Secret Invasion Contest: Lunar Lunacy

[Rift]

Putnam Psychiatric Hospital: Chicago, Illinois Three weeks before the events of In the Waning Moon Light

A pair of orderlies stood to each side of a gurney, each double checking the restraints before nodding towards a doctor seated in a nearby chair. The man was rather indistinct resembling exactly what one would expect a doctor in a psychiatric hospital to look like: middle aged, balding, a close-cropped beard streaked with gray, and wearing white coat overtop a sweater vest. As he examined his notes he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and stared at the patient strapped to the gurney.

"I've been doing this for a number of years you know. I've treated so many patients with so many varying disorders that at this point the faces all start to blend together, but no matter what ailed them, no matter how damaged they appeared, and regardless of what other so-called experts claimed about the severeness of their conditions I have always maintained that where there is a will there is a way. Nobody is beyond help. Nobody. That includes you. I admit you are quite possibly the most stubborn patient I have ever treated, but I'm stubborn too. I refuse to give up on you," the doctor said.

Standing he picked up a chart and read it over, shaking his head.

"That said, you do seem intent on staying where you are. You almost had me convinced, had all of us convinced that you were taking your mental health seriously and were willing to try to make progress. I'd legitimately thought we were close to a major breakthrough. But Marc, I can call you Marc right? You are never going to improve until you admit that you have a problem, until you show a willingness to let go of these delusions that have plagued you for so long."

The man on the gurney stared ahead, not at the doctor, but at something on the counter behind him. His glassy eyes did not blink for a long moment until finally he shifted his gaze to the doctor.

"I think he wants to say something," an orderly said.

"Is that true? Do you want to talk or is this going to be like the last time?" the doctor asked.

The man shook his head in the negative, as if promising to behave.

"Very well," the doctor said. "Allow him to speak."

The orderlies undid straps that held his neck steady and removed the bite guard from his mouth. Coughing the man tried clearing his throat before his attention shifted fully to the doctor.

"I understand doctor. You are only trying to help me," he said.

The doctor sighed. "Yes Marc, I am. We all are, but I'm afraid I don't believe you. Not after all that has happened."

"What's happened?" Marc asked. "Did I...did I do something wrong?"

"Yes Marc. You did. Don't you remember?"

Marc shook his head, his expression one of confusion.

"Marc you attacked a fellow patient during your time in the recreation room."

"I-I did?" he asked in shock.

"You did. At first we thought it was a violent outburst, not uncommon around here with our more troubled patients. But you did so intentionally. You stole a hairpin so that you could pick the locks on your restraints and escape your room. You then proceeded to attempt to escape and in the process you severely injured several staff members. In fact you nearly made it to the roof before you were subdued," the doctor explained, sorrow in his voice.

"I don't remember that. I don't remember doing any of that," Marc responded.

"Well, Marc, lets start with what you do remember. That was only three days ago. Think back to that night. What can you remember?"

"Okay, okay," Marc said as he closed his eyes. "I remember getting the hairpin and I remember slipping my restraints and exiting my room, but then..."

Yes?" the doctor asked. "Then what?"

Suddenly Marc's expression changed. His visions seemed clear, his breathing slowed, and instead of confusion his eyes burned with fury.

"Then I remember slamming one of the orderlies that tried to stop me through a television headfirst. That was before I headed for the roof, but after I snapped the neck of the janitor and plunged the broken shaft of a mop handle through your eye and into your brain. See I don't do half measures, not with monsters. So I didn't severely injure anyone. I killed them, just like I killed you. Or the last one that looked like you."

The doctor glanced at the orderlies and huffed, removing his glasses.

"Marc, these delusions are a manifestation of your guilt and trauma experienced as a soldier of fortune. Furthermore these issues have plagued you since you were a child. Your father brought you here, to this very facility, when you were only a kid. You were sick then and you are now a very sick adult man."

"No. I'm seeing things clearly for the first time in a very long time. I am the protector of those who travel at night. I am the clenched Fist of Khonshu. I am the Moon Knight and when I get out here, and I will get out, I am going to kill every single one of you green skinned bastards. You worry about keeping Stark in the dark, about manipulating the Avengers, about isolating and neutralizing threats. But there is a big difference between them and me. They will repel you, they will stand and proclaim their inner righteousness and unwillingness to bend knee to a bunch of alien invaders for the good of the planet and to protect mankind. But not me."

Turning to glance at each of the men around him, Marc's smile turned savage, his voice changing. "Me? I'm not doing it for the right reasons. I'm going to murder you all for daring to cross me, for trying to control me, and because Khonshu is always demanding blood so that people remember him. I've been fighting it for awhile, but what better way than to pay tribute by giving him mountains of blood from you freaks? Even beings from beyond the starts will have to remember him then."

"Enough! Marc these are just more delusions. I don't know if your obsession with Egypt has somehow crossed over into belief in extraterrestrial connections, but we are not monsters, aliens, or anything of the sort. And you are not the Moon Knight!" the doctor said, grabbing his phone and turning the screen towards Marc.

"See that? That is the Moon Knight. He was apprehended by an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., beaten down, and made to come into line with the Registration Act. He's in New York and you are here," the doctor continued.

"He's another one of you! And when I get out of here he's the one that will suffer the most. Khonshu won't suffer imposters. He's not the Moon Knight, he's not been ordained, he hadn't been brought back the dead!"

"And neither have you Marc. Khonshu isn't real. He's a figment of your imagination. You have no powers, you've never died, monsters are not real, and you are not a superhero. You are a severely disturbed man that has gone untreated for far too long. But we won't give up on you."

With that his restraints were put back in place and a needle shoved into the side of neck, putting him out.

"Take him to his room. I will consult with others and develop a new treatment regimen. I dislike things as barbaric and backwards as electroshock therapy, but I really did think it would solve this problem. Perhaps next time we need to up the voltage and duration..."

[Rift]

Days and weeks came and went with Marc unsure of where or even when he was. Whether it was the cocktail of substances the "doctor" put into his bloodstream or the unfathomable pain of the electric shock sessions he was left in a constant daze. One of the orderlies had referred to him as near catatonic, but even if he appeared to be silently staring ahead, he was actually quite busy.

Every time the voltage was upped, between each shock he found himself elsewhere. What had started as reliving his greatest hits, missions and assassinations carried out either when he was a CIA operative or during his mercenary days, had turned into something far worse. He found himself standing in a vast desert with rolling dunes, winds that blew sand until it felt like shards of glass against his skin, and in the distance a massive pyramid that seemed to shine with its own internal light. The sky was blacker than black without a star to be seen and while he would glance up regularly, he never saw what he was looking for. There was no trace of the moon.

Whenever the staff carted him back to his padded room, resecuring the straight jacket, he saw things. For three days straight he spoke with his old informant Crawley, begging the man to get help, to warn the outside world of what was happening and to inform the, that who or whatever was running around dressed like Moon Knight was not the real deal.



"Now Jake, my friend, I dare say that it would be a Herculean task to do as you request," he said, his southern drawl prominent as ever. "There is a time and a season for all things under the uh, well, moon as it were and frankly now is not the time to thrust such worries upon the masses."

"Dammit Crawley, I told you before to call me Marc! You have to tell the world, to get word to the Avengers, and at the very least you have to tell Frenchie and Marlene! They have to know that, that isn't me!" Marc begged.

"Be that as it may, how is one to know with a creature so full or intrigue such as yourself? The fair lady Ms. Arlune has finally begun to piece together something of a life after your rather sudden departure and it would be most cruel of me to once again thrust upon her the chaos that is your existence. As for monsieur Duchamp he too has freed himself from the shackles of your bloody mission, seeking peace after the bloodshed and living nightmares that brought the two of you together. He has in essence done what you yourself can never find the intestinal fortitude to do: he's moved on."

