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Chapter Text

The Royal Dragon Chinese restaurant had seen all sorts of customers pass over its threshold, but never before had five vigilantes barged their way inside after closing time seeking shelter from ninja assailants. From the get-go, it was clearly going to be an unusual evening. Even so, watching the taxi driver of the group fiercely argue with himself in a corner did not improve the already weird scenario. 

“I’m not a douche! YES YOU ARE! Stop whackin’ me!”

“Anybody else seeing this?” Jessica Jones whisper-yelled as if she was the one losing her mind, and not witnessing someone else in the midst of a complete psychotic break.

Matt Murdock smiled cheekily, Jessica’s tattered grey scarf still wrapped over his eyes, as he paced the foyer. “I'm not seeing much of anything, Jones,” he quipped.

The cab driver continued, oblivious to those around him. “This is exactly what we agreed not to do! Our arrangement calls for transparency!” he grit out through clenched teeth. 

His speech inflection changed abruptly: “I keep tellin' yeh, I’m supposed to deal wit teh grimy details,” the new voice protested. “Stuff you don’t wanna know about. I got dis, you can chill!”

Across the room, a wide-eyed Luke Cage glanced at the surly PI beside him. “Oh I’m seeing it,” he shrugged his mountainous shoulders helplessly. “Just don’t know what it is.”

“Good enough for me,” Jessica mumbled.

Suddenly Matt froze mid-step. His head tilted ever so slightly toward the bay window - like a wolf listening for its prey. “I still hear neon,” he announced, and swiftly moved to switch off the illuminated signs.

Luke pulled his former associate aside. “Who hears neon?” he asked incredulously. 

The exhausted detective shook her head lackadaisically. “My blind-but-maybe-not lawyer.” 

The Hero of Harlem leaned in closer, brow furrowed. “Your what? What do you mean he's blind?”

His question fell by the wayside; ‘Taxi McMustache’ was firmly scolding himself. Hands on his hips, the stranger shakily exhaled as he gazed at the ceiling, as if asking god for patience. 

“Don’t let this become a problem,” he grumbled. He removed his old newsboy cap and raked his fingers through disheveled brown hair. 

As he turned to join them, Luke and Jessica got their first real look at the man that had fought beside them at Midland Circle. Besides his mustache, the cab driver's face was peppered with a bushy beard shadow that made Matt’s facial hair look like pubescent peach fuzz. Dark circles framed chestnut eyes, and a ghostly pale scar split his left eyebrow. He carried himself like a film noir anti-hero - somewhat hunched with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his tawny field coat. His overall weariness was especially disconcerting considering that beneath it all was a man who seemed to be only a couple of years older than Danny Rand, the youngest among them.

“How we doin’?” intoned the cabbie. His thick NYC accent would have been laughably stereotypical if the duo weren’t disturbed by his ravings.

“You tell us,” retorted Jessica. “Who the hell are you anyway?” she demanded with all the delicacy of a bulldozer.

The man grinned widely beneath his thick whiskers, resembling a piranha more than a human being. “Do yeh mean who I am right now? Or in general?” It was as if there was some kind of hysterical joke that only he was in on.

Though perturbed, Luke intervened before Jessica could politely inquire what in the name of ass that was supposed to mean. “Easy, Jess,” he planted a strong hand on her shoulder, “He drove me to Midland Circle.” In a cab that was about as clean as a gas station urinal and reeked of cigarettes and old sweat went unsaid.

“Yeah, where he proceeded to beat the living shit out of highly-trained assholes. Wearing spiked. Fucking. Knuckles,” she stressed. Jessica noticed movement within the driver’s pockets, no doubt fingers soothing swollen joints that had taken the brunt of the impacts from his knuckle dusters.

“Everything's locked,” Matt panted, putting the taxi driver and detective’s standoff on hold. He tugged off his pea coat and draped it over a chair. “I think we're safe for now.”

“So we're just gonna wait it out here?” asked Luke. He tried to meet Matt’s gaze, but the vigilante kept staring at or over his shoulder instead. Luke wondered if it was pride or distrust that made him unable to maintain eye contact.

Matt shrugged sharply. “You got a better plan?” He loosened his tie and gestured at Luke and Jessica. “Do you two know each other?”

“Yeah.” Jessica hesitated, carefully considering what and what not to reveal. For a blind guy, Matt was unnervingly adept at seeing through lies and excuses. She decided her best bet was to respond both concisely and vaguely. “We met. We drank. I shot him in the head,” she said flatly. Matt chuckled at her refreshing frankness.

“He says we can stay,” chirped Danny as the manager headed back into the kitchen. The boy billionaire drifted toward them in an olive suit tailored so perfectly that it rippled with his every movement. “I just had to give him my black card, agreed to pay the rent for the next six months,” he beamed as he rocked back on his heels. The cab driver whistled lowly. Luke and Jessica exchanged dumbfounded looks. For being one of the wealthiest people on the planet, this kid had a terrible concept of money.

“Hey, I’m Danny. Danny Rand,” he offered his hand to the skeptical PI.

“Jessica.” She immediately regretted returning the gesture. The kid’s energetic handshake threatened to tear her arm out of its socket.

