Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

  "Nothing is happening,

  and yet what is being acted-out

  or proven right now, flamboyantly,

  might just turn a corner

  and become the real thing."

.·:·.✧ ❊ ✧.·:·. 

It's finally here: The day everyone has been, at least subconsciously, waiting for—Jake included. A day of dread, anticipation, and suffering, or in other words, the day they plan out how to take down the Harbingers.

(And maybe even the High Court—the suddenly introduced enigma—along the way too if they get lucky, but Jake wouldn't count on it just yet. Too many expectations lead to a higher risk of failure.)

However, to the system's surprise, instead of cooping up inside of the Mission, they're all headed off to Soldier's camp. It was Reese's suggestion; Jake thinks he remembers the reason: It's a way to clear their heads and gain new, unbiased perspectives on the matter. Of course, Mr. Knight had been in the front during that time, and the Missionaries left no room for any objection, so it left the system unknowingly forced out of Manhattan and away on an impromptu vacation.

But perhaps there was a method to everyone's madness. Perhaps everyone was fearful that, if they stayed in Manhattan for any longer, Marc would run off and pluck Harbingers off one by one without any meaning to it. But maybe that was just a fear between him and Steven; who's to say if that was the final nail in the coffin for their unanimous group decision to go upstate.

Jake grips the steering wheel tight, slouching over to glare at the road. Compared to their first trip at the beginning of the summer, it's a quiet drive. There's no music being blared on the radio nor chattering from the group. Instead, there's a bubble of regret and fear surrounding the team, weighing everyone down.

To Jake, it's like a long forgotten friend of his: It's the same dreadful silence during a Mooncopter ride with Jean-Paul; it's the same glances and looks between the team during their West Coast and Secret Avenger days when they failed to uphold their responsibilities as Avengers. But for the newbies, in their first formative years in the business, he knows the tense air crushes them internally.

He rolls down a window to hold his hand out against the air, trying to distract himself. Reese, somehow, notices—vampire senses, or something—and grips Jake's shoulder tight: It's going to be okay.

He truly hopes she's right, but he isn't sure of it. Even though he had been excited to get his hands on the Harbingers pamphlet, he now finds himself at a loss. How are they going to fight the entirety of Manhattan? Tens of thousands of people, like it said?

When a lump in the road rolls up to the cab's tires, he drives around it, remembering how the same one threw Jeff upfront last time. He bites his cheek and presses the gas pedal to the floor.

How was he going to fight those he had known for years? Most of his informants were likely Harbingers. If he had to fight someone like Jeff, he couldn't. He wouldn't. They're his people. What happens when they're all gone? When he has no people?

Reese's hand leaves his shoulder to steady herself as they cut a sharp right. This time, the car doesn't break down while bearing down against the potholes. Instead, it rolls onto the dirt road and putters on.

He flicks his gaze over his shoulder to Soldier. He looks on stoically with a singular hand propping his head up against the window, trying his best to stave off sleep. Jake misses the smile he had the last time they were here. Misses that joy a lot.

He looks to the backseats in his rearview: Greer leans against the window, gazing out with hazed over eyes; Jeff fiddles with something on his phone; the soft expression of sleep took Yehya over hours ago.

It's going to be a long day, he brings his eyes back to the road with a pout. In the distance, the cabin, more visible with the lack of leaves, grows larger with every passing second.

He pulls the cab into park once they arrive to the steps of the cabin—the same ones he smoked with Reese on. He shudders at the sight as the feeling of Reese grabbing onto him rolls over his skin. He couldn't bare to look at himself if he had to go against her. He doesn't know what he'd do afterward. How could he live with that?

His cap tilts over his eyes as he sighs and turns the engine off. The cab sinks an inch into the rivets of old tire tracks of years past, and so does his body, deep into his own leather seat.

After a minute, a tap on his cap rouses him from his stupor. He looks up through half-lidded eyes to Reese, who greets him with the same look on his own face: Tired and ready to go home.

Even so, she smirks coyly. "You ready to unpack?"

Jake groans and kicks the side door open with a curse. He bites his tongue to keep a grin from spreading across his face as Reese begins to laugh at his exasperation, loud and unfiltered.

(He'll keep playing the role of the grump if it keeps her entertained. He'll do it all, and more, just to see any one of them smile.)

And smile they do. They pile out, rile each other up, grab their bags—fighting along the way, especially after the long drive which left them all restless—and terrifyingly enough, when he looks at the team from the porch, the only thing he sees in the sea of bright faces is family. Their family: The Midnight Mission.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

  "Mostly holed-up in a room 

  somewhere, or pacing the twi-lit

  underworld of the neighborhood, another

  honest display of emotion taking up

  its fair share of available space,

  and all the desire I can possibly

  imagine, like a stone flung,

  inscribing its arc of air."

.·:·.✧ ❊ ✧.·:·. 

Greer considers herself an observant person. As an ambush predator, she has to be; it's a specialty of hers: Espionage. It's why T'Challa hired her for the Midnight Mission; why she was once a police officer; why Tony Stark came to her during one of the various Civil Wars to work against his not-boyfriend. She's excellent at parsing out information and reading people.

So, when Yehya hopped up the few steps of the cabin's porch, and waltzed into the home with a smile plastered across his face, her ears flinched at the display of open pride, and told her something was wrong. He wasn't acting right. He hadn't been for a while. She didn't know why, and that thought alone made her fur bristle and her claws unsheathe.

Unpredictable, unpredictable—who are you becoming? When did this start?

Therefore, following her instincts, she hurried to his side, and stuck her nose right into his business.

Now, Greer stands beside him after being marched to the back of the cabin in big strides. He hands his open briefcase for her to hold, and although the contents face him, she smells saffron, wheat, and dust.

Yehya puts a finger to his lips, squinting his eyes at the case. "I think I forgot something back in Manhattan."

"You're not usually one to forget things. Will this be a problem?" Greer instigates, trying to get a reaction from him.

"Not at all." He assures with a satisfied hum.

Greer raises a brow to his confidence, and the lack of irritation. His body usually tells of his inner dissatisfaction and obedience—sharp, tangy things they are. Now, his chest is outward, and his head is hung high.

She can't get a read off from him; it sends her instincts into a frenzy. Weird. Different. Abnormal. He should have at least snapped back at her.

