July 12th, 2009

"Fate cannot be meddled with." Spoke a gravelly, weathered voice "It is absolute. It is forever. Inescapable."

"So, we thought," came the bitter response "But here we are. Someone has broken Fate. Events that should be on the horizon are not, lives lost no longer hang in the balance, peace fought for is now without conflict."

"The war…it is at a standstill."

Between three pairs of bony, ancient hands, was a single thread of blue string. This string was a lifeline. These old women holding it, were the Fates. The weavers of every mortal life. Every mortal in their domain that is. Many souls were untouchable to them. Those of the people of Wakanda, the worshippers of the singular God, the Egyptians, the Asgardians, the Shinto, the Carthaginian, and every pantheon in between. All souls fell within the proper jurisdiction of their beliefs.

All but one.

"Fifteen years we waited for his rise," the first one says "Fifteen years and millennia of planning the perfect Hero."

"Fifteen years building his trials up," says the second "Fifteen years to forge him in the flames of combat."

"Fifteen years to plot out his final moments," mourns the third "And in mere moments…Fate is defied!"

The string in their hands slowly begins to turn black. The soul it was connected to no longer living and yet at the same time not meant to die. Their job had been usurped. Someone or some thing had changed their work, their bindings of this particular soul had been undone in an instant. As the thread turned black, they knew that cutting it now was pointless, the damage was done, and it was all without their say so. But there was hope. A faint glimmer of light in the string, a white speck at either end of it.

"A dangerous game is being played…Fate has been defied, and with it…so too has the natural order been corrupted."

March 6th, 2015. London, England.

"Alright boys, you all know the deal; we all get one piece of the loot. Nobody grabs something they can't carry off, no one damages anything they can or cannot carry. And we all go home richer than when we arrived here."

There was a quiet murmur in the group. Common thieves and crooks were common enough to be called the rats of society. Every time a group of them were carted off to prison another would appear to take over the new territory. Where most preferred the simple drug trade or racketeering options, this group was smarter. There were more lucrative businesses they could get into without having to worry about much. Tonight's score was one of many business opportunities they had taken over the last few months.

The target was a group of cargo containers from Egypt. As luck would have it, a client had come through seeking artifacts for a private collection. Naturally they were all too happy to sign on.

Leonard Hills had gathered up his boys, brought the full crew of twenty-five together just for this one job. The pay was going to be good, and there were more than enough artifacts in museums as it was that just a container or two wouldn't be overly missed. Anything for a buck.

"Rickey, see if you can help out Morrison would you please?" he says to his right hand "I think he's having a little trouble hearing my instructions."

Hired help wasn't always the best of help. But Rickey was one of his enforcers, tough as nails, knew his way around a fight too. Before this night was over, he would ensure his boys all got their due, but he couldn't do that if they were disobedient.

Morrison James was a middle-aged man, lost his kids in a nasty divorce, and so far down on his luck that even dealing with potential 'curses' was appealing. The one thing you could not call him was stupid. Greedy maybe. Never stupid. Morrison was struggling with a sarcophagus; damn thing just wouldn't budge as he tried to pry it open. The moment he saw Rickey coming over he dropped his crowbar and backed away. Morrison wasn't small by any means, he was a decent 5'10" but Rickey was pushing six and a half feet easily. Man was huge. And his imposing figure ensured only the stupid would argue when he stepped up. "Wasn't trying to take the whole thing, honest…just thought I'd snatch whatever jewels he was buried in."

Rickey inspected the lower goon, eyes narrowed before they swept across the sarcophagus. He holds out his hand. Morrison didn't take long to widen his eyes and scramble for the crowbar. With a tiny grunt Rickey popped it open, a single motion and a thousand-year-old coffin was at their tender mercy.

"Wow…uh…t-thanks for that mate," Morrison patted him on the back, eyes locked on the hint of a wrapped mummy inside "I'll uh…I'll give you a share of my profit yeah?"

There was a thud outside. A rather loud thud. Rickey stalked out of the container, eyes sweeping the scene as the other guys scrambled to investigate the noise. Leonard Hills shook his head as he pushed his way to the center, recognizing the body of one of his lower thugs resting at the base of a container that now sported a sizeable dent in its side.

"How about that…alright boys, bonus pay for whoever takes care of our uninvited guest." The men give a slight cheer, some stepping forward at his words "Take care of them. Or no one gets paid tonight."