All heads turned to Luke’s enigmatic cabman. The roughneck warily examined each of them before bowing his head in surrender, wearing the frown of a man who realized that he had nothing left to lose. He winced as he reluctantly peeled off his paintbrush mustache, and blew out his cheeks with a rueful frown.

“Moon Knight,” he answered.

“What the fuck?!” Jessica’s jaw practically hit the floor.

Danny carried on cluelessly. “And, uh you are?” He lowered himself to Matt’s eye level.

“No, I can’t. I'm not doing this,” the masked man grimaced. He angled himself away from them, trying to disengage as quickly and politely as possible.

“Doing what?” Danny scrunched his nose like a confused rabbit.

“Oh, come on! Fair is fair!” Moon Knight groaned, his accent gone and his back straight.

“Look, whatever happened back there, we did what we had to. We got out alive. The less we know about each other, the better. This is… It's too much already.”

“Okay.” Jessica darted for the scarf tied around her lawyer’s head. He instantly bent backward like a Matrix character and swatted her offending hand away.

“Jesus,” she sneered. It was almost funny except for the fact that he was wearing her favorite (only) scarf.

“There are people I need to protect-” he began.

“You’re not the only one,” Luke interrupted, jaw set.

“And the organization we just fought is powerful,” Matt continued in earnest.

Moon Knight snorted. “Yeah, well, what else is new.”

“Who even are they?” asked Jessica.

“They call themselves the Hand,” Danny replied in a deadly serious voice.

Jessica squeezed her eyelids shut. At her this rate, she was going to roll her eyeballs out of her head. “What are they really called?” she breathed tightly.

“No, he's right,” Matt affirmed.

Danny shifted toward him, perhaps feeling some sort of kinship with the attorney. “You crossed paths with them before?”

“Yeah, it-” Matt cut himself off and bit his bottom lip. “It doesn't matter,” he dismissed.

“Bullshit it doesn't matter!” Jessica exploded, face wild and fists clenched.

“Yeah, man. I'm with her on this,” Moon Knight crossed his arms.

“Same here,” Luke rumbled in his rich tone.

Danny raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, we need to figure out our next move,” he advised in an effort break the palpable tension between them.

Matt huffed a laugh. “No. There’s no next move.” The idea of pursuing this matter wasn’t unwise, it was suicidal. They should be satisfied with their miracle escape from Midland Circle Financial, part ways, and never speak of it again.

“And there is no ‘we,’” Jessica added along the same train of thought. “They came at us, we fought our way out. Let's call it professional courtesy. End of story.”

“It's not that simple,” Danny insisted. “These people are dangerous.”

The irritable woman’s eyes flashed as she rounded on him: "So am I," she snapped. "Now, somebody tell me what I need to know about the Hand, so I can be on my way,” she curled her lips icily. She’d just about hit her limit - which was was pretty low, to be honest - with this Illuminati garbage.

“What is that?” Luke pointed at a parade of about three cooks and the manager trailing out of the kitchen. Each bore a precarious stack of dishes in one arm and a ridiculously large assortment of Chinese cuisine in the other.

Danny spun around and tittered nervously. “Oh. Um, as, uh part of the deal, he made me order four of everything,” he stuttered, paying more attention to the steamy food than his anxious allies.

“We’re not here to eat.” Luke talked down to him the same way an exasperated father would to his wayward son.

“Speak for yourself,” Moon Knight scoffed.

Danny disregarded them and hungrily eyed one of the incoming trays, sparing enough self-control to keep from drooling onto the carpet. “Are those pork?” he questioned the over-worked staff. 

“No, they're shrimp,” Matt said. His nostrils flared. “This guy's got pork.” He gestured at the last of the chefs.

“Ah, great!” Danny rubbed his hands together, and sped over to their contractual feast with an equally famished Moon Knight not far behind. Luke pursued them out of a desire for answers, and Jessica pointedly sighed as she stomped past Matt. 

“God, you're weird,” she muttered. The blind man massaged the back of his neck, took a moment to center himself, and followed her scent of bottom shelf bourbon and leather.

“The Hand is an ancient criminal organization,” Danny explained. He snatched a dumpling and shoved it into his mouth as the five of them circled the table.

“Define ancient,” Luke braced himself. Whatever came next, as ludicrous as it might sound, he was going to have to keep an open mind about it.

“They live forever,” Danny garbled with a full mouth. The boy wasn’t making it any easier for Luke to listen to him when he provided explanations like that.

Jessica scoffed humorlessly. “You wanna try that again?” She arched a doubtful brow and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets.

Matt reiterated for him since the young fighter was too preoccupied with stuffing his face. “They live by a fanatical ideology, and every member is willing to die to protect it.”

“So they're terrorists then,” Moon Knight assumed. He rested his forearms on a chair back and scratched his dark bristles.

“No. Terrorists want the world to know what they're doing. This is something more secret, more evil,” Matt clarified.

“And they're global,” Danny chimed in while chewing yet another wonton.

Luke steadily rubbed circles into his temples. “But what do they do?” he huffed in vexation.

“Everything.” Danny extended his arms as if to illustrate all of the Hand’s crimes from time immemorial.

“Including the recruitment of young men in Harlem?” Luke asked disbelievingly. It was strange - and more than a little unsettling - to think that such a vast criminal organization needed to outsource teenagers from his neighborhood.

