๐๐๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐๐ก๐ฆ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
terrorisms) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diademlogs2026-04-10 08:17 pm
terrorisms) wrote in diademlogs2026-04-10 08:17 pm
๐โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ค๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐ ( closed )
Who: Frank Castle, Nashua Whelan, Furiosa, Clint Barton, Matt Murdock, Amy Bendix
Where: Panorama, The Fringes
When: Last Week of April
What: A catch-all for one specific incident - RIP Nash.
Warnings: Player Character Death.
๐ โ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐
"๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ต๐๐ ๐ก๐๐, ๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐๐๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ก ๐๐ก ๐๐ฃ๐๐, ๐คโ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ค๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐
๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐๐ข๐ก ๐๐ ๐ถ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐ผ'๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐กโ๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฆ '๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ก ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐๐"
๐โ ๐ฆ๐๐โ, ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ต๐๐ ๐ก๐๐, ๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐ก ๐ผ ๐ค๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐ก๐๐ค๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐กโ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐โ๐๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐ ๐, ๐ผ'๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐ก
๐ผ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ก'๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐, ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐.
Where: Panorama, The Fringes
When: Last Week of April
What: A catch-all for one specific incident - RIP Nash.
Warnings: Player Character Death.
๐ โ๐ ๐ ๐๐๐
"๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ต๐๐ ๐ก๐๐, ๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐๐๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐ ๐ก๐๐๐ก ๐๐ก ๐๐ฃ๐๐, ๐คโ๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ค๐ ๐๐ฆ ๐๐๐๐
๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐๐ข๐ก ๐๐ ๐ถ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐, ๐ผ'๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ค๐๐๐กโ๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐๐ก ๐ ๐๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ฆ '๐๐ ๐๐ข๐ก ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐๐"
๐โ ๐ฆ๐๐โ, ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ'๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ก๐ ๐ต๐๐ ๐ก๐๐, ๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐กโ๐๐ก ๐ผ ๐ค๐๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐ก๐๐ค๐ ๐ก๐ ๐๐๐๐ฃ๐ ๐กโ๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐โ๐๐๐
๐ผ ๐กโ๐๐๐ ๐ผ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐ ๐, ๐ผ'๐ ๐ก๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐ ๐๐ก
๐ผ โ๐๐๐ ๐๐ก'๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐กโ๐ ๐ ๐ข๐๐๐๐, ๐ ๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐๐ค ๐ค๐๐ข๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐.
โ สแดแด แด แดษด'แด แดษดแดแดก แดแด, แดษดแด สแดแด แด แดษด'แด แดแด แดษด แดแดสแด
The little soldiers are dead, and so is their mark โ but not before making him talk. He spilled, eventually. Locations of safe-houses. Names of other leaders. They even finally got the code name of the person at the very, very top โ apparently, they only ever call him Monarch. What kind of joker comes up with a stupid ass name like that?
They manage to get all of this, and they manage to do it while walking away with barely a scratch on either of them. They're in good spirits, and it seems like the perfect night to go out. To do it with friends. Bring Fury, bring the kid, head to the bar and restaurant where Nash is working a shift because if she can't join them, they may as well join her. He thinks it's mostly coincidence Murdock happens to be there, but who knows, maybe he caught wind of a familiar, friendly heartbeat and decided to join. Whatever, hell, Frank's in such a good mood he even includes that asshole when he buys everyone at the table a round of drinks.
It's a clear night. Unseasonably warm for spring. The bar's not overcrowded. Only maybe a dozen other people there โ and when all this is over, Frank will spend a long time blaming himself for not noticing anything off about the four of them posted up across the room at the bar proper.
He's gotten too comfortable here. That's what it boils down to.
He let his guard down. He forgot what he can and can't have.
Everyone's just bullshitting when it happens. Food's done, they're on their second round of drinks, in no real hurry to leave.
One second he's shooting Nash an amused look, watching her walk away from their table seeming equal parts fond and exasperated, the next he's looking down at his drink, and then by the time he looks back up again, a woman has an arm around Nash's throat, a gun pressed to her head, and a finger on the trigger. Safety's off.
This is the moment things begin to fall apart. )
no subject
Someone will have to scrub the blood out of the carpet, but it isn't the first time. Her picture will linger behind the bar, above the backlit museum of bottles for months, maybe a year, until the rotating door of employees has spun enough that someone asks, "who's that?" and someone else replies, "I dunno." And that will be that.
She serves her people, lingers at the table for a second or two. Why not? It's nice to see everyone.