Blinding pain flashed through Marc's skull and when he opened his eyes, Crawley was gone, vanished like an apparition that had never truly been there in the first place. He glanced around the room, to the darkened corners, hoping against hope to once more catch a glimpse of the man, but his brightly colored garb and white hair were nowhere to be seen. Before he could cry out, he found himself pulled to his feet and strapped to a wheelchair as orderlies rolled him out for yet another treatment.

As the chair rolled down the hall he couldn't help but think he saw a small, bird headed being with red eyes leaning around a corner, shaking its head disapprovingly.

[Rift]

Marc found himself seated at a table in some upscale restaurant, some sort of orchestral music playing in the background as he stared out of the window. It was maybe mid-day and the sun shone so brightly he couldn't make out much beyond the sidewalk. All of it felt familiar to him, yet also alien at the same time, as if this were a memory pieced together from fragments of events that had occurred or in a manner one may recount a story they had heard rather than lived.



"Stephen? Stephen are you paying any attention or are you off in your head again? What has your attention this time? Board meeting, some new contract you have to hammer out the details about, or are you having issues with the producers on that silly Moon Knight show you were trying to bring to air?" a woman asked him.

Startled he turned to find Marlene sitting across from him. She was as beautiful as ever, her smile able to brighten a room that even the moon itself couldn't shine light into. She was eating some kind of fancy lunch with portions so small that Jake Lockley would have been making crass jokes about it and a glass of wine that the cabbie would have downed in one gulp before requesting a "real" drink. Tucking her flowing blonde hair behind an ear she looked confused.

"What? Stephen what's wrong?" she asked.

"N-nothing," Marc lied. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" she asked. "Is this about work or work? Because when I agreed to come out to lunch with you, you promised we wouldn't have to deal with all of that."

"No, I was just thinking about how beautiful you look. Each day better than the last," Marc answered.

"Uh-huh. You are a terrible liar, even if I do appreciate the effort. Tell you what rich-boy, I'm going to order another glass and we'll talk about whatever it is really bothering you. This has been so pleasant and normal that it almost seems abnormal, you know? Let me flag down the waiter and then you can pour your heart out. It isn't often that we actually get to just talk, that you actually let me in enough to know what is going on."

He smiled as she signaled for the waiter, but as the man approached Marc couldn't help but notice a name tag. He squinted trying to read it as the waiter began to pour a new glass for Arlene and only at the last second could he make out what it said. Atherton.

Suddenly it was as if a spike was driven between his eyes and the world turned sideways, his vision blurring.

"Stephen? Stephen what's wrong?" Marlene asked.

As he fell out of the chair, dragging the tablecloth and all that sat on it to the floor with him, he tried to focus on that name tag. Repeating it time and again in his mind.

Atherton. Atherton. Atherton. Why does that sound so familiar? What does it mean? Where have I...

"Rise and shine freak. Time for some more medicine," an orderly declared, his foot connecting with Marc's ribs.

Back in the padded room Marc coughed, a spittle of blood flying to stain the sterile white material. All the while he focused on that name and tried to work through the pain and the fog.

[Rift]

Ghosts.

Marc Spector hated ghosts. The visions, hallucinations, whatever it was that he'd been having since his arrival in the psychiatric hospital were not ghosts. Not really. Illusions maybe, perhaps bits and pieces of his subconscious and memories trying to piece together something sensible through the pain and the haze brought on by the numerous chemicals the doctor kept pumping him full of, but ghosts? Ghosts they were not. Marc knew ghosts, had tangled with the specters of long dead victims of all manner of violent crime, and even been forced to act as something of a guardian for them when Khonshu insisted that even the dead could be members of the congregation he was to see to. Even knowing what they were didn't make him like them any.

He remembered a time when Khonshu insisted he help some wayward souls crying out for help and vengeance. It was then that the moon deity insisted that a "shepherd need not love every member of the flock, yet still he protects them" and of course Marc had answered. Naturally he had wanted to don the ancient vestments that would enable him to make physical contact with the incorporeal or as he liked to think of it "smacking Casper upside the head." Khonshu however didn't approve and in fact commanded him to leave the armor behind, insisting that he act instead in his role as The Embracer rather than the Fist of Vengeance. It was one of what at the time had been a growing number of dustups between him and his mystical benefactor. Against his better judgment he was compelled to wear the immaculate white suit of Mr. Knight.

His mission had been to find out what was disturbing the spirits at an old, abandoned property long believed to be haunted by the souls of those murdered there so long ago. It dovetailed nicely into what Detective Flint had asked for his opinion on, a rash of disappearances linked to the same property. Young people had been vanishing in the area after daring one another to enter. Typical spooky urban legend nonsense that every town regardless of size tended to have. Or so it had seemed. In truth something was stirring the restless souls within the walls of the old Victorian era home.

The Atherton House.

That was where Marc had heard the name before. It was the last mission, the last memory he could really remember prior to finding himself in the Putnam Hospital halfway across the country.

What he couldn't remember is what exactly transpired. He remembered arriving at the property, his suit being ruined after tearing on a loose nail. He'd argued with Khonshu the entire ride over, insisting that he needed more details about what he was walking into and how he could possibly defend himself against the supernatural forces within when denied access to the armor. As always, Khonshu insisted on his obedience, not his understanding of his motives. It was in the midst of one of their usual tiffs that he had discovered that it was not just the ghosts and himself within the house.

He'd encountered a supernatural hunter, the brash, gun toting Englishwoman called Elsa Bloodstone. Unlike so many other encounters with people in the same line of work, theirs was a rather pleasant meeting. They'd skipped the usual round of fisticuffs and "who has the bigger power" and instead opted to work together to get to the bottom of whatever was happening in the house. That willingness to cooperate with another had not sat well with Khonshu. He evidently didn't appreciate having his Fist shown up by someone who worked full-time in the realm of the weird as opposed to Moon Knight's occasional dabbling.

Beyond that he couldn't remember what had happened. He knew there was an argument between Khonshu and himself and afterwards it was all a blank. What had been happening at the Atherton House? Did Elsa and he stop it? If they did why couldn't he remember and how did he end up in the psych hospital in another state? He didn't have the answers, but at least there was a thread to follow...

*See the (sadly) unfinished and now archived thread "Haunted" featuring Cali as the lovely Miss Bloodstone to understand the callback

[Rift]

Marc was shaken from his haze, unsure of how much time had passed since he was last able to string his thoughts together in any coherent way. He found himself restrained by a straightjacket, laying on what he was almost certain was the most uncomfortable couch he had ever had the misfortune of laying upon. Unlike the sterile white walls of the rooms his "treatments" took place in this one had hideous wallpaper and a couple mounted paintings of serene valleys and sunny mountaintops. It also lacked the distinctive ionized air smell that accompanied the electroshock therapy.

His head throbbed with white-hot pain as he opened his eyes for what felt like the first time in ages. Turning on his side he forced himself to focus on the voice that had drawn him out of the darkness. Unlike the hallucinations, visions, or whatever it was he had been experiencing this seemed to come from a person that was more than likely corporeal or so he hoped. A woman with her hair in a tight bun and glasses that reflected the fluorescent lights along the ceiling sat patiently in a nearby chair that looked almost as uncomfortable as the couch. She held a notepad and pen, one she tapped often, each strike on the paper making him wince as his skull felt like it was being torn apart.

"Marc? Are you paying attention?" she asked.

"What?"

"You were talking about the Atherton House? I believe it was involved in one of the delusions you'd been experiencing before you were within our care. Do you want to continue explaining?" she asked.

"What are you talking about? Delusions? I...you're a shrink," he replied.

