Chapter Text
Marc’s first thought upon waking was how odd it was to wake in Steven’s bed. It felt as though he had crossed a personal boundary, one Steven wasn’t even aware they had.
Steven wasn't even aware there was a they, he supposed.
Pulling back the bedcovers, Marc noticed - with no small amount of contempt - the restraint fastened securely around his ankle. Marc had repeatedly gone out of his way to ensure Steven was none the wiser to the fact that he was an alter, so much so that Marc supposed it was hard to deduce any sensible conclusion besides insanity to explain his late night endeavors, and unfortunately, Steven being a witness to such events.
So it came as a surprise to find out that Steven had come to the completely wrong conclusions.
It was convenient to let Steven maintain the illusion that their situation could be summed up as a simple sleeping disorder, though Marc knew nothing about it was simple, evinced by the ankle restraint, sand covered flooring, and taped doors at night.
After making quick work of the restraint and paying special attention to not disturb the moat of sand around the bed, he trudged his way across the overcrowded flat. It took some time before he was able to spot some semblance of clean laundry to pick through. Even then, the laundry Marc was able to pull out was hardly practical - ill-fitting pants and one of the many plaid button-downs Steven no doubt thought was charming. He would have to change into his own clothing once he reached his storage unit.
Ever since Steven gained independence and established a life for himself, Marc couldn’t help but wonder what compelled him to live like an absolute slob. Marc supposed he couldn’t blame Steven. Even though the man thought that everything in the flat belonged to him, hardly any of it did. Steven couldn’t possibly know the origins of some of the priceless objects in the flat, each valuable in their own right, but even more so to Marc.
Standing there, Marc couldn’t help but be reminded of Layla. These objects, near and dear as they may be to Steven, didn’t reflect the valiant effort made to to recover them, by the hands of two lovers who didn’t care how much danger they would bring upon themselves. Steven never fought for these objects, recovered them from dig sites, or stored them up in safe houses, like he and Layla had.
When Layla first mentioned her crusade, Marc didn’t hesitate at the prospect of potentially getting killed from their endeavors, ashe had his skill-sets as a former CIA agent and free-lance mercenary. And with Khonshu’s armor, he hadn’t shied away from using it a time or two when their options were bleak. Over time, he realized he didn’t care for the objects themselves or the noble cause like Layla. He thought that, like a bullet from a pointed gun, all he needed was a sense of direction and a boss to dole out responsibilities, and he could do what needed to be done, could live with himself that way, especially if he happened to get killed in the process. But he and Layla always made it out, were always victorious, as the scattered trophies littered throughout the cluttered space no longer testified. After that, Marc came to an entirely new conclusion as to why he had spent years risking his life with this woman for a crusade he didn't believe in.
No wonder Steven took a keen interest in Egyptian lore and ancient artifacts, Marc thought dismally. He gave him no choice.
Marc checked the time. He had been planning this weekend for many weeks now, had waited this long after securing a lead on Harrow’s whereabouts and, subsequently, his intentions regarding the Ammit’s release. Not only did he have Steven’s schedule to work around, he also needed to wait until the scarab was in the proper location, which was currently in the hands of a black market dealer who specialized in ancient Egyptian artifacts. Harrow had scheduled an exchange in Austria sometime the next morning. Marc was tasked with tracking the scarab down, delivering Khonshu’s vengeance, and in the meantime, becoming one step closer to paying his debt to the deity.
Marc made his way to a cluttered and therefore unremarkable rickety table that served as another flat surface, among multitudes, for a barrage of books and other old junk. Marc pulled it across the floor, hoisting himself up and the whole structure threatened to collapse beneath him.
Steadying himself, he reached up, pulling a loose plank from the alcove that served to bring natural light to the dismal flat. Reaching in, he recovered a key, careful to skirt the mobile he had no desire of taking with him. He fitted the board back in place, slid the table to its former position and took stock of the state of the apartment. Despite the predictable disorderly condition, Marc concluded that nothing he had done today would tip Steven off if Marc were not able to return.
He found an old jacket hanging on a hook by the front door, and gave one last look. Marc tried to maintain boundaries between him and Steven, only taking over when absolutely necessary. Tonight though, Marc had a job to do, and he had spent weeks biding his time and planning every last detail so that this last job would go as smoothly as possible.