But that's the problem, isn't it. That word. Nice. She's held onto something, stupidly, that barely exists here. A plain expectation of checks and balances, of the golden rule. That's why she couldn't leave alone the sad old man with the family he buried; that's why she stepped up for her co-worker in a bind. And it clashes with Panorama's attitude. There's no resolving this intrusion in the ecosystem, is there? Culling it is the only option. Yank the flower up by its roots so it has nowhere to grow, so it wrinkles and wilts, forgotten, unimportant, irrelevant.
She's wearing a cropped t-shirt, as are the other servers, that says ask me about my cider discount! in flamboyant text. Frank makes a comment on it; she introduces him to her middle finger. Normal stuff.
And then— "excuse me, can we get some service?"
Like we said. Normal.
And the crowd is sparse enough that she's plotting an early escape. Turn over a table or two, close a register as a gesture of goodwill, attempt to salvage the evening that was—
The arm, suddenly, is heavy around her neck. She barely feels a ring of cold metal tilting against her temple. She knows what to do here, doesn't she? Scratch the hell out of them. Go for the eyes. Bite. And that will be her last thought: a wild, haphazard attempt at defense, at ekeing out a moment or two longer, a bit of instinct to go with a poorly formed idea of self-preservation. Not much of a thought at all.
Nothing for her mom, her grandfather. Nothing for her dad, her stepmom, her siblings. Nothing, really, for Jack.
Just the second or two she has to shove, to attempt to — bang.
Her knees crumple; her eyes remain open. ]
oop oof ooooooppppp
She has no clue why it's happening, this time. All she can do is leap up onto her feet, looking for any words of comfort toward Nash or unkind words toward her captor to leave her lips. But no sound comes out. Instead of saying anything, Amy just watches another person die โ only she doesn't think 'oh my god, she's dead'. She thinks 'what can I do?', which is maybe the stupidest thing to think when you see someone shot in the head. It's only when everyone else moves โ when Frank moves โ that she ducks down and scrambles over to where Nashua's slumped on the ground.
She's about to start CPR. It's so, so stupid. She's about to, but then she looks at Nashua's head leaking lots of blood and cups her hands over the entry and exit wounds instead. Like that's going to do anything. She's seen people die, but she's still not sure how dead anyone is like this. What if Nashua is fading in there? What if she can feel stuff, see stuff? People survive getting shot in the head. Sometimes they even survive a shotgun to the face. She's seen youtube videos about those situations.]
It's okay, Nash. It's okay. I'm โ I'm here.
[She yanks off her jacket and tries to stop more blood from leaking out. She's not sure if it's only blood leaking out, but it's getting all over her hands. Again. It's different this time, though โ she's bleeding, and she's โ she's definitely dead. She's dead. She still squeezes the girl's limp hand anyway, in case there's anything left that needs to feel comfort.]
no subject
She had beenโ distracted, there's no other word for it. She was tucked up close to Frank with a conspiratorial smile on her face, her hand resting on his thigh beneath the table, leaning in to tell him something she doesn't even remember in the moments after, just that she was feeling light and good, exchanging jokes with Clint and Amy and Nash and hell, even curiously enjoying whatever weird thing strung between Frank and Murdock that she'd investigate later. She felt free and a sense belonging in a way she hadn't known was possible. And sure, rough patches between her and Frank would be par for the course, but maybe they would make it after all.
She has to push her hair out of her eyes when her head snaps around. Nash had just commented on how long it was getting and asked if Furiosa was using that shampoo she bought for her. Scrubbing a yellow bar of soap across her scalp wasn't cutting it anymore.
The bar stool clatters loudly to the floor as Furiosa explodes to her feet, but no one can probably hear it over the feral roaring from someone or the blood thundering in their ears or the ringing gunshot still echoing in the bar. She reaches behind her for the gun holstered in the small of her back beneath her jacket, battle instincts kicking in with the immediate impulse to take cover and assess, time slowing down to a crawl as adreneline floods her body.
Frank going after the shooter. Amy out in the open at Nash's side.
She went under the wheels, Furiosa realizes in a single, horrifying instant. And Furiosa is not ending this night with two dead girls on her hands. ]
Amyโ! [ She shouts, throwing herself at the girl, wrenching her away from Nash in a way that she knows will seem unspeakably cruel in the aftermath. Let her be angry in the aftermath. At least if you're angry, you're alive. Furiosa spent years feeding on that. ] Come on, we gotta go. We gotta go. [ She wraps her arms tightly around her, shielding her up against her, skipping into premtively arguing back. ] I know, I know but we have to go.
no subject
Listen, listen to me, you don't wanna do this, don't do this-
( The gun goes off, and Frank's entire body spasms with the ringing of it. For one single moment, he's stunned. Frozen solid, still, watching in slow motion as the blood blossoms outward from the new hole in the side of Nashua's head.