Sighing she stopped tapping the pen. "I'm a psychiatrist, but you knew that. Marc we've been having sessions twice weekly since you arrived. I am to assess the progress of your treatments, to determine if you are getting better. Now, the Atherton House."

Blinking he vaguely recalled other times he'd been on the same couch, in the same room, as the woman rambled on wanting details about things he couldn't quite remember. Closing his eyes he pushed the pain to the back of his mind and decided to play along.

"Right. The Atherton House. I was there investigating the disappearance of several teenagers a week prior," he explained.

The woman wrote some notes, the scratching of the pen almost as bad as her previous drumming of it. "I see and so this place you imagined, it was based on a real location? An allegedly haunted house yes?"

Although his first instinct was to argue, to insist that he was really there, he merely nodded in agreement. "Yeah. And Elsa had been there. Elsa Bloodstone."

"I see. The supposed monster hunter. Given your isolation and how reclusive you'd become previous to this particular episode, it is only natural that you would add a companion to your delusion. Not only to ease your own loneliness, but also to help validate what you surely on some level realized as an intricate fantasy world you had constructed based around an urban legend. Ms. Bloodstone having been featured in various online articles and occult related sites around the internet it stands to reason you remembered the name and images. Not to mention your falling out with your lady friend...what was her name again? Aileen was it?"

"Marlene," he replied with more anger than he'd intended to. "Her name is Marlene."

"Right. Marlene. Well given how your relationship with Marlene ended you replacing her with another beautiful woman in your delusion makes perfect sense. And she is an expert in her so-called field and you enjoy surrounding yourself with important people. After all that's why you built the illusion of Stephen Grant being a billionaire, to feel less...small. It is worth considering that each of your identities and the associated fictions continue to draw from that insecurity in various ways and attempt to rectify it. Now, what did you and "Elsa" discover?"

He focused, watching scenes play out in his mind like old movies. It was slow going, but he watched as if he were a stranger experiencing the events from outside his own body and only after seeing the images flash through his mind multiple times did he answer the question.

"The first night? Nothing. I observed, deducted, found little to indicate that anything paranormal was happening. If she saw anything Bloodstone didn't say. A few English curses and hours later she left without a word, evidently convinced there were no ghosts present," he said.

"And you don't find that odd? That you didn't say much to one another?"

"No. I was there as Mr. Knight in my role as the Embracer. Khonshu was not answering me, not giving me guidance. In fact he stormed off not unlike she did, angry that I wouldn't harm her in order to continue the investigation without outside interference," he answered. "Besides, I think she thought I was unstable."

The psychiatrist said, "Well Marc, the fact that your imaginary people think you are unwell is actually a good sign. It means you yourself realize, deep down, that you have a problem and that something isn't right. On some level you don't believe these delusions either."

"I wish that were so. I went back the next night," he said.

"Why? Didn't you decide there was nothing there?"

"No. I determined there were no ghosts. That's not the same as nothing. I saw dust. Disturbed dusts and cobwebs at the base of an old bookshelf. The prints I could make out looked like they belonged to several people, each wearing very expensive sneakers. The exact kind the teens who vanished were said to have worn. Just because it wasn't ghosts didn't mean there wasn't something going on in that house and it didn't mean that whatever was going on was even supernatural. I'm the protector of those who travel at night and those kids were still missing. It was my duty to find out what had happened to them and if need be, avenge them," he explained.

"Okay, so you think you went back the next night. What did your keen observation skills show you then?"

He smiled as he remembered.

"There were doors behind the bookcase," he said.

"Doors? Plural?"

He laughed. "Yeah. The wooden ones were originally part of the house. Old, rotted. They splintered easily. The metal ones behind those were harder. I had to hack them. Interestingly enough the codes used on the electronic locks were pretty standard fare. They actually came from a number of preset codes, several years out of date mind you, but used by S.H.I.E.LD."

"And how do you know S.H.I.E.L.D. codes? Something from your time with the CIA? I would think that the Fist of Khonshu would be more focused on the other worldly elements than things as mundane as spy craft."

"Oh, being the avatar of the moon god means I wear many hats and my occasional association with the other costumed maniacs out there means I know many things. For instance my time in the West Coast Avengers gave me access to files they had on many things. I availed myself of them in case I ever needed them. The kinds of things they had were amazing. Mad scientists, superpowered soldiers, magic wielding dictators, and even aliens. Especially aliens. The not so little green men caught my attention."

The woman sighed. "Marc, please stay on topic."

Sitting up he grinned ear to ear. "Oh I am. See I realized once I got through the doors that this wasn't espionage related at all, but it wasn't ghost related either. It was an old fashioned case of alien abduction. See the kids that had gone missing? One of them was the son of a senator. Perfect person to grab if you needed information on the father. Perfect bait if you were going to snatch and replace the senator himself. And once I started down the hallway I knew for certain. The doors may have been appropriated S.H.I.E.L.D. tech, but the rest was straight out of Asimov or Roddenberry. It was a functional alien facility built within an old building thought to be haunted. Perfect for keeping people out and for luring in young folks, especially one wanting to impress a girl and get away from his politician father's over protectiveness."

"Careful Marc, we are getting off track."

Staring at the psychiatrist he smirked. "But you really want to hear this next part. I found the kids. And I found the people holding them. They were wearing uniforms. Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. agent body suits, lots of blue white. It was really striking, what with all the green."

"Green?"

"Yeah. Green. Pointed ears, chin ridges that would make Thanos jealous, and boy did they ever seem shocked. Maybe it is a gift from Khonshu, a side effect of being the avatar of a deity who walks in both the physical and paranormal worlds. Or maybe it is because it isn't just me, but also Jake, Stephen, and especially the Moon Knight. Maybe it takes more than a single set of eyes to see through it, but I saw their real faces. Just like I can see yours doc. It's like They Live but with ugly mugs the Green Goblin would consider kin," he spat.

"Okay, we are done for today,"she declared.

"No, no I'm guessing that when they finally overpowered me and managed to ship me off to Chicago you freaks were only just getting started. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, a couple senators here and a congressman there, probably some world leaders by now, and if I were you I'd have gone after others too. People like CEOs and even media personalities so you can control the narrative and slow down anyone trying to expose you. The Avengers tend to be so far up their own backsides that you've no doubt grabbed up a few of them. The Hellzone Incident means you probably learned that even the street level heroes that the world eaters and mad dictators tend to overlook could potentially cause you problems even if it is just leading a rebellion in the aftermath," he said, standing as orderlies entered the room to subdue him.

As they injected him and tried to secure him to a gurney Marc bashed his forehead into the nose of one and kicked at his knee, causing a wet pop to sound through the room.

Grinning through pain as the still standing orderly bashed him in the face and punched his stomach with enough force to make him heave, he glared at the psychiatrist with blood streaming down his face and staining his teeth.

"This isn't even Chicago is it? You never removed me from that facility in the Atherton House. You need to study me, to find out why I can see through the shapeshifting. You threw one of your soldiers out there wearing my face, stealing my look, but they are having problems. Because I'm not friends with the other costumes, they all think I am insane. Dangerous. A killer no better than those they fight. So on the one hand they don't miss me, but they also will never trust me. So attention is drawn to anything the fake me does, but he's just pretending to be crazy. Truth is he can't be me and you don't realize the truth!"

The psychiatrist, exasperated, sighed loudly. "And what truth is that Mr. Spector?"

"You are the crazy ones. Because you were crazy enough to lock me up and keep me breathing and stupid enough to think you can learn anything about me or how my patron has changed me. But you are going off of intelligence gathered on the others. I'm not Stark worried about trying to outthink you, I will just go right through you like a cleaver through meat and I'm not the wallcrawler worried about being the good guy. I am the Fist of Khonshu, his vengeance incarnate. I am the Moon Knight and I will kill every last one of you alien bastards."