When he steps up to dig through the case, she peers over the side to ease her own curiosity: Between a militarily folded set of clothes are ceramic objects colored in turquoise and gold, string bags, and wilting reed scrolls. Her head throbs with the new questions piling on top of older ones.

"What's all of this about?" She puts blankly. Her question, put more as a statement, doesn't deter Yehya from plucking a humanoid ceramic figure from between his socks.

"I was wondering when you'd ask." He cradles the figure as if it's something special, crouching down to set it carefully on the grass. He looks to her with stars in his eyes, "may you retrieve the woman with the big disk over her head?"

"Got it," Greer flips the case around. After a moment of searching, she finds the figure wrapped inside of a wad of tissue paper. Beside it, on the unrolled paper, is a rectangular object with disks in the middle. When she hands the figure over, Yehya places it beside the other one. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I wish to show you first. It'll make proper sense afterward." Yehya holds his palm out once more, then looks to her poignantly when she doesn't retrieve an item he hasn't asked for. "Sistrum?"

"Sis what? Wait—" She holds up the object once wrapped with the figure. The disks jingle as she raises it high, "this?"

"Precisely," he carefully takes it from her hands as he stands. He looks down to the disks, tracing the metal rod which holds their place within the middle section of the instrument. "Close the case and step back, please. Do not distract me. This will take a great deal of concentration."

Patience. Greer holds her tongue and closes the top of the case, latching it shut. She gives him room to breathe, gripping the leather sides tight. Pay attention. Maybe it'll give more clues as to why he's acting this way.

With an appreciative grunt, Yehya steps toward the figures. He digs through his pocket, pulling a small bag from his slacks. He tugs the strings away, then tilts it upside down, shaking out dried lotus leaves. After they've fallen on the grass, he whispers low and even, bringing the sistrum in front of his face.

A moment passes. He breathes in, out, and then he bows to the figures and petals. He bobs his head and rattles the sistrum through the air, humming low and inviting toward the ceramic, as if coaxing them to life. By Greer's surprise, the petals twirl around them through the air, and from the tune of the sistrum, a thin line spreads through the ground. The line cuts through the grass, white and iridescent, slithering around the corners of the cabin, and disappearing from sight.

Then, Yehya speaks, beating the sistrum to the syllables of his words. Greer finds herself unable to discern what he's saying, but she's heard him speak with such cadence in the past when asking Khonshu to possess him. She hopes it's nothing of the sort.

Finally, Yehya whistles out a note, harmonizing with the sistrum, and stops. Silence blankets them both; Greer's ears flick backward.

The line pulses, bringing his attention toward it. He traces it with his finger, and then rubs his fingertips together, clicking his tongue. He straightens up with a groan; she doesn't miss the various cracks and pops coming from him. It's familiar. At least that aspect of this new Yehya never left.

"I've laid down a protection spell," he steps over the line, joining Greer's side with a shrug. "It should uphold throughout the night and until the next morning."

"I've never seen you do anything like this," Greer remarks. It's new. You've changed.

"I haven't," Yehya tilts his head, agreeing. "But it was overdue for me to look into older rites and rituals. I want to become more aligned with the values of a Fist of Khonshu, and that begins here."

"And why have you started this journey?" Greer's fingers trace the closed gap of the briefcase, lips pressing together thinly. When did you change?

"I understand your worry. My brother has already laid down the law about my ways, so to speak." He says calmly, readjusting his glasses, as if he doesn't mind his brother's concerns anymore. Another new development. "I don't wish to make anyone fear, but I came to a realization in the hospital: The teachings of my childhood are always going to be something I resent, yes, but I do not want to stray from those ways. I will not be a Fist of Khonshu if I cannot stay a doctor—a peacekeeper—as it does not sit right with me."

"And so, you're trying to realign your practice with your values now?" Greer's eyes narrow themselves toward the avatar.

"Precisely so." He hums, motioning for the briefcase as he pauses to collect his thoughts. She hands the case over once his briefly dazed expression sharpens itself. "This was a juvenile spell at best. It calls upon Geb for an inquiry into if we can use his land, and then uses Hathor's song to ward away evil—which would include those who have been stalking us—"

"And what did Marc say?" She shoots back, sternly butting into his ramble.

"To stay wary of Khonshu," amusement teases his words. "However, while he figures out his own custody between fathers—and I am proud of him in finding solace in his past beliefs, do not get me wrong—Khonshu is a puzzle I want to solve."

"You can't fix him," Greer crosses her arms. "Do you think you can? Is that what you came to a revelation about?"

"I am not going to fix him." His thumbs trace over the handle, voice falling to be dipped in sadness. "I am aiming to understand him. Allah taught me forgiveness and peace; Khonshu has taught me voice and strength. There is a sort of mutualistic relationship between the two, yes? Through voice we can forgive, and through strength we can find peace."

He affirms his words with a huff, spurred away from his slip into his own ache. Greer finds herself stunned in the middle of a pause filled to the brim with patience for a reply.

"That's..." Greer's tail flicks, curling in the air. She rolls her shoulders, "Nice. It is, Yehya. It's good to hear you say that. Keep me updated."

"Will do," he brings up the case to his chest, holding it close. Then, after a lull, he stares at her sheepishly, and her nose scrunches at the smell of sweat. "I don't suppose you'd want to hear anything else of what I've learned?"

The question takes Greer by surprise, rousing a laugh from her. She covers her mouth with her hand, trying to still the shock in her system from bubbling up into future laughter. "We'll see."

"Well then," his case falls to his side once he outstretches his free arm. He doesn't care for her laughter. Now that he's found his footing with his belief, he seems more confident. His face keeps the same, pleased look, and it allows her instincts to ease against the back of her mind. "Care to walk with me?"

An earnest smile blooms underneath her palm. Her heart tells her to push further and listen, and somehow, her instincts silently prod at her to do the same, as if scared to do so. She must be dreaming, she thinks, and yet, here Yehya is, standing beside her, arm waiting for hers to link into.

This is who he is now. She nods to herself, pursing her lips. It's not bad. It's nice. More than nice. It's…

Safe. Her instincts fill in the gap for her as Yehya steps closer. Her palm eclipses over his bicep.