He doesn't even hear what the woman says at first; it'll replay later: "Boss says from now on, you take one of ours, we take one of yours."
Frank's vision goes red, and his body's moving toward the shooter without a single conscious thought in his head except that he's going to fucking kill her โ )
no subject
Which is how he ended up here.
Matt is at the bar when he hears people walk in. They're armed. The way they're moving speaks of bad intentions. Determined. Tense. Ready.
He's turning towards the danger when the gunshot happens and a heartbeat stops. Just stops. One moment it's part of the noise in the bar and then it's gone.
But Frank's moving and Matt knows every single signal his body gives off. People are about to die. ]
Frank!
[ Matt moves, making his way towards him, trying to intercept him, every little act he puts on pretending to be just a blind guy gone. ]
no subject
Clint and Frank are a little scuffed up but no worse for wear for their successful outing. It's more intel than they've gotten in months; the work is paying off. Every body put down is someone else who won't be able to get the jump on someone just trying to figure out how to make a living here. A celebration does seem in order, and it's not often he sees Frank in this good a mood.
So it's friends and friends-of-friends and the kid and Nash, chatting and eating and drinking and laughing.
And then there's a gun, and a warning that he'll have time to unpack later when the guilt floods in, and there's no negotiating with someone like that in spite of the brief attempt Frank makes. Clint can see it. The look, the posture, the hold on Nash: that's someone who's already decided, someone who's here to make a statement.
She makes the statement loud and clear.
Frank goes for the shooter. Amy and Furiosa go for Nash. Clint takes to one of the areas he's used to taking, in an emergency, when shit starts hitting the fan: crowd control. Thank god it's not busy, but there are screaming civilians and there are other bar workers, and nobody needs to be here for what's sure to be more blood and violence. He turns from the scene to face--a couple couples, a couple singles, a gathering of other friends seems like. He keeps his voice steady as he makes a point to approach each table quickly, anyone who hasn't already sprinted for the nearest exit, anyone hunkering under a seat.] Out, get out, out the front, keep your heads down, that's it, leave it and get it later, go next door and hunker down, [so on and so forth, to keep anyone else out of the line of inevitable fire.
Anything to keep others safe, and anything to keep the surge of raw fury and pain from flooding his senses.]
no subject
Nash trusted him to keep her safe. He'll think that on repeat in a couple of minutes, but first comes the blinding rage and the automatic switch that gets flipped deep down inside of Frank.
As soon as he started moving, that dark Kevlar began sliding over his skin, blooming out from his chest and spilling over his arms like ink. Matt will be able to smell it, probably โ the way it smells stronger than it ever has, like a dozen bullet proof vests all stacked together.
Frank hears the whispering in the back of his mind; it sounds like a little boy.
Kill them. Kill them all. Get them. Stop them. Put them down. Don't let them ever do this again.
He's got no patience or acknowledgement for the blind guy routine. No time for Matt. Not a single thought spared to the excess unnatural strength he uses to shove Matt away with unnecessary force, not a second of concern about whether or not he's thrusting the guy straight into a nearby table or out a god damn window or anything.
The only thing that matters is getting his hands on that woman, ripping the gun out of her grip, and stuffing the barrel into her mouth to blow out the back of her head. Her three little friends are next.
Like that'll bring-
Like that'll bring her back.
Like that'll somehow undo it and bring her back.
Like that'll fix it.
Oh, god. )
โ าแดสษชแดsแด
She's waiting for him back at his motel room. He figured she would be; felt it, in the lingering throes of something he doesn't realize is already dying. Must've started to nod off on the couch, because she looks tired when he edges in the doorway.
He doesn't come all the way in. Doesn't shed his boots. Doesn't put down his keys.
His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, but aside from that, there's a ten foot thick concrete wall between him and... everything. Him and her. Him and what he's feeling. She's getting the cold, flat, slate-grey outer shell of it.
The silence is heavy for a long moment before finally, hoarsely, he breaks it. )
I'm leaving. ( He clears his throat quietly. Presses on. ) I'm gonna be gone... for a while. I wanted to ask... if you'd stick around for the kid. Watch out for her.
( Because he can't. )
no subject
She calls him until his phone doesn't ring anymore. Shut off or dead or smashed with a hammer or up against the wall or something. She can still feel him. His everything. His grief, his anger, his intense and uncontrollable rage howling like a monstrous beast so loud and intense that it doesn't matter where he is. It means he's alive at least, although she never expected any different. They have that in common. The left behind.
They stand there, silent. She waits. She's good at waiting.
I'm leaving, he says, and suddenly she wonders when she got so comfortable that it seemed automatic for her to take her boots off in this room. That she takes her gun out of the holster and puts it on the counter. That she unbuckles her arm and leaves it by the bed.
