𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒 ( closed )

[terrorisms]

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.



𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑
"𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑜 𝑡𝑜 𝐵𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛, 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒
𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟, 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒
𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑎, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟
𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑙𝑦 '𝑒𝑚 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛"
𝑂ℎ 𝑦𝑒𝑎ℎ, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑔𝑜 𝑡𝑜 𝐵𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛, 𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑
𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑡𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑
𝐼 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒, 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑡
𝐼 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒.

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→ ᴛʜᴇ ғʀɪɴɢᴇs

[terrorisms]

( 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. )

[sine_metu]

[ Trip wires? Really Frank?

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.

[terrorisms]

( Inside the bunker, Frank sits at a small metal desk with an AR-15 dismantled on its surface. Each part is painstakingly and meticulously cleaned and oiled with a rag that used to be white, but now has gunpowder and oil stains clinging to the fabric.

He saw the movement on the monitors.

He hears the call at the door.

He deliberately, purposefully ignores both and carries on cleaning.

Evidently the answer is yes, he is going to make Matt break in. )

[sine_metu]

[ Grief and guilt have truly shut Frank down. Matt bows his head forward and sighs deeply.

Okay.

It takes him a minute to break in. Frank's locked himself in very well but super senses allow Matt to cheat. He is polite and closes the door behind him as he walks in.

The smell of gun oil is overpowering. As is unwashed Frank. He's really let himself fall into that hunting and killing mental space. Embraced it even. ]

People are worried about you.

[ Matt not so much. He's seen Frank like this before. He knows how bad he can get. ]

[terrorisms]

( That subtle sound of metal clicking against metal as Matt works the lock sends agitation through already frayed nerves. He feels scrubbed raw, grated with steel wool, and every little thing drags against tender, angry-red wounds in a way that sets his teeth on edge.

Matt, unfortunately, makes for a great target for his venom because he knows Matt can take it. There isn't even the slightest effort to soften himself for this particular visitor.

He doesn't look up from the pieces of his gun. )

People'll get over it.

( They'll stop worrying eventually, and then they'll stop thinking about him entirely, and that's the way it should be. That's the way it should've been all along, and this shit never would have happened. )

[sine_metu]

I don't think Clint's going to get over it.

[ It's such an odd thing to say. Frank's been hanging out with Avengers during his time here. He's gotten close to one of them. There's a real friendship there and honestly, Matt didn't think Frank could make those.

They're not exactly friends and they've known each other a long time. ]

Who was she? The girl who died.

[ Matt's not sure asking will get him an answer. He knows very little about Frank's circle of friends. Because he knows Frank he knows that girl was under Frank's protection. Basically had become one of Frank's kids.

The best way to bring Frank to this point is kids. It's always kids.

Maybe getting to to talk about it, Matt will get the whole story of how it got to this point. How a gang chose to walk in and murder someone in front of Frank for revenge. He heard what was said. He knows it was a personal warning. ]

[terrorisms]

( That first bit earns an annoyed scowl — mostly because Matt's right, and he knows it. Clint's been a stubborn son of a bitch that won't take a god damn hint, no matter how hard Frank tries to ward him off. He just keeps coming back, talking some nonsense bullshit about planting a garden or something, and Frank-

Truth be told, he's one or two more altercations away from punching Clint square in the jaw. Maybe then he'll finally get the message.

(Probably not.)

A lot of this boils down to Matt not knowing Frank very well — or at least, not all sides of him. Matt knows The Punisher better than anybody, but he's never really gotten the chance to know Frank. He doesn't know about Frank's time with the Lieberman family. He doesn't know about the decades-long enduring friendship he has with Curt, or what he had with Billy Russo. He didn't know about Amy, not until this place, not until recently. Frank's kept the most human parts of himself hidden, save for little glimpses here and there that can't help but break through.

He's seen a hell of a lot more of Frank in these last few weeks, and Frank's not entirely sure that's a good thing. Particularly considering it's given him the audacity to turn up uninvited asking questions about a dead girl.

He's tempted to throw the magazine he's cleaning directly at Matt's fucking head, except he knows the son of a bitch will just catch it.

Instead of answering, he deflects with a sharp — )

Are you here for a reason or are you just here to be a god damn busybody?

[sine_metu]

What's going on, Frank?

[ Fine, if he wants to talk business, they'll talk business. ]

Why did they walk into that bar and kill that girl as a message for you?

[ Because that's what it was. They went in there to kill someone to get to Frank. It wasn't about anyone else in that bar. It wasn't about the girl. It was about Frank.

The main reason why Frank has gone this far into hunting because it is his fault.

It's a matter of time before Frank physically comes at him. He can practically taste the violence in the air. ]

[terrorisms]

( It was about Frank, and it was about Clint. It was a coinflip, probably, over which of the two of them would wind up with the more personal victim targeted. Clint's got the advantage of most of his closest friends being god damn Avengers; they don't make for as easy victims as a twenty-something waitress whose only superpower is seeing ghosts.

And now she's dead.

She just wanted to go home. She just wanted to believe this place was kinder than it really was, and she missed her god damn dog with the stupid people-name, and she had a boyfriend she meant to bring around for the first time to meet him, and now there's a hole on either side of her head and she's under the fucking ground.