[Rift]

Later that night...

Hours had passed before Marc once again regained consciousness. He was back in the padded room, a room he was almost certain had only been renovated to look like it belonged in a mental health facility. In some strange way that thought was almost a comfort to him as it meant he was closer to resources should he manage to escape. He of course had various safehouses and weapon caches around the globe, including in Chicago, but if he was truly still within the Atherton House as he believed it meant he was near his own stomping grounds. He'd been around the world and during his first forced exile had set up shop in California, but New York was where he felt at home. The Big Apple, rotten as it was, had been where Jake Lockely ferried passengers about in his cab and where he was at home among the lowlifes and more criminally inclined in dive bars across the city. It was where Stephen Grant had rubbed elbows with the elites of society, discussing all manner of tech development, political aspirations, and even dirty secrets over expensive alcohol. It was also where Marc Spector had purchased an old, rundown hotel to operate out of after his return to New York, a suitable alternative to the now destroyed Shadowkeep.

That's assuming I even can get out of here. Every time I go under it is harder to pull myself back out. I've been drugged before, taken blows to the skull that should leave me eating through a tube, but somehow I always come away from it with but a few scrapes and bruises. This time though it is like my mind is being torn asunder, my memories being peeled like layers of an onion, he thought.

"They are not merely drugging you, my son, they are trying to steal the essence of who you are so as to better mimic you to the outside world. In some regards they are almost a better you than you are. Given the aliens' adherence to their own gods, I dare say they'd be more faithful in their devotion than you have been my priest."

Marc spun around to find Khonshu sitting in a chair in the darkened corner of the room. The skeletal bird head sat atop an otherwise humanoid form clad in a white suit not that dissimilar to his own Mr. Knight garb. Somehow the moon deity seemed far larger than he had when last Marc had spoken with him, that night when he'd entered the Atherton House.

"Khonshu. You knew? You knew I was here for who knows how long and only now after I am half dead do you bother showing yourself? Where have you been? Why have you forsaken me?" Marc asked.

Khonshu scoffed. "You call this half dead? You were fully dead, twice over now and have only been granted respite from visiting Anubis' lands because I granted you more life. It was part of the bargain you made or have you so easily forgotten your gasping breaths as you bled out in the sands beneath my likeness? You were a weak, mewling little waste of a man that cared only for the treasures one could pay him for doing unspeakable things upon strangers in places he couldn't even find on a map previously. Then you had a sudden crisis of conscience when your 'friend' betrayed you and your thirst for vengeance replaced your thirst for coin. You made the deal, agreed to act as my avatar in this modern world, and for a time you did well. But then you forgot the face of the one that granted you another chance, that gave your existence meaning and purpose. I'd have thought that removing the gifts I'd granted you during the phases of the moon would have taught you what happens when you turn your back on your responsibilities, when you place such fleeting concepts as friendship and love above your duty, but I can see your skull is thicker than expected for a man with three different people living in it!"

Marc stood and approached the chair, his anger overcoming the pain and confusion. "I've only ever done what you asked! I have sacrificed my body, my mind, my life for your crusade!"

Suddenly Khonshu grew in size until he had to duck to avoid striking his skull upon the high ceiling. The bright lights in the room flickered before going dark, the only light emanating from within Khonshu himself, an ethereal glow like that of the moon on a mist filled night.

"You know that I am a generous benefactor, but I demand blood! Not every cretin must be slain, but how is the world to remember me if they only hear whispers of you doing what every other costumed buffoon in this city does? Leaving them in traction or bound and ready for mortal authorities? The mortals have plenty of so-called guardians using half-measures already, but in order to avoid conflict with morons that dress as arachnids, devils, and living flags you forgo your duty and cast aside our agreement! You are not a superhero Marc Spector! You are not a vigilante! You are not an Avenger! You are a priest whose flock are those who travel by night! You are my avatar on the mortal plane and when I demand it, my fist of vengeance! You do not wear a uniform or a costume, you wear vestments befitting your position!" Khonshu declared, voice like thunder.

Spector fell backwards to the floor, back peddling as if Khonshu were going to strike him or even simply step on him as a man would an insect.

"I killed for you. I gave you your tribute Khonshu! Monsters, servants of Set, Ra, Anubis, and more! I slew werewolves and battled restless spirits! And I even killed the human variety of monsters in your name. Midnight, Black Specter, and Bushman. Especially Bushman! I carved a man's face off for you and then, like now, you forsake me!" he shouted.

Khonshu in turn shrank a bit, shadows receding, leaving Marc highlighted by the ghostly moon glow.

"No Marc Spector, it is you who have forsaken me. You killed your enemies for daring to target your precious Marlene or threatening the Frenchman or for betraying you. You know why you fell to pieces after Bushman? You know why your knees never healed and why you escaped into the bottom of a bottle for so long? I did not abandon you. I did not deny you healing and succor. You did it to yourself, because deep down you know that all of those deaths were for you. Especially Bushman! You tired of the dance and longed to be rid of him, but you kept his face as a trophy in a box! The rumors of Moon Knight being dangerous, of not being one to cross, the fear and the reputation, those were all for you and your glory. It didn't sing praises for me or send a message about what happens when you assail those who travel by night! No, it boosted your ego and convinced you that you didn't need me. But then, like now, you come crawling back, humbled."

Marc started to protest, but remained silent for a moment, considering Khonshu's words. He'd hated Black Specter. Hated Midnight. Absolutely loathed Raoul Bushman. Truth was he did find it easier in the aftermath of killing Bushman to blame Khonshu for ignoring him, to wallow in a pit of despair and self-hatred. Part of it, even if he didn't want to admit it, was because things had been easier in the days when he thought Stephen and Jake were merely aliases he used to be a more efficient crime fighter. When he was doing things as Moon Knight without paying tribute to Khonshu he was able to hide the darker parts of his life. Frenchie was just a pilot and old war buddy helping him take down criminals. Marlene was the beautiful girlfriend and archaeologist that enjoyed her boyfriend being a costumed vigilante making the world a better, safer place.

Whenever Khonshu was directly involved was when it got hard. The illusion that he was a hero was shattered, not only to his friends, but for himself. It was when the monsters came out, when the only solution was to end the existence of threats rather than simply subdue them. It was a reminder of how he'd almost died in that tomb in Egypt and rather than face his death, he struck a bargain to keep going, because deep down he was afraid of what his final destination would be after living a life of violence and death. To some degree Khonshu was right. He liked the idea, the dream of being a better person and the more peaceful existence it brought him.

"You ask too much. You wanted me to kill people, good people, real heroes just because they made the mission harder. If I slew Elsa Bloodstone then countless monsters around the world would still be claiming victims. If I'd killed Captain America during the heroes brawls with each other I would have been removing one of the greatest forces for good the planet has and made myself a target of every costumed hero out there. If I did these things just because you get aggravated I have to take the time to work around these forces than I would be no better than that which I fight and I can't be your Fist if I am imprisoned by S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers. Nor can I if I remain here. Whatever differences we have, however frustrated you are with me, you have to realize that if these Skrull takeover everything then nobody will know or care who you are. Nobody will be safe to travel be it at night or any other time. All those you want to believe in you, to know of your existence will be enslaved."

"Hmm. Perhaps there is some truth in your words Marc Spector. Maybe I have rushed to judgment in my zeal to fulfill my purpose and make this world safer. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I should reveal myself to the Skrull that has taken your place, show him his ridiculous pantheon will not aid him as I would. Bah! I will let fate decide. Should you find the strength to do what must be done I will forgive you my son."