“Apparently,” said Danny. “They’re in New York for a reason, but I can’t figure out why.” Frustration crinkled his sky blue eyes, briefly replacing his boyishness with the thousand-yard stare of a hardened warrior. He unconsciously took a harsh bite out of his current wonton, like the greasy roll was responsible for their predicament.

“What do you mean, ‘fanatical ideology?’” blurted an impatient Jessica. She literally could not care less about Danny’s fairy tales. All she wanted was basic information on his creepy-ass ninja cult that would speed up her investigation. Then, she could finally shamble over to the nearest bar and drown in a bottle of Jack. God knew she deserved (needed) it after this shitshow of a week.

“It’s going to sound crazy,” Matt warned. He swiveled his head in the approximate direction of her alto timbre.

“Crazy is my six-day workweek,” Moon Knight assured him. “What do they want?” he pressed the young man.

“Immortality,” Danny casually responded, as if obtaining eternal life was par for the course during his own six-day workweek. “They want power and influence at every level across the world.” He paused, his lips set in a grim line. “And I think they want me.”

“For your money?” guessed Moon Knight.

Danny shook his curly-haired head. “I’m the Immortal Iron Fist,” he revealed in a low, dramatic voice.

Luke pinched the bridge of his nose. This again. This mystical, pipe dream, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon crap.

“Come again?” Matt leaned forward and cocked his head.

“Sworn protector of K’un-Lun,” Danny rephrased. He wore an expression that said they should know what that was.

Jessica’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What are you on? Lithium?” she hissed at him.

Moon Knight shot ‘Hong Kong Phooey’ a toothy smirk. “I know how it feels, kid,” he sympathized. “You and me,” he pointed at the perplexed Danny, “we’re going to get along great.”

Preferring not to dwell on that, Matt seized the chance to make his getaway. “This is a mistake. I can't be a part of this,” he sputtered. The sightless lawyer waved at them pitifully while rushing for his coat.

Luke caught up with him before he could reach the front door. “If you ask me, you already are,” he argued. “We need to put it all on the table.” 

Matthew Murdock, aka Daredevil, was many things, but an idiot wasn’t one of them. He knew exactly what Luke was implying. If the mysterious Moon Knight wanted to reveal his identity to total strangers, that was fine. If SoHo’s crusader had the balls and the hubris to believe that he could protect his loved ones indefinitely, that was fine too. But Matt remained resolute in taking his secret to the grave. He refused to risk the few, fragile friendships he had left just to satiate these people’s curiosity.

“I don't know you, man,” he evaded, “I don't owe you any-“

“I don't trust you,” Luke cut him off coolly. He clamped his enormous fingers into the wiry muscles of Matt’s arm; the unbreakable man was done mincing words.

Well Matt could play the intimidation game too. “You want to take your hand off my shoulder?” he snarled, resembling a canine for the second time that evening. A rabid canine at that. But Luke did not yield. If anything, he stared directly into Matt’s defective eyes with even more steely determination than before.

Behind them, Jessica moaned lazily. “Oh, boy.” Unhurried, she approached the embattled heroes and cleared her throat. “Counselor, a word?” she intervened dryly and jutted her hip. Matt scowled, smacked Luke’s hand away roughly, and begrudgingly followed her to the front of the establishment.

When Luke looked back at him for support, Danny merely inclined his head and shrugged his fuzzy eyebrows, conveying a silent: “Don’t ask at me, I’m just as confused as you.”

The Iron Fist then turned to Moon Knight, now seated. His grungy hat sat next to him on the table as he relaxedly enjoyed a bowl of Kung Pao chicken. “You said that you know how it feels,” he started uncertainly, “for people to think you’re crazy.” The de-mustached guardian glanced up at him with an innocent, almost child-like air as he brought his chopsticks to his mouth and took a bite. “If you don’t mind me asking, how exactly?”

His shoulders shook with silent laughter as he finished chewing. He gave Danny a small, reassuring smile. “I, too, answer to a higher, supernatural power,” he said. “The ancient Egyptian god of the moon, Khonshu, chose me to be his avatar on earth. I am his instrument of vengeance, protecting travelers in the night.” His dark eyes widened, grin consuming his face. “A ray of moonlight in the darkness!” he announced grandiosely.

Danny and Luke’s mouths hung open. Their eyebrows nearly shot off their foreheads. Danny’s lips attempted to formulate a response, but they could only manage a weak, “Ah,” of affirmation.

Moon Knight broke into a giggle fit, rocking backward and clapping as he cried tears of mirth. “Oh, Lord that never gets old,” he wheezed.

Jessica sauntered between Luke and Danny wearing a satisfied smirk. Moon Knight wiped the wetness from his cheeks and rose to his feet. The detective nodded confidently - mask-guy would come. Sure enough, Matt returned sans scarf, his auburn hair adorably tousled. The only oddities in his otherwise ordinary appearance were his frosty brown pupils, downcast and unfocused. Without looking, he gave Jessica her balled-up scarf.

“My name is Matthew,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

Marc Spector took in a long, deep breath. Do it like a Band-Aid. Rip it right off.