But he's changed. She bites her lip, hesitating.

He would never hurt anyone—I can't believe we thought that. He's apart of our pack, and packs change. People change, her instincts hug her tightly.

She wants to hug back. She chokes out, But what about me?

You have been, her instincts say with love. Follow it.

With a breath, Greer locks her arm with his. Her instincts purr at her choice, until she realizes it's her own chest, rumbling from satisfaction. Warmth spreads across her gut and into her chest as soft as cotton.

"Well," Yehya's heart revs, the vibration kicking up happily underneath his ribs. He looks down to her, trying to keep himself from beaming brighter than the sun, but failing. Greer doesn't mind it—doesn't mind it at all, even when he turns them both to stride along the tree line. She lets him take the lead. "What do you want to know?"

Greer presses herself closer to the sound echoing deep from within his chest. He lets her with a merry chirr from his throat. His lips twitch upward with each breath and step, eagerly bounding on his heels, waiting patiently for her answer.

Her instincts beckon her to respond. She breathes it out with ease: "Tell me anything."

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

  "But living is fickle, open-ended,

  even the little myths break down.

  Nobody thinks I'm very funny.

  In fact, they're insulted.

  They've exacted their portions

  and now appear rather chipper,

  scattering me over the hillsides"

.·:·.✧ ❊ ✧.·:·. 

After the team lugged their bags onto the porch, they split off quickly to prep the house for the night. With Greer and Yehya out back, and Jeff downstairs with Jake—Reese assumes, but it could be Mr. Knight—fixing the breaker, they covered their bases except for food. Which is great, in hindsight, if didn't leave Reese aimlessly pacing the living room, exhaustion settling itself deep into her bones.

In the past, she would have enjoyed the simplicities of quiet life, but that was before she was a vampire. That was before she suddenly had the weight of the Midnight Mission thrown upon her shoulders as fast as gunshots in the air. When the grief and sense of obligation burrowed deep into her wounds, she didn't enjoy the quiet as much as she did before. It didn't feel like a reprieve from the stressors of work and life. It felt like punishment. It felt like she deserved it.

Reese rubs her temples with a groan, takes a few deep breaths, and glances to the doorway. To her surprise, Soldier stands at the threshold looking at her. The air around him states, to her knowledge of his nonverbal ques: Follow me. I want to talk.

Reese trots away with him without a second thought. She has half the mind to grab two parasols for their skin—she'll thank Steven later for the gifts he bought for the day—and when they step off the porch, she opens them. Soldier takes the red and white one with roses, holding it directly above his head; Reese twirls one with gold and violet swirls over her shoulder.

They walk along the dirt road for a few paces, the songs of birds readying themselves for migration tracing their footsteps. When a new path marked with a red string and stomped grass comes into view, Soldier cuts down the side of the road. Reese follows his trail, stepping over wilting thorn bushes, and stumbling over rocks covered in moss.

They weave down the path for a few moments, stopping just before a small clearing in the forest. A few downed trees are to their left, and a wooden shelf, covered with a blue tarp, is to their right. An axe rests beside the shelf.

Soldier pauses, putting down his parasol just before he grabs the axe. The blade rests in his palm, old and rusted.

He takes a breath, "I miss home."

Ah. So that's why he wanted her around. It's one of his bad days.

"I miss it too," Reese reciprocates.

(How long had it been since she talked to her mom? Her dad? Everything had fallen apart when she was forced to turn into a vampire.)

"Yeah," he grabs the tarp with his free hand, throwing it off the shelf. Thick logs of wood pile high on the shelf, each as large as her hand. "This camp isn't really a camp. We call it one now since we live in the city, but it was my pa's home when he first came to America."

"Actually?" Reese whistles, "Lucky guy."

"I wouldn't call my family lucky, but all of this? I guess he was." Soldier grabs a log off from the top shelf, tossing it onto the grass. He shuffles his position, plants his feet on the ground, and splits the log into two with a swing of his axe. "He'd enjoy us using it. Ma does, at least."

"How is your mom?" Reese leans herself against the shelf. Soldier whacks the log a few more times, splitting it up into a few more pieces.

He leans back, wiping moisture from his brow—not sweat, she reminds herself. Condensation. "Good, I think. I haven't taken a trip to see her in a few weeks. I have to go, but with this whole mess, and the Boss being knocked down a week ago… I miss her. Coming here makes me miss a lot."

"I get that," Reese hums. "I'm guessing you're missing it a lot more for some other reason? You don't talk about your childhood much."

"You read people well, you know." Soldier remarks, grabbing another log just to swing at it some more.

"Or it's just you I read well."

He doesn't respond. She gives him his moment, keeping her face from dropping into a frown.

After some labored breathing, and the log falling into thin slices, he trots off to grab something deep in the woods. He comes back minutes later rolling a wheelbarrow into the grove.

He finally settles on deflection as he digs the legs of the barrel down into the dirt. "What about your childhood?"

She shrugs her shoulders with a smile. "I grew up in the suburbs. Mom and dad split when I was young, so I don't really remember them ever being together. I spent most of my time with my friends, however. There was this one friend with the largest pool I had ever seen, and we always swam in it during the summer."

"Sounds nice," Soldier chucks a few cut logs into the bin.

"It was, very." Reese agrees. When Soldier finishes putting the chopped logs in the bin, and repeats the process of swiping at a new log, she purses her lips. She doesn't understand what's holding his tongue, so she pushes: "What about you?"

"I don't know." He confesses, the axe's blade stilling against the jagged grain. "I guess I didn't know how much Hydra took from me until I left, and now I feel like I'm grabbing at puzzle pieces I abandoned in my past life, only to find that they don't fit anymore. And it hurts. Hurts a lot."

Reese holds her breath. She can relate, in a sense, but she knows her problems with her parents, and the need to move to the city, is different than joining Hydra. They took everything from him. It's why bad days were rough—rougher than even the Boss', at times.

A pained look flashes across his face; Reese holds herself still from looking away. "I want to feel like I'm myself. I want to have a voice, and I want to scream, and I want to be something else than a soldier, but I don't…" The axe falls to the moss as his fingers rub at his face. "I know my place. I thought I was at peace with it, but then I started speaking up, and now I don't know. That's all I can be, right? A soldier. Hell, it's even the name I chose for myself."