On his knees Marc looked up into the hollow sockets of the bird skull and said, "I can and I will, but I need your help."

Steepling his fingers as he sat back in the chair, Khonshu sighed. "Of course you do, I needed only for you to remember it. I've already aided you. Notice your lack of restraints and the tools I have provided."

For the first time since waking Marc realized that the straightjacket was in tatters on the floor and resting on the bed was a pen and a piece of shattered glass. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Moving to the bed he stripped it of the single sheet and the pillowcase and went about altering them as best he could with the crude instruments at his disposal. Before finishing his project he took the piece of glass and after probing his head to find the constant source of pain he'd been having, used it to cut into the skin hear the back of his skull. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes against the white hot pain until he'd found what he was looking for and ripped a small device, wires and all, from where it had been implanted.

"It's about time. Now, don your vestments and rise once more my Moon Knight! Prove to me you are worthy or meet the end you earned so long ago. I will be watching."

Standing Marc took his bloodstained fingers, raised them to his makeshift mask, and formed a crescent moon on his brow. He glanced towards the security camera that had watched him at all times and smiled when he saw the red light on it was off and had been for some time. Outside his door there was movement and a number of orderlies fumbled to find a keycard that would unlock it. They had no idea what awaited them within.

[Rift]

In the hall a pair of orderlies looked on, anxious over not knowing what was happening within the padded room. Three of their colleagues had entered moments before intent on securing Marc Spector. They were all unsure why the facility seemed to be having intermittent power outages, but their orders were strict. All patients had to be attended to, restrained, and accounted for. Given how out of it Spector should have been thanks to the large number of drugs he'd been injected with and the frequent application of shock therapy, subduing him should have been easy. The sounds coming from within the room sounded anything but easy.

Grunts of pain, curses in an alien tongue, and what sounded like the cracking of bones came from within causing both men to pause. For a long moment there was nothing but silence, each orderly looking to the other as if question what they should do. Their answer came swiftly as the limp body of the largest man who had entered flew out of the room taking down the door as it went. A blue of white exploded from within as Moon Knight tackled the nearest man, taking him to the ground and following it up with a punch to the head. He rolled away as the other man swung at him with a nightstick, the weapon striking his downed friend instead. Back on his feet Moon Knight leapt over the downed man, seized the other's wrist to prevent him from swinging the nightstick, and using his free arm delivered a powerful strike to the elbow, snapping it. As the man shouted out in pain, Moon Knight retrieved the nightstick and brought it down on the bridge of the downed orderlies nose as he attempted to rise. Turning his attention back to the man with the injured arm he backstepped to avoid a swing from the his still functioning limb and struck him in the ribs with the weapon before following up with a strike across the face that sent him to the ground where he stopped moving.

Sprinting down the hall he noticed the lights flickering rapidly, some going out completely, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was the result of the storm he could hear raging outside or if Khonshu was giving him some supernatural aid.

Wishful thinking on my part, he thought. This is a test, he said so himself, and he's never been willing to offer direct aid before so I doubt he's going to start now.

As he ran the shrink that had been questioning him, trying to convince him he was insane, the one he was certain was a higher ranking Skrull operative, rounded a corner. She almost ran into him, startled to see Moon Knight free of his room. Without hesitation Moon Knight swung the baton and struck her in the knee, knocking it sideways with a wet popping sound. As she gasped and fell to her healthy knee, he kicked the side of her head sending it bounding off the wall hard enough to splinter the wood paneling. Before he could even check if she was going to be able to get up again more staff came rushing down the hallway brandishing an assortment of weapons including stun guns and batons. Behind them were doctors or nurses with syringes in hand, no doubt intending to send Moon knight back into a chemical induced stupor.

Rushing the ground he threw his own baton striking an orderly in the face. Following it up with a knee to the hut he felt a nightstick smash down onto his shoulder, a balled fist striking his ribs. Pushing through the white hot pain he grasped the man with the broken nose by the sides of his head and slammed his skull unto the wall repeatedly, his exposed back getting the prongs of a stun gun plunged into his lower kidneys.

Grunting in pain he forced his eyes to focus. Like before he saw the alleged health professionals for what they really were: Skrull. Each flicker of the overhead lights, each flash of lightning, revealed their true, green faces for a split second only to return to the human guise immediately afterwards. Growling in anger he set upon his attackers, taking jolts of electricity and baton strikes to any portion of his body they could reach. Still for all their effort they had no real idea what they were facing. This was not Marc Spector, mental patient with no grasp on reality and foggy headed from drugs and voltage sent through his brain. This was the Moon Knight, the Fist of Khonshu, and he struck back with savage skill.

Pressure points were struck, joints snapped, and skulls cracked via appropriated batons. Blood sprayed on occasion, such as when he took the stun gun of fallen staffer, rammed it between the eyes of an attacker, and followed up with a baton strike that dislocated the jaw and sent teeth sprawling. The dance of violence went on for several minutes until only Moon Knight, his makeshift costume stained with splashes of crimson and green, stood victorious. Stepping over the a broken body he glanced to where he'd slammed one attacker face first into a glass case on the wall. Grasping the back of their collar he pulled the dead Skrull back onto floor, shards embedded in its face glistening in the flickering light. Reaching into the case he retrieved the axe meant for fire emergencies and turned his attention to the commotion in the near distance.

Brandishing the axe he smiled beneath his mask as he saw even more Skrull coming for him, this time wearing some sort of military uniforms and with weapons that looked as if they'd leapt from a science fiction movie in hand. He moved towards them, twirled the axe, and prepared to show a whole new group of aliens why even the denizens of Earth feared the Moon Knight.

[Rift]

Moon Knight was bloodied, battered, and bruised as he limped his way up yet another set of stairs. The fighting had been brutal thus far. All his years of experience be it from his CIA operative days, his mercenary work, or the clashes with monsters and superhumans since coming into Khonshu's service had seemed relatively easy in comparison to battling the aliens that had held him captive for so long. Perhaps it was Khonshu's lack of aid, the exhaustion from the chemical cocktail and electroshock treatments, or maybe it was the fact that the Skrull had shapeshifting abilities and he was limited to whatever makeshift weapons he could find or liberate from fallen foes. Whatever the case he hadn't felt as strained and near death as he did in a long time. Not since his battle with Raoul Bushman, the fight that had, like now, nearly broken him and taken him out of action for a long time.

Pushing aside those dark memories he pressed on, nearly slipping in the pools of blood coming from his many wounds, the sudden transition from wooden floors to some reflective metal-like material making it even harder to remain upright on a damaged leg. He heard sounds in the near distance, both indistinct voices and the odd buzzing and electronic beeping of machinery. A couple of steps further down the new floor was a metallic door with some kind of scanner based lock. Realizing there could be any number of enemies within he took stock of what weaponry he had left. The axe, long ago left embedded in the meaty arm of a Skrull that had changed his appendage into a mallet shaped weapon, would have been useful. As it was he had only a futuristic gun taken from a fallen enemy, shards of shattered glass, and a few syringes that had been intended to put him back under. It wasn't much but it would have to do.

Reaching the door he first noticed the lock was some kind of optical scanner. For a moment he wondered if he had to backtrack to a lower floor and recover a Skrull or at least their eye, to gain access, but he was spared the trip and the ghastly duty when the door opened and a man in a lab coat exited. Before the Skrull could register that he was there, Moon Knight rushed him, a shoulder tackle carrying both of them back into the room. Sprawled on top of the "doctor" he recognized him as the man that had first tried to convince him he was insane, that Moon Knight was a different person. Aiming the weapon he pulled the trigger and the final bit of charge struck the Skrull in the chest, scorched ozone smell arising from where what he assumed was plasma had hit home.

