  He hadn't used it, earlier.  Did he have it earlier?  The parts and pieces are there, he'll figure this out sooner or later.) He's kept enough distance between them that he'll have time to react if Marc makes any sudden moves, but he's got a bone to pick before anything else.  

For now, he barks a laugh.]

Oh, yeah. I’d hate to think it wasn’t.

[No problem. He does prefer to earn the attempts on his life. But he’d like to know what he did to do it. (Not that he’d stop. But maybe he’d like to think about doubling down.)

There's a bitter, vicious edge to it that says he does, in fact, take it pretty personally when someone tries to kill him.  (Or, y'know.  Succeeds.)  That's the thing, though: personal usually means a little more than wrong-place-wrong-time, and they hadn’t crossed paths proper since the motel.  Until.

(He doesn’t care to examine it too closely just yet—the feeling around it isn’t betrayal, exactly, he doesn’t know Marc anywhere near well enough for that. But maybe it had been hard to shake, those little things that had made him think of Bruce, back in the motel. Picked up his interest on the one hand, kept him at a distance on the other. Came around now to hit right where it hurts. A press on that metaphorical bruise, a tip toward the more uncharitable kind of assumption. Phantom pains.)]  

I just want to get us on the same page before we get to round two.

[Because, y’know. They’re definitely talking about the same thing, here. ]

[vestments]

( marc's used to having to try and piece together a jigsaw from something incomplete and though he's not a stoic man, not by any measure, he is guarded. at the laugh — "laugh" — and at bitter response, marc's brow furrows, knits together just a touch tighter; his mouth dips, and he stays silent for a beat, two beats too long.

often, more frequently than marc cares to acknowledge, he doesn't know how to give people the answers they want. he's rarely inclined to admit he doesn't know something, at least, in the context of something like this. amongst the avengers, he'd grown used to working from the periphery and knowing precisely only what he needed to know even if the lack of communication had gone both ways, with his disinclination to ask sitting alongside an intense refusal to speak up, and so—

well, that'd been why he'd been kicked off the team the first time. (flounced? the black widow would probably say flounced, given the way he'd lit his ID card on fire and chucked it on the table before departing—.)

less rarely, but still frequently enough, he's had questions about what he's been up to. concerns that he'd been the man who murdered a diplomat on american soil; that it'd been him who'd attempted to murder reese's friends even after saving them.

the doubt sits deep, then. lack of sleep. lack of decent, frequent food. he doesn't think he has missing hours, but— how would he know? whatever jason's implying — he can guess maybe two, three maybes — certainly isn't something steven or jake would get up to, it never is.

his gaze shifts subtly, down towards the edge of the rooftop. it's the wrong truncheon, it's not the one with the grappling hook built in, and for as much as he's certain he could leap off the edge and find a way down with minimal damage done to himself, he'd prefer to do it with his cape. he looks back up to jason, then, belatedly offering a tight, )

It's not often anyone wants to be on the same page as me.

( —that's how you do this conversation, right? )

[tirejacked]

[Joke's on you, Marc, he can and he will follow you right off the side of a building if he wants to do it. (Guess who does have a grapple gun on him? This guy. But don't think the lack of it would discourage him, either.)

They’re going to be so bad at this.

A shame, they’d been doing pretty well, before. Hard guy to get to know, but he got name, “occupation,” ostensible inclinations toward vigilante justice, et cetera. And then...

He looks impatient with Marc's hesitation. Lifts an (empty, at least) hand to jab a finger his way. Incisive.]

What I want is for you to cut the crap.

If you didn't want someone to do the math you wouldn't be leaving your little signature around on doorframes and dirtbags. I know you didn't care about me watching you do it the first time.

[Drawing it on the door after they'd double teamed those guys in the motel. But this time it had gotten him turned on. So what changed? (Just that it wasn't...actually Marc, is all. Details!)]

[vestments]

( marc's gaze drops to jason's hand, while his mouth twitches slightly as jason tells him to cut the crap. not the first time he's heard that, but he thinks this might be a record for how quickly it's come. the impatience is familiar, though — less tired than marlene's had been, less knowing than jean-paul's, but the shape of it's the same.

his attention shifts, preparedness to reply evident in the way his eyes meet jason's, the way he lifts his chin, but jason continues before he can manage it, and marc inhales a breath, tired and edging towards quiet frustration until jason says dirtbags. a flicker of realisation, a softening of his expression into something that almost, faintly resembles 'ah. that helps.' maybe he hasn't missed something, hasn't forgotten an encounter between the two of them.

still. )

So you're here to level the field? ( level, somewhere between curious and challenging. jason might not have a weapon in his hand, but marc knows he'll have one in close enough reach that the difference hardly matters, and it'd leave marc on the back foot with regards to grabbing his own. ) It says a lot that you'd try talking it out first.