"That's not right." Reese steps closer to place a free hand against his shoulder. He tenses, then melts against her palm, shuffling himself to all but curl against her. She doesn't comment about it. "You chose your name? What do you mean?"

His blank stare bores holes into the axe. "Hydra took that from me too. I call myself Soldier because that's all I remember—and my ma calls me it too. Says it's my new name. The new me, but I want the old me. I want to be her boy again. I want my pa back, and my sestras and everyone.

"I want to go home." He breathes in sharply, fingers clenching in and out of his palm, not knowing what to do. She brings her parasol down to the ground to wrap one of hers with his. He holds on tight, as if she'll disappear. "I want to go to my country because that's where I remember family; it's what my brain refused to be wiped from the years of brainwashing. That's the only place.

"I remember this place in bursts," he shakes his head. "But that was too close to being integrated into Hydra. That was too close to the time that little boy ran from home, angry and scared, and joined something bigger than himself that wiped him off the face of the earth. But when I was a part of a family, I was a person. It's selfish, but I want it back. I want it."

He curls inward, leaving her hand to clutch at his head. Reese tries to say something, her jaw opening more out of shock, but he stutters on. "But I don't want to leave you and all of this. I have a place here. I feel whole. I can want things now. It's overwhelming—everything is. I didn't realize how much it was until I started hanging out with Will, and then it hit me: I'm trusted—and what do I do with that? I'm not my old self. I'm a soldier. I'm something to fear. I'm not—"

His body shakes and he sniffles. "I shouldn't want. I shouldn't want to be my old self. I shouldn't want to stay here. I shouldn't need this group. I shouldn't. I just shouldn't."

She doesn't know what to do—what can she do? He's never acted like this, nor opened up so plainly, even on his regular bad days. The last time there was so much pain in such a degree in his eyes is when he came home after the Boss' death.

It dawns on Reese like a shot to the brain. Her heart hammers, He loves us. He thinks he shouldn't feel this way.

Is this how Soldier felt whenever she broke down against the pressure of leading the Mission? Is this how Jake felt when he held her on the steps of the cabin's porch?

"Is this all about babysitting William?" Reese poked fun at him at the roof's ledge.

"It's—well, it's more." He stammered through his words with terrified eyes.

Reese shakes her head. She can't think about all of that right now. She had pushed, and here he was, the words finally out of his mouth, shaking on the forest floor.

And with it, comes silence. Deafening, punishing, silence. It hurts her ears to feel it, and so she drops to his side and wraps her arms around his chest, bringing him close to hers.

"Soldier," she speaks carefully, keeping her voice steady and commanding. "Who says you have to leave us to be who you want to be? Who says you can't be your old self with everything you've built in your life?"

Soldier grumbles and grabs onto her jacket. He doesn't respond, but she knows what he's trying to say: Everyone. Myself. My past. The present.

"Well, I think that's wrong." Reese hushes, "I think you already are your old self, in a way. I didn't know you before Hydra, but you're different from when you first joined the Mission. You look at things with curiosity, you don't take things at face value, and now you'll even join in berating our Boss for his guilt complex. Does that sound like a soldier? Someone who thinks, feels, and changes?"

Soldier sighs deeply. After a minute, he closes his eyes and shakes his head, relaxing. She lets him put his weight against her, knees dropping to the floor.

"I think that's what your mom is trying to say by using the name." Reese shifts her position to carry him easier. "You've, in a sense, reclaimed the word. You're who a soldier should be: Compassionate, caring, protective, ever changing, and enduring. You may not see it, but you've persevered to be a person—these bad days are examples of that. You've went against all odds to be who you are now. Not everyone can fight against Hydra's brainwashing. Not everyone can look at themselves in the mirror and say this is my new name, this is who I am, and these are my people after all you've gone through. That's commendable."

Soldier murmurs, "commendable?"

"Of course it is, Soldier." Reese nods without hesitating, "I wish you could see it like I do."

"Plus, I honestly think Jake sees us as his estranged kids or something."

"You're not wrong. I hate it."

They both had agreed outside of the club: They were somehow loved more than they knew.

"Well, Lockley. We made it."

"We made it."

And the cabbie refused to take the cap Soldier stole off from his head.

"And here are those who are bound to die: Thheeeeee Midnight MISSION!!!" Arcade had yelled, and Marc's face twisted from anguish to relief just at the sight of them all.

He was practically beaming.

"Jeff and I could go out to grab pizza for him." Soldier had offered, and Mr. Knight lit up like a firework at the suggestion.

Their eyes squinted with undeniable adoration that stunned even Reese. It was all directed toward Soldier.

Reese doesn't say anything beyond. She lets Soldier have his silence. He sighs against her with gratitude.

They stay there, huddled against one another. The rustle of barren branches and the warbles of birds the only thing accompanying them. Exhaustion settles deep into her bones, the drive and tension of the moment finally catching up to her. The same happens to Soldier, she notes, for after a while, he pushes her down, and they land together in a pile with a thud.

She cringes as her head hits a patch of rocks, but doesn't move away from the vamp, who flops right on top of her, blanketing her completely. She laughs at his grumbles when she tries to move into a position which doesn't cramp her legs, nor make her neck crane into an odd tilt.

Frustrated, he weaves her hands back into his. It's the same sort of childish anger he gets when he hasn't had enough sleep. She lets him squirm and manage to coil around her as she traces along the miniature scars on his fingertips.

"Have you ever been told that you're clingy?" She speaks to the sky once he settles down.

"Shuddap." He mutters against her skin, chin tucked between her neck and collarbone. His legs are thrown every which way. "Sestras always complained about it. I think I grew out of it."

You did not. She bites her tongue hard enough to taste rot. "I wish I could meet your sisters."

"I wish you could've too." Soldier pins his half-lidded, red eyes to her own. "But you're enough for me."

And to Reese's surprise, she finds herself believing it, too.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

  "and into the night.

  Like a pedestrian in a crosswalk

  replaced by another man, I go with them.

  And I don't go. The need remains

  forever: to have, to get my hands on,

  or to be taken, to lose myself

  in a warmer, less urgent caress."

.·:·.✧ ❊ ✧.·:·. 

