DEFENESTRATION

Part III

By James McKenna

The screaming echoed throughout the dining hall and surrounding corridors, and for a minute Marc Spector was unsure if that scream had come from him or not. He heard several French curses, Machete groaned in pain and released his weight from Spector, whom Machete had forced into a prone position, face down on the floor.

“Please, monsieur, forgive my zealous friend. My name is Georges Batroc, Savate master and mercenary, and professional through and through, though, ha, not professional enough to escape being captured once in awhile,” Batroc’s voice came through with a jovial tone, like endless strands of flowing silk his voice was smoothe, equally adept at English as with the mellifluous French liaisons, the Frenchman was a charmer and instigator. “I would hear your story, stranger, you, a new arrival and with none of the usual fanfare, quite odd. The guards will be coming soon, they care nothing for us, or our antics, but these fights, most assuredly they will fear dissension, and should be by to break it up at any second. After lunch, meet me in the courtyard, we’re released for a few minutes, for a smoke break and a glimpse of the sky. Au revoir.”

Shouldering the unconscious Machete, Batroc set back out into the main cafeteria room, the fights had largely subsided, all pent-up rage expelled through the juvenile outbursts. Now the guards came, Spector followed out into the main room, hands on his head, arousing no suspicion.

The more unruly prisoners were detained, the rest, complacent now, were led off to the various jobs that occupied the prisoners during the day. On kitchen duty, it was here that Spector had his first run of luck since this ordeal began. That had been two days ago, since then it had gotten worse, but hopefully, he would be out soon.

Infirmary

Frank Castle, the Punisher, was enjoying what for him, was the lap of luxury. Clean sheets, a nice pillow, and somewhat improved food. His last memory was of watching the pretty nurse leave before his mind shut down and sent him to sleep from the drugs.
He smiled to think of how he’d wound up here. The knife hadn’t hurt, he’d operated on himself before, the pain was nothing to Castle, and with his rudimentary knowledge of human biology, he’d missed anything vital. He’d taken Boomerang’s shiv, and roared for help, as the footfalls of guards drew near, Castle stabbed himself, and put the weapon in the unconscious Boomerang’s hand. The loss of blood sent Castle to the infirmary. Myer’s face wasn’t smashed up that bad, after a few bandages, they put him in solitary for a week.

It wasn’t Frank’s usual modus operandi to let a criminal live, but Myers had valuable information that he still needed, at least he’d been able to buy Moon Knight some time, Frank had no doubt that Spector could handle himself, but it would be rough, and like Myers himself had said, he was a “Ryker’s boy,” he’d been here before, he had friends here. After Spector managed to do away with Boomerang, Myers’ friends would do their best to make it a short-lived victory.

However, Frank was doing his best to get back on his feet and help Marc. As a bonus, security was far less prevalent here in the infirmary. Castle was sure he could sneak out, get back into the main prison complex and find Boomerang and Moon Knight. Now all he needed was a gun.

Prison Yard

It surprised, and to some extent horrified, Marc Spector that he found Batroc to be a compelling and clever man. As though some sort of friendship had sprung up between them, and Spector could not tell if it was a trap or not, if he should one day expect a lethal blow or if he had found some modicum of safety. Yet seemingly, Batroc had called off Machete, and Zaran a potential threat had heeled as well.

“I am a man of the world, Monsieur Spector, I am a man of adventure, of danger, of freedom. You seem to be such a man yourself—I am tired of these bars, oui, I want out, and soon,”

“And how do you plan on going about that?” Marc asked, a cloud of cigarette smoke blew past them, both Batroc and Spector grimaced in disgust—a filthy habit, it reminded Marc of days long gone, dark eternal nights of hunting and killing all over the world, seedy poorly lit rooms, corrupt employers.

“Haha, so you would have me, the great Batroc divulge all my plans? No, Monsieur Spector, I would not be where I am today were I so easily cajoled,”

“So if you were more gullible you wouldn’t be in prison?”

