THE MARVEL KNIGHTS GROUP
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ISSUE #1 written by Dave Golightly

"Pariah: Part One"

Denizens of the night often flourished in the dark allies and rooftops, marking their prey and moving silently to intercept them. The blanket of darkness that covered the city once the sun set changed the landscape in ways normal men and woman couldn’t detect. All they knew was that another day had died, and sure enough a new day would spring to life in the morning. The things that went bump in the night more often than not stole that expectation away from a select few, their chosen targets.

Empowered by the absence of light, the exact opposite was true as well. When a cloudless sky resonated with a deep blue hue, brilliantly accentuating the buildings in soft moonlight, those that typically found safety in darkness found that their comfort zone had been invaded. Shards of the moon stole away their protection, making it more difficult to cling to the shadows.

And in that same moment another creature could stand just a little taller, just a little stronger. Where they would shy away from the moonlight, he would embrace it. His skills were already at their peak, but with the waxing and waning of the moon he gained added strength, fortitude, and resilience.

For Marc Spector, a full moon meant he was one step closer to a god.

As the full moon shone brightly down on the Chicago rooftops, a not-so-subtle breeze filtered through the Windy City and worked its way onto the desolate Carson Street. Situated a few miles north of the famed O’Hare International Airport, Carson Street was a place where bums and lowlife car thieves spent their waking hours trying to get by. It was rarely active, and it hardly ever had anything exciting happen.

So when a boarded-up apartment building exploded from the inside out in a baptism of fire, the handful of homeless drunks a block away at first thought they had hit the bottle a little too hard that night.

Just before the flames overtook the brittle and dried exterior of the building, a body launched itself out of the second story window, bashing through the flimsy boards that marked it as foreclosed. The body was propelled by the explosion, seemingly inanimate until its arms wrapped themselves around its head to protect it from the fall. The body crashed onto the top of a taxi cab parked alongside the building, bouncing off the roof and flopping onto the street.

The brilliant moonlight, fighting the fire’s orange and yellow light for dominance, revealed the face of the man who had thrown himself to safety. Sharp stubble lined his jaw, a shade of dark brown just like his ragged hair. He let out a pained murmur before trying to push himself up to a sitting position, but found that his newly broken arm wouldn’t allow it. He leaned on his other arm and rolled up, looking over his torn jeans. The waves of heat slapped against him and when he looked at the burning building he witnessed the flames grow higher by the second. The strong wind that the city was known for only served to feed the orange and yellow beast.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he blurted out as he tried to stand. His ankle was sprained, his ribs were bruised, and his face felt like it had lacerations all over it. No sooner had he balanced himself steady on his own two feet then he stumbled over and slammed into the side of the taxi. “Damn. Damn it all.”

He gripped the driver’s side door handle and yanked, popping it off in his hand. He relaxed his fingers and looked at the handle, seeing indentations where his fingers had wrapped around it a little too tightly. He growled and chucked the now useless handle on the asphalt. Angling his good arm, he smashed his elbow through the driver’s window and unlatched the lock from the inside.

He plopped down into the seat and cranked the engine over. It roared to life, it’s rumbling betraying the dented and rusted car frame. He moved the gear shift, his scarred hand brushing by the driver’s license that depicted him with shorter hair, identified as a man named Jake Lockley.

Without looking at the burning building he sped off, speeding by the befuddled drunks that were too stunned by the event to do anything. Smoke billowed up from the building and reached into the night sky, whisking around the silent and foreboding moon. The celestial sphere slowly crawled across the sky, indifferent to what had just transpired beneath its guiding light.

“This is bullshit, Marc,” a thin man with a thick French accent scolded. “How dare you… I’ve never seen such arrogance… To think that I wasted…”

“Relax, Frenchie,” the shirtless and bruised man sitting on a table in front of the irate French man replied. “It’s not permanent. You know I would never cut you out like that. I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying you are firing me. Don’t sprinkle sugar on shit and call it dessert, Marc.”

Marc Spector began to sigh, but his cracked ribs kept him from pulling in a full breath. He wrapped another layer of medical tape around his torso and tore off the end. It hurt to breathe, but like most things in Marc’s life he ignored the agony and kept doing it.

He slid off the table and recovered his shirt, letting his socks, wristwatch, and wallet fall off the article of clothing. The wallet opened up to show his Jake Lockley identification, but it would no longer be required that night. When he adopted that persona his mannerisms and characteristics changed to fit his needs, but now that he had returned to his rented apartment he could drop the guise and become Marc Spector again.