He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. Matt can probably catch a fleeting hint of copper tang in the air. )

You'd know the answer to that if you didn't have your brain scrubbed. ( He sounds more than a little bitter. ) You were helping us with it before. You and Captain fucking America and his Winter Soldier sidekick, too.

( In other words: this is big. This is bigger than just Frank going for the wrong person at the wrong time, it's more than just a Frank-versus-random-badguys vendetta. )

[sine_metu]

[ Blood in the air. A spike of adrenaline. Frank's teeth grinding together. The tension ratchets up another notch. ]

Then catch me up. [ Matt risks moving closer, risks getting Frank's full attention on him, and increasing the chance for getting hit. ] I must have thought it was worth getting involved. It clearly is.

[ An innocent girl died. They executed her with no hesitation, no attempt to negotiate. Her life meant nothing to these people. They need to be stopped. ]

It's not just on you to stop these people.

[terrorisms]

( Matt moves closer and instinctively, Frank rises to his feet — just so Matt isn't standing over him, making him feel boxed in, claustrophobic in this small, enclosed room. There's more than enough space for both of them — hell, they fit the whole five-man crew in here once a few months back when Frank first filled them in on the situation. Neither Rogers nor Barnes are particularly compact guys. Still, for some reason, the room feels too small right now, even with just two.

His patience has run too thin. )

You know what, why don't you go ask Clint. While you're at it, tell him to fuck off, too. I don't need either of you in my shit right now. I'm out. I'm done playing for the team. I'll handle my own business by myself like I should've done this whole damn time.

( That's his mistake. Not doing this himself, not making it his every single day, letting it be a part-time mission that he split with other people. If he'd have just been one hundred percent dedicated to this from day one...

Well, he will be now. )

[sine_metu]

[ Frank's telling him to fuck off. Must be Tuesday. ]

No.

[ Matt has a follow up argument but he thought it was best to get that out of the way first. ]

You think you're the only one who feels guilty for what happened? Everyone who worked on this feels responsible for that girl. They know why it happened and it's because of them.

[ A team has always been difficult for Matt to work with but his time with Luke and Jessica and Danny had been good. He enjoyed it even with the tensions between them and their struggles to work together.

Frank's a loner like him. ]

I found you and I didn't even know this place existed. You think I'm going to be the only one to show up?

[terrorisms]

That girl. ( He echoes it flatly, testily, chin raising an inch in what can only be pure, uncut defiance. ) You don't get to come in here and lecture me when you don't even know her god damn name!

( The last three words are spit like fire, and on the heels of it, he whirls, snatching up the first thing his hand can find — the magazine he'd just been cleaning — and hurling it against the wall. It bounces off the metal with a dull, loud clang.

Good, he hopes it rings through Matt's head like a fucking church bell. )

[brandingproblem]

[The first time Clint comes around is later. Couple days, a week even--enough time to give Frank space. Because that's the first thing needed that Clint is willing to give. Crowding Frank is going to lead to more violence, and god knows, god knows that if Natasha hadn't given Clint space every time something awful happened, he would've resented her for it.

He also knows that she spent five years giving him space and only tracking him from a distance, and maybe a little part of him resented her for that, too.

Besides, there's plenty to try and take care of in the city. Amy needs checked on. Furiosa. The latter also made it abundantly clear that she would not be following Clint out to the bunker. And what's becoming clear is that Frank's latest attempt to isolate himself is starting to work. Clint's tried to keep himself busy, because they both know all too well that if they wallow in that shared pit of darkness, they might not either of them come back out. One of them needs their head in the game. So it has to be Clint. They have intel. They have a few faces, too, of those who got away. If they could just get their shit together and go on a couple more good hunts--

Frank won't want him to. Frank won't want him, period. Which is too damn bad, because even if he didn't know where the hideout on the edge of the city was, he'd have been able to track Frank's fury and despair across the fucking globe.

Door's locked. Of course. He's not surprised, but he thumps on it anyway.]

I know you're in. [Van's around. Out of direct sight, but around. He can feel Frank anyway, so it wouldn't matter.]

[terrorisms]

( It feels quiet in Frank's chest now. There's a howling, vacant loneliness — there always used to be, after his family, but for a while there some of that yawning chasm of empty space was filled with the constant noise and persistent, subtle radio static of three different wavelengths all connected to his heart at the same time. Three's a good number. He's used to three.

Then there was two, and then, a little slower but still entirely too quickly, there was one.

Clint's frequency is crystal clear, because it's the last one Frank has left.

So yeah, he knows Clint is coming. Knew not long after he got behind the wheel to make the drive.

He doesn't say jack for shit, and the door stays shut. )

[brandingproblem]

[Another couple of thumps to the door.] I know you're in there, Frank. And I know you know I know. You want me to kick the door open? Or do you want me to find a way to sneak in?

[Because he will. He'll put his stealthy spy skills to use.]

Silence doesn't make me go away.

[terrorisms]

( For another long series of seconds, there's silence and stillness. It stretches on just long enough that it might seem like Clint's going to have to follow through with his threats — until, finally, a series of unhappy stomps precede the door swinging open.

