reflectedlight | 🌙 Inbox - Marc Spector's Dead Drop

"Got shot with an arrow to the back once while impersonating someone else." It's supposed to make you feel better, Marc. "Worst part, if I hadn't been using an illusion to make myself taller, the shot wouldn't have been fatal. Oh. And I knew the guy who did it. He had the fucking balls to apologize as I was losing consciousness." Scarred Wrabble was one of the good ones. If wetboys could have friends, he'd probably be the closest to a 'friend' Durzo dared admit to. Maybe co-conspirators was a better way to put it. Yet he still went for Durzo's head. Just part of the business, alas.

An open hand shrug. "Bad luck."

"You can get the other guy as many times as you want, the other guy only has to get you once."

Marc makes a cut-throat gesture. Game over. Sucks.

"Shitty line of work."

"Ehh.. more or less. But as I told you before, I wanted this. I still do. I'm good at it."

He can't help but grin a little.

"You know, I tried to quit. Leave everything behind. It lasted two months. I moved, set up an apothecary. I was doing honest work. Believe it or not."

He shakes his head with an exaggerated frown.

"Worst mistake of my life."

Alright, yes, you have caught him and his hey remember that part where John Wick retired? shit he's doing -

"You already had enemies, huh?"

"I apprenticed to the best wetboy in Cenaria. I had enemies from day one."

He shrugs. He is and was well aware what he signed up for, there are zero regrets about it and that is maybe hard to convey to Marc.

"But it wasn't me they were after. An old friend tracked me down, came asking for my help, get back into the business. Things were bad." He sighs heavily. "He was shot with an arrow in the neck, mid-conversation. I buried him myself. I left after that. Elene hated it, hated me. But I had to."

"Oh - partner?"

This is the first time he's heard that name. Girlfriend, wife, platonic female professional you are both too emotionally weird to label as a friend but you can trust to fly a helicopter for you any time, any place, zero questions asked, something in that zone?

He folds his arms, heaving a heavy breath. It takes him a moment of just breathing to get stability. "Wife." He says it quietly.

"She died."

To his credit, he's no longer a puddle on the floor any time he has to explain it. But it still hurts.

Marc huffs out a rough breath. Fuck. That's gutting.

"It's not right," he says, by which he means: people that are trying to just live in a regular way getting obliterated from death in a random direction, when people that basically dare it to happen every single day keep living. "I think about this place - why it does this. Why it pulls out guys like me, instead of somebody who really deserved to keep going. "We don't have to -" get into it. We don't. "We can talk about something else."

Peace offering.

He can guess why the Admiral does pull who he does. He'll never agree with every choice and sometimes he's actively against others. But Elene? She'd never take a deal. She was at peace with her fate even when Kylar wasn't. It's sort of a comfort and one of the reasons his deal can't be for her.

He sniffs. "Yeah. Thanks." For offering to shift to another topic. Although he's in a rut now and he's not sure where to go from here. He should say a joke, something light-hearted and dumb. He can't. Damn, he shouldn't have even brought her up.

"Was that kid you? In the hallway, all beat up?"

Maybe not a great pivot, but it's a pivot.

That pivot could literally not be any worse, Marc! His expression hardens and dulls at the same time. Something colder slips in, a distance.

"No. That kid's dead." He says it evenly, factually. He'll take the opportunity to hop over to another roof, if physical distance is enough of a hint against the topic. Now he has to steer away from it.

"You got away unscathed with that shitshow, I assume?"

LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER SOUND.

Damn. Oops. Okay.

Marc shakes it off, bounds to follow him but gives him a buffer distance of privacy.

"I, uhh, I dunno unscathed, but I'm not messed up about it. I was a kid, but it was after I'd already figured out how to deal with everything a little bit, so I was just a littler, dumber version of myself with no training."

"Sounds pretty unscathed to me. Well, all things considered as far as barge fuckery goes." Is fuckery a word? Whatever. It is now.