“I had a rough night, Frenchie,” Marc said as he pulled on his shirt, wincing from the pain. “Just head back to New York and I’ll get everything situated here.”

Frenchie huffed, throwing up his arms and turning away from his partner. “Le fasciste arrogant, qui ne peut pas accepter le fait que quelques gens sont—”

“English.”

“I was saying that your ego has had enough stroking, I think.” Jean-Paul DuChamp muttered to himself in his own language as he stalked across the room and snatched up his leather bomber jacket. As Marc’s only longtime friend and confidant, Frenchie prided himself on loyalty. “What happened tonight, eh? You look like ordures.”

“I ran the cab out to keep a low cover,” Marc began to explain. “Figured I would run it down as Jake Lockley the cabbie before I jumped the gun and investigated as Moon Knight. If a dirty cabbie stumbled onto the scene no one would think twice about it, but if Moon Knight showed up then our presence here in Chicago would be known. Things got a little out of control.”

“Then why even waste our time here, non? As I stated back in New York, I think this is a wide goose chase. You get a ‘feeling’ from your stone god in the closet there and I come along, as always. Now you apparently almost get killed and you try to send me home. My confidence in your abilities and judgment is high, of course, but I find myself asking - why?”

Marc limped into the small living room and plopped himself down on the sofa. “The estate in New York needs looked after,” the former mercenary said. “Marlene—”

“Is safe,” Frenchie interjected. “Stick to the subject. No excuses, Marc. What happened tonight?”

He knew that Marlene, his daughter, would be safe enough back in New York City. She was maturing at an alarming rate that only a father could detect, and he had other allies that could look in on her. His wealthy alter ego of Steven Grant would ensure that she was cared for no matter the circumstances. He internally chuckled at the fact that he had to balance so many identities, but it was a tactful ability that had been useful on more than one occasion, perhaps even saving his life.

The simple fact of the matter was he didn’t want to divulge any details to his partner. He trusted Frenchie, whom he had met years ago on assignment, with his life. Both men were mercenaries that had seen more than their fair share of bloodshed. That kind of bond couldn’t be imitated. Even still, Marc held his reservations about revealing the full nature of this particular case to Frenchie. He could attest that level of paranoia to his “stone god.”

“Just head back to New York,” Marc finally said. “Take the chopper if you want. I won’t be needing it here.”

Frenchie snorted and headed for the door, mumbling something condescending about Americans as he left. Marc watched his friend leave and let out a breath he had been holding. It hurt his ribs to exhale so deeply, but he bore through the pain as he felt the tension he had been keeping in slowly start to leave with Frenchie.

Marc stood up, using the recliner’s armrest for support. By the following evening he would be nearly fully healed, but until then he had to be careful. The last thing he needed was to puncture a lung by putting too much pressure on his cracked ribs. Having the power of a god flow directly through him could be a blessing at times, even though he largely regarded it as a curse.

He shot a look to the closet upon thinking of his curse. He hesitated to open it, even though he felt obligated to. Pushing the feeling to the back of his mind, Marc walked to the desk and sat down, opening the sleeping laptop. He had work to do.

The computer sprung to life immediately, displaying several programs that had been minimized. He sorted through them before opening another application, a digital photography program. He shook the watch on his wrist until it had turned a certain way and then pushed a hidden button on the underside of the timepiece. A small rectangular card slipped out, which he then placed into the USB port on the side of the laptop. Within moments, images began to download and appear on the screen.

Scanning over several of them, he quickly enlarged the more important ones and discarded the meaningless photos. His wristwatch had snapped a dozen high-resolution digital images upon entering the desolate building earlier that evening. He recognized the dirty interior from having been there himself just a few hours ago. The images taken when he had reached the second floor were of special interest, as they were the only ones that had captured the outline of the man that had tried to kill him.

He used the software to adjust the content of the images, hoping that he might be able to get a better visual of whoever it was. He grew frustrated as he realized that regardless of whatever manipulation he conducted there just didn’t seem to be a way for him to increase the visual to a point of recognition. The only thing that could be made out was a thin figure covered in shadows, who seemed to be wearing a helmet that had a pair of horns sprouting out of the top.

Marc slapped the laptop shut, frustrated. He had traced the location from New York and hoped to investigate the place himself for clues. Upon reaching the second floor, however, he had seen the horned man in the shadows who had seemingly been waiting for him. The horned man laughed as he had tossed out an incendiary device, and Marc was lucky to have been so close to the window. Against his better judgment, Marc had retreated. He wasn’t prepared for a full on brawl yet.