Standing, Moon Knight tossed the now empty weapon aside, and looked around. In the room were various cylindrical structures that resembled glass coffins. Inside were various humans kept in some form of suspended animation, tubes and wiring attached to them that seemed to be aiding in their continued survival. Readouts on nearby screens displayed images and information written in an alien language. He had not idea what they said or were showing, but he could hazard a guess. Somehow the Skrull were reading the minds of these people, their somewhat scattered memories playing out on screen like an old VHS tape stretched too thin. One looked almost like a man playing catch with small children, another were people in suits shaking hands, and others showed things he could have sworn were people in boardrooms. On and on it went, row after row.

Looking into some of the tube-like containers he didn't recognize all of the people held within, but others he definitely knew or had at least heard of. A billionaire CEO of a technology company Stephen Grant had met in passing. The Senator father of one of the missing teens that had first brought Mr. Knight to this place. A popstar whose music made Moon Knight miss the sound of gunfire. There were more that he didn't know, but it wasn't hard to guess.

If the Skrulls are replacing superhumans, they would likely store them off Earth so as to not blow their cover if someone escapes as those types so often do. But every trip they make, ever ship they take up with prisoners would run the risk of detection by S.H.I.E.L.D., a Stark satellite, or even someone like Doctor Doom. That risk would be worth it to replace and hold a Captain America or Iron Man. Politicians, celebrities, and influential mundane people could be housed here though while their imposters go out successfully infiltrating government, corporations, and even pop culture, he thought.

That still left the question of why he was kept around. Did they think he could help them learn more about the street level heroes? Surely their showing during the Hellzone incident would make an invading force stand up, take notice, and realize that even lower powered superhumans could be a threat. Not to mention he was considered unstable, a crackpot, and most in the superhero community would not notice his absence and may even welcome it.

If they think I lack any powers, then of course they would think it safe to house me with the regular humans. And if Khonshu allowed me to see their real faces it would intrigue them how I was doing that. They'd wonder if I simply had my brain wired differently and seek to prevent anyone else from learning the truth, he thought.

Realizing he had no way of knowing how to help those trapped, that trying to do so may end up harming them, he reluctantly turned to leave. He'd get to the roof, get out, gear up, and make the necessary calls to help them. They were still his charges, Travelers in the Night, and he would protect them one way or another.

[Rift]

Detective Flint pulled up to the wrought iron gate that surrounded the old Atherton House and let out a weary sigh.

Times like this I really wish I hadn't given up smoking, he thought as he exited the vehicle.

Roughly fifteen minutes prior he had received an unusual call. At first he almost didn't want to believe it if only because he was used to being the one to reach out to the vigilante called Moon Knight, bringing him in on special cases of the weird, and not the other way around.

Didn't even know he had a phone. Considering it came in from a cell belonging to some nurse, maybe he doesn't and has graduated from assault and branding people to stealing phones, he thought. Or would that be a downgrade? who knows with that lunatic.

To be honest Flint wasn't sure what to expect. In his prior experiences with Moon Knight the man proved effective and very capable of doing and finding what even veteran detectives like himself could not. So he didn't really doubt the masked man, even if his fellow officers thought he was the crazy one for associating with him. That said weird cases of slashers, hints of things that go bump in the night, and the odd supervillain were one thing. Little green men? That was something altogether different. He knew that aliens were real. Saw enough on the news every time some bozo from another world decided to have a grudge match against the Avengers or some surfer bum from the cosmos swung by the Baxter Building, but knowing and seeing it were two different things. Extraterrestrial nonsense? That was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s department or maybe Captain America or someone. Not a NYPD detective assigned to the purgatory of working unexplainable cases.

Any doubt he had that Moon Knight was overreacting or delusional went out the window when he noticed the place swarming with the blue and white uniforms of S.HI.E.L.D. agents and a couple FBI vans. He could have sworn he actually caught the briefest glimpse of an armored figure walking around the corner of the building. His attention however was on the man in a black suit and tie approaching him.

"Flint right?" he asked.

"Sure, sure," he replied. "And you are?"

"FBI," he answered, flashing credentials.

"We meet before?"

The agent shook his head in the negative. "No. One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. guys said we should expect you."

Flint raised his eyebrows in surprise. Even though he knew Moon Knight had registered, likely against his will, he didn't think of the man as much of a team player. Besides he had even come up with that ridiculous white suit and tie gimmick he called Mr. Knight just to give him and his fellow officers some form of plausible deniability should someone take offence to their working with a known madman such as Moon Knight.

"Did he now?" he replied. "Last I checked I don't know anybody at S.H.I.E.L.D. and most of you Fed boys I've worked with over the years only stuck around long enough to tell me to piss off due to jurisdiction. Didn't think they'd even taken the time to learn the city they were in let alone the name of a local cop."

The agent smiled. "You know S.H.I.E.L.D. they know everything."

"Sure, sure. American taxpayers couldn't say they are getting their money's worth if they alphabet agencies couldn't count the nose hairs on a flea in Latveria," he said.

"Well the alphabet agencies as you call them have this well in hand. Which makes me wonder what a 'local cop' is even doing here. Sightseeing by chance?"

Opening a stick of gum and popping it in his mouth, Flint kept his expression flat. "Just doing my due diligence. This place is supposed to be a real spook house, you know? Haunted by all manner of ghost and some such. So there here could be vandals. You know, overly interested kids trespassing. Happens often enough to places like this, especially this time of year."

"Uh-huh," the FBI agent replied. "And wouldn't that be the job of a beat cop? Not a homicide detective?"

"Sure, sure, but I live in the area. Like to let folks know I am looking out for them. Besides, you probably read my jacket. An old fart like me never going to make any more rank, riding out the last his days looking into the stuff nobody else wants to handle? Maybe I just got bored," Detective Flint said nonchalantly.

"Right. Well, I would suggest you start ghost hunting in safer locations that actually could use you. Like a Stephen King novel."

"Sure, sure. Don't gotta tell me twice Mulder," he quipped before getting back into his car and driving a short distance away, the agent watching him, unblinking the entire way.

Once away from the property, flashing red and blue lights still visible in the distance, he pulled over and parked. He glanced at the cell phone sitting in his passenger seat and sighed, unsure if he wanted to do what he was about to.

Could just go home, call it a day, let whatever is going on be someone else's problem. Probably should too. Moony has never been anything but trouble. Barely kept my badge the last time he was in town, he thought.

Without any further hesitation he dialed the number that Moon Knight had contacted him from. It rang several times, picking up only at the last minute. In the background he heard a grunt of pain and a tearing sound, like fabric being shredded or maybe tape being pulled. He tried not to think about what all could be making those noises.

"Detective Flint. Go ahead." came the voice of Mr. Knight.

It was unnerving how the man changed his voice depending on the persona he had taken on at any given moment. Almost as if it were different people.

For all I know it is a whole gaggle of lunatics instead of one crazy, he thought.

"Sure, sure. Atherton House. Place is swarming with the Feds. S.H.I.E.L.D. is there. Maybe even an Avenger or two, couldn't be positive. Whatever happened, I ain't getting in."

"That's quick work on their part. Did you notify anyone after I contacted you?" Mr. Knight asked.

"Sure, sure. I just up and dialed up Nick Fury, Stark, and the President because I have their numbers in my rolodex and they were so thrilled to hear from a psychopath vigilante that they put their top people on it," he replied.

"A simple no would have sufficed Detective. Leave humor to those sad portrayals of your profession on the various CSI shows," Mr. Knight replied.

"Sorry, it just weirds me out that they knew I was coming before I got there. Never even asked for ID."

