DEFENESTRATION

Part I

By James McKenna

The jet and silver figure soared through the sky, his cape following him like the tail of a comet, flashing brilliantly under the moon light; grabbing the edges of his cape he glided down to the rooftop below him. The communicator under his cowl buzzed, and his aide de camp piloted the custom VTOL Angel Wing away. While riding in the plane a flash in the dark of night had caught his eye, an unsteady illumination from the top of the Richmond Industries headquarters. Richmond Industries was set to unveil a new fuel converter for high end military equipment next week; Richmond had attained triumph where many others had failed, and now his company stood to gain a mass of new industrial contracts and surpass many other companies in the field.

With a steady run he jumped from the building top he was now on and landed on another; with a dive from that roof, he fired a line from his gauntlet and swung across the street to the Richmond Industries’ rooftop. Recently Spector had overhauled and retooled his Moon Knight costume, it remained the traditional jet and silver in color, with his cowl and glider cape, but he’d readopted and retooled the gauntlet system he’d used awhile back with the adamantium armor. The gauntlets had previously fired swing lines and crescent darts; he’d removed the crescent dart mechanism, and now used them primarily for swing lines, it kept the size down, so they were hardly noticeable and could be built into his usual silver armbands. Beyond that he carried the usual nunchuku/truncheon and load of crescent darts with him. The Crescent-plane was usually never far away, and in that he carried a more extensive selection of arms.

The top of the roof had large neon letters standing like new age monoliths, deifying technology and stock portfolios, he had arrived at the top of the Richmond Industries building, a rival of Stark Enterprises and BainTronics for technology and philanthropy. While swinging through the sky, Moon Knight had noticed a bizarre flashing light, and now upon landing, he found the source of it. Two Maggia call boys: Blacklash and Blizzard, little more than bungling mercenaries with some high-tech accoutrements.

Landing silently far behind them, Marc Spector pondered a course of action. Certainly, he would soon be discovered, but for now the pair in front of him were busy trying to jimmy open the roof doorway. It should have been an easy job, with most regular metals Blacklash’s whips would cut right through it, but Richmond was wise to acts of industrial sabotage and had built his security systems with sterner stuff. He made a decision to act.

Spector launched a cable line, and was able to snag Blizzard around his ankles, tugging hard, Moon Knight pulled him off balance; the jet and silver avenger dove off the building, bringing Blizzard with him, towing the shocked henchmen off the rooftop and into the sky. He released the cable line with Blizzard in free fall. Spector wasn’t that worried about him, one doesn’t put on a Freon suit with no idea how to use it. Blizzard could save himself, he was certain of that, and if he returned to the Richmond Industries rooftop, Moon Knight could take care of him again.

Launching a cable line from his other gauntlet, Moon Knight swung back up to the roof top. The line released and he drifted the rest of the way, his cape—like fiery gossamer—flapped in the wind as he descended, and he came down on Blacklash like a plague.

“What’d you do with Blizzard?” Mark Scarlotti, the man known as Blacklash roared at the Fist of Khonshu.

“I wanted to see how well he could fly,” The silver avenger replied. Evidently, Blacklash didn’t think it half as funny as Spector had, his energy whip lashed out at Moon Knight fiercely. He had to be careful; blows from these whips had taken out Iron Man before.

Blacklash struck once more, the whip lancing out like a famished snake, Spector was narrowly able to dodge, jumping over the low arc of the whip strike. Moon Knight hurriedly drew two crescent darts from his belt and hurled them with as much force as possible; one lodged in Scarlotti’s abdomen, the other pierced his right cheek. He moaned in pain, as blood collected in his mouth but he continued to strike out, perhaps even more violently now, with his energized whip. Spector avoided the strike from the now disoriented Blacklash, Moon Knight charged forward and sunk his fist into Blacklash’s solar plexus, hitting the major nerve centre head on, incapacitating his opponent.

“Careful now, be nice and I won’t make your mouth a few inches wider,” Marc joked gruesomely. In truth he actually felt kind of bad, lodging the crescent dart in Blacklash’s cheek was pure chance. Spector would use any force necessary, but he tried never to maim or dissent into sadism. But the blow had been struck, and the taunts were nothing more now than violent pillow talk, psychological jabs they all let loose from time to time. However, Spector had never been the nicest vigilante on the block. He was no Punisher, but sometimes bad people deserved a few broken bones and lacerations.

