The Crescent Crusader
Chapter 2

By Bethany Starr
Thanks to Lilith Langtree for all her help editing and improving this work. This story wouldn't be anywhere near as good as it is now without her help!

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Stephanie Grant struggled to get some sleep. She tossed and turned attempting to shake the recurring nightmares. Every night it was the same story, every night the same dream. She was alone in a dark room, tied up and trapped. She pulled against her restraints, fighting for freedom but without success.

Over and over again the dream continued till she woke up, her nightie drenched with sweat. Why, why, why did these dreams continue to plague her? Hopefully Marc Spector would be able to help free her from her torment.

I woke up that morning, thankful to finally get a good night’s sleep in a real bed! I lay still for a little while just enjoying the feeling of not having anywhere to go or anything to take care of. I finally forced myself to get up and headed to the bathroom to take a hot shower. Thirty minutes later I got out of the shower, wrapped myself in a robe, and headed downstairs. I decided to check in on Stephanie and thank her for her hospitality but I realized that I had no idea where her room was. Besides, that might be a bit creepy for me to show up at her room with nothing but a robe and boxers on. I went into the kitchen and brewed myself a cup of coffee. As I did that, I flipped on the TV to the local news. I sat down with my coffee and began to think. Nice as this place is, I can’t stay here forever. Plus I’m here to do a job just like any of my other jobs.

So what exactly is it that I’m supposed to be doing?

That’s the question that kept bugging me. On the surface, delivering justice seemed like a piece of cake, but the logistics of the thing was what I couldn’t quite grasp. Should I join the army? Become a cop? How else do you stop evil? Suddenly, something on the news caught my ear and I turned up the volume.

“More and more reports of The Bat are trickling in. Despite the fact that the actions this vigilante has taken seems to be doing this city good, many are concerned about the increased attention to and glamorization of violence that his, and other Meta’s, actions bring. With more on the story here’s Leroy Brown.”

I turned the volume back down as the reporter proceed to interview teachers and child rearing experts about violence in the community. Blah, blah, blah! Violence was how the world worked, and the sooner people got used to the idea the better. Still that story had given me an idea. I wasn’t a Meta but I could still get some kind of costume and fight crime! With my skills how hard could it be? Excited about my newfound career path, I decided to hit the gym while I finalized my plan.

I was in the middle of a pushup pyramid when Stephanie walked in. She wrinkled her nose as she entered the gym, I guess she wasn’t used to having a sweaty guy around the house.

“Hey Marc, you have a minute?”

I continued my pushups, grunting out a response, “Sure Miss Grant, what can I do for you?”

“No, you’re busy. I’ll wait till you’re done.” She moved to a chair and sat down.

Sighing, I got up and wiped off my sweat with a towel. “Alright, I’m done for now Miss Grant, what’s up?”

“Well firstly, stop with that Miss Grant stuff! I’m probably your age or younger. Call me Stephanie!”

“Sure, Stephanie. What’s up?”

She tugged at her black skirt and shifted her weight. “Well I was just about to stop working and grab some lunch at this little bistro down the street and was wondering if you’d like to join me? It’d give us a chance to get to know each other a little bit better.”

Argh! I really did want to get to know her but this was just a job and it was best to maintain some professional distance. “No thanks, I really need to get in shape. Maybe some other time.” I got back down and started doing pushups again. A few minutes later I heard Stephanie’s heels clicking down the hall as she walked out of the room without saying another word. When I got up I found that she’d left a note saying that she wanted to talk to me when I had the time as well as leaving me a small stack of money for “personal expenses.” I felt bad for rejecting her like that, resolved to fix it, then got back to getting in shape.

That night, I nervously stepped outside onto the rooftop garden. I was dressed simply, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Sure, some people needed costumes and the rest but I was a professional. I figured I wouldn’t need something goofy like that just to beat up a few punks and hand them over to the cops. I did want some kind of symbol to intimidate people and identify myself with so I’d chosen a shirt with a large white skull on it. I figured that the media would come up with some creative name for me although odds are they’d call me The Skull or some name like that.

