DARK GLASS

By James McKenna

Now

Moon Knight only barely dodged the mace swung by his current foe, the ebon-garbed Black Specter. Moon Knight countered with a devastating punch to the man’s gut and swept his foes legs out from under him. Seeing his foe down for a second, Moon Knight ran towards the nearest window, he tossed a nearby chair through it then leapt out, gliding down to the ground. Knowles was crazed and he’d gotten the drop on Spector thanks to Bushman. Spector leapt and climbed into the nearest tree, there he took off and deposited his silvery cloak amongst the branches.

He jumped down, grabbing a strong wayward branch, like an ace acrobat he swung around on it, letting go he was propelled through the air by his momentum, he touched down and hit ground, rolling softly to his feet. He hid in the garden behind Grant mansion, waiting for the Specter. He didn’t wait long; the Black Specter had recovered and resumed the dogged chase of his nemesis. Half crazy and somewhat disoriented, he looked around and noticed out of the corner of his eye his jet and silver enemy hiding in the trees.

Black Specter drew and tossed a dagger at the “figure” in the trees. Behind him, stealthily Moon Knight had crept up. Spector abruptly struck, he drew one of the man’s knives and sank it deep into his side, careful not to hit anything too important. He pulled the man’s vest—full of weapons—off and tossed it aside.

Now he knelt down, he pulled off his foe’s helmet and mask to look him in the face: “if you apply pressure to your wound and keep on it, you won’t die. If you don’t, I won’t mourn you. You’ve attacked me in my home and I have every right to vengeance, but I’m not a son of a bitch like you. Now where’s Bushman? You said he sent you.”

“Inside…he’s inside by now. Sent me to distract you. Now he’s inside…playing with your friends. He’s here now, I’m sure,” Knowles laughed weakly. Then he coughed in pain.

Moon Knight grimaced underneath his mask. He picked up his now fallen foe’s vest, full of his various blades and implements, with a grunt he tossed it far back into the grounds. He kept the mace and dagger however. Affixing them to his belt, he dived into the pool out behind the house and swam through the secret tunnel into his lair as Moon Knight.

How it began, the Ravencroft Institute 14 days ago

Carson Knowles knew how to survive. He had survived war: the bullets, grenades, knives, fists and blood that went along with conflict. He’d never realized how good he was at it, unbeknownst to him; war had crept into his veins and supplanted his blood. His heart pumped conflict and violence.

He had survived skid row, living amongst rats and scum, unaware of the darkness in his soul, he survived his divorce, his son’s death, poverty and more. One day, a young man presumed to mug Carson Knowles. The mugger died that night, and the Black Specter was born.

Moon Knight defeated Knowles, and the Specter, as he had been on the cusp of winning the Mayoral election for New York City. The power he’d always craved, taken from in front of his face. He was incarcerated. After several interviews and psychiatric evaluations, he was deemed ‘sick’. He was placed in the Ravencroft Institute and labeled criminally insane.

They decided he was cured. After all the paperwork and formalities, he was released. They were wrong.

Now he was free and he walked down the lonely cobblestone path to the gate of the institute, after a final goodbye from some of his doctors, he was let free into the world, given a place to stay and a job that meant nothing. The old ways would soon reassert themselves over Carson Knowles, as much as he tried to fool himself into thinking he was better, there was no going back. The Black Specter would return.

Grant Mansion, 16 days ago

“Steven!” Marlene’s eyes seemed to water as Marc Spector—or Steven Grant—embraced his love.

The familiar cast of Marc Spector’s life populated the kitchen, his butler Samuels, and cook Nedda (in the process of making a proper feast for the return of her employer and friend) along with his confidante and pilot Jean-Paul DuChamp, and his friends as Jake Lockely: Crawely, Gena and her sons Ricky and Ray. Also present was Kyle Richmond and his secretary Elisabeth, whose skills Richmond had utilized in procuring the freedom of Marc Spector.

After the long embrace, Marc Spector looked Kyle Richmond in the eye and thanked him. He had met the man long before on a job with the Defenders. A fellow man of the night, Marc graciously shook his hand.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, Marc. Though you should thank Marlene too, she contacted me,” Richmond explained as Nedda bustled behind him, setting up the meal to come. Richmond’s arm drew Elisabeth closer to him as he sipped his drink.

Soon they dined; an excellent meal and they had great cause to celebrate. Later the various guests left, Samuels cleaned up, Frenchie made his way to the roof to go over the Angelwing, as he knew Marc would soon want to put it to use.