However, now Scarlotti was smiling—an odd site, his lips trying to curve with the metal crescent lodged in his face, and as Spector exhaled, he knew why Blacklash was smiling. Moon Knight’s breath collected in a thick cloud as the air around him became dry and cool. Blizzard was back. Moon Knight whipped around, grabbing Blacklash up in his arms as he did so, with his forearm across Scarlotti’s neck holding the battered mercenary up, Spector gambled that Blizzard wouldn’t dare lash out with his partner on the line.

“Let him go!” Blizzard called out. Donny Gill, the second to wear the Freon suit was an amateur. The original Blizzard, Gregor Shapanka could manipulate the suit with finesse, he was a talented and lethal foe to many heroes in his time. Donny was a kid going nowhere in life.

“No,” was Moon Knight’s only retort, he slowly backed up to the edge of the roof. The dark streets were countless stories below, and Moon Knight tossed Blacklash off the roof and into the night. In a flurry, Blizzard was after Blacklash, using his cold generating suit to make an ice bridge; he caught Scarlotti and wound his way back up to the roof, whereupon he was waylaid by Spector. Moon Knight jumped at the astonished Blizzard, landing a solid blow to his throat and chest, knocking the wind out of him, nearly crushing his wind pipe and shattering a couple of his ribs.

“You’re…not supposed t-to do that,” Blizzard exhaled sharply, pain lancing through his chest and throat.

“Not supposed to do what? It’s my job to stop you, kid. You’re on the wrong side of the fence and I don’t have to be nice about it. Throw away the suit and check yourself into a hospital.”

With that and two quick nerve strikes, Blacklash and Blizzard were rendered unconscious. Spector called Frenchie back with the Angel Wing. While waiting for his confidant, Moon Knight hoisted the two mercenaries on a length of his swing line by their feet and left them suspended from a window-sill above the entrance to Richmond Industries. Marc left the crescent darts in Blacklash as his calling card; the razor sharp half-moons would tip the media off to his intervention.

Two more hours of fruitless patrolling finally led the costumed hero and his companion back home as it was nearing 3:30 in the morning. Restless, Marc Spector worked out for near an hour, practicing on the punching bag, hitting with force enough to turn bones to powder, the skin on the knuckles of his calloused hands was thicker than leather and the bones were tough as steel as a result of years of conditioning and dedication.

Finally, almost too tired to stand, Spector groggily made his way to the master bedroom of Grant Mansion, he fell into bed next to Marlene, the vivacious blonde whom he’d met in Egypt years ago; the love of his life and his salvation from death. Partially awoken by her love’s late retire, Marlene rolled over smiling at Spector, and a short kiss later, they were asleep in each others arms. For Marc Spector, life was good.

The next few days were mundane at best; Moon Knight did little more than fill up hospital wards with street scum; uncovering a drug ring, saving a prostitute from some violent clientele and cracking down on various muggers and looters. Then, five days after the business at Richmond Industries with Blizzard and Blacklash, Marc Spector woke up to a surprise.

Still half-asleep Spector slowly came too, his nose filled with the smells of cheap aftershave, cigarette smoke, mint and bad coffee. He finally opened his eyes and sat up. Two plainclothes policemen had stationed themselves near his bed. Marlene was gone, which was not unusual after his late nights. He would often sleep late, while she and anyone else in the house left on business.

“Good morning Mr. Spector, or is it Grant, today?” One of the detectives asked him, he was a big man, a little over six feet tall, or so Marc judged, he had a small paunch and shoulders broad as a redwood. He appeared to be about 50 years old, but had kept in shape more or less. His voice was deep, not a full baritone but close, and gruff, like his throat was made out of sandpaper; in the breast pocket of his light beige summer jacket, he reached for a cigarette and pulled one out, whereupon he placed it between his lips. He flashed a smile of nicotine and coffee stains.

“What are you getting at?” Marc played dumb, which wasn’t hard to do given his groggy state.

“C’mon, playboy, we know about the embezzlement racket,” the second cop cut in, a twenty-something man, about 5’10” and of average build. His hair was overly done up, half a bottle of styling product probably went into it every morning. A purposeful stubble gave the bottom half of his face a grey/bronze coloring, as the dark hair blended with his fair skin color. His jaw moved incessantly as he chewed half a pack of gum. The leather coat he wore seemed out of season—it was early autumn in New York and the weather had not yet cooled down enough to warrant the coat. But judging from the rest of his appearance—a casual white with blue stripes unkempt and wrinkled button up shirt, light grey slacks and tan sneakers to offset an otherwise half-serious assemblage—it was evident the young cop was trying to fit into some new-age Colombo archetype. He succeeded for the most part: messy and casual but serious.

