Chapter 93: Dreams and Dieties

When Bronte wasn't dreaming of how much he missed his family. Or how much he hated some aspects of it…. He was in a familiar realm of dreams.

The term dream was subjective in this context. When he was a fourteen year old in over his head, he called it a nightmare. Sometimes he still did, but he'd faced worse with his eyes open.

"God damn! Do I really get up this much?" Bronte questioned as his anthropomorphic future self got up into a fighting stance for the thousandth time.

The beast used to be larger. Or, Bronte grew even in his own deep concious.

It used to be a tiger.

Sometimes a Dire Wolf the size of a horse.

Sometimes it was both built around a human skeleton.

Now?

It was a Mutant. Clearly.

It was Bronte. He could see it in the mane of dreads that soaked up the chaotic downpour of rain.

Reminiscent of how he looked after Romulus— being the progenitor of Feral Mutants, kicked his Mutant dna into overdrive.

The thing— he, was hulking with muscle. Covered in dark fur sprinkled with white arcs of tiger stripes like lightning. Elbow and knee blades popped into existence like accents to some ceremonial armor fit for a king in Bronte's storming natural castle.

The mutant-creature roared.

"Man, hurry up."

It took off, dropping down to all fours. Its claws— identical to Bronte's, ripped up the stone walkway they stood on and sent blasts of lighting down to its very foundations. The whole platform crumbled in its wake as if it was promising a final blow…. An end to it all through physical action.

Brontë met the charge head on as always.

The two collided into each-other like ram's during mating season.

With the stone walkway gone, they plunged into the churning waters, clawing and biting at eachother the whole way.

Brontë ripped out its throat beneath the waves. The beast ran its claws through his ribs, flaying him open as it tore free.

As Brontë healed, he stabbed it through the eyes with one hand while digging out its guts with the other until the blue waves spinning around them turned red.

Then the beast was gone.

Sinking.

Dea—

The second it disappeared into the deep, it was lunging on him again from behind in a blur of bubbles.

It bit down on his head with jaws like a Lupine and crunched his skull.

His world went black. You'd think that's when you finally wake up swinging.

No.

Brontë woke up, still within the dream. Skull throbbing. Lungs screaming as he drowned.

The beast ripped off his arm and swam away, now covered in scales like a Lizard-man. His last name never seemed so fitting…

A minute later, Bronte breached the surface covered in guts and bloody water as he relived the phantom pain sensations of losing an arm.

His only light was the full moon.

But it was enough. Even without it he could see the people of Talocan rising to the surface alongside him as corpses. Burned… crushed …. Frozen….

"Nope— no… no. Wake up, man. WAKE UP!" He slammed his fist to his head ready to forcibly check out even though that was an action he never wanted to take again.

Right before the blades hidden with his forearm began to glide along the muscle, the moon blinked.

He opened his eyes.

The waters had never been so still. In fact— he wasn't even sure he was in water. The way it reflected the starry night sky was almost too perfect. Almost like he was floating in space—

In the distance a statue stood as tall as the Baxter building.

A statue of a hooded figure in white holding up a staff tipped by a crescent moon. Its eyes moved. Fastened on him with an intense hunger.

Then it blinked.

The moon blinked at the same time.

"Many find their trauma's grow stronger in midnight. Many travelers journey grows evermore arduous when the sun falls and the moon rises. Few fight it so valiantly…. regularly. Like a wild beast. But still man in mind. You have a knack for protecting travelers of the night— for fighting what stalks the shadows."

Brontë coughed up a mouthful of seawater that was beginning to look more like star-littered space material. "You're Khonshu…" He snarled.

"And you, are the male Wind-Rider."

"I'd like to think I'm more than my blood."

The statue remained unmoving everywhere except the eyes, "I bet you would considering how important that aspect has become in your world as of late."

Brontë didn't have a rebuttal to that. He was still trying to catch his breath. Not from exhaustion. From panic.

"Blood is beginning to go for its weight in gold. People need fierce protection in night more than ever. Be my left hand, Wind-Rider. Be my Hunters Moon. You could be so much more than The Moon Knight."

Bronte's jaw flexed repeatedly in irritation— but not from what Khonshu was saying. It was nothing more than run of the mill god-talk. He'd heard it a thousand ways.

"My problems don't care about the time of day. And I already have enough gods trying to jam their way into my mind…. Without replaying my trauma's to make a point. Find someone else to play justice puppet with." Bronte placed his knuckles back against his head.

"Very well. But trust me when I say you would've been the better option. There's potential in the lands you and your Midnight Suns are approaching. But life there isn't as forgiving. There are no heroes. Only Hunters and Monsters. And for this selection process, I do not discriminate."