“Okay. So, if we’re putting everything ‘on the table,’” he made air quotes, “You guys should probably know who you’re dealing with.” Marc gestured at his chest with the sauce-coated tips of his chopsticks.

Murdock had just revealed that he was Daredevil. What's more, he possessed a nifty, radar-like sense that allowed him to ‘see’ better than any sighted person. When pressed for details, he played the old “It’s a long story,” card. But Marc could see the pain in Matt’s blank eyes. It wasn’t that Daredevil’s origin was complex, but rather too agonizing to recall.

Marc had never been social - his alternate personalities could attest to that. Naturally, he was not a fan of groups; he already had enough voices in his head pestering him twenty-four-seven, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. But even Moon Knight, who had battled an actual werewolf and the pyrokinetic avatar of Ra, had to admit that a never-ending army of zombie ninja seeking to destroy New York City with artificial earthquakes was way above his pay grade. If these disparate defenders had to work together, then they were going to need to be honest with one another. Maybe if Marc opened up about his past (his abridged past, of course, hypocrite that he was), Matt would trust them with his own.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jessica poured scorn on his outreach attempt. “Do we get an explanation for this?” she gestured harshly at his ragged appearance.

“They will never trust you, my son,” a beak clacked in disapproval.

Unaffected, Marc discretely glimpsed the ominous speaker out of the corner of his eye: Khonshu, seated upright in a faux bamboo chair with steepled fingers and crossed legs. As always, the moon god was garbed in a pure white three piece suit, while his head - a brittle bird skull - hovered above a crisp collar. It was only a matter of time before he showed up.

“Your fun with the boy and the unbreakable one revealed your true nature. That of a sick, damaged soul.” 

“Jess,” Luke fixed her with a stern glare. “Let the man talk.” She huffed an irritated laugh and crossed her arms over her chest.

“They have only just begun to comprehend your mental fragility,” the deity said in a satiny whisper, his bill now barely brushing the shell of Marc’s ear. His slave shivered involuntarily. “You are a liability, and they will be glad to be rid of you.” Khonshu’s frozen breath ghosted down his spine like a feather over bare skin as he evaporated into nothingness.

“And I will be waiting,” lingered in the air.

Luke gave Marc a nod of encouragement. “Go ahead, man,” he said. Danny stared at Marc like a cheery chipmunk with his food-filled cheeks, while Matt remained as impassive as ever, his head aimed at the empty space between him and Luke. Marc returned the nod and exhaled, studying the moon-pale tablecloth intently. 

“I, uh, used to be a mercenary,” Marc began. His furry face twisted into a straight grimace. “I never had any regrets about my lot in life, figured it was better not to stop and think too much about it.” He took a moment, deliberately closing and opening his lids as he recalled the fading swelter of Sudan at twilight. 

“Until the day my partner and I were hired for a raid on an archeological site…”

* * *

Coarse sand, scalding, stagnant air, and the setting sun beating down on his face. A desert. Something else on his face too. Something warm and sticky. His parched tongue flicked between cracked lips and tasted copper. Blood. Whose?

“They told me you were crazy, Spector.”

An accent. Bass, African. Then a sudden firmness smashed into his left eye. A punch? No, that was too dense to be a fist.

Another blow. There went his jaw, dislocated and swinging like a screen door in the wind. He had felt the rise and fall of what might have been knuckles just then. Maybe it was a fist. A fist made of concrete.

“I thought they meant the fun kind.” That voice again. Cold, disappointed, and perhaps slightly amused.

Ichor stained the absorbent grains below in a halo. Fresh rivulets plastered hair to his quickly numbing forehead. Ah. It was his blood. 

Things gradually came into focus. The orange-purple sky was obscured by the fuzzy figure of a behemoth. As the blur waned, he made out the familiar, Cheshire cat visage of a monstrous man decorated with wraithlike tribal paint. Marc’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

“But you’re just soft,” Raul Bushman spat, yellow shark teeth bared. “Broken.”

He turned on his jackbooted heel. Gunfire barked in his wake as the local diggers were mowed down. Innocents he had tried and failed to save. Marlene wailed for her murdered father. Jean-Paul desperately fought against his captors. "Fear is the key, Spector!" Bushman bellowed over the whooshing of propellers. "You must inspire fear in enemies and followers alike to survive and thrive! That is where you fail."

The hurricane of helicopter blades rose up and away.

Marc was alone. He should have listened to Frenchie. He should never have taken this job. But he was a broken man. A broken man who thought that money would make him whole.

* * *

“Back then, I was convinced that, in our own way, we were making the world a better place. Hunting down scum for the right price and all that.” Marc’s shoulders slumped. His forefinger painted imaginary frescoes across his makeshift canvas.

“But executing civilians… That wasn’t-” 

In his indignation, Marc struggled to best express his disgust. His free hand tightened into a fist until his nails bit into his palm. “I couldn’t lie to myself anymore,” he eventually asserted. “No payday was worth that. I had to stop Raul before he killed anyone else.” A bitter snicker rasped out of his throat. “And all I have to show for it is this,” Marc ran his fingertips over the thin, ivory scar that tore through his brow, “and more death on my conscience.”

“But what happened after Bushman left you for dead?” Danny inquired excitedly, a child hanging on the edge of his seat during story time.