( it's neither patronising nor condescending in tone — or at least, it's not meant as such — but it is said in the manner of someone who's had conversations like this before, and he re-appraises the lingering, tell-tale remains of whatever fight jason had come from. )

It wasn't me. ( blunt, certain. jason wasn't him, but the others? the gnawing uncertainty that sits at the edges of his thoughts about the moons? he likes to think he's come a long way since then, but he's thought that before and ended up helping khonshu try and take over the world, so. ) I'm not saying I wouldn't, ( he thinks it's an important clarifier, even if he's not sure if it'll make his 'I didn't do it' more or less convincing, even if he doesn't clarify which part of jason's remark he's talking about. ) And I'm not saying I haven't before, but not here.

I like to remember the people I have problems with.

( capital-p problems, anyway. )

[tirejacked]

["take over the world"...............marc......

Try as Marc might not to come off as patronizing, there's still a stubborn shift in his posture at the statement. At the feeling of being evaluated, like he's trying to resist the fact that someone's trying to get the measure of him without his say-so.

But despite everything he is, still, a detective. Deliberation has been trained into him, looking for answers is a part of his nature. Despite his current differences with Bruce on the matter of how far to go about certain cases, he's still going to run down the details before he makes his decisions. He doesn't do things (consequential, permanent things) without considering them, first. (That's what people just don't seem to get about him. Too busy looking at the Crime Alley pedigree and the pissed-off parts and don't think that maybe he knows exactly what he's doing with it.)

Helps that Marc has (also) tried to talk it out. The slow infestation of bodysnatchers has made the news, sure. But it's not common, not really. Occam's razor had still (heavily) put the smart bets on the real thing, and he'd acted in kind. But. He considers the makeshift mask. The weapon on the ground.

Flat—]

Pretty convenient.

[Dubious, but hard to deny the difference in how he's been received. He shifts his weight, chews at the still-bleeding split in his lip. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Okay, he'll bite. (He wants to. He doesn't want to think about why.)]

So if it wasn't you, who was it?

[He's got ideas. But he wants to hear the case.]

[vestments]

( it was a low moment in his life, okay. for better or worse, it also was arguably not the lowest.

it's less that marc's trying to get the measure of jason, it's more that he's trying to present himself in a certain light. marc spector is often unreasonable, marc spector is often violent, and neither of those things will do either of them any good here — until or unless absolutely necessary.

and at the end of the day, jason might be a detective, but marc's not. he occasionally plays at being one, but that'd been the result of necessity, a deliberate, if unconvincing pivot away from VIOLENT, (WANTED) VIGILANTE in order to avoid jail. any ability he possesses to quote-unquote deduct is built off a scant few years spent in the cia, while the rest of what he does is the result of emotion.

(ironic, really, given he'd originally tried to brute-force moon knight into being an unemotional figure of justice.
less ironic given that'd been a case of trying to brute-force not being marc spector at any given moment in time.)

which is to say: he's mostly just guessing at what's the right response here.

and so where jason responds with an understandably doubtful pretty convenient, though marc's gaze doesn't drop, there's an undeniable shift to his expression that signifies agreement, that says he knows how it sounds. it goes unsaid, though, because it's the cracking open of the door to a conversation he's not interested in. instead— )

I don't know. ( —that's not better, actually. for marc, it's not better, and it's only after he's spoken that he decides he hates it as an answer. his nose scrunches momentarily, and he takes a step forward, soles of shoes crunching against the uneven surface of the roof before he amends— )

One of those, ( fingerquotes, an almost absurd visual with the all white suit of it all. ) 'Hitchhikers'. ( punctuated by a shrug, less like marc's uncertain about the concept of the hitchhikers and more like he either thinks the term's absurd (pot, kettle), or he's simply not quite sure it's the right word.

a beat, and marc's right hand closes into a fist, abrupt and sudden, accompanied by a flash of irritation. his tone's a touch sharper, words a touch more snapped as he adds, seemingly in spite of himself, ) Wouldn't be the first time someone's, ( something? whatever. ), pretended to be Moon Knight. Won't be the first time it ends poorly for them.