Taking a deep breath, I strapped on a pair of night-vision goggles I’d purchased and jumped onto the roof of the adjacent building. Exhilarated by the feeling, I took off at a run leaping from building to building. I’d done this kind of thing before in Paris but Chicago’s a different animal entirely. After moving about a mile I was exhausted. I stopped to rest when I saw a group of about six young males hovering by the door to a convenience store. I moved closer cautiously in order to get a good look at them. They looked to be in their twenties and they were definitely armed. I couldn’t tell from this distance what kind of weaponry they had but I was certain that with the element of surprise and my training, I could easily defeat them.

I jumped onto the roof of the little convenience store and moved closer to the edge. I could tell why they picked this store to rob. It looked like a little mom and pop store with no real security system to speak of. Crouching on the edge of the roof, I took a deep breath, pulled out my collapsible baton, then launched into a flying kick aiming right for one of the thug’s head. I connected and the robber went flying.

One down, five to go.

Landing in a crouch, I spun around, kneed a second youth below the belt, and then finished him off with a beautiful uppercut.

Two down, four to go.

By this time the others had recovered from their surprise, the third one whipped out a knife and cautiously approached me. He jabbed at me and I quickly trapped his outstretched arm between my arms, pulled him closer, and then sent him sprawling with a head butt.

The other three, who were obviously in charge of this little illegal excursion, began to pull out various guns that were concealed on them. I rushed the third one; he was carrying a MAC-10, which is notorious for being inaccurate and because it’s a fully automatic pistol, it’s hard to handle and those inexperienced in it’s use tend to fire above their target because of the kickback. Anyway I launched myself at him and tackled him to the pavement. Forcing his gun away from me, I took him out with a baton to the head.

Two bullets whizzed past my head and struck the pavement. Rolling to one side I looked and saw the last two gang members wielding Glock 17s. They continued firing as they advanced towards me.

Damn! This is all going south. Gotta make an exit and fast!
I threw my baton at them, and took off running. Staying low, I sprinted around a corner, then through an alley, up a fire escape, and onto a roof. Pausing to catch my breath, I looked down to see if anyone was still after me. Seeing nothing I climbed down from the roof, dejected and angry with myself. I could have killed myself doing something stupid back there! I was unequipped and unprepared to deal with even a simple robbery! Sure there were six of them and sure they were armed but that’s no excuse! Disgusted, I set off for home.

Waking up the next morning, I’d come to a conclusion. I’d need better weapons and possibly some body armor. I remembered that one of my old friends, Jean Paul DuChamp, had set up some kind of military surplus store in Chicago. After looking him up I decided to pay him a visit.

I found him at a building that was little more than an old warehouse. “Grade-A Military Surplus” read the sign on the building. I walked into the door and was immediately greeted by my old friend.

“Monsieur Spector!”

“Frenchie!

I gave him a hug, he pulled up two chairs, and we got to catching up and talking about old times. I had first met Frenchie during one of my first missions as a mercenary. He’d been in the business for a few years and he kinda took me under his wing. We’d done several missions together and if I had a best friend, it’d probably be him.

We talked for about forty-five minutes before Frenchie stood up, and in a English accent remarked, “Well Mr. Spector, this has been nice but I’m absolutely certain that you didn’t drop in for just a social call. You need some sort of weaponry in this fight against injustice and that’s the real reason you’re here.”

I laughed. Frenchie always had a knack for accents; I’d often said that he should have been an actor. Plus even after all these years I couldn’t hide much from him.

“You got me Frenchie!”

“Ah ha!” He continued, switching to a heavily put on Belgian accent, “You cannot hide your intentions from the great Hercule Poiroit!”