Marc had an opportunity to finally put to rest the hiding, the secrets, the double life as a night-time vigilante - a protector of the travelers of the night, as Khonshu put it. He could finally put an end to worrying whether Steven would piece together the gaps in his memory, the lack of sleep, the unexplained bruising, the fact that his entire life had been one elaborate lie. Yet, with his life and his marriage in shambles, there was still work to do. Vengeance wouldn’t wait, especially since Marc had no intention of ever going back to that part of himself.
Besides, Marc thought as he shut the door behind him, making his way out of the complex, that was what he had Steven for.
—
Marc was jolted awake as the car rolled to a stop. Marc uncurled and looked out the backseat window, and squinted against the brightly lit facades of the gabled townhouses speckled along the rolling countryside of the Austrian Alps.
After he had arrived at his storage unit - situated far enough away from Steven’s apartment that he hoped he would never find it, or to at least delay his finding it - he had changed into his own clothing and grabbed his duffel. He had brought only the necessities for that morning's endeavors - a change of clothes, various travel supplies, correct passports and travel documentation, making sure to leave his customary firearm and any other item that might pique the interest of airline security. One perk of serving the whims of a supernatural deity over a mortal crime boss was that all the supplies needed to commit violence didn’t need to be lugged in a carry on. He didn’t even bother with medical supplies.
The flight over had taken the rest of the nighttime hours, and the ride to this rural town was spent in the early hours of dawn. Marc still had to scout the area before he was able to secure the scarab, though he'd have plenty of time.
Marc paid the fare and bid the driver before exiting the vehicle. Upon its departure, he surveyed the area. The village was quaint, small and open, leaving very few opportunities to sneak around. No doubt the locals all knew each other, and he knew he would stand out in more ways than simply not having Ammit's scales tattooed on his forearm. That was another obstacle he had to consider.
He took a moment to breathe in the scent of the breeze and to face the warm morning sun. Steven hardly ever got out of his stuffy apartment, only occasionally to stroll around the grimy London streets, which Marc didn't consider any better. The air in the Alps, though, did wonders to clear his head. He was still sleep-deprived and had an ever-constant itinerary running in the back of his mind, though standing here among peaceful fields, he could almost forget.
The only hindrance which spoiled that moment was the thought that Layla was supposed to be with him. He had confided in her, had told her of Khonshu, the war of the gods, and of Harrow and the Disciples of Ammit. She had never resented him for it, only wished to be part of it, which he loved her all the more for. They had been planning how to stop Harrow for months, had spent many late hours deliberating, only for him to run away without a trace.
And here he was now. Alone on a two-man mission.
Keeping his head low, he made his way along the desolate lane leading into town. Upon reaching the outer buildings, he looked around for any curious eyes, then slipped between two buildings, the still-dark alley obscuring him until he once again met sunlight.
Khonshu had warned him of Harrow’s mission - not only to eradicate potential sinners, but to also create a perfect utopian society, a “heaven on earth” as he had heard it described by the Disciples of Ammit who followed the pious man. A few months ago, Harrow had converted this small Austrian town, ridding it of all non-believers and, after that, further removing those he did not see fit to live in the new world he was quickly and effectively creating.
The results of such an endeavor were as clear to Marc as if he were there to witness its creation. As he made his way through the town, he noticed that while it hardly looked any different from its origins, it seemed to have a filter cast about it. He noticed many more public venues than other towns in the surrounding areas.
This neighborhood, it appeared, had not been at the height of quality in its prime, though now it seemed like it had entirely new foundations. The crumbling stone architecture still remained, an ominous reminder of rougher days, though its surfaces were covered in greenery - public gardens blooming with fresh life and grazing animals not secluded for safety. Among that, there were various vendor stalls which looked inviting with patios decked with seating arrangements. There were stages for public entertainment and various sports gear lined up along well-maintained courts.
It all appeared to Marc as if Harrow delivered his promises for a simpler, virtuous lifestyle. Marc considered that living in such a place wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d ever done. He knew it was certainly better than living in Steven’s current arrangement. Though he supposed, he would have to first prevent large-scale genocide before he would ever be able to experience such peace. By that point, this perfect town and all its charming accessories would most likely be nothing but a memory, lost like everything else in the shifting sands of time.