Rain scatters across the windows like cracks in the glass; thunder claps across the sky like gunshots. The only light illuminating the Missionaries as they tensely prepare themselves internally are the flashes of lightning and the crackling fireplace. Shadows crawl from the corners, large and threatening. The Moon is nonexistent in the torrential downpour.

The darkness may be uninviting, but at least there's the positives: Yehya, Jake, and Jeff in the kitchen, the fire raging inside of the fireplace, and the idea that they're safe. No stalkers, no Harbingers, no police, and no need to be a hero.

Reese sets up an impromptu cork board on the kitchen island; Greer and Soldier dump everything they have on the Harbingers onto the coffee table; the smell of freshly baked bread, the sharp peppers of mahshi, and the melting cheeses of kugel wafts its way throughout the cabin. When the final dinner bell is called, Jake serves them all with a grin across his face. He leaves the bread untouched in the oven as they all gather their food and head off to the living room.

When the vamps receive their bowls of blood, and the cooks have served themselves as well, Jake takes the bread out—cursing without an oven mitt—and places it on the coffee table. The two loaves serve as the center piece for the files strewn across the table and tossed about the wood floors.

They all take their share like ravenous beasts. It isn't until they've at least had seconds, and Yehya starts taking thirds, is when Marc takes the stage at the cork board. He abandons his food, having forgotten about it, and points to the empty cork with a deep, engrained glower.

"Listen up," he grunts out. Their heads whip toward him, silence falling upon the small crowd: Yehya and Greer nearby the stairs, Soldier and Reese sat by the fireplace, and Jeff crouched on the armrest of the couch. "I'll keep this recap short and quick. We all need to be on the same page here if we're to plan our final attack."

Marc grabs a few papers from the ground and pins them to the board. He hums, then spins back around, arms crossed.

"The Harbingers are a group of lackeys playing someone else's game. They may be the largest thorn in our side, but they're only one piece of the puzzle." He cups his chin with his hands, thumb brushing his cheek as he speaks. "They're connected to a lot of things: The High Court—a new player which has infiltrated the NYPD—as well as the Moon, and their subsequent Mother.

"Discussing the Moon," he points to Yehya and himself. "They're stalking us likely to our relation toward it. They're going for more me than Yehya, but it's important to note that their nonviolent aggression is still aggression. They almost killed Yehya, as we all remember."

"Not almost. It wasn't even close," Yehya calls over in the kitchen, having headed to the oven during his speech. His mouth has been perpetually half full of rice and spices since they all started eating.

Marc scowls, "semantics. Close enough." He swaps to a different topic, not allowing his brother to counter any further as he points to a new part of the board. "They are also terribly infatuated with the Moon. Enough to bargain for a space ship, and to make a whole drug operation selling Moon Dust." Then, after a brief pause, eyes glancing over to the side, he adds on: "Steven—yes, alright. The symbol they used when they burnt down an entire precinct was moon-related too."

"So, they're freaks for the Moon. Got it." Greer waves her hand in the air, slipping over to the coffee table to pluck a file from the pile. "The Moon has also been acting weird for the past couple of months. So far, the Avengers have only relayed the bare minimum detail about what they're finding, but as more important events have overshadowed odd signatures coming from the inner body, they haven't investigated further."

She opens the file up and offers the last few pages to Marc to pin it up. He does so reluctantly after skimming the contents, his face twisted in confused anger. The pages showcase a detailed look into the patch that was carved out from the moon, as well as a report on Moon Knight's own physiological state during and after.

"You recalled not remembering this mission," Greer addresses him with a confused stare. "When taken to inspect those strange, electromagnetic readings, the report states that Khonshu possessed you, opened an area of interest with ancient, runic inscriptions, and then tried to kill you by any means necessary. The Avengers intervened through your mind, in which the problem was solved through internal mediation."

"Correction," Marc glares at the papers. "I remember everything but the possession. Afterward, I was in my head. Does the report state that?"

"They were unable to receive your side of the story, as you were marked incapacitated." Greer shakes her head.

"It was hell," Marc points his finger at her, opens his mouth to continue, then lurches back. He blinks, a daze taking him over before he comes back, more soft willed. "I'm not angry at you. Steven—he's being bratty about me being clear here: I'm angry at the Avengers. I was being possessed by something else, I know that for a fact. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't Khonshu. He comes in sharp, like a slap to the face, but this thing was like a siren. It wrapped me in something and then spat me out like spoiled milk."

"I concur with my brother," Yehya returns from the kitchen. He offers his hand to empty plates, and the team around him stacks them on top of another in his palms. "It is unlike Khonshu to kill one of his sons, unless that son somehow became an enemy of him."

"An enemy?" Reese says with a strained tilt to her voice. "I believed an avatar could never become an enemy to their patron."

"Wait, hang on." Greer raises her hands, "Bring it all together. Marc, explain your situation."

"I heard a voice?" His statement comes out more as a question. "It was simple recon to explore those strange readings, but suddenly, I heard something—it didn't sound like Khonshu, that's for sure. I did hear Khonshu, but I think he was trying to… I don't know what he was doing. It's fuzzy. I was on the Moon, and then in one second, I wasn't. It was black and Khonshu saved me from whatever was trying to take me over. He wrapped me up in bandages and either he took me away from the influence of whatever spoke to me, or someone else took my place."

"If it was someone else, then who?" Greer asks.

Marc's brows furrow. Shadows cast heavily across his eyes. He speaks slowly, "there was someone who emerged in our system during that day."

"The kid." Soldier gasps out, interrupting. "It has to be. A kid can easily be influenced—"

"How in the hell do you even know about them?" Marc barks back—though it sounds more like Jake with his gruff, slurred accent. "An' we haven't even met them!"

"Remember that whole Madison incident?" Greer shoots Marc and Jake an unimpressed look. "Everyone was affected, even some not well known, or not known at all. I'd put money that the kid took your place, or whoever the kid was prior to that day. Mr. Knight seemed awfully possessive of them."

Their face tints pink. Jake looks between Soldier and Greer, and their shared staring contest, before Marc cuts the conversation off with a puff of heated air. "Whatever or whoever possessed me, it doesn't exactly matter. Blame means nothing if we don't have a plan of attack against an aggressor, and not one based in theory. We need fact."