“Ah, Monsieur, but it is not I who is gullible! It is that flag-waver, Captain America, it is every other opponent I have faced, it is the world. For every publicly botched crime or attack, I pull off a dozen schemes without a hitch. The jester is the perfect assassin—who would suspect the innocent, jovial clown? Ah, no one! And over the years, the world has started to believe me a clown, well let them, the more incompetent I seem, the closer I can get without being deemed a threat. Do you understand?”

“…makes sense, but why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because I think you might be a means to an end…Moon Knight.”

Infirmary

He’d had a few good meals, well not good, but better than the standard prison fare, and now Frank was ready to be out. Stitched up and pumped full of blood to replace what he lost, he had it out for Boomerang, Batroc’s Brigade, and anyone else in his way.

Castle continued to feign weakness until he had managed to dope out the guard schedule, and now he had an opening, there would be a five minute window of opportunity as the guards switched, leaving his hallway empty. He hit the emergency button and almost immediately heard the click-clack of heels as a nurse hurried down the hall.

Breathing heavily to add force to his performance, Frank grunted out fictitious problems…a pain in his stomach, perhaps an infection. The nurse turned partially, measuring and readying a syringe, Frank didn’t know what it contained, and didn’t care, he was just glad and lucky she’d brought one, it was a possible weapon. With her attention turned, Castle struck like lightening, in one fluid motion he grabbed her arm, forcing her to drop the syringe, and with his arm tight around her neck, he cut off her oxygen and rendered her unconscious.

He gathered up the syringe, still filled with whatever potent narcotic the nurse had seen fit to use upon him. Along with the syringe, he took a long length of IV tube, he had a couple yards of it, doubled over a couple times he could use it as a strangling device.

Prison Yard

“How could I be Moon Knight?” Marc Spector asked incredulously, when in fact he was frightened. He could deal with Batroc, all that talk about devious schemes, acting like a clown, it was all idle chatter, used to help mend a bruised psyche, a man who can’t win trying to justify his actions, or lack thereof, trying to impress another man…right?

“Oh, Boomerang told us,” Batroc began, and as if by some secret cue, from shadows Machete and Zaran appeared behind him.

“I normally don’t trust Kangaroo Boy, but he had a special tip here, and a pay-stub from Sunset Bain tends to lend some credence to an argument, wouldn’t you agree, senor?” Machete started, avoiding the Spanish double talk and getting straight to the point. No matter how he’d landed in Ryker’s, a victim of circumstance or fate, Marc Spector was still a hero, and to them, he was the enemy, he was the reason they all were there. They would have their payback.

Two days ago, Marc had used his Kitchen duty to fashion himself a knife, when no one else was paying attention, he melted a couple rolls of plastic wrap and fashioned them as they cooled; creating a knife and a few crescent darts. While not of the usual high quality material was used to dealing with, they would work, and now was his chance to test them out.

Zaran the Weapons Master was caught off guard as the moon shaped projectile lodged itself in his bullish neck. It went in deep, and Marc Spector, the Moon Knight, was not sorry for that. He was outnumbered, he was improvising and he was playing for keeps. Zaran was a professional, he earned his pay in contests more lethal than this, and Spector would feel no remorse if he “accidentally” killed a killer.

Spector was afraid of his new perspective, how could he wantonly take life, when for so many years he had sought to protect it.

Infirmary

It had been slow but he’d made good progress, and now Frank Castle was making a run for the end, trying to get to the yard, it was still midday where the prisoners got a few free minutes in the yard. He lurched forward now, in his wake he left half a dozen incapacitated guards, but from the effort, his stitches had come partially undone. He’d really done a number on himself. But he still had his goal in mind, and helping out Spector would be a bonus.

He clutched his gut and coughed. He’d had worse before, but after this, some bed rest was in order.

Prison Yard

Machete had hurtled towards Spector with reckless abandon, throwing a couple shivs he’d stored away at the sans-costume Moon Knight. Spector was tired of playing dumb, he was no Spider-Man, but for a regular guy of his build and stature, Marc Spector was about as agile as he could be, he jumped and dodged the projectiles, ducking and flipping forwards, straitening out into a devastating kick which caught Batroc square in the chest. Spector turned, and was able to lessen his fall by using Batroc as a pillow, rolling forward he sprang again to his feet.