Hell’s Kitchen, 13 days ago

Carson plunged headlong into the mire of New York City. Straight to the infamous Kitchen, host to all the ills that populate the modern urban world; but he had no choice. He’d been gone a long time, no money, no outstanding abilities to help him in the work place and plus, despite the labels of equal opportunity, who wants to hire someone fresh out of the asylum? The Kitchen was cheap, especially the bad neighborhoods, and that was all he could afford. Any recovery he’d made was gone and the folks at the institute should have known that, they’d set him up with the apartment. Renting that seedy apartment in the worst part of town tipped the first domino that led to his fall.

Grant Manor, 13 days ago

Marc cringed as the face of his old nemesis was plastered across the screen. It was a five second filler before commercials. Old super villain reformed, chalk up a victory for the system.

“Dammit,” Marc exhaled, he sat upright, the news spot had set him off.

“Steven…maybe he has changed?” Marlene asks, hopeful but not convincing, even to herself, she grips Marc’s arm.

“No…you knew him even better than I, how charismatic he could be and how depraved he was underneath that façade. I know you’re not fooled.”

“I know…it’s just…sometimes it doesn’t hurt to be hopeful.”

“Not this time, Marlene, I can feel it in my gut.”

Hell’s Kitchen, 6 days ago

The first week went by without incident, relatively. The eighth day came with ruin, Carson walked the slow, steady walk up stairs steep and long fallen into disrepair. Whores and addicts littered the landings, crying, pleading, selling wares immoral.

He turned the corner and had one more flight to walk, almost there, the brown paper bag clutched in his arm contained goods hardly fit to keep a man alive, but times were hard, taste and nutrition had long since fallen out of the equation.

He smelled the crime before he saw it. The victim exhaled death, the metallic scent of blood filled the air as it poured out his side, set to flow by the cruel, cold knife of his assailant.

The assailant was an unclean man, unshaven and with soiled clothes. He turned and saw Carson; the man brandished his knife again and went for a second victim.

“No!” Carson shouted, to no one in particular as his precarious mental health snapped in full. He flashed back to the alley many years ago, a similar situation where the Black Specter was born. A young man turned on him with a knife, he killed the man.

Now, the wastrel came at Knowles, aiming to kill. Carson side-stepped in time, grabbing the man’s forearm, twisting and making him drop the knife; a palm strike to the face shocks him Carson puts his arm around the man’s neck, his other hand grasping at assailant-turned-victim’s head. A loud wet cracking sound announced the man’s death as his neck was broken, his head twisted unnaturally. Carson let the body drop, the head stayed twisted at its brutal angle, looking up, the dead eyes bore into Carson Knowles. Acknowledging the gaze, Knowles laughed.

“No,” he thought to himself, this was the Black Specter laughing. He looked outside, wary of any traffic or witnesses. He dragged the body up to the roof, the door to the roof was locked tight, he made sure to wipe any prints off and simply left it on the stairs. He had to plan, the Specter was back and Moon Knight had put him away. He needed to get back at Moon Knight and he needed supplies. He would go back to his old apartment and look around, he had kept a hidden cache back in his original days as the Specter, hopefully something had survived.

Over New York, 5 days ago

Frenchie piloted the Angelwing as Marc Spector sat, dangerous ruminations bouncing around inside his skull. They’d used the onboard computer to locate Carson Knowles with Moon Knight’s impressive technology and police connections.

On the way they spotted a liquor store robbery on some nigh abandoned corner. Moon Knight glided down, vengeance incarnate. Even with his mind preoccupied by the Black Specter, the thugs proved not to be a challenge.

“How’s it going, guys?” Marc spoke into his cowl microphone, linking him not only to Frenchie, but to various others, in this specific case, Gena’s sons Ricky and Ray.

The two brothers sat outside Carson Knowles’ apartment, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the various occupants, with orders to follow Knowles should he leave the building. They’d been doing this every night since Marc had found out the Specter had been released.

“All’s quiet here, Lockley. Creepy quiet,” Ricky answered; Ray was behind the wheel of the car, eyes intently scanning the building and its surrounding territory.

“Okay, thanks for the update, and stand by if I need you.”

“Sure thing, Lockely; Ricky out,” and with that the young man’s voice quit buzzing in Marc Spector—the man also known as cabbie Jake Lockley’s ear.

“I don’t like this, Frenchie. There’s a weird feeling in my gut, I’ve been out of it recently…the ordeal with Ryker’s has thrown me off balance, it’s been over a week and nothing has happened…maybe Marlene is right. I’m a damn fool,” Spector mused, with a somewhat depreciative tone.

