in fairness, marc is rarely thrilled. he's not quite clear on what's precisely happening but, frankly, that seems to be a running theme for him here. he feels different — he's spoken often, made off-colour and offhand jokes about how he hears enough voices that anything that incites something similar has chosen poorly with him, but there's something different about it all this time.
he'd hated communion from the get go, hated the thought of anyone being anywhere near his mind, but now it feels almost as if he can't separate the voices, can't tell the difference for long enough to decide if feelings or thoughts are his or someone else's. at first, he's not sure if the doubt is his or not — his harmonising to zenith had been decided on a whim, near enough. it'd been a decision made simply because how could he, moon knight, choose anything else? he's not committed to the idea that everything's gone at the best of times, but nor is he committed to the hope meridian holds.
marc's familiar with the scent of death and decay and everything here, deep beneath the tree, smells the same. he thinks, quite suddenly, of khonshu. a deep voice, paternal and mocking all at once, that marc both misses and loathes. weak. it says he's weak for harmonising with zenith, for selling out the hope of saving marlene and jean-paul, gena and ricky and ray, crawley — all of his friends — for — what? clinging to a fucking moon god who hasn't spoken to him once, not here, not since—.
he exhales. pinches the bridge of his nose and casts a glance, low and furtive and wary, back around the chamber. his tie's still loosened from spending what felt like far too long in the oppressive heat of the sun, top few buttons of his shirt still undone. his jacket is — god knows, somewhere in one of the cities, probably, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. marc is no stranger to looking (being) dishevelled, and the events of the last few days have done nothing to help matters. )
—Shut up. ( instinctively and to marlene this time, though it occurs to him, faintly and distantly, that he hasn't seen her here, so how can he hear her? the utterance, a biting whisper, is punctuated by a lingering silence as marc realises he's not alone and he inhales, the precursor to a sigh that doesn't come.
he waves a hand. )Shit, sorry. ( a beat and a crooked, wry, almost smile. ) Lots of — noise, right? ( or: not really, but there sure are a lot of feelings. )
dextera
in fairness, marc is rarely thrilled. he's not quite clear on what's precisely happening but, frankly, that seems to be a running theme for him here. he feels different — he's spoken often, made off-colour and offhand jokes about how he hears enough voices that anything that incites something similar has chosen poorly with him, but there's something different about it all this time.
he'd hated communion from the get go, hated the thought of anyone being anywhere near his mind, but now it feels almost as if he can't separate the voices, can't tell the difference for long enough to decide if feelings or thoughts are his or someone else's. at first, he's not sure if the doubt is his or not — his harmonising to zenith had been decided on a whim, near enough. it'd been a decision made simply because how could he, moon knight, choose anything else? he's not committed to the idea that everything's gone at the best of times, but nor is he committed to the hope meridian holds.
marc's familiar with the scent of death and decay and everything here, deep beneath the tree, smells the same. he thinks, quite suddenly, of khonshu. a deep voice, paternal and mocking all at once, that marc both misses and loathes. weak. it says he's weak for harmonising with zenith, for selling out the hope of saving marlene and jean-paul, gena and ricky and ray, crawley — all of his friends — for — what? clinging to a fucking moon god who hasn't spoken to him once, not here, not since—.
he exhales. pinches the bridge of his nose and casts a glance, low and furtive and wary, back around the chamber. his tie's still loosened from spending what felt like far too long in the oppressive heat of the sun, top few buttons of his shirt still undone. his jacket is — god knows, somewhere in one of the cities, probably, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. marc is no stranger to looking (being) dishevelled, and the events of the last few days have done nothing to help matters. )
—Shut up. ( instinctively and to marlene this time, though it occurs to him, faintly and distantly, that he hasn't seen her here, so how can he hear her? the utterance, a biting whisper, is punctuated by a lingering silence as marc realises he's not alone and he inhales, the precursor to a sigh that doesn't come.
he waves a hand. ) Shit, sorry. ( a beat and a crooked, wry, almost smile. ) Lots of — noise, right? ( or: not really, but there sure are a lot of feelings. )