"So..." A huff. Enough dallying. "What do you want while we're... here? I don't mean here, I mean," another gesture between them. "here. Temps. That sort of thing. Got a goal in mind? One step you think you want to aim to sort out before the next guy takes over and you have to do this whole song and dance again?" Sometimes talking about business is much, much easier.

OoOOOh yeah there's one thing but he can't reveal he needs it without giving away that Steven's nooooot a warden...

"Temps can't give back capped powers, right?"

He read that somewhere.

"I wouldn't ask for most of the offense stuff, but Khonshu's armor can heal me, which was nice. No hangovers."

"I said goals, Marc. Not your shopping list." He scowls a little but, let's be honest. What can temps really do? He does not understand the purpose of this system.

"I'll ask about the armor. See if he can let you have the defensive aspects of it for now but.. yes. As a temp, we can't ask for Talent or magical capabilities to be returned. So don't get any hopes up."

Grumbly grumble. Fine. There's a sigh.

"What all can it do? Maybe with some specifics I can have an easier time to negotiate. You said it heals, poisons included. What else?"

"...I don't know if I know the difference, then."

What are goals? He has never thought about this before.

"S'alright if you can't. Uh, when I'm in it a stab or gunshot will just go clean through. No blood. It'll leave a hole, but it won't ... hurt. It's weird.

And, yes, I know I should really not have, uh, got shot died if I had the armor, but I didn't ... have it, I was trying to be a little subtle. The thing summons in bright white and with a cape, it's not really stealthy."

"So same defensive capabilities, less flash for an entrance. Got it."

May as well get it over with. He pulls his communicator out of his pocket and makes a quick request.

"Anything else?" He asks glancing over.

"... I don't know what you mean by goals."

He's been ambling up and jumping around things casually this whole time, and here he stops and thinks.

"Bright told me I needed to see myself as having value, but first of all, I don't like that guy.

Second of all, if it were that easy I'd just do it. And I don't think I'm an inmate because I don't like myself enough."

"You know it's multiple things, right?" He cannot speak to self-value whatsoever.

"If that's not why you're an inmate then what is?" He holds up a hand. "Don't say murder because I'm still doing that and I'm on the other side right now so that's not it." Granted he's far more selective about it than he used to be but murder is murder.

Marc - who normally is so completely emotionally flat that he reacts to being stabbed by grimacing a little, and seeing a new form of magic he didn't know was possibly by raising 1 eyebrow, slightly - laughs hysterically.

It's a WILDLY out of pocket display of emotion, because, oh boy, isn't that the million dollar question? Isn't it? ISN'T IT?

"See! See, that's the thing! See, who even knows?? You graduated and you're fine, why am I not already just fine! There's no way I'm killing better people than you, right? Hah. Right??"

He's actually rounding on Kylar now, smiling weirdly, gesturing. It's like the thing he uses to keep his emotions leashed has very suddenly broken and uh, maybe underneath he is really, really not okay and never was?

"Because I actually kind of try! I kind of try to give a shit, and you don't. And that's fine, right? And if that's fine, then what's left? What's left that's still my fault?"

He laughs again, a short little burst of stress releasing.

Edited 2026-03-19 02:22 (UTC)

What the... fuck. Kylar watches him carefully. It's the swap of it. Everything he's saying is fine, it makes sense to be frustrated or annoyed or anything but he didn't even know Marc could laugh and now the man's in hysterics.

Even if his eyes are watchful and he's a bit more wary, his demeanor stays visibly calm, flat even. Where has he seen this before?

Dorian.

He doesn't say anything about it. Where'd Marc go?

"Nothing, Marc. Half of the time they're things that aren't your fault." He figured that out the hard way. "Half of the time it's how you put up with what life throws at you." Or death. He doesn't mention that.

"But it's not about the murder. Not explicitly." He can say that with certainty.

"Oh, I'm just messing with you."

Marc goes to do - something - maybe a clap on the shoulder - and the Dancer behind him, that's otherwise been entirely silent, snaps out a restraining loop of cloth. Marc doesn't even look, just tugs at it, doesn't stop staring at Kylar.