“Say the word, Marc, and we can be back at the mansion in minutes, time enough for a nice night in. But I remember how bad this Black Specter was. I do not mean to say that he is guilty of anything now, his reformation would be a wonderful thing, but should he return to old habits…it would be our job to stop him, and I think the man merits our attention,” Spector’s companion spoke, settling Moon Knight’s nerves as only a trusted old friend could.

On the City Streets

Below the lunar avenger’s flying transport, far below, nestled amongst the streets of crime, gilded with gold and silver, trinkets and baubles meant to distract men and give them delusions of power, far below amongst the squalor of crushed spirits, broken lives, drugs, guns and hate, another mortal foe to Moon Knight stood and smiled.

His face twisted into something one might call a smile. An expression of demented amusement projected by curious features: dark skin tattooed and branded with ivory and crimson and with teeth sharpened into fearsome fangs. Raoul Bushman was back in New York and plotting the demise of his greatest foe: Marc Spector the Moon Knight. Spector was out cavorting around with his toys in the night sky; Raoul thought it the perfect time to strike.

To think of it like that, in terms of “plotting the demise,” made Raoul feel much more like a supervillain than he ever truly had been. The man was a mercenary, a hatemonger who dealt in dark collusions. He kept tabs on Spector, he studied Marc’s reasoning and actions and he knew Marc would be after the recently released Carson Knowles. So Bushman had been watching Knowles as well, he had his employees hanging around Knowles’ apartment building, reporting back any findings and yesterday something very interesting had happened. Bushman would try and use Knowles as a foil to get to Marc Spector, to distract Spector so Raoul could come in for the finishing blow.

Bushman now turned and walked off the roof into the stairwell and down, down into the street. The rooftop he’d been standing on was a new night club which housed more lucrative and lethal business in the back rooms. He owned the building, financed by some of his mercenary endeavors. Outside a limousine was waiting for the brute of a man, he got in and directed the driver.

Hell’s Kitchen

The Angelwing flew over one of many squalid tenement houses, but Moon Knight could be seen gliding down, having leapt from the bottom hatch, catching the wind in his great cape he came to rest on a rooftop across the street from where Carson Knowles lived.

He sat there for awhile, he’d sent Ricky and Ray home, but continued to watch the building himself. Frenchie was gone as well, he’d desposited Marc and followed orders to head back to the mansion. Should the Black Specter reemerge this night, Marc wanted the fiend to himself.

Moon Knight sat transfixed waiting for some villainous intent to spring from the building. He sat all night, stone still like a gleaming silver gargoyle. He’d done this since learning of Carson Knowles release. So far every night he’d been disappointed. Soon morning came, the twinkling of dawn shone dimly though the pollution, the prospects of a new day tarnished at its very inception.

He watched as people came and went, the hours dragged on and nothing interesting or important happened, or so it seemed. Men and women came and went, among them, unbeknownst to Moon Knight, was Raoul Bushman. He was a large man, but not unusually so, with the right accoutrements he passed unsuspected: a set of unassuming clothes, broken in jeans with an old jacket and baseball cap. Moreover in his hands he carried a brown paper bag, which one would think to be full of groceries.

Concealed in the bag was his offering to the Black Specter–his tribute to the psychopathic warrior.

Bushman walked into the building without incident, keeping his head down and his tattooed face from being noticed by any early morning stragglers. His limousine driver had dropped him off on some nondescript street two blocks away, because Bushman knew his nemesis would have Knowles under watch.

Now he took the stairs coming closer to his intended destination, he stood outside Knowles’ door and knocked, removing his hat and raising his head to proudly bestow his grisly altered visage.

Now, Moon Knight’s lair under Grant Mansion

“Bushman!” Moon Knight roared with vengeance in his voice and released a flurry of crescent darts at his enemy. Bushman held captive Marc’s lover Marlene, along with Samuels and Nedda, motivating Moon Knight to take no quarter.

The darts landed with deadly accuracy, peppering Bushman’s torso, drawing blood from various points. Like a rabid dog enthused, Bushman leapt at Moon Knight, drawing two large knives to combat his foe. Moon Knight put his arm up to guard, one of the knives striking against the metal bangle wrapped around his wrist. The other knife grazed his ribs and Moon Knight retaliated with a brutal haymaker, dazing Bushman. Then he unclipped the mace from his belt which he’d taken from the Black Specter and brought it to bear, smashing down across Bushman’s chest.

The great man fell to the floor, ribs cracked and broken, Moon Knight followed his strike with another harsh blow.

“Spector, stop this!” Bushman yelled out, beaten and bleeding.

“Marc Spector is gone. You have attacked his home and family and expect forgiveness. Moon Knight is the only one here, I will serve my lord, I will have vengeance,” the crazed Marc responded. The mace came down one more time.