Four of his boys stepped up, knives drawn and in one case a handgun. Leonard expected a quick entrance and exit of their guest. He turned his back on the commotion and motioned the rest to get back to work. As he took a step forward, he heard a yelp behind him followed by the distinct sound of metal slicing through flesh. Rickey drew his handgun, stepping in to protect his boss as five more of the gang came up beside them.

One of their buddies stumbled out of the dark, one hand clutching at his throat before he fell flat on his face. Rickey motioned the other five to step forward while he guided Leonard back to cover.

"Guess it was too much trouble to ask for one quiet night." He mutters to himself "Rickey, have them load what they can and make the delivery. If need be, we can make our escape and leave the rest to handle whoever this is."

Rickey gave a harsh glare at some of the boys gawking at them still. They got the silent message: Do your job or die. As they began to load up their loot Morrison rummaged around the sarcophagus.

"Not a single bloody gem, no jewels, no gold, nothing…what kind of mummy gets buried with nothing of value on him anyway?" he freezes up, his fingers gently tracing over a metallic material "Hello there…don't mind if I…do!" he tugs his hand free, a small scarab beetle made of gold resting between his fingers "What a beauty you are…going to pay for my new house you are."

There was a single shot fired. Then another. More shots filled the air before abruptly they were silenced. Morrison pocketed his find in a hurry, he wasn't planning on sharing this nor was he planning on dying here tonight.

Leonard was helped to his vehicle by three of his crew. Rickey would hold down the fort and ensure that the truck was loaded and gone within minutes of his own departure. Whether anyone else would survive was a different matter. The client had set up strict rules for this. Get in, get out, get paid. Long as you didn't reveal the drop off location you were in the clear. The three men with him however would not be making it to that point if this would-be hero was a big name in the world like those Avengers in America.

Rickey gave a grunt as his back slammed into the shipping container. He charged forward, throwing a punch and missing his target. Whoever this guy was, he was good. He was precise, and he was not human. The big man took an uppercut before finding himself slammed again into the container. He spent several years in various fight circles, moving from tourney to tourney, improving his skills and working jobs much more dangerous than this gig tonight. So then why was he losing to some idiot in a cape?

He drew his weapon and fired three rounds into his opponent's chest. Each one hitting their target to no effect. The next three punches he took hit exactly where the bullets he fired did. Rickey dropped to his knees, only looking up when he heard a bladed weapon being drawn.

Morrison was panicking as he ran from the docks. He knew where the buyer would be. He knew that it was always their plan to meet there and make their sales all at once. A back-up plan should things go south. No one squeals without pissing off the rest of the crew. He wasn't going to talk. But he wasn't sure if he'd be able to make it in time. He had parked his own vehicle offsite as instructed. Just on the curbside, if he could get there then he could get out of here and be rich. Just had to make it first.

Leonard Hills was not having a good night. His last three stooges were gunning down their attacker right before he left. He thought that would be the end of it all, if he had it his way it would be. But as he drove off things turned from bad to worse. The thud on the roof of his car told him all he needed to know. The sudden stabbing of a weapon into the roof told him that it was indeed not the body of his crew up there but a potential hero.

"Always someone wanting to play hero," he mutters, smirking as he begins to swerve on the road in an effort to dislodge his hitchhiker. "Come on now, you can take my boys then you can manage this!"

The car swerves, hitting a curb, and rolls.

Morrison James was sweating. He hoped the client wouldn't notice as he approached the private jet on the runway. Two suited guards stood flanking a well-dressed man in the middle. Morrison didn't much care for how he looked, he took one look at him and wrote him off as some egotistical rich guy with far too much money and not a care in the world. If he died over this, Morrison would not shed a tear.

"You are the first one to arrive," he says in greeting "Strange…I was assured that all your crew would be arriving with a truck full of artifacts. Perhaps your boss exaggerates too much?"

Morrison reached into his pocket, his eyes flicking to the guards as they moved to draw their weapons "You have no idea what kind of a night we've been through." He says as he thrusts his hand out, scarab resting on the palm "Take it. Solid gold, easily a thousand or so years old, got it off a mummy. Took our biggest guy and a crowbar to prop it open but…yeah, this is all I could grab before some hero showed up."

"A hero?" the buyer asks, taking the scarab and inspecting it "In London? I did not think there were any heroes out here…and he did not see you?"

"No…seemed too focused on the others trying to gun him down to notice me." Morrison looked around nervously "So…that's it then yeah? I get paid now and we never do business with each other?"