"Alright, alright." Reese brings the attention to her with a whisk of her wrist. She wiggles her fingers in the air, drawing Jeff's eyes, who's left mid bite into a hearty slice of bread. "I say we need to eliminate the High Court, whoever they are. You spoke of them like they're likely the top-dog of this entire operation, so take out the ring master and then sweep up the lackeys."

"It's likely right to assume the Harbingers are simple pawns," Marc puts a finger up. "However, the Harbingers are large in numbers. What's to say the High Courts are not? You haven't read their file, have you?"

"None of us besides you. You found it barely a few days ago, and we've all been busy with petty crime, so it's a theory." Reese counters, "But you said they infiltrated the NYPD. The new chief of police, right? It's why you've been getting buddy-buddy with the mayor, am I wrong?"

Marc sours. "Steven can have his own friends if he likes, Reese. Either way, Cage allowed Steven to infiltrate his office. He found the High Court document and Ryan's journal ready for the shredder in the same night."

"Well, with one man in control, if there were as many as the Harbingers, then there would be competition, yes?"

"Competition for power. Good point. We could sever control from him and take the Harbingers from under his feet, for if no one has noticed his odd behavior, the Harbingers must be the other police officers. No other High Court members involved—that's competition." The team nods along with his thinking, and with no objections, he pushes forward. "How?"

"We use you as bait," Reese shoots a grin toward Marc.

Greer scowls, "not happening."

"We use Yehya as bait," Soldier jests. Yehya stammers.

Marc points his finger at the vamp. "If you even attempt that, there's hell going to be paid."

"A Harbinger?" Jeff slumps over as his suggestion floats through the air with no weight. "Would they even care?"

"No." Comes from the rest of the Missionaries in varied grunts.

Then, after a pause, Soldier's head shoots up. He looks to Reese, then to the rest of the team, as if Marc doesn't know something. Marc cocks a brow, encouraging him to speak up.

He swallows, "they've kept on referencing a Mother, saying they want to birth her. It's like their figure of worship. That's all that crazy woman screamed about when she…"

Marc looks on unaware with a sneer. "When she?"

"Took control of your mind," the team relays in sync.

"Hm," Marc lets the idea hang in the air, and then, with a glance over to the board, his head sways. "Good start. How about we make a faux-birth of their Mother? We could contact the Sanctum Sanctorum for help."

"How would that look?" Yehya rebuts, "it's one thing to ask the Sanctum for their aid, but it is another to know how it would actually look for a distraction. Draw them out from the NYPD and strike, am I correct in assuming that would be the plan?"

Marc looks to Yehya with a heavy glare. "We have to have faith in the Sanctum and what they know. It might not matter anyway, as they've also been talking about needing a vessel to free their Mother, if you remember. I'd suspect I would be at the center of the distraction."

"As bait," Greer points out with a growl. "I thought we said no to bait?"

"If it's the only thing that works." Marc snaps back, "then yes. We're using bait."

"We're not making martyrs here." She steps closer to him, fur puffing out. "What if they kill you? What if they attack Clea and we're not there with you? You'd be in the middle of it, completely defenseless and alone."

"I'm not alone," Marc goes chest to chest with her. The rest of the Missionaries tense up. That one word alone has dug under his skin, making it prickle with fury. To everyone's horror, he bares his teeth and challenges the tiger. "That's what I've been working on for months: Gaining allies, not being alone, and forming trust. I trust in Clea, in Wong, in anyone who'd help. Can't you see that? Or are you refusing to?"

"Excuse me?" Greer's ears pin back as her claws pop out. "You want to tell me exactly what you're trying to get at here?"

Marc keeps his eyes pointed at hers, not caring about her looming over him. "If you can't trust them, they won't trust you, and then what? We're out of luck. We're out of our depth."

"We're out of our depth anyway, Marc."

"We've never been out of out of depth with this case." Marc retorts, ire lacing every syllable. "We've just been ignorant to the cause, slow, and sloppy. When I should have gone out and hunted every single High Court bastard I could find, I didn't. When the Avengers should have gotten my side of the story, they didn't. I wouldn't be surprised to know if there's someone behind the scenes meddling with everything, but even with that suspicion, we should have been effectively working against it all."

Before Greer can counter back, or maul Marc head on, Reese jogs up to separate the two. She shoves Marc back, and then faces Greer head on. "You two need to chill out. Lets trust our allies and trust each other even more. We're the Midnight Mission. We know what we're doing, and even beyond that, we should all believe in each other."

"You can't seriously believe that Marc shoving himself in the middle of everything would work." Greer continues to push back.

Marc towers over Reese's outstretched hands, "I'm trying to protect my team—my Mission. I'm not a martyr, it's my job. Have more faith in me."

"In the one who gets himself killed every other month like it's going out of style?!" Greer yells back, "how many times do we have to sit shiva for you to understand the stake a life has?"

And to that, Marc goes cold. He grits his teeth, then twists Reese's arms back, pushing her out of the way. "I'm done. We're all done here. You all can find me outside."

"In the rain?" Yehya steps into the confrontation, trying to build a wall between him and the door. "You can't be serious, brother."

"In the rain." Marc repeats, stomping past Greer, trembling with anger.

In a dash of luck, Greer reaches out, managing to grab his arm. He seethes as she pulls at his skin. "You're not leaving."

Marc tears himself away with a cry. Stumped, they let him track back to the door like a cornered, terrified dog. Greer blinks, holding her shaking hand. Red lines her fingertips, where her claws have forced themselves inward.

He holds his arm, tracing the deep, red lines. It seems as if time has frozen them all in place, each slowly coming to the realization of what has happened until he laughs at himself.

"This day has been a waste," Marc looks back to the team with hollow eyes. "Why did we come here? To play house?"

The team stays silent. Soldier hides behind a glass of water. Reese's jaw hangs open. Jeff scoots away from the door.

Marc's hand grabs the door handle. He scoffs, "We know the plan. We go back in the early morning—and I mean early morning. No sleeping in—and contact the Sanctum as soon as we come back. From there, we start making arrangements and that is that. The end. Planning over."

"Marc." Greer claws at the air. Tears well at her eyes. She lifts an arm to cover them.