( did he mention moon knight the last time? eh, well. that clearly hasn't occurred to him. )

[tirejacked]

[Yeah. Hitchhikers. It's not a great answer, but it does, at least, track. Helps that it's not the first time he's run into the concept. Still a problem, probably, but a very different kind of problem than he'd come up here expecting to deal with.

The upside of a common denominator to be pissed off at—the jagged, jangley post-fight energy Jason come up here buzzing with does seems to ease up, at least a bit. He doesn't even bristle when Marc steps closer and closes the distance, a little, though he doesn't take his eyes off him.

And his attention sharpens in turn when Marc's tone gets harsher on the subject, posture pulling angrier, fists clenched. He cants his head with a kind-of-calcuating look, brows hiking up toward his hairline.]

Moon Knight.

[Repeated, as if to be sure he's got that right. The interrogative is more implied than voiced, but. Yeah, that part didn't come up, before.]

[vestments]

( it's arguably better than the only other answer he could offer, while also being a lot more personally appealing than the alternative. )

—The last person to dress up as me, ( if that answers jason's question, it's quite clear marc hadn't intended it to — it's seemingly likely that marc either didn't catch or has chosen to ignore the implied question in the repetition of 'moon knight'. ), did die. ( you know, to circle back round to that subject.

admittedly, he hadn't been killed while dressed as moon knight, even if marc had been led to believe it, and though marc had killed him, he'd moved on from pretending to be moon knight to taking on the moniker of his father, but. the point remains. the last person — as far as marc's aware — to pretend to be him was killed.

none of his tension easing, he holds up his hand, index finger extended as if to say 'wait' as he adds, ) That was personal.

( perhaps not for the implied reasons. yes, marc is touchy when it comes matters of identity, but when it came to jeff, it'd been personal because of why. the path of him dressing up as moon knight, of being abducted, of being turned into something else against his will. marc thinks that he might have been able to deal with all of that better these days than he had then — reese is evident of that, perhaps — but jeff had ensured it'd stayed personal, in much the same way his father had his issue with marc (moon knight) turn personal.

like father, like son and all that.

then— ) They forget that playing pretend as a Fist of Khonshu doesn't come with the same benefits.

[tirejacked]

[Okay, wow. This has swung all the way back around to a very different conversation, all of a sudden. Maybe something closer to the one that they might have been having at the start, if Jason hadn't come by and heard I'm going to kill it and jumped to the most inconvenient conclusion and swerved them down a detour. If he had asked kill what like a normal person. (A normal person hopping around on rooftops in the middle of the night and getting into fistfights with doppelgangers. You know.)

He waits out the agitated explanation. Filing Moon Knight and Fist of Konshu together with Spector, and then with each other. (Whatever Fist of Konshu is, Moon Knight does track with the look. Different terms for the same thing, maybe. Not like Batman didn't get all sorts of new nicknames in the press all the time. Dark Knight. Caped Crusader. Et cetera.)

The implication that Marc had been the one to take out the impostor doesn't particularly seem to surprise him. He's getting a picture, here. Sort of. Though—]

What kind of benefits are we talking?

[He'll ask more directly this time. Just curious. Given the emphasis.]

[vestments]

Not dying. ( simple, to the point. notably less agitated and said in the manner of someone that believes that it's the logical conclusion of 'if fake moon knights die, then real ones don't', even if it's not quite true. marc's died — dehydration and heat exhaustion combined with a particularly nasty beating (maybe—); drowning; stabbed; getting blown up (twice). almost all of them have been unpleasant and painful, and marc's been left with very few illusions about what happened, all of which means that the truth of it is he doesn't stay dead, but that has a far less impressive ring to it. )

—Which is why I'll win.

( it's not cool and it's too intense to be calm, but it is confident — marc hasn't yet discovered that he can't lay a hand on his hitchhiker, that if he wants that to happen, he'll have to rely on someone else.

and unfortunately, if jason's expecting anything more to the list of benefits to being moon knight, there's nothing. that's it. marc, for his part, doesn't seem bothered by the singular, one-item list of it all, his gaze fixed on jason almost as if to say 'what else were you expecting?' )

[tirejacked]

[That does tend to be the idea, Marc.