Marc walked along a well-beaten path, passing some locals who were speaking many different languages, which he found odd. Goats brayed to his left and shopkeepers swept their porches around him. Upon reaching an intersection, he spied a large, castle-like structure distanced from the town near the face of the mountain. Marc knew it was the exchange site for the scarab, which awaited Arthur Harrow to lead them to the ushabti of Ammit. It was a risk, letting the gold beetle get this far in the hands of Harrow's cult, though Khonshu assured him this was the ideal location to intervene.
Making his way over, he glanced around the surrounding buildings, eventually finding a suitable location: an abandoned-looking warehouse, the back of which faced the castle. It offered a perfect yet isolated perspective of the complex. He slipped inside, ascending one of the various industrial staircases leading to the steel framed windows along the catwalk, overlooking the rusted machinery below.
Peering through the windows until he found a desirable view, Marc propped himself on the grimy ledge. Marc, specifically Khonshu, wasn’t able to narrow down a specific timeframe for the exchange. Which meant he could potentially wait all until nightfall for signs of life.
Marc sighed, settling in. He didn't have particular difficulty following this tedious task, he had done it plenty of times in the CIA, though he had gotten used to and now almost preferred Khonshu’s pacing. No waiting around, no asking questions first. It was always get in, get out, and if you get killed along the way, well, there was always coming back from death. Marc didn’t ever worry about that.
—
Marc had just started to entertain the idea of striking conversation with his annoying and self-righteous pocket-god when he saw two heavily armed men enter the complex. It seemed as though Harrow’s men were as punctual as they were pious.
He waited ten more minutes, scanning the area for others to follow, though all appeared as inconspicuous as it had been all day. Marc took a steadying breath, building his courage before grabbing his duffel and making his way back down to the entrance.
Marc crept along the shadowed lanes, keeping special attention to hidden alleyways, dark corners, or other areas which might host either security gadgets or personnel. He knew Harrow liked his tricks.
The short walk over was one he had rehearsed plenty of times before, when he was tucked in the recesses of Steven’s subconscious. He had wondered whether it would be preferable to first assume the lost traveler in search of direction, or go in armed and ready for a fight. Marc usually thought it best to stick with what he had always done - assess the situation as it unfolds. Tonight was no exception.
He guessed that a town such as this, which seemed devoid of any marrings of violence, would reflect in the eyes of its inhabitants the lack of weariness towards their neighbors. So it came to no surprise to Marc that the large door was unlocked for him to sneak in. He thought that with such a communal society that Harrow would value collective wealth, so it was also no shock do discover that the entire building, historically maintained the elite upper-class, was empty.
What greeted him was an inviting dining pavilion which surrounded a bubbling water fountain and was hedged by flower beds. He didn’t see any signs of life, though surrounding the atrium was a ring of elevated rooms a few dozen stories high. Marc edged along the pillars ringing the courtyard, keeping his back to the outer walls.
Marc tried to console himself that encountering no trouble at this stage was a good thing, albeit odd for such a place. Marc knew that if even the weakest locals were to spot him, the entire town would rise up. He saw first-hand how infectious faith could be, how dangerous it made even the most simple-minded people. With so many dedicated to Harrow’s cause, so many loyal to the man himself, there was no telling what the consequences to such an encounter would look like.
I didn’t take you for the cautious type, Marc Spector, the undeniable voice of Khonshu rang in his mind. Marc had, after spending ten years serving this deity, grown accustomed to the irritating bravado that it hardly surprised him anymore when the old bird deigned to speak to him. Marc soon came to the conclusion that Khonshu was a very sensitive deity, one that needed almost constant attention and would do anything to seek it, no matter how theatrical.
As Marc edged around another column, the god came into view. He had situated himself on the railing surrounding the upper floors, one leg raised, propping his crescent staff, which glinted in the lamplight.
“You know something, Khonshu?” Marc whispered, peering up at the god. “I’ve seen things I can never properly describe. I’ve seen whole villages burned, I’ve dealt bloody killings and witnessed brutal tortures at the hands of merciless commanders. Yet nothing has quite shaken me as such a peaceful town with this much blood on its hands.”