He hated not knowing who was fighting him. He hated having to hide things from Frenchie. He hated being away from Marlene.

Most of all, he hated Khonshu.

He looked at the closed closet door again, this time giving in to the urge to look inside. He crossed the room quickly and ripped the door open with a tug. The apartment had been furnished with basic furniture upon renting it a few days ago, but he had yet to put any of the typical articles in the closet. Instead of clothing taking up the closet’s tiny space there stood a six foot stone statue of an ancient pagan god. He had carted it all the way from New York, and before that, the Middle East. He rarely went anywhere without it, but the choice to haul the heavy object was never his.

Any artisan would have instantly recognized the statue as ancient Egyptian, with its glyphs and general appearance giving its history away upon sight. Marc fell to his knees before the statue, ignoring the pain in his chest.

“How much longer?” he quietly asked the stone statue. “How many times do I have to move myself around the world to satisfy you?”

The stone face of the statue remained stoic, and even though it was centuries old it almost seemed as if it would come to life and respond to Marc’s questions.

“Khonshu,” Marc spat out. “You saved my life years ago and I’m grateful, but there is only so much I can take. I miss my daughter. I miss my life. How can I keep myself sane when I’m forced to push those close to me away?”

Marc stood up when the statue failed to answer him again, blurting out a string of obscenities. He took a few quick steps away from the closet, disgusted, but paused and turned around to stare the stature in its stone eyes.

“You give me these powers that most men would never dream of possessing. Many people in my position would honor you for that. But I beg you. I plead with you. Please. Let me go. I’ve fulfilled my debt to you tenfold already.”

He pulled in as deep a breath as his lungs would allow and sat down on the edge of the bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, fighting the urge to just lean back and fall unconscious. When he opened his eye lids again the statue returned his gaze, unwavering and silent.

“The truth,” Marc mumbled, “is that I’m scared. This…person you have me trailing. The one that tried to kill me tonight. I feel him. That’s you, isn’t it? Connecting me to this person. I can sense him somewhere in the city, lurking. Whoever this man is, you want him destroyed. I can feel you pushing at my mind to obey you. I followed your urging to investigate and you’ve never pushed me like this before. That is what scares me.”

He sprung up from the bed and covered the space between himself and the stone statue, bringing his own face within inches of the statue’s. “Is the mighty Khonshu afraid? What would be so terrible that a dead god of the moon would demand his avatar’s unguided obedience? Huh? Tell me!”

The statue remained inanimate. Its cool, gray surface held back any type of response that the former mercenary hoped to invoke.

Marc hung his head in disappointment. He could feel Khonshu in his head, poking and prodding at his mind, silently giving him orders. He had taken up the mantle and responsibility to be the god’s Fist, his avatar. Many transgressors had fallen before him thanks to the vengeful power that Khonshu had given him, but now he just wanted it to end. He couldn’t even find the cold embrace of death comforting…Khonshu wouldn’t allow it.

So he continued to fulfill his god’s work on Earth. There was nothing else left for him. The only control he felt he had was keeping Frenchie out of this particular mission, for if his unholy benefactor was shaken by the appearance of this horned man, then no one would be safe. If he admitted to Frenchie what was going on then there was no way that Marc would be able to keep him out of it. Jean-Paul DuChamp was a foolhardy loyalist to the end. The simple fact that he had come all the way to Chicago with Marc on the basis of a feeling imposed by Khonshu said a lot.

“Fine,” Marc finally said, admitting defeat. “Once again, we’ll do it your way. Like I even have a choice.”

Marc bowed down and grabbed a suitcase from the feet of the statue, bringing it over to the bed and unlocking it. Inside there was a sterling white costume made of a special woven mesh that could stop a small caliber bullet. He pulled it out and draped it over the bedspread, making sure all of his equipment was there. He began to dress, pulling the fit costume over his already bruised body. He stole a glance at the full length mirror beside him and made sure everything was in place. He attached the cape around his shoulders and slipped all of his special tools into place.

The last part of his costume was the hardest to put on, not because of a physical difficulty, but because it was the last thing that separated him from his human identity. The white hood that hung around his neck, once pulled over his scalp, would serve as the line drawn between Marc Spector and Moon Knight.

He grabbed the hood in both hands and looked at the stone statue. It looked on approvingly even though its features had not changed. With a small sigh, Marc slipped the hood over his head and walked over to the balcony.

