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When Jake first meets Khonshu, he thinks he officially lost it. How else is he supposed to justify the ten foot tall bird skeleton? Honestly, he thought whatever could go wrong would be in New York, not Cairo.
“You are not Marc Spector,” the pigeon says in a very loud, very annoying voice. How it could sound so whiny with a pitch so low is a mystery.
And kudos to the Halloween decoration. Not one second in and it catches Jake red-handed.
“Yeah? The fuck are you?”
For something with an inanimate face, it pulls a remarkably childish pout. “I am Khonshu, god of the night sky. Tell me, worm.” Jake bristles and wonders if he can choke a skull thing with no neck. “Will you interfere with my vengeance?”
“Vengeance?” he scoffs. “What are you, some Avengers wannabe? You’re on the wrong side of the world, pal.”
Oh great, he’s actually talking to the thing. He’s really gone off the deep end.
Eh, what else is new?
“I am exactly where I— Where are you going? Come back here!”
God, it’s like a needy toddler. If Jake made up some imaginary friend, couldn’t it have been quiet and, you know, imaginary? Ignore it long enough and it should go away, right?
(He remembers the recent sands and a distinct sense of betrayal. Warm and red and sticky. Hearing "You lose, Marc" from someone they both trusted. Thinking he should do something to stop Marc from pulling the trigger, but not really seeing the point when they were bleeding out anyway.)
Soooo, what? The imaginary friend’s not imaginary? It’s not a hallucination or another facet of whatever disorder he has? He’s pretty sure DID has high comorbidity with a ton of other stuff, but he didn’t pay much attention to that psych ward Marc checked into way back when. Back in Chicago, where it all started.
Jake tucks his hands in his pocket and strolls to where he keeps his personal things. Just as Marc keeps Steven away from his life, Jake likes to do the same. It’s nothing fancy. It’s not the little apartment Marc set up for Steven, and it’s not the house Marc shares with his girlfriend, Layla El-Faouly.
He walks a few blocks—tuning out Konsu or Cushu (or whatever its name is)’s cries for attention—and stops in front of a cab. It’s been a while since he last had control of the body, so a layer of dust and grime coat the windshield.
He reaches under the car, just behind the tire at the driver’s seat, and pulls out the keys. He knows Marc or El-Faouly will find it if he hides it at their house, and he doesn’t trust the lowlives of any city not to steal a perfectly good car, even if it is a cab. Hiding it there is his only real solution, and it’s worked so far.
“Impressive,” Koso says. “Juggling so many lives at once.”
“You’re still here?”
“We made a deal.”
Jake grunts as he pops open the glove box and puts on his hat. “No, you made a deal with Marc. Whatever it is, I want no part of it.”
“The deal is to protect the travelers of the night and bring my vengeance to those who would do them harm,” Coocoo grinds out as impatiently as Jake would expect, “in exchange for your life.”
That strikes so many red flags, Jake stops what he’s doing to stare at Cluck. “In exchange for my what?”
It hovers there, standing at least three heads taller than Jake, and sighs. “You came to me on the verge of death. I saved you, and you became my warrior.”
While Jake doesn’t remember anything about that—which is odd since he reviews all of Marc’s memories—he does remember being shot by Bushman, the slimy bastard. (“You lose, Marc,” echoes in his head.)
It wasn’t that long ago either. Something about it intrigues him, and he searches for deception in the pigeon’s face.
“What exactly is this ‘vengeance’?”
It straightens up and seems rather pleased about his interest. “Ridding the world of its scum. I protect you, and you protect my travelers of the—”
“So I kill bastards for you?”
“Mm. More or less.”
“I’m in.”
Cluck ticks its head. “There’s something you want.”
How perceptive. “Yeah. I want someone dead.”
“Oh?”
“Guy named Raoul Bushman. Tall, big, white tattoos all over his face, ya can’t miss him.”
“What is he to you?”
In the context of their conversation, isn’t it obvious? “He shot me. Shot Marc. We’re travelers of the night, too.” Playing with words isn’t exactly his forte, but if the bird can deliver Bushman to him, then he’ll do whatever it takes. “All I’m asking for is a little… vengeance.”
He hates that he’s asking help from something that could very well not be real, but now that the option is out there, he needs it. Jake needs to see the light fade from Bushman’s eyes. He needs to hear him take his last breath. He needs to feel his blood run cold.
He needs to kill him.
And isn’t that an invigorating thought.
“Find him for me and I’m all yours.”
Cluck— no, what was it again? Konsu? Close. Khonshu. If he’s going to deal with this thing, then he should at least learn its name. Especially if it can get him Bushman.
Either way, Khonshu beams at him and nods. “Very well.” It offers a hand. “Consider it done…”
“Jake Lockley,” he fills in, accepting it.