"Hmm. Interesting," Mr. Knight said. "Tell me, were they alone? Any medical personnel with them or were they simply securing the scene?"

"Several ambulances. Why?"

"Either your phone is bugged or mine is. Considering I took this off of a dead Skrull it is possible they are monitoring this device, but I think it more likely that since they knew I was captured they began monitoring known associates. I expected this of some people, but not for them to target you. I apologize if this has endangered you in any way, but this does give me some answers."

There was another grunt as Flint listened. He could picture it now based on what he knew of Moon Knight. He was probably barely held together by bandages , duct tape, and over the counter pain meds. The man had never met a punch he'd actually dodge.

"What kind of answers?"

Mr. Knight sighed. "Well for one they have infiltrated federal agencies and maybe even S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. There are likely Skrull agents seeing to the mess I left behind and closing you out. Also, they haven't got complete control which means the ambulances are to transport the people I saw locked away rather than them resecuring the location to continue holding them. The real S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel and possibly even the Skrulls themselves don't want to risk a mass reveal or inciting a public panic, so they will be treated and likely isolated from media, family, etc. as the Skrulls in their places are dealt with. That way Iron Man and others can keep the information quiet a bit longer."

"Sure, sure. Makes sense I guess. But how did you know I am not a Skrull?"

"Because you would have warned the fake me and considering I have him chained up and bleeding out he never got the message that I escaped. Besides, no offense meant, but you are a lot like me. Ostracized by your fellow officers, considered unbalanced for working the high strangeness instead of retiring. In short they overlook you because you are just a man who has credibility issues due to your association with me, just as I am considered insane and untrustworthy because of Khonshu."

Flint sighed. The comparison wasn't flattering and he still thought the man was crazy, thinking he spoke to a moon god. Before he could say as much though his brain caught up to the conversation.

"Wait. You are saying you have one of them, impersonating you, in custody right now? I thought you were done with the whole murder and maiming thing."

"It's a work in progress. Besides, this is an extraterrestrial that has taken over my life and threatens the safety of every human on the planet. Man's laws don't apply to it and it has to answer for impersonating me. This is onetime Khonshu is going to get what he wants. Good bye Detective. Have a good night and just to be safe, get yourself a new phone."

With that the line went dead.

"Really shouldn't have stopped smoking," Flint said, stepping on the phone as he tossed it to the pavement.

[Rift]

Elsewhere, mere moments before the phone call...

Finding the Skrull that had taken over his life had been a relatively easy process for Moon Knight. He simply went home to the rundown, long abandoned hotel he had purchased upon his return to New York. It was much as it had been the last time he was there. Floor after floor of dark, empty, cobweb infested rooms. Thankfully both the restless spirits and the occasional homeless person seeking refuge were both noticeably absent, a small mercy for the vigilante who not only hated dealing with ghosts but had already been put through the ringer during his escape from the Atherton House turned secret alien base.

He limped his way along, cursing the injuries that he was feeling more than ever after the adrenaline rush of battle had worn off, he located the secret entrance and punched in the code necessary to gain access. His impersonator had not bothered to change the code, assuming of course it knew about the hidden door. Once inside he walked the darkened hallway, slumping against the wall ever so often, and leaving long bloody streaks as he went. Stepping into an elevator he took a deep breath as it started to ascend, hoping against hope that the Skrull had been so convinced he was out of the picture for good that it hadn't moved anything from where he had left it. Luck, if such a thing existed for Marc Spector, was on his side for when he emerged to the higher floor he used as his personal quarters there was no sign of anything having been disturbed.

Stepping into the area he most often rested in, he narrowed his eyes, the statue of Khonshu in the back highlighted just enough by the moonlight creeping in through the window to make it stand out in the otherwise spartan room. Pulling out a case from beneath his bed he stripped off the makeshift costume he'd assembled in the fake mental institution and began patching himself up with items from the first aid kit. Several packets of gauze, copious amounts of disinfectant, and a painful session of sewing his most grievous wounds shut later and he was ready for the next step.

Opening a closet he looked through the clothes within, briefly missing his old Shadowkeep lair where he would have had various armors in display cases ready to be taken into battle. Instead of a number of armors he was faced with a row of identical all white suits, spare Mr. Knight masks, and assorted weapons. As he took items off the hangers, he briefly wondered why he hadn't gone to the room where he kept many old crates stacked. Some contained Egyptian artifacts he bought over the years, things he didn't remember even purchasing, while others had his more specialized gear including carbonadium weapons and even bits of adamantium weaved armor.

You know the answer to that, he thought. The armors, the cloak, all of those are vestments of your station, but right now you are not Khonshu's priest let alone his fist. He has put you on the path to earn the right to call yourself these things again and so long as his blessing is gone, you are not the Moon Knight.

Donning the all-white garb of Mr. Knight he pulled the mask in place, straightened his tie, and adjusted the belt containing several moon darts and other weapons. A few moments prior he'd heard a creak on the upper floor and he knew that the false Moon Knight was on the roof, waiting for him. He felt the surge of anger over someone daring to impersonate him, the rage that came with having been trapped and tortured for months on end. Cracking his knuckled he headed for the door and the stairs that would carry him upwards. This fight would be the end of this long journey, one way or another. If he came out on top it meant he was worthy of being the Fist of Khonshu. If not, then he would die for good this time as Khonshu chose another to fulfill the duty...

[Rift]

The battle was intense and brutal, making even Marc's escape from the Skrull facility seem like child's play in comparison. Mr. Knight called upon every bit of training and experience he had, from the boxing maneuvers he'd practiced in his youth to the CIA trained techniques intended to cause as much pain as possible, and still it felt as if it was not enough. The Skrull, clad in full Moon Knight armor, matched him move for move and still managed to surprise him with new methods thanks to its ability to shapeshift. No matter how much damage Marc dealt out, regardless of how many times he struck pressure points or attempted to disable his enemy, the Skrull continued to rise and lash out once again. It was around twenty minutes into the fight that Mr. Knight realized what it was he was clashing with.

This must be what it is like to face me, the reason so many fear Moon Knight. Even Taskmaster has seemed reluctant to tangle with me for this reason. It's because I have never met a punch I wouldn't rather take than avoid. Pain is secondary to winning so it is ignored. I can be blasted full of holes, bleeding from a thousand cuts, and still I charge onwards like a relentless storm. That's exactly what this alien is doing. He's not just fighting me, he engaged me as the Moon Knight, he thought.

There was much to be said about how Marc tended to fight. Others with powers were unsure how he did what he did. Was it simply insanity that drove him to such lengths? Was there a hint of truth to the mad ramblings they'd heard? Was there something other than the physical, something perhaps supernatural that allowed him to take the vast amount of punishment that he did? These were questions that others likely dealt with whether friend or foe. Once upon a time it was a question Marc had the answer to.

For the longest time he had faith. He knew without a doubt that Khonshu had raised him from near death in the desert and given him a second chance at life as long as he acted as his avatar on this plane of existence. That was before, back when he was naive and took everything at face value, before his faith began to waver. This was not the first time he doubted Khonshu and his own sanity and to some extent he doubted there would ever be a time when he didn't wonder if everything was all in his scrambled up psyche. The last time it happened Khonshu crippled him, revived the Committee using the offspring of the original members, and almost destroyed him and all he held dear. That was what this felt like, as if Khonshu was purposefully allowing all of this nonsense with the Skrulls to happen in an effort to teach him a lesson.

The signs of it being a ploy by the moon deity had been there all along, but he hadn't been willing to see. Now it was unavoidable, the truth illuminated as if by the light of the moon itself. This Skrull was not like the others. It wasn't chosen to replace a person of interest to the empire, it was not picked to be an infiltrator to gain information. No, it was selected by Khonshu to replace him, to become the new Moon Knight.