"Oh, whoops. Nope, can't do that, hah hah. I know what this is about, I've always known, right? Only I can't freaking do anything about it at this point, because it was thirty years ago!"

That's like, actually sooooo funny.

"I know what I did, I do! I know what I did. Been told it all the time, I already know. And how do I put up with what it throws at me - pretty well, I'd say! Pretty well, ha ha, only every time I think I've got it it just gets a little harder, so what's that supposed to be? And here you are, and you're the good guy therapist now, and all you ever wanted to do your whole life is hurt people? Maybe I wasn't doing it ENOUGH!"

The next maybe-grab motion is faster, and the Dancer's got his other wrist now digging in its heels to pull Marc back. Like, no offense, Kylar, you can probably handle this no problem, and it honestly isn't even positive this is about to get violent, but also, uuuuh, what the fuck is even happening.

His face can't help but sour. There's a quick calculation in his head, guesstimates, really. But he thinks he knows the dosage that shouldn't be fatal. He'd be out for an hour if he's right, thirty minutes if he's wrong. It's enough time to move him somewhere else easily.

It's a very quick but smooth motion as Kylar's arms drop across his belt and down at his sides. He takes one glance at the dancer. Can he move faster than it? Is it going to retaliate? Surely, this is a unique, necessary circumstance to overrule its usual protections, right? Doesn't matter, he has to try and it's for Marc's sake so.

It's a quick reach out, a dab of something from a cloth Kylar wadded into his hand within that earlier motion. He only slides it over Marc's hand, acting as if he'd hold it for just a moment. It might seem comforting. Fifteen seconds... "Marc, pal. I think you've got it all wrong." He pats his hand, ensuring the knockout poison is on Marc's skin.

Ten seconds... Oh, please catch him, Hat guy. Kylar's figuring out the angle but if Marc's knees buckle first, the dancer would have to do the catching. Even if it wasn't the knees, the tension on his wrists would still send him backward once the tension eased.

"We'll talk about this later. Promise."

Five seconds... Fuck it, if the dancer doesn't catch him then he can apologize for the impending concussion later.

Marc goes to snap his hand around Kylar's wrist when he's touched - the Dancer prevents it again, which leads to minor wrestling,

"Oh, you've got no idea how wrong I've got it, let's - " wait. His head twitches to the side. Fuck. "No -"

Marc feels something kick in, a chemical sedative, and explodes into motion, screaming and thrashing. He's trained to fight, Kylar's seen him calmly fight a hold before, but he's showing no sign of it at all. He's just screaming in wordless rage and pulling without thought or strategy, so hard that the Dancer has to reel out six more lines, that the joints in Marc's shoulders strain out of their sockets.

It flashes a card, reassuring Marc that it'll take care of Steven, which he does not have the brain power to comprehend or be reassured by at the moment, but will later really really appreciate when the hangover for this ends. Right now NO this is just like when they were thirteen NO NO NO -

"NO, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME -!"

Dancer catches him as his spine gives out and his head flops like a ragdoll even as the face contorts in rage. It takes a lot of bands, Marc no longer cares if he gets hurt as long as he can escape.

There's two ways the system can switch. One is the front naturally falling asleep, the other is the front being completely overwhelmed and pushed past what it can handle. The body survives even when Marc should be done. Broken, knocked out, or catatonic. That's how this works, that's how this is adaptive. That's why it's a survival mechanism, not just something debilitating.

A switch like this is technically safe it's just ... messy. Ugly. Gritted teeth, eyes rolling, almost a seizure.

Edited 2026-03-19 21:01 (UTC)

The Dancer sets them down and in the space of a second the body's eyebrows have lifted, its face and posture relaxed into something unguarded and timid. Steven blinks softly, all baby deer eyelashes and open, confused expression.

?

His face is smushed into a bit of metal?

The Dancer's been fast; in a fold and whirl it compresses down to something the size of a housecat, nudges Steven with its head.

"Um. Sorry, what? Nedjem, what? Oh god. Where am I now?"

Not againnnnnnn, bloody hell.....

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