Marc lunged for Machete, who dodged and came up with a knife in his left hand, grazing Marc’s cheek. Spector caught Machete in the stomach with a hard blow, and again in the face, cartilage and bone turned to powder as Machete’s nose turned into a heap of bloody hamburger.

Suddenly, a rush of frenzied guards overcame the fight—the guards were used to seeing a couple prisoners blow off some steam, and Machete was one of the worst offenders in this regard. However, to see this man, a fairly new prisoner, to deal with the Latino mercenary without so much as breaking a sweat invoked a fear within the peace keepers. The guards flowed forth, their blue uniforms making them resemble a wave of would-be peace keepers. A large man detained Spector, Marc thought about breaking out of the hold, he was angry now, he had been scared and enraged for a long time, and he could admit it, this whole situation had thrown him out of his element, upset his equilibrium, he had been truly scared. Now that was over, and he would have his payback. By Khonshu’s name, whether that paranormal force still held sway with Marc’s life or not, Spector—the Moon’s Knight, would visit upon his enemies the vengeance due them.

For now, he felt it pertinent to bide his time, he let go of the improvised weapons, dropped them to the ground and let himself be carted away. He was put back in his cell, and waited there, until mysteriously beckoned.

Richmond Industries Headquarters; New York

Kyle Richmond had been chasing around the elusive Marc Spector for weeks now—it seems as though his former peer in the Defenders had simply vanished. Whilst he did not know Spector that well, be it in the mask as a fellow vigilante and superhero, or outside as a rival financier and industrialist he owed the man his gratitude for the apprehension of Blizzard and Blacklash—two mercenaries who had intended to harm the wellbeing of his company; although whomever they had acted on behalf of was a mystery to him as well. Perhaps the two conundrums were interwoven.

Richmond stood up from his desk and walked to the wall on the left of his desk, he touched a hidden button and a panel slid away from the wall, exposing a secret armoire which housed several Nighthawk costumes, alchemical tomes and formulae and other more modern equipment. He wanted to put one of the outfits on, feel the wind against his face as he flew over the buildings and people. Some days he only felt free as Nighthawk, despite all of Kyle Richmond’s vast wealth and power, he was still only a man governed by the laws of men, as Nighthawk he was a hero, he had wrestled with foes who would snuff out the cosmos had they but a chance. As Nighthawk he was free, unbridled, he could flex and use all of his abilities and talents, and not hide behind expensive suits and cluttered desks.

He reached out for a jetpack and cape, wondering if he could get away, if even for half an hour, from his corporate cage. Then the phone rang.

He paused then hit the speaker phone button; his secretary wouldn’t have passed the call through without informing him usually. The caller may have been on the accepted list—people whom she automatically connected, or the caller may have used one of several code words. Any call involving certain subjects or mentioning certain peoples his secretary would automatically send through.

“Mr. Richmond…this is Marlene Alruane, I’m—well Marc Spector and I are involved, and he’s gone missing. I know you know that Marc is Moon Knight, and he took care of those crooks awhile back who were messing around on top of your building. I need your help,” Marlene said, her voice was strong and firm, holding no traces of fear or trepidation. The missing Marc Spector—a.k.a. Moon Knight was one of the phrases on his accepted list. Richmond’s ears perked up.

“Yes, and I owe him for that. When did you last see him, tell me what you know,” replied Richmond, his interest piqued. He put away the Nighthawk equipment, and closed the armoire hiding and sealing off all traces of his double life.

“Marc busted up a couple mercenaries he caught messing around on top of the Richmond Industries Headquarters. Now Marc’s in jail—but we don’t know where, he was supposed to go somewhere upstate, one of the tamer federal penitentiaries. But he’s just gone, the police won’t say anything. Something’s up, I don’t know who else to turn to. I figured since he helped you out, maybe you can help me,” she continued, stress had crept into her voice, but it did not rob her of any strength. She was determined, and Richmond was equally galvanized to help her.

“It’s my top priority now, thank you for alerting me, Miss Alruane. Now just start at the beginning and tell me all you know. I think I have a friend who can help,” and with that Richmond opened the hidden armoire once again and began to don his Nighthawk costume as Marlene began her fragmented story.