Luke, on the other hand, kept reasonably calm throughout the duration of Marc’s tale. He made up for his lack of enthusiasm with a probingly suspicious attitude. “Yeah, is that when all that… ‘moon god’ stuff happened?” he asked with a furrowed brow.

Marc looked away. Ignore the question, stick to your SparkNotes origin story. “I wandered in roughly the same direction the chopper flew for about seven miles,” he continued. “By some miracle, I reached the main dig site and… rested in the tomb of Pharaoh Seti. When I woke up, I made Bushman pay. Rescued Jean-Paul and Marlene. Got us stateside.”

“You’re called ‘Moon Knight,’ dude,” Jessica drawled impatiently. “What kinda freaky shit did you get into over there?” 

* * *

He collapsed in a puddle of his own blood beneath the moonstone gaze of Khonshu’s caped idol, and died. And yet, in death, Marc dreamed of the cosmos - celestial rainbow surroundings that stretched beyond comprehension. There, he encountered the vengeful moon god himself and was appointed avatar.

His soul was haphazardly ripped apart, spiritual molecules rearranged, and shot like a lightning bolt back into his husk. The Fist of Khonshu, not Marc Spector, awoke in a cold sweat. He rose and clothed himself in the ancient statue’s chalky cloak without hesitation. Its pigment was quickly soiled beyond all recognition with the insides of Bushman’s mercenaries. The lunar legionnaire blew through them like a ghost, stealthily snapping one’s neck before smothering another as he stabbed their heartless chest. He was an elusive cloud of smoke that the soldiers of fortune, literally, couldn’t shoot to save their lives. 

Soon enough, only Bushman remained. The demon disguised as a man sank his razor sharp steel fangs into Marc’s leg, hip, forearm, and shoulder - tearing away muscle each time - as they wrestled amidst the scaffolding and ruins. But Marc could take it, he could take anything now. He ignored his body’s cries of agony and held Bushman down in a chokehold. He brandished a Ka-Bar already coated in blood, and leaned so closely to his former employer that he could feel Bushman’s labored breaths brush across his nose.

“Just like you told me,” Marc growled. “Fear is the key.”

He took his blade and, as precise as a macabre surgeon, carved that grinning, animalistic face off of Bushman’s skull. All he registered was the slow scriiipch of each cut and the squelch of syrupy blood around his knees. Surrounded by swirling sand, Moon Knight hoisted the horrid slab of flesh overhead to the starry sky, and screamed until his voice gave out.

* * *

“Hey, McDonald's Moon Man,” Jessica’s grinding voice mocked. "You home, or should I leave a message and call back later?"

"She asked you a question," Khonshu hissed from the ether. "Come now. Do you intend to hide forever, or will you share our glorious quest with the unenlightened?"

The ex-mercenary fiddled with his coat cuffs. He chewed his bottom lip indecisively. Like a Band-Aid, like a Band-Aid, like a goddamn Band-Aid.

“The moon god Khonshu resurrected me to be his avatar of vengeance and I hear his voice inside my head because he wants me to murder criminals to satisfy his bloodlust but I’m trying to be better so we’re stuck in this sour relationship and also verbal abuse.”

"Well. That could have gone better."

“Okay stop, stop, stop,” Matt spread his hands, composed and pacifying. Unknown to Moon Knight, Daredevil could tell that the vigilante was telling the truth. Or at least that he believed he was telling the truth. “Just- um, what’s your real name?” Matt asked with an unsure smile, figuring that simpler questions would yield simpler answers.

Marc looked the blind lawyer in the eye out of force of habit and mustered a small smile. “Marc Spector."

“So, that was the... moon god you were calling a douche earlier?” Luke inferred.

“Ehm… No. That was one of my alter-” Marc wanted to say ‘alter egos,’ but his honesty won out instead. Besides, ‘alter egos’ wouldn’t have made sense anyway. “One of my alternate personalities,” he mumbled defeatedly.

“Excuse me?” Jessica scoffed, voice strained.

Marc squeezed his eyes shut and let go. "Time for show and tell," said Khonshu, wicked smile evident in his voice.

 I wanna say a few words.

They’ve already met you. Why don't I take the reins? I’m the most civil out of the three of us - it’ll be better received if I explain our modus vivendi.

Yeh’re a blowhard, Steven. What we oughtta do is give ‘em a proper demonstration. And I’m just the man ta do it ‘cuz I ain’t a pussy, and I don’t feel no shame ‘bout who I am.

You don’t have any shame, period. Ass.

Jake Lockley rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck backwards with a loud crack, and sighed contentedly before wilting and resting his hands on the tabletop. He wore a crooked, mischievous smirk that would make a shark envious.

“So yeh met Marc,” he hummed. “Marc’s disturbed as hell. But imagine dat he took all teh worst parts of himself n’ let dem fuse into a livin’ person.” He outstretched his arms, sharp smile widening. "Ta-da," he sang. “Jake Lockley, taxi driver, at yeh service.”

“You- Your heartbeat just… changed,” Matt stammered, disoriented and terrified all at once. The unique, life-affirming rhythm within Marc’s chest had, for the lack of a better word, reset itself to a whole new tempo. That was not something you could train your body to do - that was impossible.