I laughed again. “Right Frenchie. So anyway, I was thinking I’d need some throwing stars, definitely some kind of light-weight body armor, a couple tambos, maybe a bo, some nunchuks, and something to get me from building to building? I was thinking of some kind of hand-held grapple gun?”
Frenchie laughed. “Marc what do you think this is, a comic book or something? I don’t even know if I can get all that stuff or if it even exists! What’s wrong with a simple AR-15?”

“I’m done with killing. Besides, a vigilante who kills? That’s not going to go over well in the media. It’s better to just quietly go about my business. Capture crooks and lock them up.”

“Fair enough partner!” He answered in a slow drawl. “Still, most of these vigilante types have some kind of costume, you thought of what you wanna do about that yet?”

“No, not really. To be honest, I don’t think I need a costume. I was wearing just a t-shirt with a skull on it.”

“Uh-huh, and we all know how that worked out for you. Look muchacho, that costume is what inspires respect and fear. They don’t know what you can do but one look at you and they’ll know you mean business.”

I thought about that for a little while. He was right and I knew it too. I sighed. “You’re right. I’ll think about a costume and get back to you. Can I trust you to be my weapons man?”

“Oui, Monsieur Spector.”

“Thanks Frenchie, I’ll talk to you later.”

As I headed home I thought about what Frenchie had said. He was right and I knew it too. The problem was I had no idea how to design a costume or what kind of symbol might scare criminals.

When I got back inside I found Stephanie sitting in the living room typing away on her laptop. She put it down when I walked in and addressed me, “Marc, have a seat. Can I get you anything? A little wine perhaps? No? Alright that’s fine. Listen I know you’re used to doing things yourself but I want an update of your activities at the end of every day. It’ll help me know how you’re progressing on whatever it is you’re supposed to do. Consider it a requirement for living here.”

Whatever floated this chick’s boat. “Sure yeah, that’s fine.” I told her about my last night. I told her about meeting Frenchie and about what he’d said about a costume.

“So what kind of costume where you thinking about Marc?”

“I wasn’t sure, do you have any ideas?”

She leaned back and pressed her fingers together, like Sherlock Holmes in an old movie. “Honey, I’m an investor not a fashion designer. But I do know that a costume would be an extension of yourself. It would be your identity. What kind of identity do you want?”

I thought about what I wanted in a costume. It couldn’t be too big or bulky. It had to be able to deflect a knife and if not stop a bullet, at least lessen the damage. The more I thought about the costume the angrier I grew. This mission was more than just another job to do; it was a chance to put a lot of people in their place. It was a chance to use all the skills I’d learned in a way that made the world a much better place. I knew what I was; I was Kali’s knight! I was the person that wasn’t restricted to one city, wandering the country looking for evil to fight!

I looked at Stephanie and declared, “I’ll be vengeance, I’m a knight, and I’ll call myself The Dark Knight!”

She looked at me for a second then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry Marc, I’m sure you’re serious but the best you can come up with is the Dark Knight?”

“Oh, so you have a better idea?”

“Well, I like the whole idea of a knight, but I think you need a more tangible symbol. How are you going to show you’re a dark knight? Are you just planning on painting the word ‘dark’ on your costume? Still at least we’re making progress on a name. What kind of color were you thinking of? Maybe that would help.”

Colors? How the heck does she think of this stuff? Although now that I thought about it I realized something: I didn’t want to be dark. What I mean is that I didn’t want to hide in the shadows and strike without warning. I wanted the criminals I went after to know I was coming, be scared out of their minds, and yet not be able to do anything about it.”

“White or grey. Something that stands out, I want perps to know who I am and that I’m coming!”

“See! Now we’re getting somewhere! So we want a symbol that would represent the night, represent mystery, and would coordinate well with white. The Crescent Crusader?”

Ok, so cheesy as it sounds, I liked the sound of that. The moon was a common enough symbol yet no matter where you went it was watching you and it was still wrapped in mystery. “I like the name but let’s make it simple. I’m gonna call myself…The Moon Knight!”

Thanks to everyone for their comments on the last story, they're really appreciated! This one took me a little while but hopefully you enjoy it!