"Yea, well I do. So fuck around and find out when we land." Bronte popped his claws into his skull and ended the astral experience on his own terms.

***

Monday January 10th, 2022. Northern Hungary.

Brontë jumped out his sleep— failing to flail around wildly like he usually does thanks to a wrapping of tight white binds holding him to his seat. Even still he thrashed and rocked in his seat for a moment before calming.

He looked around.

Ilyana sat across from him— everyone sat across from him on the jet, calmly watching him absorb the surroundings. Robbie held up a bag of dog treats with his name written on it. Brontë rolled his eyes mentally and continued looking around.

The white floors, tables and cushioned seats were the same as usual with the previous night sky beyond the windows now bright with daylight.

He was more tired than he thought. Probably shouldn't have gone on patrol for two days straight before leaving for Transylvania. It would've been three and Spiderman and Daredevil didn't more or less tell him off.

Blade took his legs off the table across from him and sat up, "Morning, sunshine."

"What's this?" Bronte looked down at his binds.

"Polycarbonate steel mesh….. possibly— routinely, empowered by an Egyptian god." Mr. Knight replied from the cockpit a few feet to his right at the front of the Moon-Jet.

"Khonshu….."

"Correct."

Ilyana looked from Bronte to Blade.

Without looking back at her, Blade nodded. "He's good."

Ilyana rose up from her seat and walked over, leaning over him to untie the binds from behind. She smelled like citrus and vanilla. The afterscent of sulfur and brimstone gave it all a smonkey finish that made his brain tingle.

After she was done she sat beside him. Her black spandex suit split by an x logo at the chest squeaked against the seats.

Then there was silence.

Everyone stood out against the Moon-Jet's interior in their…. Work uniforms.

Blade wore his usual black trench coat with a Kevlar vest underneath and an endless assortment of sheathed knives and guns. His two Katana's had their own seats. To his left, Robbie wore his usual leather jacket, jeans and biker gloves. Jack wore a black turtle neck and cargo pants. Something loose and simple that wouldn't be an issue to tear. Thankfully the only person that would stand out at night was Moon-Knight. And that was on purpose.

"I know how y'all sleep." Blade started, "I can't afford an accidental massacre. Not now."

"Plus, blood doesn't wash out of these seats well." Mr Knight added from the cockpit.

"Right. Where are we at?" Bronte questioned.

"Hungary." Blade replied before tossing Bronte a rolled up series of maps. "Just like we drew up, slim."

Brontë unfurled the map, finding a top down view of Eastern Europe looking back at him, covered in dots and linework making out a trail for them to follow.

"Shouldn't the pilot have this?" Bronte asked.

"I have a photographic memory." Mr. Knight said.

Robbie shook his head like that was a lie.

"This is the most dangerous part of our flight…." Bronte remembered the discussion when they devised the plan last week.

Their journey to Transylvania would've been shorter with a straight shot from New Yorks coast, but in that straight shot they'd have to fly over Latveria.

Brontë was quickly told that such a place was controlled by a dictator named Doom. Apparently his mom was also a sorceress. But where Bronte's history involved Egyptian goddesses of justice and earth. Doom's involved demons…. And disfigurement.

He was a shut in but they didn't want to risk bringing him out of retirement.

And they couldn't fly under Latveria because Symkaria was more or less Latveria part two.

So boom, Hungary's coastline it was.

"Let's hope Doom hasn't constructed a Moon-Jet destroyer lazer beam and placed it along Hungary's coast. I don't have a defense for that and neither does Khonshu. At least not for you guys….." Mr Knight said as they rose up above the cover of clouds.

"I could make a portal as big as the jet." Ilyana replied, "In theory we'd dodge the lazer…. And then crash into Limbo."

"You could do that?" Bronte questioned.

"I've teleported a few giants…. On occasion. A jet is no different. Maybe a little."

"Or! I could drive….. like actually drive." Robbie's eyes lit ablaze.

"How much longer?" Jack questioned as he clutched the bag in his lap.

"Less than an hour. Y'all know the drill." Blade said. Everyone nodded in agreement.

Brontë went over it on his own.

"Split up. Occupy the towns and villages bordering Transylvania where Vampiric activity is highest. Talk to locals. Get a feel for the land….." He'd almost forgotten his newest dilemma he'd have to run by everyone else at some point, "….. and look out for the new left hand of Khonshu— who might be an enemy."

It was then that Bronte's phone started to ring.

He took it out of the pocket of his jeans and answered the unknown caller.

"Hey, who's this?"

"Hello, Bronte. It's Wanda…. Your mother says you wish to speak to me."