I suggest you not dally to find out what happens to those caught creeping around such a peaceful town at night.
"And how am I supposed to do that, huh?" Marc felt the familiar rage building. "There has to be hundreds of rooms here. I don't have time to search every one."
Khonshu turned his skeletal head, offering a good view straight through his nasal cavities. it is not up to me how you choose to secure the scarab.
"Maybe, but you know what? While yours is the only ass here that can float, you can find out where, exactly, Harrow's men are. Otherwise, we'll be here all day, and we'll lose the scarab."
Khonshu seemed to consider him for a moment. It might not be a bad idea to summon the suit. Then he was gone.
Marc cursed, reaching the staircase leading to the upper rooms. Upon reaching the first landing, he felt the familiar creeping sensation of linen wrapping around his body, preserving his flesh in the only way protection from death could. He felt his steps lighten, his breath deepen, felt every ache and pain in the body Steven loved to abuse ease away. All he was left with was a sense of sturdy determination and new direction from a god whose first and only order was in the name of vengeance.
Marc scanned each room as he crept past. He found it both reassuring and unsettling to find most of them empty and devoid of any furniture, as if this town was nothing more than a surface level showroom, an elaborate display.
Khonshu appeared before him, on a landing further up. You'll never guess where they are.
"Top floor?"
On the west side of the building.
Either the old god was attempting humor, or he had shitty luck. Either way, he'd have to hurry before the black market dealer showed up.
The lower floors were hewn from stone, which made sneaking about easy enough, though once passing through the middle floors, it transformed into roughly lain wood. His steps creaked throughout the abandoned space, no matter how stealthy he was in the suit.
I have been wondering, Khonshu mused, his voice blooming back in Marc’s skull, what it is that has been keeping you from your duties as of late. I would’ve thought that the recent escalation of Harrow’s progress would have spurred you on. Imagine my surprise when instead I find that pest having interfered in our mission.
Marc avoided Khonshu’s gaze, setting down his duffel bag behind a hanging tapestry. “His name is Steven,” he said. “And he won’t be a problem. I’m dealing with it.”
Something has changed in you, Marc Spector. I do not appreciate obstacles. You swore your undying fealty to me, as my fist of vengeance. Would you forsake that oath at a time such as this?
“I have done everything you have asked me to for ten years straight. I always put your mission first. Now is no different.” Marc thought of Steven, of how Marc belittled the man’s messy apartment, his pathetic job, hell, even his clothing, all the while Marc didn’t even have a proper bed to go home to at night. “I haven’t ever been able to settle down, have a life. I have always done what you needed me to do.”
I don’t think your wife would share that opinion, Khonshu mused.
“Do not mention her.” Marc stopped and faced the god, now perched on an upper floor railing. He felt vulnerable, the knowledge that Khonshu had set his sights on her and not knowing how to discourage his interest. More than that, knowing that in all the ten years he and Layla have been together, Khonshu had been there, too. He was there when they met, and was the very reason why Marc even had the chance of meeting Layla. The god had watched, as a silent spectator, the growth of their relationship - them falling in love, them getting married and trying to have a life together.
Yes, Marc resented not having time to settle down with his wife, though he hardly regretted all the time they did spend in the desert. The first thought his mind conjured when he thought of his wonderful wife was the way her eyes lit up when they were on a job, the pure ecstatic energy she possessed whenever they stole a relic from undeserving hands. He remembered how her hair streamed behind her as they ran away if they were caught, through the chaos of market squares as they stole through the night. He remembered not being afraid, knowing that if the last thing he saw in the world was the smiling face of Layla, he would not mind leaving this world with that image.
Though now, all of those memories were now tainted with the knowledge that Khonshu was also privy to those encounters. His thoughts turned sour every time he thought of her now, knowing that she should have been here with him right now. They had planned for her to stalk the rooftops, spying for intel on those waiting for the scarab while he intercepted the delivery. Now he had to overcompensate, and with Steven having taken most of the time since he ran from Layla, he hadn’t had time to adjust the plan. He hated Khonshu, though he hated himself most of all.