Frank looks rough. He's barely slept. Hasn't shaved. Stubble's grown in thick. His voice sounds like chewed up glass when he speaks, and it's only to firmly bark: )

Go home.

( Whatever you think you're doing here: no. )

[brandingproblem]

[Frank looks like shit, but he expected that. So, really, the emotion that weakly (but present, that's the important part, that it's there at all) floods into his chest is relief. That he even bothered to come to the door at all.]

You first.

[terrorisms]

( Wrong answer. His expression flattens out, irritated and unimpressed, and he steps back with every intention to slam the door shut again in Clint's face.

He's not acknowledging that relief. Not in the slightest. )

[brandingproblem]

[He could put himself in the doorway, except he is actually abundantly sure Frank would still slam it shut anyway. Medicine works miracles here; if a couple fingers or toes break, go to the fucking hospital, they'll kiss it better. He could push his way inside, chase after Frank.

But he doesn't see that ending well for either one of them. Not now. There's a time and a place, and this doesn't feel like it.

So let the door close if it's gonna. He'll stay right where he is. Or sneak his ass inside and unveil some flaw in security.]

I don't know what you said to Fury, but I don't get chased off if I don't want to get chased off.

[terrorisms]

( If he hadn't already shut the door in Clint's face, the mention of Fury might've had him slamming it anyway. Something inside him twists — maybe Clint can feel that, the sharp stab of an ache, the hollow pang of loss, the deep, bitter sense of resignation. The masochistic satisfaction that comes with hurting, because good, it should hurt, he deserves to hurt. It's like a puzzle piece slotting perfectly into place. Something being where it belongs.

Silence, from the other side of the door. He doesn't have to tell Clint shit about what he said to her.

But you know what, if he sticks around much longer, maybe he'll find out. Frank'll tell him the same damn thing: it's done. )

[brandingproblem]

[He does, in fact, stick around. Because Clint's stubborn. He will stay here for a good god damn while.

And when Frank tells him it's done, all Clint has in response is no it's not.

For a lot of the same reasons, probably. The enemy is still out there. They're still doing what they do. Sometimes more careful, but the attack also says they're willing to get bold. Hell, willing to sacrifice. But. Also because Frank is the best damn friend he's got in this place.

When he leaves, because he can't just stay outside and sleep at the door all pathetic, because he does have a home (no, a shitty motel room, nothing even remotely like home) to go back to, he promises he'll be back. It's a threat as much as a promise, really.

Which starts a habit of showing up every single day. If he doesn't show up, it's only because there's something physically keeping him away. He has to try. He has to keep trying. Frank doesn't scare him, and he sure as hell isn't going to let silence and brooding or barking and growling make him keep his distance. One of them has to still be alive or at least pretend about it. Clint will take on that responsibility.

Frank's out, one time, and if asked, Clint won't say whether he deliberately waited for the opportunity or if it was just happenstance. But one way or another, he gets inside. It's not easy, for sure, but it's hardly impenetrable.

If Frank finds Clint stocking up water bottles and a couple fresher items of food in the fridge, his face screams an exhausted YOU'RE WELCOME in spite of knowing he's not going to get any thanks for it.]

[terrorisms]

( When he comes back, it's covered in blood and with a gun in his hand. The only reason the safety's still on is because he caught a glimpse of Clint's car on his way in, otherwise it'd be guns god damn blazing the second he sensed somebody in his place.

The door slams behind him pissily. He makes for an unpleasant specter haunting the entrance, something that would probably look intimidating to anybody other than Clint. It's the exact opposite energy of a thank you, actually. Imagine that. Rather than gratitude spilling out of his lips, Clint just gets a demand. )

What the hell are you doing?

( Granted, he has eyes, he can plainly see Clint restocking his dangerously low food stores. What he means is, why are you doing that? What he means is, why are you here? and why do you keep coming back? )

[brandingproblem]

[None of the questions, spoken or implied, get answered. He doesn't think he needs to, because Frank's just going to barrel right past all of it and keep trying to lock him out.

So, eye contact fully maintained to show he is not cowed by any of this, Clint straightens up, shuts the fridge, and makes a beckoning motion.]

I'll grab a wash cloth or a towel or something. Let's get you cleaned up, and you can tell me what you're doing going hunting without me.

[terrorisms]

( There's a shitty little industrial sink with a square basin for a bowl by the fridge. One of those types of taps nobody's meant to drink out of in a million god damn years; the kind where when you first twist the knob, the water comes out rusty for a few seconds before it runs clear. That's where his eyes flit to when Clint says let's get you cleaned up. A couple of rags, blood stained but wrung-out and as clean as they're ever gonna get, hang off the side of the basin.

It's clear this isn't the first time he's come back here like this, and it won't be the last.

But he's not interested in the world's worst, shittiest, most feral repeat performance of a joint shower: pirate bath edition right now.

Exasperated, frustrated, annoyed, several other adjectives, he's projecting all of it at once when he shakes his head. )

Boy, you just can not take a god damn hint, can you? What do I need to do to get it through to you? This is not happening. Get out.