He'll have to be more specific. (On the one hand, he's not unfamiliar with the concept of death deciding not to stick. If anything, he's intimately familiar with it, to great consequence. On the other, again, the Occam's Razor of it all. It's still not exactly a common conclusion to jump to, and he's much more used to veiled language and dramatic hyperbole than metaphysical bullcrap.)

So. There's an amused, ironic little twist in his expression at the answer, maybe. But barring more information, he'll imagine Marc is saying this… figuratively. At least for now.

He shrugs at the expectant look—you're the one who brought it up, bud—finally pocketing his hands like he's decided that they're actually not going to get into a(nother) fight, here and now. Not really his business, but.]

Well, if you're looking for a hand with that, it seems I’ve got myself a score to settle.

[He'll need it, after all, given the inconvenient way these things tend to resist direct intervention.]

[vestments]

( he's died (probably) seven times, jason. his first response in a crisis is generally FUCK IT, I GUESS I'LL DIE THEN. it's a great problem-solving approach.

but he's not used to having to elaborate on that so while, logically, he's aware that jason doesn't know, it doesn't quite occur to him that jason won't understand what he means off the bat. it's not helped, either, by the small, fleeting flicker of amusement — clearly they're on the same page, right? right. and besides — jason's seen him fighting, he knows marc doesn't have powers. )

Sure. Fine. ( it's unbothered agreement — marc might not be inclined to ask for help, but he's unlikely to turn it down when offered. he's self-aware enough to know that he doesn't work best alone, even if there are times he'd like that to be true.

and now that jason's relaxed enough to shove his hands in his pockets, marc pauses to bend down and, finally, pick up his truncheon. his attention shifts back towards the edge of the roof for a beat, a quick glance directed at the streets below and, ) Where was it heading?

[tirejacked]

[Maybe you should say what you mean, Marc. Look, he doesn’t have powers either, and he’s only died the once!!!! His resurrection was uncommon enough around his neck of the woods that even an empty grave wasn’t enough for Batman to jump to the correct conclusions. He just likes the irony. He’s a theater kid at heart.

It’s fine, probably. He stopped here to get them on the same page and they’re definitely not there yet, but they’re at least like. Within the same book, again. Perhaps even approaching the same chapter. They’ll get there.

Anyway.]

Moving north when I lost him.

[”Lost him” meaning “spotted you instead of picking up the trail.” He’d come from the south. Mannequin-Marc has been leaving a breadcrumb trail of moon shaped graffiti. Trail has to pick up somewhere around here.

Despite Marc seemingly getting ready to move out: He really can’t resist much longer. He cants his head like he’s studying him anew. Truncheon. White suit.]

So d’you prefer Spector or—

[(He’s not calling you moon knight. but he’s gotta know.)]

[vestments]

( he does say what he means, it's not his fault he's not always understood!

north gets a noise that sounds somewhere between a hrn and a hmm, and marc succeeds in taking about three steps towards the fire escape at the far edge of the rooftop before jason speaks up again, and— oh. right.

his silence isn't pointed, but it does last a moment too long as he eyes jason — not out of suspicion, per se, and not because he dislikes the question (although there's certainly an element of that), but because he's not sure how to answer. at home, it'd be simple: suit, mask, mr. knight; cape and cowl and mask, moon knight; none of it? marc (maybe). here it's not that simple, and it doesn't feel quite right to prescribe moon knight or mr. knight to an identity that's not quite either of them. and as for preference—.

marc, typically, hates being marc spector. he's pivoted from proclaiming marc to be a ghost, a dead man, a spectre (!) of the moon through to being the only identity and part of him that ought to be in control — not because marc's good at it, but because he needs to do something to make up for everything else he's done, completely ignoring the fact that only time his life has had any semblance of stability are the times that marc's been willing to work with steven and jake.

or: god, jason, why would you ask that. )

—Moon Knight, please.

[tirejacked]

[C'mon bud, you must have felt this coming. There's a certain level of operating the same way that helps with their respective communication problems...but at some point you can't drop a thematic bomb like Moon Knight on him and not expect some questions. (He barely even calls Bruce Batman these days if he doesn't outright have to.) He's not buying in without at least a little justification. So.

He weathers those hrms (hmms?) like he's heard them all before. (He has.) And, helpfully—]

Moony? Mr. Knight?

[He's spitballing. Please feel free to interrupt at any time.]