Meanwhile, a chill ran up Jessica’s spine. As a PI, she could read and identify people by their tics within minutes. Either Marc Spector was an Academy Award-winning actor, or this actually was a complete stranger with a different set of behavioral patterns sitting in front of her. Wide-eyed, she clumsily pulled her chair away from the table as though it was on fire. 

“The fucking fuck is this Shyamalan Split shit?!” she raised her voice shakily.

"Well done, my son," Khonshu commended, "Well done indeed."

“Guys, please, can we put this on hold?” Danny piped up, clearly shaken, but doing a much better job of staying composed. After all, there was still the slightly more pressing issue of hiding from undead assassins. “We need to formulate a plan, preferably one that doesn’t involve putting our friends in danger.”

“Or incriminate us,” Jake added hastily to assist in changing the topic. “None a’ us are on police payroll. What we did back dere was trespassin’, aggravated assault, n’ vigilante bullshit.”

Danny nodded eagerly. “Exactly! And as for doing this any ‘legal’ way,” he trailed off, “Well, Luke, you saw what happened when I tried that.”

Luke raised an amused eyebrow. “Is that what that was?” 

“It started that way,” protested Danny, petulantly. “I mean, come on, look, I even put on a tie!” He flailed the strip of fabric around like it would prove his point.

“You cannot fight these people,” Matt promised him. “Not even with whatever it is your hand can do.”

“It’s chi,” Danny clarified, gesturing at his fist.

“Gesundheit,” Jake deadpanned. Jessica snorted and forked fingers through her inky tresses.

“What I'm saying is, going at them head on, that'll get you killed,” Matt said with a note of finality.

Danny shrugged idly. “Only if we do it alone,” he suggested with a hopeful smile. He raised his eyebrows at each of the characters that sat around him, earnestness in his bright eyes.

“No,” Jessica declared immediately. “I’m the first to admit when I'm in over my head, and this is way past my threshold.”

“What are you talking about?” the young man chuckled disbelievingly. He pointed at each of them in turn. “Bulletproof. Psychopath (no offense). Blind ninja. Whatever it is you are,” he raised his hands at Jessica lamely.

“Classy,” she sassed with narrowed eyes.

Matt breathed a diplomatic chuckle and folded his arms. “I know you mean well, but we’re not whatever you think we are,” he half-smiled wanly. “We're five very different people, and while we might all have been trying to do some good, we need to be rational about how we proceed.”

All of a sudden, Daredevil’s spine straightened fluidly - as though an invisible puppeteer had tugged on just the right string to correct Matt’s posture. His head pivoted to the left with a slight angle favoring that side’s ear. “Oh, you got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

"My son," Khonshu whispered in Jake's metaphysical ear, "we are no longer alone."

The restaurant’s back door clattered open against the wood paneled wall. Everyone jumped to their feet and assumed various defensive stances. Everyone except Matt, who stood with great reluctance before stiffly propping his hands on his hips. In strolled a grimy, gaunt, one-handed old man with a katana - of all things - clutched in his remaining fist.

“This,” he grumbled in a gravelly voice as he indicated the misfits with a wave of his sword, “is one shitty excuse for a hideout.”

“Stick,” Matt sighed bitterly, his lips screwed into a tight line.

“Matty,” the grey-haired reprobate acknowledged.

“Who the hell are you?” snarled the on edge Jessica Jones.

“The guy that's gonna help you save New York,” he shot back, a cocky smile tugging the corner of his chapped lips.

"Oh, I think I'm going to like this one."

Chapter Text

“I can’t say that I really knew Daredevil. I guess I knew him about as well as he let me. All I know for sure - and, honestly, all anybody needs to know - is that the man sacrificed and suffered to make this city a safer place. And despite his personal struggles, he consistently defined himself by his selfless commitment to the Kitchen’s people. I know that none of us gathered here like being associated with the ‘h-word,’ but, as he isn’t here to stop me, I’m gonna do it anyway: Matthew Murdock was a hero, both to New York and the judgement-impaired everywhere. I may’ve only known Daredevil for a week, but I’ll miss him. And so will Hell’s Kitchen.”

- Luke Cage

* * *

This was officially the third bar that had, quite literally, kicked Jessica’s drunken ass to the curb within a week. It was also the seventh bar that had done so in the last two weeks. But, whatever. This was how she coped. It wasn't her fault these that barkeeps couldn’t handle her. And so, in her stupor, sprawled across the comfy cement, she barely registered the soft eerrrrt that eased along the curbside.

“Taxi, Miss Jones?” an asshole called down to her.

“Go… fffuck yerself,” Jessica slurred against the filthy sidewalk.

The disembodied dickhead barked out a laugh. “I’m good. Howsabout talkin’ without a mouth fulla ground?”

Her jelly legs wobbled as she willed them into a graceless, semi-upright stance. Teetering, she clumsily tossed her tangled hair and thrust her chin in the speaker’s direction. An aggressively yellow 70s Checker cab stood out from blurry world around her. Jessica was trapped in a 3D movie, and she didn’t have a pair of paper glasses to straighten everything out. Wonderful.