Marc clenches onto the handle tighter, trembling. The gold cracks under his palm. He swings the door open after a brief, tense pause. He doesn't flinch away as rain pelts his face, soaking the back of his white shirt. "Rest well."

He slams the door behind himself, running. The Missionaries look on between each other in apprehensive, strained glances, saying many words, and yet, nothing at all. They don't know what to say.

When Greer stomps off, burrowing herself into the nearest guest room, Reese joins Soldier's side, murmuring hushed assurances. Jeff and Yehya scramble to clean up the ruined dinner as the two vamps trail over to the living room, picking up the mess of files. They keep their words quick and quiet, worried that they'll arouse the tiger from her den, or catch wind of the Knight's wrath.

However, during their rushed clean up, she spots the High Court folder in her peripheral. She doesn't want to take it, not after what just happened, but something drags her to it either way.

And just when she's about to tear it in half from the anger raging inside her chest, she opts to open it up, taking a breath before scanning the contents—something she hasn't seen yet. Something new.

The first passage catches her eye:

▓▓▓▓▓ (3:45PM):

When will ▓▓▓▓'s reclamation day be?

▓▓▓▓ (3:46PM):

We're aiming for October.

▓▓▓▓▓ (3:50PM):

Has Mother blessed this notion?

▓▓▓▓ (3:52PM):

We're ago for the end of October. Do not doubt our Mother's word.

▓▓▓▓▓ (3:55PM):

I am not doubting our Mother. I am doubting you.

▓▓▓▓ (4:01PM):

You know what happens to those who doubt. Even doubting me.

Doubting me doubts our Mother.

Don't you want to join her in perfect unity?

The rest of the page seems torn apart. Reese frowns, fingers tracing the first text and the redacted name. A pit forms deep in her gut. She knows what it is.

When is Moon Knight's Reclamation day?

She gazes up to Soldier, who holds the cardboard box they brought to the cabin in his hands. "What day is it today?"

He looks her up and down, as if she's lost her head. "The twenty-ninth, why?"

The folder slips from her hands as she freezes, skin cold. It sends the contents flying across the floor, runic inscriptions and redacted messages falling across the wood. She pants, gasping for air as her heart hammers. Soldier looks to her, weary and confused.

"We have to find Marc. Right now."

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

  "I open one eye, take a look around.

  No pat answers, no permanence or rest.

  Someone just happens to keep beginning,

  and my life too, where I left it,

  over there."

And The Grass Did Grow

Ralph Angel, 1987

.·:·.✧ ❊ ✧.·:·. 

Marc's searching for blood the moment he steps out from the cabin and into the woods.

His blood roars louder than the rain hitting the ground. He's not an idiot. He knows the games of people like these: Stalkers that hunt their prey until their combatant gives in, weak and defenseless. It's how Bushman cornered him for the first time; it's how Khonshu made him kneel for so long.

But he's not defenseless. He has his fists and wits. He has the knowledge that he kept from his Mission to keep them safe. He even led Jake and Steven and everyone else on random, nonsense chases of love and leads he had already deciphered weeks prior.

…He does love Steven and Jake, don't get him wrong. He never lied about that. It's just complicated.

The day Yehya was blown up, he knew they—High Court, Harbinger, and Mother alike—were coming for him. He stuck to Yehya's side to keep his own skin safe, so that he could ensure his Mission could be too. He wallowed instead of going out and hunting them down, but now, he doesn't regret a minute of it. Anger is power. Anger is a tool, and he'll use it. He'll kill them all.

The rain makes everything slippery, and his feet stagger in the grass, trying to find their footing. Marc gazes back to the cabin. It's still obscured by the storm's overwhelming darkness.

Good. He doesn't want any of them to be hurt. He doesn't want any of them to be thrown into something that could, and would, do them great harm if he could do something about it.

He just hopes that they forgive him.

He clambers onto a slick tree at the sound of cars pulling into the driveway. The thick branch keeping him in the air shakes in the wind. When they stop their cars—big, black SUVs hidden underneath rainfall and thunder—people in black spandex and armor fly out.

He spots a car roll to a stop with a trailer behind it. A holding cell. Just as expected: They're coming for the entire team.

He's not letting that happen. It's why he packed so many weapons. It's why he didn't mind when Mr. Knight fronted the night before—no, encouraged them to. He knew them sleeping in would happen; it would give him an edge, and make everyone put off. Everyone, including himself, played a role, and it was working perfectly.

…Until Jake and Steven prod at his mind, and his calculated anger cowers beneath the weight of guilt. He shakes his head, holds tighter onto the branch, and keeps his attention pinned on the scene before him.

Not now. Busy.

What the hell is all of this? Jake calls out gruffly from the back of his mind. Marc flinches. We have to get inside the cabin. It's safe under that weird stuff Yehya did.

It's too hard to push them back anymore. Marc doesn't even know how to do it anymore. He's grown soft and easily accepting of their presence. He should have known it'd impede them and their work.

Yes. It is. He can feel something clog his throat. Don't you see? Reese had every good intention with bringing everyone here, but I knew they'd come searching. Yehya did too. They're all safe inside.

Marc can feel them pause. At the first load of a gun from a Harbinger, setting up by the white line, Marc slips a knife from his boot, and tucks it between his teeth. Then, he unloads his pockets, taking out an EMP and various stun grenades.

You planned this. Steven says as if it's an accusation instead of reality. They're all inside. You aren't.

Good job at figuring it out, he clicks the top button of the EMP, letting it fall to the ground. The red blinking light hides itself in the mud. After a minute, its vibrations tell Marc that it's been set. You're late to the party. I thought you were good at patterns?

Don't you ever get tired about always thinking about getting your hands on someone? Jake scoffs, seriously, Marc? Are you trying to get us killed? Don't you ever think about what they'd want?

Every single damn day, Lockley. Marc takes the knife from his mouth and into his hand. He balances a stun grenade in the other, I'm doing this for them. I have to. The responsibility of taking the next step, of taking hits, and of doing the right thing falls on my shoulders. I may have failed Yehya, but I will not fail the entire team.

Do you think this will help anyone? Do you think simmering in your own anger will help keep the Mission safe?