“Jake Lockley.”
He doesn’t front for a couple months, but when he does, Khonshu has a location. Marc is dealing with some shit Jake doesn’t care about, and Steven is as oblivious as ever.
“He’s in New York.”
Jake glances up at Khonshu. Trust the bird to figure him out immediately. “Everything happens in New York, huh?”
“You will find him in the United Nations headquarters in two days’ time,” Khonshu says. “And you will need a suit.”
“A gun’s enough.”
Khonshu hums, amused. “If you say so, worm.”
Jake scowls and kicks a stack of newspapers. Hey, it’s either that or punch a god no one else seems to notice. As much as he would love to shank the pigeon, he needs it. He’s not risking losing this chance to get back at Bushman.
“Fuck off.”
Okay, maybe he’s willing to risk it a little.
He puts on his hat and shrugs his shoulders. “Two days. The man dies in two days.”
It’s a long struggle, and he can feel Marc stirring somewhere. Steven too, oddly enough.
But Jake doesn’t want it to end just yet.
“You lose,” he says as he pins Bushman down with the crescent blades Khonshu gifted him. So maybe he lied about only needing a gun. They’re awfully sharp and nifty.
“You lose,” he spits as he shoots the bastard in the gut where he shot Marc. Nothing vital, but he is bleeding out.
“You lose!” he shouts as he peels the skin off the fucker’s face.
The screaming is music to his ears, and he thinks that this is what he was born to do. Deliver vengeance as brutally as possible (to those who deserve it, of course). And Bushman deserves it. True, he couldn’t care less about the archeologists at the dig site, they’re more excuses to continue anyway. But no one gets away with betraying and shooting him. With shooting them.
Marc wasn’t the only one who trusted him. Bushman was their old CO. He knew about their condition and didn’t care. They fought side by side in trenches and he treated Jake with the same level of respect as any other soldier. Didn’t ask for a name, and that was fine with him.
So yeah. Jake didn’t do anything when he started executing the archeologists with that manic glee because he didn’t think Bushman would turn his gun on them.
He was wrong.
Bushman deserves every fucking thing Jake’s doing to him. He deserves to die a slow death. He deserves to die painfully. And Jake’s enjoying every second of it.
Khonshu stands beside him, a sigh on its… beak. Which doesn’t even open. How does it talk?
“That’s enough, Jake.”
“No the fuck it’s not.”
“He’s dead.”
Shit. Is he? When did the screaming stop?
“Why did you carve his face?”
Jake stares at the bloody mess on his hands. Why did he do that? “It’s fucking ugly, that’s why.” And ‘cause he’s a psycho, but what else is new?
“It was unnecessary.”
Jake doesn’t realize he’s smiling until then.
“Does it look like I care?” he snarls, stepping over the body with a wince and falls on his knees. Everything hurts. Bushman put up a really tough fight. “Ah, shit.”
“You know,” Khonshu starts smugly, and Jake doesn’t have the energy to glare at it, much less attempt to stab it. “The suit can heal you of your injuries.”
“I don’t want a fucking suit.”
But he gets one anyway. White strips of cloth come out of nowhere and snap to his clothes, forming something simple. Something he’d wear on a normal day, except blinding white. Did the definition of suit change since the last time he heard the word? This is just a jacket over a t-shirt.
“Not what I was expecting.”
Regardless, he feels his bruises and cuts and broken bones stitching back together.
“Hm, I suppose it’s different for everyone,” Khonshu shrugs.
Jake flexes his hands and notices that his knuckles are completely healed, no scars or calluses to suggest he was even there. He is faintly aware of the too-wide grin he’s wearing as he looks up at Khonshu.
“Alright. What’s next?”
It— no. Khonshu isn’t just an ‘it’ anymore. He seems to enjoy this immensely. “You are my avatar. It’s time to deliver my vengeance.”
Years later, after Steven finally gets with the program and Jake happily kills another bastard who thought shooting them was a good idea, Bushman returns.
Which shouldn’t be possible because he’s fucking dead. Jake killed him.
He’s supposed to be gone.
As Jake forces himself to the front, ignoring the spike of indignation, fear, and anger from the other two, he summons his “suit.”
Khonshu is not going to be happy when he finds out, but Jake doesn’t care.
“You fucker,” he growls at the faceless man. Marc didn’t recognize him, and Steven’s never met him. Bushman is Jake’s to deal with, and he’s going to end it properly this time.
Bushman has the gall to grin at him, and for once, Jake isn’t smiling. Violence amuses him, but Bushman?
“Long time no see, Spector,” the bastar— the monster says. “Or is it the other one? I never got your name.”
Jake’s going to rip him apart.