Jessica slowly became aware of sinewy arms tucked underneath her shoulders; must have caught her before she face-planted on the pavement. They dragged her as though she was a corpse, the toes of her boots scraping along the concrete, before tossing her unceremoniously onto a cold leatherette surface. An unmistakeable car door clunked closed behind her. 

“Thish isss kidnappink assshole!”

“Sue me, Jones. See how dat goes without no lawyer.”

* * *

Every so often, when her super-metabolism allowed her to get shit-faced, Jessica’s nights were mercifully quiet. The smorgasbord of omnipresent nightmares featuring purple monsters, suicidal girls, ravenous chasms, architect brain-juice, helpless siblings, burning barrooms, murdered stepmoms, and zombie devils would finally leave her the fuck alone. Still, there was always the trade-off of returning to the waking world with a head like a swarm of angry bees. Such was currently the case as she floundered about in a sea of stiff fabric and lumpy pillows, somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

“I’m assuming you don’t want to talk about whatever’s going on.”

She knew that voice - gruff, yet faintly young in pitch. Similar to her own irritable tone, it was mostly weary with a tinge sardonicism mixed in for good measure. Straining her barely-sober brain, Jessica eventually identified the stubborn traces of nasal Chicagoan vowels within the speaker’s statement.

Ugh.

Fuck.

Of all the nutjobs flying (or swinging) around in tighty-whities, she had to get picked up by the one that actually was clinically insane. 

Reluctantly, she forced her impossibly heavy eyelids open and got assaulted by bars of sunlight beaming through open blinds. It didn’t help that the incoming light worsened her agitated brain’s incessant pounding. A hungover vampire rising from her casket, Jessica’s vision rebooted sluggishly to take stock of her surroundings.

Somehow, Marc Spector’s apartment was shittier than her own; a studio with salmon carpeted flooring throughout (excluding the phone booth bathroom) and orange wallpaper that peeled in places to reveal gritty brickwork. His cheap drapes, furniture, and the scratchy sheets cocooning her could have easily been stolen from a Red Roof Inn. 

She eventually found Marc patiently leaning against the kitchen sink, watching her struggle to stay upright.

“Shut up. Get me Aspirin,” she commanded him grumpily.

The crazy crusader snorted before underhand tossing her a small white pill. Rather than attempt a catch, Jessica watched as the tablet bounced onto the maroon comforter in front of her. She fumbled her trusty flask from the depths of her jacket, and swallowed the chalky painkiller with liquid assistance.

“So,” Marc began far too casually, “It’s been a while. Coming up on a month now.” His humorous expression faded almost imperceptibly into one of concern. “Everyone missed you at the funeral, by the way,” he said, loosely crossing his arms.

Even with amber fluid at the back of her throat, Jessica’s mouth dried to a desert. “Get stronger glasses, Sheet Face,” she sniffed, “I was there.” Alone. In a dark corner. The last one in and the first one out. The mess of a detective threw back another hearty swig of her flask, but it’s contents only drizzled onto her tongue. Jessica swished the container impatiently before groaning at the plinking sound of dregs.

Smirking wryly, Marc presented her with a bottle of bourbon. Barely a second passed before Jessica snatched the bottle from his loose grip and twisted its cap off in one fluid motion. She knew that Marc didn’t expect a ‘thank you,’ and was grateful for it. 

“Not with the rest of us you weren’t,” he said, and left it at that. Thank God. 

A semi-comfortable silence descended between them as Jessica drank and Marc gazed out the window. She studied him for the first time in - he said a month, right? He looked just as tired and isolated as before, except now he was in jeans and a white compression shirt instead of long johns and a cape. A cursory glance at a hook by the front door revealed a hanging white coat and matching military boots below.  

How much of Spector’s clothes were freaking white? Seriously. It was weird, even for him.

“You heard Luke’s eulogy, then?” Marc abruptly asked, his murmur breaking the stillness like a thunderclap. "You remember what he said?”

“Hard to forget,” Jessica replied.

“It was a good speech." 

“Luke should run for public office.”

“He’d win by a landslide,” Marc chuckled.

Jessica refrained from mentioning that Luke Cage had become the crime boss of Harlem. Oh, and that his temper had ended his relationship with Claire Temple. She wasn't naive. Moon Knight’s (or Jake Lockley’s?) network of informants kept him in the know; he must have at least heard rumors about Harlem’s criminal restructuring. Still, in a rare moment of restraint, Jessica decided not to fuck up everything (as per usual) and kept her mouth shut about the more intimate details. It wasn’t her place to divulge friendship-ending shit like that. 

On a side note, since when did she have… friends? Ew. 

“Goes to show how much of an impact Matt had on us,” Marc reasoned as he sat on the bed. So they were referencing Murdock by name now. “I hear you’ve been taking more cases, Danny’s on a soul-searching quest, and Luke’s… trying something new. Hell, there hasn’t been a peep from the Punisher in months.”

Jessica smirked at the friendly neighborhood kook. “And you’re pummeling assholes within an inch of their lives, huh. How’s that any different than before?” And no, she did not expect to get a real answer out of him.

Marc hummed a laugh. “Things have been a lot less crazy lately - lunacy jokes not intended,” he added, sensing the snarky comment on her tongue. “Without any ninja, werewolves, Egyptian demigods, or ghost punk rockers to deal with, I’ve been able to take the fight back to the streets.”