He neared the upper floors, and knew he couldn't feasibly get any closer without alerting the Disciples of his presence. Scanning the rooms around him, he spotted a large window on the east side of the building. While creeping about the facade of the castle in full view of the town below in the middle of the day wasn't ideal, it was better than staying inside and eventually bumping into the black market dealer. Not only would that alert Harrow's men upstairs, but he doubted he would be able to escape once the action started, given he would be stuck on the middle floors with no realistic way down.
He made his way to the opposite end of the building, honing in on the target as easy as if he was a bullet fired from a steady gun. He gave Khonshu one last backward glance before crossing the length of the empty room. Hoisting himself on the window ledge, he quickly pulled himself through.
The open air at such a height was cooler than down below, and Marc secured handholds along the rough stone wall before glancing down at the long descent to the ground. Marc wasn't keen on finding out how dropping a few hundred feet would feel when he could virtually heal from any injury, agonizing as it would be, so he quickly got to work on climbing up to the roof.
Once reaching the lip of the old stone, Marc hoisted himself up, creeping along the slopes and sliding down the other side. He eventually neared the west side of the building, and the view below him opened up, offering an unobstructed view of not only the small cluster of buildings which dotted the horizon below, but the distant mountain range surrounding the grassy fields. If he wasn't caught up in a time sensitive mission, Marc figured he could stay perched on this roof all afternoon.
As it was, Khonshu soon appeared before him and signaled where the room was which housed the Disciples. Marc crept along the roof until he came to the edge of the outer wall. Leaning over the opposite side, Marc spied a window ledge and a sturdy drain pipe for which he silently slid down. His foot caught on the window shutter, and Marc noticed that the window in question swung inward, as it currently was. Marc heard faint thuds and scrapes from occupants inside as they unloaded their gear.
Crouching down, Marc tried to settle in a good position, not knowing how long he would have to wait until they were met with the other arriving party. It was tedious, sure, though Marc hardly minded. The important thing was to secure the scarab before Harrow could get his hands on it. After that, he could finally be rid of Khonshu, and let Steven have a life free of ankle restraints. If waiting a few hours in the heat was the price he had to pay, then so be it.
As far as Khonshu could figure, Harrow’s men were waiting for a highly respected member of the black market who was supposed to have the scarab to trade. Whatever it was that Harrow decided to exchange in return was causing a fuss inside, for Marc could make out two distinct male voices quietly arguing.
“Can’t imagine how much more valuable these could be than the scarab,” one man said, jangling something.
“Nobody could understand the value of the scarab, certainly not lawless thieves looking to make quick cash. They do not even know its true purpose. To them, the scarab may be just another useless gold relic, much like these jewels.”
Marc had to admire Harrow’s diplomacy. The man always knew exactly what someone wanted and how to give it to them without any loss to himself. That was what Harrow disliked about Marc – he couldn’t be bought or bartered with.
He shifted to a more comfortable position, waiting for the right moment. Marc didn’t know how much time he had before the scarab was to be delivered, though he needed to dispatch these two men before others joined. He didn’t want this to get any more messy than what was necessary. He was just considering making his move when he heard more.
“She’s late, Becker. Harrow won’t be pleased when he arrives today if we don’t have the scarab.”
Marc felt a chill travel through every bone in his body. Adrian Becker was Harrow’s most trusted lieutenant, who mapped out all of his routes, dealing with exchanges and difficult situations that were too dangerous for him. Marc had a few run-ins with the man, none of which ended peacefully.
Though he’d known even before leaving Steven's flat that tonight wasn't going to pop-off spotlessly, Becker's presence definitely complicated things. Marc could leave, stalk the streets until he intercepted the scarab, though that still left Becker and whoever was with him to cause future problems. Whenever he'd been in a position to confront Becker in the past, it was always preferable to escape. Today, though, things could change.
Marc’s eyes narrowed. He thought of simply killing the man and being done with it. Having one more body on his hands didn’t mean much when it was one less body in Harrow’s crusade who was willing to kill innocents. Though, if his suspicions about this man were correct, then the information he could get from him would be worth more than even the scarab. He wouldn't need Khonshu to dole out orders or wait until the next opportunity to stop Harrow. Especially since the man was getting close to what he wanted. If Becker knew exactly where Harrow was going to be, then Marc could end this for good.