Where Marc Spector had once stood, the Fist of Khonshu now remained to do his master’s bidding, whether he wanted to or not.

Chicago was the third largest city in the country, and while most people incorrectly assumed it similar to New York City, Moon Knight had studied its architecture well enough to know better. While it might seem like unimportant trivia to some he had a better understanding of what to expect when running along the cityscape.

Dashing across the roof of a warehouse, Moon Knight slashed at the open air with his arm, releasing a grapple line. His aim, honed through years of mercenary experience, held true and the grapple line cemented itself to the side of the next building. Completely trusting in his equipment, Moon Knight leapt off the edge of the warehouse pulled his jump cable taut.

He had already been out that night as Jake Lockley, but Khonshu held no respect for that identity. The stone god demanded that the visage of his actual agent take matters into his own hands tonight and investigate the city. So long as the moon’s light poured into him, Moon Knight could forego sleep, at least for one night.

His silvery cape flowed behind him, cutting through the wind that never seemed to rest. The moonlight refracted off of the composite weave of his costume, allowing him a measure of visual ambiguity when he required it. During his tenure in the West Coast Avengers, Moon Knight had been openly mocked, usually by the team’s archer, as to his choice of color – white. While the design was forced on him by Khonshu, Moon Knight had quickly learned that the versatility of his costume would allow him to reflect light differently. He could either blend into the shadows or stand out in the darkness.

He landed on the next roof, recalling his jump cable with a flick of his wrist. The magnetic grapple would steadily support up to fifteen hundred pounds per square inch of pressure, but was thin enough to store in the pouch nestled against his lower back, hidden by his cape.

Moon Knight viewed the city was narrow eyes, wishing he could pinpoint the location of the horned man. The faster he put down the person that kept him in Chicago the faster he could leave.

He heard something move behind him but couldn’t react in time. What had begun as a soft brushing noise quickly escalated to a sharp, screeching scratch. He turned halfway before something tackled him around the waste, knocking him over the side of the building.

“Hoof!” the Fist of Khonshu said as he felt the air being forced out of his lungs from the hit.

He angled his arm, trying to get it underneath whoever had charged him, but they had clasped their arms around his waste after striking, locking them into place. All he saw was his opponent’s back, which was covered in a thick, brown fur.

Before he could think about it a moment longer the roof of the next building slammed into them. His adversary had held him in place, forcing Moon Knight to take the brunt of the impact. Marc’s already bruised ribs snapped from the fall, forcing out a squeal of pain from his lips.

The man who had knocked him over bounded up effortlessly, already standing a few feet away. When Marc heard what his opponent said next confirmed his suspicions as to his identity.

“Grrrrrr…”

“Damn,” Moon Knight swore as he tenderly stood up to his full height. “Is this your idea of a joke? Jack, you’re supposed to have enhanced vision when you’re all wolfed out like that. Don’t you ever look before you flying tackle someone? I heard you might be in Chicago but I didn’t think you’d be out in the fur coat…”

The furry creature growling before him held him in a tight gaze. The matted fur, sharp fangs covered in drool, and pointed claws earmarked Moon Knight’s aggressor as a mythological damned soul that he knew all too well. With the moon shining brightly behind the creature, it was the picturesque scenario for the presence of a werewolf.

“Jack,” Moon Knight continued. “Are you listening to me?”

The werewolf suddenly lunged toward him, covering the distance between them instantly. The werewolf’s powerful legs launched him with minimal effort, while his claws slashed at the swirling cape of Moon Knight. The vigilante jumped back, mostly from shock and surprise, barely escaping the strike and only managing to get the end of his cape shredded.

Moon Knight flipped back to gain more ground between them, hoping to avoid a direct confrontation with the werewolf. He knew this creature and he knew what it was capable of. The man trapped beneath the fur was a friend of his, which made the surprise attack all the more interesting.

Jack Russell, jokingly referred to as the Werewolf By Night, had been cursed to carry the spirit of the wolf inside his soul. Most of the legend and superstition that was common knowledge about werewolves rung true, especially their ferocity. Enhanced strength, vicious claws, an undying endurance, and an animalistic tendency to eviscerate your prey meant that werewolves were to be avoided at all times.

Whenever a full moon arose, Jack became uncontrollable. Usually he was able to keep the beast within tame, but when the moon was full once a month the beast could establish control. The problem was the moon was only three-quarters full, and while there was not a cloud in the sky, Moon Knight knew that something was definitely wrong with his friend.