“Ghost punk-?”

“Long story that you wouldn’t believe anyway,” he waved off. “My point is, work’s finally fun again. The X-Men can hold a monopoly on the freak market for all I care. I get all the pissants to myself.”

Jessica’s stomach twisted at the wolfish grin Marc unconsciously sported. She had to remind herself not to scoot away; the last thing he needed was to be ostracized further. Although Jessica still had difficulty wrapping her head around Marc’s particular brand of madness, she recognized a fellow trauma victim with horrible coping mechanisms when she saw one. And while Jessica Jones does not do feelings, she occasionally makes an effort for the short list of people she gives a shit about.

Just this once, Jessica managed to reject the intimidation that came with taking on another person’s problems on top of her own. She closed her eyes and took a deep, yogic breath. 

Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane. Let’s fucking do this.

“Y’know, I would say that you’re turning into Murdock, but-” 

“Danny’s already got that covered?” Marc cut in playfully.

“I was gonna say that you kill people, smart-ass” she said. “Or does the Bulletin have you confused with some other wacko wearing Charlie Brown’s Halloween costume?”

Marc’s attempt at a reassuring smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m trying different techniques, that’s all."

“Thought you didn’t wanna take lives anymore.”

“That hasn’t changed, Jess," Marc insisted. "I already have more than enough blood on my hands.” He sighed wearily and wrung his hands. “But… I've realized I have to be willing to use deadly force. As a last resort.” The earnestness in his eyes and voice, the honest belief that this was the only way, rocked Jessica to the core.

“Your voodoo ‘god’ telling you to do this, is that it?” she pressured him. Jessica wasn’t one-hundred percent sold on the entity living in Marc’s head, but she fiercely hated (to put it mildly) people that forced their will on others. For obvious reasons.

“I told Khonshu to go fuck himself, for your information,” he snapped. The glare he gave her didn’t leave any room for argument. “With Matt and Danny gone, and Luke being an asshat, someone needs to show the scum they won’t be tolerated. This is my choice.” Marc's eyes briefly darted to the other side of the bed, as if he saw something on sheets beside him. He growled at the nothing that had earned his ire.

Well, so much for that. This is why Jessica Jones makes a shitty friend. “Was there a point to this pep talk?” Jessica said snidely - her way of reminding Marc that she was still there.

“Yes. Matt didn’t die in vain, and we’re all better off for knowing him,” Marc said in his best Captain America voice.

“Mmm. His memory lives on in us and all that good horse shit, right?” She rolled her eyes unenthusiastically and took a generous drink from her bottle.

Marc deflated cartoonishly and threw up his hands in surrender. “I thought I knew where I was going with this, but, honestly, I’ve got nothing,” he chuckled ruefully. "Big surprise: I'm terrible at playing therapist."

Jessica shrugged her brows. “Eh, at least you tried. I guess.”

Just then, Marc’s phone rang from atop of his dresser. The painfully robotic caller ID blurted: ‘Call from… GenePaal.’ Who the fuck still has landline? Marc rocked himself onto his feet and absentmindedly answered the call on speakerphone.

“What've you got for me, Frenchie?”

“Bonne matinée to you too, Marc. I just thought you should know that Stained Glass Scarlet and her disciples are currently holding a Baptist congregation hostage in Alphabet City. I have texted you the address.”

Marc was already slipping into his boots and coat with the practiced efficiency of a firefighter. “Her motive?” he asked.

The distinctly French voice on the line gave a heartfelt sigh. “Something about God demanding sacrifices, I do not know. I stopped watching the video after her fifth ‘So sayeth the Lord’, Marc.”

“Heh. Suggested point of incursion?”

“Basement. The exterior access is padlocked and will take you to a trapdoor behind the altar. I am sorry to deprive you of a dramatic entrance, but this way you might survive.”

“Where’d I be without you, Frenchie?” Marc beamed warmly.

“Six feet under. Or in a wheelchair.”

“Give my love to the hubby, yeah? I mean, you never invite me over for dinner-”

“I am hanging up now.”

Marc cancelled the call at the droning beep. Turning to Jessica, the expression on his face could only be described as ‘hopeful puppy’.

“I know this isn’t your thing... but do you wanna beat up a schizophrenic zealot that’s got the hots for me?”

Jessica deliberated the offer for a moment before she climbed out of bed with only the slightest wobble in her legs. “There’re worse ways to fight a hangover,” she answered. She put down the bourbon and stretched her neck with an obscene crack.

There was a slight lift to Marc’s mouth that might have been a smile if it wasn’t so melancholic. “Listen. If you ever need someone, even if it’s just to commiserate over… whatever… Call me. Alright?”

Jessica decided to ignore the warmth blossoming in her chest as she brushed past Marc with a playful shoulder shove. “Whatever,” she drawled and held his front door open for him. “Are you coming or not? Some of us have actual jobs to get back to.” So what if Jessica sucked at the whole friendship thing. And so what if Marc sucked at opening up. At least they could be trash together (Christ that sounded cheesy).

A somehow-charming manic grin spread across Marc’s face. “Tough luck, Jones. For me? This is a career.”