Hearing Harrow was also to make an appearance was a secondary shock. If he were to arrive that day, then Marc could potentially end this entire operation. He wouldn't need to even worry about the scarab if it meant getting close to Harrow. Though, if he were to fail, then he'd also lead Harrow right to Ammit's tomb.
Marc didn't give himself any more time to think. If the scarab was already in transport, then he didn't have long to dispose of Becker and the other man before others arrived. Marc grabbed the window shutter, swinging himself around to face the building. He took a deep breath, and pushing off the building with his feet, he aimed straight for the window.
He landed in the center of a sturdy table littered with travel supplies which currently surrounded by Becker and another Disciple, both dressed in red jumpsuits and vests. Marc was pitched forward by the unsteady landing, which sent the entire table crashing down. Becker was the first one to recover, standing and aiming an automatic weapon he had strapped to his shoulder.
Marc advanced on Becker, though he was, as always, quick to react. The man grabbed Marc by the forearms and attempted to twist them around. They both grappled for a few tense moments, Becker eventually slamming Marc against the wall, enough to knock the wind from him. Becker drove a fist at Marc, who dodged, narrowly missing and kicking out a leg, catching Becker at the knees. They both tumbled to the ground.
The other occupant grabbed a baton which had fallen to the floor and swung it against Marc’s back. The breath was knocked from his lungs, though the pain was only a hot flash before the suit began to heal whatever wound was inflicted. Marc pushed off Becker, reaching for his crescent blade nestled in its sheath, before grabbing hold of the baton as it once again swung for his head. He brought his blade down on the man's wrist with a resounding squelch. Marc fully stood, grabbing the man by their bloody arm and wrenching backwards, causing the man to drop to his knees.
After delivering a few well-placed blows which left him crumpled to the ground, Marc turned just in time to avoid the sound of gunshots gracing the empty air. Marc swung outwards, grabbing the gun pointed at his head before Becker could do real damage. Becker's fist swung towards him, and Marc was forced backwards, almost tripping over the body in the small space.
Becker rolled his sleeves up, taking his time. Marc steadied his breathing, letting the man decide how these next minutes were going to go. "Been wondering when you were gonna show up, mercenary." He said the word like it was a curse.
"I had some other things occupying my mind," Marc replied.
Becker raised his eyebrows. "You're a fool if you think you can stop what's coming. Ammit has cast her judgment, and you will be one of the first souls she takes."
“Yeah, well…” Marc shook his head, looking around the room. He thought of the possible outcomes of this day, all of them ending in ways which made him grateful for Khonshu’s protective armor. “I can’t let Harrow get the scarab.”
“And I can’t let you leave with it.”
Marc leapt out of the way as Becker once again raised his gun and fired, though he wasn't fast enough to avoid the sharp pain in his chest. He tried to breathe through it, knowing the suit would eventually heal him. He slumped against the wall, the slickness at his back sending a smear against the wall. Becker didn't waste any time, rushing forward once again. Marc had enough sense of mind to push back against the wall, kicking out once again. His leg met the man's knee, and after hearing a crunch and a swear, Marc pushed off the wall, getting behind the fallen man and wrapping an arm around his throat.
Holding the man close, Marc fought against his struggling, driving his knee into Becker's and pinning the damaged limb. He held him like that, until the man eventually succumbed to unconsciousness.
Marc sat back and closed his eyes. Bowing his head, he collected just a few moments of peace. He felt the white linen receding from his body like the eddying of the tide, leaving Marc to survey the bodies.
He made his way over to the table and rummaged through the packs that they had brought. He spied the jewels which were supposed to be traded for the scarab. They were beautiful - a gilded necklace of petite seed beads encrusted with intersected Lapis Lazuli and Jasper stones. Additionally, there were a few heavy gold rings which had hieroglyphs inscribed onto their surfaces. Marc pocketed the jewels.
Then, he heard the creaking of floorboards before him.
Jerking upwards, his eyes met the end of a gun pointed at him. Its handler was a young woman with an arrogant expression, holding the weapon with practiced ease. She must be the black market dealer. Marc got a good view of the backpack she had around her shoulders. That must’ve been where the scarab was held.