A figure in white, clean robes, and sparkling, dangling golden jewelry is carried out from a car. It's the leader, he knows. That's the one he has to take down. He needs to do this quickly.

Are you going to answer me?

Marc braces himself, readying himself to jump from the tree. Thunder claps, and after a flash of lightning, the figure raises their hand high into the sky.

Marc…?

A sudden surge of adrenaline pumps through him as he jumps. The robed figure's head cracks toward him. He rolls on the ground, throws two stun grenades into the crowd, and watches as guns are pointed toward him.

("Well, isn't this a perfect surprise? Our Mother has good fortune for us tonight. She led her Vessel straight to us." The figure watches as Marc, dazed and enraged, jumps into the crowd. He fights as if he can't control himself. "Force him to kneel to me.")

And, unexpectedly, just as Marc's knife has dug itself deep into a Harbinger's leg, and his arm is around another's neck, already deep into the fray of battle, the Mission comes barreling out of the house, weapons drawn.

In seconds, the Harbinger's start shooting toward them, but Marc ignores it. He flings himself closer to the figure in white robes, refusing to pluck off those whose bullets bounce off from the barrier woven in the air.

It'll keep them all inside, Marc reminds himself. He just has to keep swinging. Has to keep punching. Has to keep his anger in his hits instead of inside of his chest.

("Where did he—?!"

"Leader! What do we do?"

The robed figure puts his nose to the sky and smiles.)

As Marc exchanges another hit to a Harbinger's chest, he catches a glimpse of Yehya, proud as ever, gazing out toward the white water-like barrier which keeps them safe; Jeff's eyes lazily open and close, dropping with exhaustion, then pulling themselves up with adrenaline; Reese and Soldier deliberate on what to do—

And Greer's eyes look straight at him. Terrified.

("Get him away!"

"We have to get our leader to safety!"

"Are you doubting our Mother? And me?" The figure snarls. They point a ragged finger at the shaking Harbinger, whose arm is bent inwards. They stagger to the figure's feet, bowing in submission. "Our Mother protects us. Bring me closer to the Vessel.")

Don't you ever think about what they'd want?

He throws another stun grenade into the crowd and flies over a black SUV. The robed figure is being carried to an unmarked car, which turns on its engines. Its headlights blinding the crowd gives Marc an idea.

("We're readying reinforcements, leader."

"Should we leave a fleet for the morning? When the barrier falls?"

"Good thinking," they croon. "Let them shake and shiver all night long, awaiting their finality.")

Marc scampers onto the hood of a car, kicking a Harbinger's face in, and breaking the windshield. He twists the key, still in the ignition, and flops into the car. Harbingers follow him, even as he locks the car doors, pulls the car into drive, and slams on the gas.

He mows over the hoard of Harbingers. Their cries echo in the night, fueling Marc's own delirious fury. He leaves the car running, unlocking the doors as he rolls out, flopping on the ground, leaving it to crash into a line of trees. The engine smokes, and the first flicks of fire light up the road.

Marc picks his head off from the ground, grinning at the hole he's carved into their masses. Wounded Harbinger's litter the ground, groaning in pain. He pats his pockets as he climbs onto his feet, finding no other weapons on his person—except for the other small shivs in his boots and the knife in his hand.

Gunfire still shoots off toward the barrier. His family are doing something, but Yehya's yelling over them all.

They're trying to take the barrier down. Someone says, although they say it with pride. As if it's not a bad thing. As if taking that barrier down means that they'll all die and Marc will be alone, alone alone alone—

He has to finish this fast.

In the commotion of him driving over the mass of Harbingers, the robed figure was thrown across the ground. Floundering in the mud, he fails to rise to his feet.

In the shadows, a figure forms.Marc can feel its eyes fall onto him. It bows its bird skull toward the writhing figure, finish it.

Marc runs head first, going for the kill. He pulls his knife out and jumps, slashing across the figure's arm, which they hold up to defend themself. The figure screams as blood gushes around the blade. Marc twists it, pulling their arm down to the ground.

"You messed with the Midnight Mission," He pulls a shiv from his boot, and then punches the figure into the ground, drowning him in water and muck. His shiv dances across the figures neck line. "Did you really think I wouldn't know what was happening? You've been stalking me for months. Ever since you appeared, I've been seeing you everywhere. I know these games. You aren't winning this battle."

The figure cackles, craning their neck toward Marc. They flash a grin as the shiv cuts into their skin. Their features are twisted, uncanny, and inhuman, as if being touched by their Mother has made them something no longer human.

"No, we aren't." They agree. Marc foams at the mouth with anticipation, trapped inside his tunnel visioned hysteria. "But our Mother will."

And before Marc can yell out to drive the shiv into the figure's neck, something sharp pierces his side. It leaves him stunned as he looks down to where it digs into his muscles. His fingers drop the shiv to trace a metal, red dart poking out from his shirt.

The figure tugs himself out from underneath Marc with ease, as if he had been cast himself down on purpose. He stares, confused, and goes to speak, to ask what's happening—what did you put in me? You sedated me, you sedated me, you—but sand clogs his throat. His anger fades into nothingness, no matter how hard his hands try to weakly drag it back through the air—or is he trying to steady himself?

When it dawns on him that he's been tranq'd, he heaves, turning to escape, but he staggers, and the world falls around him. He lands onto the ground with a thud, lights dancing across his vision. He coughs, trying to gasp for air, but finding no reprieve from the downpour.

From below, Marc can see Jake and Steven at his side. Even now, they're looking at him. His eyes burn. He doesn't know if its from the rain, tranquilizer, or something worse.

I'm sorry.

We know.

With a crack of lightning and thunder, darkness surrounds his vision. He forces his head to the mission, eyes lolling against the strain of exhaustion tugging him into the ground.

They're screaming. Someone says—Steven? Jake? Mr. Knight? That kid? For you.

They wont be hurt. Marc groans. An eye refuses to open back up. Not when the High Court has me.

If you believe that, then why are you looking toward them?

Marc doesn't know. He tries to move his body, to seek some sort of answer, but instead, he feels his muscles freeze before his mind does.

Please don't leave me.

We'll be here with you until the very end.

Swift and punishing, the sedation reaches its resolution. Darkness finally consumes him wholly, plunging him into the the agonizing submissiveness of unconsciousness.