She feels idiotic standing here in her socks on the grungy carpet. The words he's saying sinking through her like a cool stone. ]
Frank. [ Once, concerned trying to interrupt. ] Frank. [ Twice, she says, worry firming up into caution, an edge of warning as she moves into his space. Don't do this. Don't do this. ]
No. No. [ And it turns out even Furiosa has her breaking point, the slowly growing cracks of their relationship having finally covered the whole foundation of it, the point where it can't be unbroken. ] You don't get to do this.
no subject
I need you to promise me you'll take care of the kid.
( He insists, and it's awful harsh for somebody that's asking for a favor. Awful brusque for somebody that needs something from her, despite what he's doing to her right now. )
I need to hear you say it.
( Everything about him seems to radiate you don't wanna push this, this is not an argument you want to have. It won't end well. )
no subject
And she's hurting too. She's hurting about him and Nash, because she cared about her too. Because she had to watch her get murdered in cold blood. And it doesn't matter how many people Furiosa has watched die because she knows this will be one that slots itself permanently into her mind. She'll see it when she closes her eyes, it'll haunt her when she's asleep and there's only one goddamn person in the whole world she wanted to talk about it to and he up and ran awayโ ]
And then what, Frank?
[ Because of course she's going to promise to watch Amy. In the end, she can't even pretend to entertain anything but the inevitable, a desperate barb meant to hit him alone. Of course, she'll watch Amy. She promised that to him the day he told her about the girl. ]
Because you introduce me as your partnerโ [ Her voice scrapes on the word, heavy with meaning. She'd use that word to describe Jack once with a kind of reverence. The all-encompassing everything-ness to it. ] You tell me thatโ [ you love me, and her voice clips because he didn't. He couldn't. He said I know and me too and he pressed his forehead to hers and tried to telegraph in every other way and and she thought it was fine untilโ ] And then you disappear for days and only show up and say you're leaving. [ Her voice scrapes, desperation and frustration all fighting for top billing. ] Just fucking talk to me.
no subject
It's not that her words don't provoke any feeling in him. They do. They cut like razor wire, ripping in to a part of him at his core. It's just that it doesn't matter; she can slice him up six ways from Sunday, dig her fingernails in, shred him just like he deserves, and it still won't change anything. )
It's done. ( His throat sounds rough โ more rough than usual. Scratching glass. ) I should'a known better. I should'a known.
( At some point midway through, he starts shaking his head. )
I can't be here anymore. I can't do this. I don't get to have this. I should've known that from the start.
โ แดแดส
He took off on her, after the bar. After Nash. Straight up left without her, without saying goodbye, without coming home. It's been โ a day, day and a half? Something like that. Now here he is at nearly nine at night, knocking on her door.
When she opens it, he comes in, but he doesn't actually look her in the eye. Can't seem to bring himself to face her head-on, like he's some kind of god damn coward all of a sudden.
Not because he took off, but because of what he came here to tell her.
He rips the band-aid off. )
Listen... Fury's gonna be lookin' out for you for a while.
โ แดสแด าสษชษดษขแดs
( On the outskirts of the city, just before the fringes, there's a little commercial building that probably used to be some kind of power station, or a check point, or a utility shed, or some shit like that. It was forgotten long before Frank showed up, and he's long since repurposed it for his own uses.
It was a contingency bunker. A safe house. Now... he's got the place rigged with cameras and tripwires, and he's been living on canned food and protein bars, sleeping on a cot in the cramped space surrounded by a god damn arsenal and nothing else.
He hasn't been home in days. Maybe weeks. Maybe longer. He's got no intention of going back to the city for anything other than supplies. All he cares about, all he's doing, all he's letting himself think about, is getting his hands on the other three assholes from the bar, and putting an end to that fucking cult once and for all.
That's it. That's all there's gonna be.
And he has no interest in involving either of the assholes that come to visit. )
no subject
Matt needed some time to track him down. Some of that was spent meditating and recovering from how hard Frank hit him in that bar. Some of that was figuring out where he'd gone to ground because Frank had tried very hard to disappear.
It's hard for anyone to disappear from Matt's senses. It takes time to find him and get to him. The distances in this place are frustrating for a man who can't drive. Maybe he should consider a motorcycle.
But he finds Frank and his latest bunker. Matt hears the buzz of cameras. He makes sure to be on them before approaching the front door. Maybe Frank won't shoot him in that case.
Hope springs eternal and all that. ]
Are you going to make me break in? [ He calls through the door, listening to Frank inside. ] And if you have an axe, put it down. I don't need to relive that.