𝐼𝑓 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑎𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 ( closed )

[terrorisms]

Who: Frank Castle & Others
Where: Panorama
When: June
What: Catch-All

Warnings: Possible implications of violence, grief, murder, and black coffee

Yᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪғ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ
Aɴᴅ ɪғ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴇᴀʀ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴀ-sᴏғᴛʟʏ ᴘᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴ'
Yᴇs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪғ sʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ʟʏɪɴ' ʙʏ ᴍᴇ
Tʜᴇɴ I'ᴅ ʟɪᴇ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʙᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ

Comments

[terrorisms]

( The place is nice — or, rather, it's a certain definition of nice. Not too crowded, not overpriced, well-worn, mostly-normal to a 21st-century-earth based sensibility. Plus, he knows one of the girls that works here, and Nash sometimes hooks him up with free wings, so. It's earned his loyalty, much like that one breakfast joint has earned his loyalty.

He's in his comfort zone, and in a fairly good mood all things considered, when Logan wanders in. Must be this coupled with the weeks of companionably ignoring each other that nudges him into something a little more social.

His own beer gets set down on a little side table by the rack where they keep the sticks and the chalk. He plucks one cue out of the matching set, absently getting a feel for the weight of it while he returns a level, wry: )

I'll go easy on you.

( It's not genuine cockiness, there's nothing particularly braggadocios in either tone or demeanor. It's bullshit for bullshit's sake; he hasn't played in a while, either. Doesn't really matter, it's just somethin' to do other than sitting on his ass while he drinks. )

[carcajous]

[ They've exchanged almost no words for him to confirm where Frank might be from. Could be from outer fucking space like the other guy he met, could be from regular old Earth (non-Sentinel variety). So far, everything he's seen points him to the latter—this included.

Still, he's curious, in that vague sorta sense. Hard not to be when you've bumped into each other over weeks. (When you've also dumped a couple of unconscious bodies together.)

The curl of his lips is equally wry. ] Doubt it. [ But he's only poking, too. ] More of a Texas hold 'em kinda guy.

[ Is it cheating if he can sniff out every drop of sweat? Probably.

He ends up breaking first—balls scattering, but none sinking yet. Standard stuff. He leans next to the dart board to the side while Frank takes his place. ]

[terrorisms]

( Texas hold 'em earns a fleeting look, a flash of thoughtful, downturned lips. Not a huge poker guy, but he's played. It's not a bad time. Good at reading people. Less good at willingly gambling away his money; always struck him as kinda stupid. Might as well throw a fistful of cash into the fucking wind or something. Playing for free with a handful of chips is alright, but apparently that takes the fun out of it for half the population.

Sue him for having two kids and a mortgage at the time. Sue him again now for wanting to pay off his recently acquired loan instead of pissing away his meager income in a card game that's half based on luck.

Anyway.

He circles the table. Picks the low-hanging fruit of a solid hanging out near a pocket, and lines up his shot. )

So where'd you serve?

( Distracted, conversational — but pretty confident in his guess. He recognizes the look. )

[carcajous]

[ His eyebrow goes up, though the look says he's not that surprised, when it comes down to it. Easy assumption to make. Not an incorrect one, neither. It's just...more complicated than that. What's he supposed to pull outta his pocket, the Pacific Theatre in fucking World War II? How about the great mutant-human war of this century? ]

Canadian Forces, [ is the half-truth he eventually settles on, a sidestepped answer to Frank's where with what country instead. Close enough, anyway. But there's a distinct lack of specifics that somebody who served and actually remembered it might've had. ] Not anymore. You?

[ Like recognizes like, that how the saying goes?

Once Frank's finished with his low-hanging fruit, Logan circles the table and picks one of his own. ]

[terrorisms]

( The answer's not exactly one he expected — in part because of the lack of deployment specifics, but mainly over the country of origin. It earns a mirrored eyebrow right back at Logan, a look that practically telegraphs Canada, huh? Can't say he would've pegged the guy as Canadian right off, but it's not too far out of left field after a second or two of considering it. American civilians like to give Canada shit about being too polite, but that's only because they've never had to see Canadian soldiers in action — something fresh new scout sniper classes get to learn the hard way when they get absolutely schooled the first time.

He posts up with the butt of his cue on the ground and his fingers laced around the top half, eyes tracking Logan's shot — and the one he makes right after, too. Not bad. )

U.S. Marine Corps. ( And then, with just a touch of jaded, dark humor, echoes: ) Not anymore.

( Sometimes the people who get out leave for a reason. If you know, you know. )

[carcajous]

[ Probably doesn't help that he's a little bit of everything and nothing all at once. At this point, he's got just as many memories of New York as he does the Rockies. Logan gives a shrug in response—unattached about the whole idea.

His lips twitch. Yeah, he gets that. Well, he gets it and he doesn't. He's got no memory of his reason for joining, got no memory of his reasons for leaving. But he's pretty sure he can guess, if he knows anything about himself by now. ]

So what is it these days?

[ Killing time at a diner back home, too? Somehow settling into an actual life? The question's noncommittal, leaving room for Frank to answer however he wants. Mostly 'cause Logan's not looking to give too many answers of his own.

His ball rolls short of its pocket. Damn it. ]

[terrorisms]

( Now that's a question — one that has him sucking his teeth thoughtfully as he visibly considers the answer. It's a matter of whether he plans to interpret these days as in recently back home, or these days as in here and now in this city. Then, just exactly how honest, how specific, how much he feels like giving away.

Well, he's not here to shut the conversation down. If he wanted that, he wouldn't have initiated it in the first place. He's also not all that interested in putting complicated, unpleasant truths out there on a whim, so... )

Construction for a while. Then traveling for a while after that. Still figuring out what to do with myself here, but I'm holding down the fort at the Stock Market downtown in the meantime.

( Maybe Logan's heard of it, maybe he hasn't — it's the shittier, less successful competitor to Jolly Roger Munitions. Good ol' Jolly Roger never has any instructors around, though, and the owner's hoping they can steal a little of their business if they've got one on offer.

He doesn't volunteer that it's a part-time gig right now while the business struggles to find a footing, that he gets the other half of his money by pawning the equipment he kindly relieves from raiders and looters who made the last bad choices they'll ever make. )

How 'bout you?

( Lines up his shot; bounces the cue ball off the side, into a stripe that knocks a solid into the pocket. Not bad. )

[carcajous]

[ While the other man weighs his answer, Logan pays for another beer, whatever they've got behind the counter. He glances over his shoulder. Stock Market, that right? He's walked by. Never looked in, though. In the entire time he's gone in and out of the diner, this bar, he's been without a single weapon on his person—a point Frank might've noticed, might've not.

He returns to the table in time to see the ball land its pocket. His cue to keep sipping his beer 'til his turn comes again. ]

Would you believe me if I said private school? [ His tone is amused, expression mild. He leans his shoulder against a nearby pillar, splintered along the edge from where a bullet must've struck it ages ago. ] Did some logging up north. [ Probably. Memory's hazy, but there. ] Rode around. Been unloading boxes here.

[ He could find something better. The Dome, play bodyguard, whatever illicit transports are always going on around the city. He's not interested. He isn't...hell, he isn't entirely sure what it is he wants to do while they get their bearings. A piece of him feels oddly, annoyingly adrift, kinda like he's waiting for orders or an operation that isn't coming. What he is sure of are the few X-Men here, however small a handful they are. Maybe it's enough he knows who he is, for now. ]