The man snaps his fingers. One of his aides' steps off the jet with a silver briefcase. "I have no need for my money, honestly this will bring me more than it would cost to pay you for it. Go ahead, take it all for a job well done."

Morrison opened the case and gulped. He promptly shut the case and gave a polite nod of his head. "Pleasure doing business with you sir."

Morrison James never looked back. He had his money. He could quit the crew now safely. He had his future in his own hands. As he walked off, the client smiled and signaling his men he prepared for his own flight.

As Leonard Hills came to, he could hear the smoldering of the flames, feel their heat on his body as his car was a flaming wreck. He struggled to crawl away from the wreck, miraculously he only suffered minor fractures. Perhaps some God was smiling down on him from above.

"The worm is praying," spoke a deep, ancient voice "He appears to think that he has been saved by an act of divine mercy."


"No, worm, not the God, but a God."

Leonard could hear the voice, but he could not see the source. He looked around in confusion, his injuries, the crash itself, all affecting his mind as he heard footsteps on the asphalt. "Are you here to help me?"

"Not quite," a low growl was his response "But you can help me!"

Leonard was kicked, rolled onto his back. His eyes widen in horror as he stares up at his 'savior'. "Who are you!?"

The man standing over him was a Hero, or perhaps one of the many super villains who had been popping up as of late. His body was covered in the wrappings of a traditional mummy. A crescent moon insignia on his chest, with a cape and cowl to match. The striking thing to Leonard was that this man's face was also wrapped up but his eyes…they were pure white.

"See now worm? This is your judgment night." And there was the voice again. But this time Leonard could see the source of it. It was coming from the birds skull, the bird skull attached to a skeleton bird perched on the mans shoulder. "This is the part where you scream."

Leonard looked ready to do just that. Faster than the eye could see the man had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him almost onto his feet.

"But before you do that, we do have some questions for you."

The mummy man growled lowly "Where. Is. The Scarab!?"

When Leonard Hills was judged in the afterlife, he was found Guilty. When his soul made its final journey to his own private part of damnation, he was considered a waste of humanity in life, but a perfect pawn in death. The police recovered the artifacts the next morning when a dock worker called it in. Nothing they knew of had been stolen, and it seemed some vigilante had left a bloody mess in London that night. Twenty-three bodies were found on that dock, each one with various different cuts and puncture marks on them. Just a mile away was a wrecked car and the body of one of London's most notorious gang leaders with similar wounds on his body bringing the total up to twenty-four.

Morrison James sighed as he started his first day of freedom from the gang. No one would know he was at the dock as he watched the morning news report. No one but himself.

Similarly, as the day started a dark haired man threw his alarm clock at the wall. His pet bird squawking indignantly from its perch.

"That's the twelfth one this week!"

"Tell it to someone who cares," he groans into his pillow.

"Fool! What is the point of having an avatar if he falls asleep during a fight!? The idiocy of it all is astounding."

The man throws a pillow at the bird, knocking it from its perch "I haven't changed my routine in six years you old buzzard, and I have yet to fall asleep on the job or otherwise. So shut the beak or lose it."

"I am Khonshu, God of the Moon, not an old buzzard as you put it. The audacity of it all…you are lucky that you are a perfect avatar for me Percy Jackson. Were you not…"

"You'd still be moping at your temple looking for some sap to make your champion."

"Avatar not champion," Khonshu corrects "And I would not be looking for a sap, why would I? When the idiot I call my avatar works much better than the rest."

"So, you do care," Percy smirks, staring up at his ceiling, "No rest for the weary, guess it is time to get back to work then?"

"The Scarab is missing, and with it out in the open there is no telling just who could be after it now."

AN: Bit short right? Not the usual length I go for, but this was a spur of the moment idea. One friend says do it, the other just sits and scratches his head after being sent a few gifs with no real context. Well, here IS the context haha! Maybe this will be something big, or…maybe it will flop? Who knows? I don't. It's why I have you people called 'Readers' checking this out. Fair warning though, there will be no split personality here, not only do I not have a clue how to write that up at all in a way that would be believable, not insulting or effective…it is also grossly insulting to even have me attempt to do that. Wouldn't make sense. Think about it like this: Would you want to read a story about a blind man or woman, when I myself know nobody who is blind even in one eye? No. Why? Because any attempt that I make would be an insult even if done with the best intentions and care I could give it. So here we are…Moon Knight with Percy Jackson. Far as a pairing could go it is a toss up amongst a few of the girls and nobody at all, because let's be honest who could ever really deal with a Percy that is the champion of Khonshu?