"You're not supposed to be here, mercenary," she said. Marc tensed, though didn't give her the opportunity to fire her weapon as he swept out a leg, catching the woman and sending her crashing down. He ordinarily wouldn’t dare make such a dangerous move, considering the very slim chances he'd leave this room without being pumped full of bullets, though the time for caution had long since retired, and Marc no longer needed stealth to complete his mission.
The woman lifted the gun and Marc was quick to grab her arm, knocking it against the floor until it slipped from her grasp. He kicked the gun away. While she was disoriented, Marc took the liberty of ripping the backpack from her shoulders, tossing it to the opposite wall, well out of reach.
The woman drove an elbow into the side of his face and managed to clip him in the jaw. More pain assaulted Marc as his head was snapped sideways, an alarming crunch resounding, and she took that opportunity to scramble to her feet.
While she made her way to the backpack, he tried to get feet underneath him, woozy from the blow to his head. The woman looked back at him, edging towards the doorway, keeping her attention on him. Only when she looked over her shoulder to bolt did Marc raise Becker’s AK he had dropped behind the table. He squeezed the trigger, the percussion barely registering as he saw the woman stagger backwards.
Marc dropped the gun and made his way over to the woman, who stared unseeing at the sky above. He wrenched the backpack from her loose limbs and hauled himself upright. He rummaged inside, brushing past various travel gear, none of which served him any good, until he pried a small wooden box from the bottom. Opening it, he pulled a palm-sized object wrapped in linen. Marc unwrapped it, revealing the golden scarab which had caused him so much trouble, and would have caused more if Marc did not take it. He quickly pocketed the scarab.
He spied Khonshu on the railing next to him, who peered down at him curiously. Marc thought he sensed amusement in the god’s skeletal face, though he didn’t have enough energy to engage in a conversation. Instead, he heard faint groaning behind him.
Peering backward, he noticed significant pain and heard a distinct crackling in his jaw, acutely aware that it wasn't aligned quite right. The woman had clipped him good. Not that it mattered now, Marc thought as Becker slowely got to his feet. He'd be dead soon anyways.
Becker spied the automatic Marc had dropped and raised it without ceremony. Marc could appreciate the foregone theatrics, though he only had time to duck out of gunshot range before the railing behind him became nothing but splinters.
Marc flattened himself against the other side of the dorrway, waiting for Becker to come to him. He didn't risk bolting down to the enterance. Not that the open courtyard below offered much protection, rather he doubted his luck, nonexistant as it was, would hold out against such a relentless adversary long enough for him to escape.
Becker emerged from the doorway, and Marc rushed him, slamming his arm against the doorframe until the gun dropped from his limp grasp. Marc kicked the weapon aside, satisfied when he watched it fall over the side of the broken railing to the ground below.
Becker swung at him, though Marc had enough sense to not repeat his earlier injury and hastily backed up before the man's fist could connect with his face. Unfortunately, this gave Becker the exact leverage he needed to press Marc back into the room. Marc tried to stop him, pressed his fingers into the man's eye sockets, though he was roughly shoved against the wall. His entire arm went numb, and Becker kept pressing.
Marc felt the windowsill at his back and knew he was in trouble. He felt a fist close around his jaw and was momentarily blinded by pain as Becker drove his head against the glass, shattering both panes. Becker then leaned in close enough for Marc to smell his breath as he said "You're never getting that scarab."
He drove his fist into Marc's face once more, this time connecting. Though Marc was already powerless to stop him, Becker kept up his assault, until Marc was completely limp. Unfortunately, while Khonshu's healing magic granted him the ability to heal from wounds when they occur, it also prevented him from losing consciousness, which souned ideal to Marc at that moment.
Marc felt his gravity shift as Becker hauled him over the ledge of the broken window. Then he was weightless.
He registered the weightlessness and the wind billowing past him as he raced toward the ground far below him. Marc made a point to never deign to pray to Khonshu, though in that moment he thought it would be nice if the god could be bothered to save his life, just one more time.
Marc's wish for unconsciousness was finally granted as he felt his energy evading him. He barely had the sense of mind to register Khonshu falling beside him as he raced toward oblivion.