Being the capricious deity he was, Khonshu no doubt arranged for Marc to realize how much he relied upon the supernatural intervention. His capture, his escape, all of it was planned from the beginning to place two potential avatars against one another, winner take all. The invasion the Skrull Empire was planning was secondary to Khonshu. He could either reinvigorate his Fist or get a new one, but either way blood would be spilled in his name.

For a moment Marc wanted to quit, to give into the pain and let the Skrull finish him off. His entire life was puppetteered by Khonshu, thrown into disarray at the whim of a being crazier than he was. It would have been so easy to simply let the final blow land and float away into the embrace of death that he should have accepted when bleeding out on that sand covered floor so long ago.

Giving up though was not in his makeup. Whether it was the billionaire Stephen Grant, the street-smart cabbie Jake Lockely, or the mercenary Marc Spector there wasn't a single personality that made up who he was that knew how to quit. Especially not when that Skrull would replace him, perhaps being less discerning in the chaos it caused in Khonshu's name than he was, and likely being a threat to Marlene, Frenchie, and others Marc still cared for.

Sinking to his knees as the Skrull rushed towards him, ankh-shaped weapon in hand, he closed his eyes. Only at the last second did he roll sideways on his already damaged shoulder, out of range of the bladed weapon. Rather than throw a crescent dart or use any of the other Khonshu-inspired weapons, he drew a .1911 from its holder and fired three rounds. There was something immediately satisfying about seeing the green blood of the enemy, of knowing that the wounds inflicted had nothing to do with Moon Knight or Khonshu, and that instead they came from a weapon that was part of Marc Spector's life before the insanity that he found in that temple.

The imposter stumbled in pain and disbelief, dropped his weapon, and fell backwards. Crawling it pulled itself into a sitting position and turned it's head towards the moon.

"Wh-why? K-Khonshu why have you forsaken me?" it asked, pleading.

As so often happened with Marc, the Skrull received no answer.

Limping over to the Skrull, Mr. Knight removed the mask, and despite expecting it, felt dumbstruck when he saw his own face staring back at him.

"He does that. Goes silent at the worst times. Rest now. You are not his servant, but you are traveling at night. Close your eyes and when Anubis meets you, tell him the true Fist of Khonshu sends his regards and bids him to treat you as a warrior that did his best to serve," Mr. Knight told the Skrull.

With a final shuddering breath the alien died, Marc Spector's features fading away as they were replaced by the green skinned visage of a Skrull soldier.

Mr. Knight sat down beside the dead alien and tried hard not to think. He couldn't remember if any of the Skrull back at the facility had done the same and returned to their true forms upon death. Considering he didn't even know how he had been able to see through their shape changing it brought up very unnerving thoughts.

Had all those keeping him captive been Skrulls as he thought at the time? If they didn't take their true forms upon death, did that mean it had been humans? If there were humans involved were they in league with the Skrulls or simply working with them without knowing they were serving an invading alien race? Or was the imposter Moon Knight the only Skrull and Khonshu had manipulated Marc into spilling the blood he so often demanded? These were questions Marc didn't know if he wanted the answer to.

Pulling a phone from his pocket, bloodstained glove smearing the screen, he called Detective Flint.

[Rift]

48 Hours later

Moon Knight was perched on a rooftop in the near distance, binoculars in hand as he watched the activity around the Atherton House. The scene was much as Detective Flint had described two nights prior, with a number of vehicles from numerous agencies coming and going. A perimeter had been set up complete with crime scene tape and men in dark suits and ties dissuading any would be nosy neighbors or urban explorers from attempting to access the property. The local news had been vague on details and as was typical of the media, presented a number of statements hand fed to them by one acronym organization or another. Speculation on the internet was varied, with some claiming there was an accident with an FBI safehouse to a government coverup of experiments with the spirits thought to have haunted the place. All-in-all whatever S.H.I.E.L.D. and other agencies were doing to quiet the situation down were working. Before the sun had even risen the odd happenings at the old house were out of the headlines.

Marc had begun keeping watch as soon as he could, the pain from his numerous injuries subsiding significantly in the hours since his rooftop encounter with the Skrull doppleganger. He'd watched in silence as items were removed from the facility and loaded into the back of unmarked vans in the dead of night. He assumed the bodies inside along with the captives that had been replaced, were likely taken off some time after his call to Detective Flint. If they were being moved into some form of witness protection or otherwise taken for medical checkups and eventual debriefs by intelligence agencies he didn't know, but either or both were likely.

Not going to come right out and say a Senator has been replaced while the replacement is still out there influencing policy, he thought. Same applies to the CEOS and others. That leaks out and the panic will turn to chaos quickly. Aliens that can replace you in look and even memories would have families turning on each other and give others excuses to open fire on anyone they think is acting suspiciously.

Once he saw an old sedan park almost a block away. He'd instantly recognized it as Detective Flint's off duty vehicle. The mystery of what happened in that old house was no doubt haunting the grizzled lawman who disliked unanswered questions almost as much as Marc did. It almost made him feel bad for not responding to the two calls Flint had placed to him from a new number. Almost.

Bad enough I lied to him that I had the imposter in custody when I'd already finished it off, but even if I wanted to give him answers I don't have any. Any poking around I would want to do is not going to happen, not so long as there are reserviced Guardsmen patrolling the facility. Chances are any clues from within have already been bagged, tagged, and shipped off to some black site for study.

Truth was he wasn't sure he wanted to know what they found. He was certain there were people locked up inside and had no doubt that there was high tech weaponry wielded by individuals claiming to be medical staff, but he had no idea if they had actually been Skrull or not. Try as he might to remember if they had reverted to their true forms upon death, the only one he could be sure was a Skrull was the fake Moon Knight. Whether Khonshu had truly temporarily granted him the ability to see through their shape changing or it had merely been a psychotic episode in which he thought they were Skrull, he couldn't know with any degree of accuracy.

Skrull, humans in league with them, or just an evil organization I happened to stumble upon the world is better off without them. Of that there is no doubt. I can't even be certain if Khonshu set all of this up to test me as I believe, but looking into the matter only invites trouble. As is S.H.I.E.L.D. may be wondering how I ever passed the evaluation to be granted registered status, but if they discover I was here they may opt to lock me away. Worse than that someone like Daredevil or the Heroes for Hire may learn that I hacked and slashed my way out of there. Given I have to work with these people sometimes and they already think of me as a psychotic killer, I can't risk being hunted by the costumed crowd every time I go out, he thought.

Besides, he was the Fist of Khonshu once more, a title earned through pain and blood. He had to protect those that traveled by night, to avenge those he couldn't, and to spread the word. He couldn't do that from behind bars and couldn't be dragged into a conflict with aliens.

Extraterrestrial invasion is one of the reasons we have the Avengers or even the Fantastic Four. I'm going to stay in my lane, unless Khonshu demands otherwise. Its their problem now.

Khonshu knew he had enough problems of his own. Like the murders that had first drawn him back to the city in the first place, killings that seemed to be the work of a new Midnight operating in and around Hell's Kitchen. It was dark stuff, twisted, but it was almost comforting to be delving into familiar territory rather than fighting enemies from another world. Still he had to wonder if all of this was a lesson, a way of reaffirming his faith in the mission and in Khonshu or if it was simply a way to spill the blood Moon Knight had been denying his patron?

The moon shone even brighter for a moment as clouds parted, as enchanting and enigmatic as ever. Moon Knight glanced upwards, staring at it with both wonder and resentment. For a moment he considered yelling at it, cursing it at the top of his lungs, but before he could there was cry for help several blocks away. Someone was being mugged and the protector of those who Travel by Night went to work.

THE END...FOR NOW