“Embezzlement? What are you talking about?” The sleepy Spector asked.

“Don’t give me that, you know damn-well,” the younger cop started in.

“Easy, Seamus,” his elder partner chimed in, calming the other man down. “Spector, you’re wanted by the IRS and the Feds on embezzlement and money laundering charges, channeling funds from SpectorCorp into Steven Grant’s bank account, marking down SpectorCorp’s net profits and channeling unaccounted for funds through an offshore account. You’ve been avoiding taxes, stealing from SpectorCorp—robbing from your employees effectively—and by filing taxes under two names, you’ve dodged a few tax bullets. You’re in a heap of trouble, so they sent us lowly NYPD detectives to come in and get you. Your butler let us in, and I told him to take the day off. You’re the only one home right now, so I’d suggest you get dressed so we can take you downtown. You need your rights read?” The older, as yet unnamed cop finished up, he seemed tired, like this was all busy work, a tedious chore that interrupted what would be an otherwise pleasant day. It was getting to be 9:30.

“I know my rights,” Spector replied. He got up from bed, clad in silk pajamas sans top. Free of the blanket, Marc Spector’s physique came into full view, his body was littered with scars from stabs, explosions, burns and more, and he put most body builders to shame, his biceps thick as tree trunks, and the rest of him similarly built, chiseled immaculately as if he was some ancient mythological hero. At 38, Marc Spector was in better shape than most people half his age, he looked as if he was in his early 30s, and his physician had said he wouldn’t be surprised if Marc lived to be 100. The cops were simultaneously intrigued by the battle markings, and made ill at ease by the fearsome figure.

Spector had mastered boxing early in life, surviving in the harsher districts of Chicago and then joined the Marines. After eight years of the Marines, he got bored and hired himself out as a mercenary wherever the risk was high and the pay was good. In those years, he’d mastered savate and trained himself in many other fighting styles, mastering the use of the nunchuku and the style behind it. He was trained in most military based fighting styles and had learned the basic skills of survival in any hostile environment..

Marc rummaged around for a suitable set of clothes; he found a pair of brown corduroys and an off-white casual button up shirt which were both to his liking. Not that it mattered, if the police had their way, he’d be wearing an orange jumpsuit within the hour.

He could run. These two would go down easy, they wouldn’t even constitute a work out. But he found he couldn’t do it, they weren’t super villains or crooked in any manner, to his knowledge. Plus, his Steven Grant identity had been more or less dormant for awhile now, relegated to signing checks for charities and fundraisers. Someone knew secret details about him, and perhaps playing along would give Spector a chance to find out just who it was.

BainTronics Headquarters; California

“Ms. Bain, goin’ to jail isn’t my idea of a good time, I’ve made quid easier, and would rather stay out of the big house, y’know?

“Mr. Myers, I’ve called you in from Australia for a purpose. You have a good name in your business, and you’re not a fan of superheroes. Neither am I. One such…hero has only recently slighted me. Whatever you want, I will pay you. When the job is over, you’ll promptly be extracted, given a briefcase of money and a plane ticket to wherever on earth you want to go,” Sunset Bain had a temper not befitting her position, and with the vast amounts of wealth at her command, that temper was a very dangerous thing.

“You’re making this proposition very appealing….Who’s the target?” Myers asked the ruthless, beautiful, industrialist.

“Marc Spector,” she answered sourly, her mouth curling as if she’d drunk a bottle of vinegar.

“I’ve heard that name before. Own’s some company based in New York, right? SpectorCorp, is it? What of him? He’s peanuts to you. I thought you mentioned capes, so who’s the spandex in this op?” Myers asked again, unaware, or uncaring, that Bain was growing tired of his presence. Men of his type had their uses, but she didn’t like them in her office, loitering and bugging her with questions. She signed the checks, it should be enough, in her opinion, that he take the assignment and leave. His curiosity irked her.

“Marc Spector is the vigilante ‘hero’ who holds the nom de guerre Moon Knight,” her eyes flared with malice. She didn’t like explaining her motives to people below her station. To people like this Fred Myers—the Australian mercenary Boomerang—a walking risible stereotype.

“Ah, Moon Knight. So it was you who hired Blacklash and Blizzard out for that Richmond job. He put a kink in your operations, lost you some money, and you want some vindication. I can get behind that,” he smiled with the demented mirth only a scoundrel and crook could muster.