The werewolf snarled as it followed through on its leap with a slash to its side in an attempt to catch Moon Knight off balance. Marc avoided the touch of sharp claws digging into his flesh and bounded back again. He knew he couldn’t keep up like this. Even with the strength of Khonshu he would eventually have to quite playing defensively and strike back at his friend.

Moon Knight quickly reached into the satchel strapped to his lower back and clutched his golden truncheon. As the werewolf dove for him again he smacked the side of its head with the truncheon, knocking the creature to the side. Blood oozed out where Moon Knight had struck him, worming its way through the dark fur on the werewolf’s scalp. The werewolf teetered momentarily, but quickly eyed his foe again and let out a snarl that made Marc’s skin crawl.

“Easy, Jack. Just relax for a second. We don’t need to do this. Something’s gotten into you and you’re just not yourself tonight.”

Moon Knight watched in amazement as the wound he had just opened closed itself. The werewolf continued to growl as it shook its head to cast off the pain before bounding into the air again. Moon Knight rolled under it as it landed where he had been standing a moment before, reaching into his satchel once more. He quickly yanked something out as he fell into a stance again, waiting for the werewolf to make the next move.

“C’mon, Jack! Don’t make me do this!”

The werewolf howled as it fell back onto its haunches, preparing to leap again. Drool and spittle dribbled out of its open mouth as the preternatural howl bellowed out over the roofs of Chicago. Moon Knight fingered what he had palmed from his satchel, hoping he wouldn’t have to retaliate. But as the creature that had overtaken Jack Russell pushed off the cement roof once more, Moon Knight failed to hesitate in his reaction.

Moon Knight’s hand slapped the air, releasing a handful of glistening darts at the werewolf. Four of the ranged weapons embedded themselves in the creature’s chest, ending his short flight prematurely. The tips of the darts dug into the werewolf’s skin, causing him to roar in surprise. The werewolf fell onto its side as it squirmed in pain.

Marc stood over his opponent with another half dozen darts ready to throw in his hands. The squirming wolfman thrashed back and forth as the fur covering his body began to retract back into his body, leaving after a few moments a mostly naked white man that looked to be in his mid-thirties.

“Sonofabitch…” Jack Russell mumbled. He looked down at his bare chest and slapped the darts out of his skin. “What the hell did you just hit me with?”

“Silver-tipped needles on the end of the darts,” Moon Knight replied. He finally relaxed his stance and put his weapons away. “I remembered that silver is something you furballs are allergic to. Now, mind telling me what the hell that was all about?”

Jack reached for help in standing up, but when Moon Knight failed to offer it he huffed and uneasily stood up on his own. His body was covered in scars from years of battling the beast and those that wished to capture it. His dark eyes betrayed his relative youth, showing a man that had a heavy burden on his shoulders that made him more worldly than some could ever hope to be.

“Got me,” Jack replied as he looked himself over. “Last thing I remember I was sitting in a bar, downing a shot of tequila. When did you get into town?”

“Why did you just try and kill me, Jack?” Moon Knight demanded, ignoring his friend’s question.

“Christ almighty… I have no idea, okay? Maybe it’s not all about you sometimes. Fuck, I’ve had to deal with psychos my whole life trying to mess with me. Maybe you just got in my way for a change, huh? You ever consider that?”

Jack walked to the end of the rooftop and looked for a way down. The fire escape was no where in sight, which wasn’t uncommon given the area they were in. For this neighborhood it would be surprising to find a fire escape that wasn’t half torn down from years of neglect.

“So you’re telling me you don’t remember anything,” Moon Knight stated. “The moon’s not full, Jack. I saw your eyes. You were in berserker mode and you only get like that when—”

“Wait,” Jack said, swinging his arm to cut Marc off. “There was… Fuck. I remember seeing some dude come at me after I left the bar. Yeah. I ducked down an alley for a shortcut and there was some crazy guy standing there, waiting for me. He came at me and before I could react he hit me with something.”

Moon Knight felt himself grow tense. There weren’t many people that could get the drop on a werewolf like that. Jack’s enhanced senses, even when he was in a human guise, were sharp enough that he could smell someone coming from a block away.

“What did he look like?”

“I’m not sure,” Jack answered, rubbing his temples in an effort to help his memory along. “I just remember something coming off of his head. Horns. Yeah. He had a pair of horns on his head like he was the friggin’ devil come to life!”

To Be Continued…