Fight for Your City
Karen is hot, the press of people all around her making her dizzy. She shouldn’t have come. How effective is it really, standing around, waving their signs? Wouldn’t her time be better spent holed up in her office writing a scathing article? People are starting to get anxious, a little ripple of audible dissent traveling through the crowd.
She can feel it, that electric sizzle in the air when things are about to snap, about to spill over the edges into chaos. She really wishes she hadn’t come. She whisper-yells at the woman standing next to her, “Why did you insist on bringing me?”
Elektra looks back at her, a spark of mischief and good intentions lighting her dark brown eyes. “You’re a damn good reporter, Karen, but nothing beats first hand experience. Tell the people what’s happening here, that their fellow citizens still care, that we’re still here.”
Karen shakes her head, still unsure of what help she could possibly be if she has a panic attack. She’d never known just exactly how claustrophobic she was until people started pushing up against her from every angle. She glares at Elektra. “You think Fisk cares about all of this? You think my measly little article in the Bulletin is going to mean anything against the paid tripe that is going to appear in The Times?”
Elektra merely shakes her head, turning to join the chant of her fellow citizens. “This is our home! We won’t go!”
The chants get louder, movements around her becoming more and more erratic. Karen is about to start looking for an escape route when the noise suddenly dies down, all movement arresting. There’s a man with a bull-horn climbing up onto his makeshift stage, the roof of a news van.
He looks out over the roiling mass, squinting in the bright light of the street lamp so close to his head. Karen is mesmerized, along with everyone around her. The man is speaking passionately into the bull-horn, gesturing emphatically to make his point. “… and it’s our community that makes this city great, not high rise condos and billion dollar corporations sucking the fucking life out of the streets. We will not be intimidated. He can send his thugs, and he can bribe crooked polititions, but he will not take our homes!”
The crowd roars, and Karen’s heart beats in her chest like a thousand war drums. She’s already piecing together her description of the night. She doesn’t ever want to forget the set of the man’s jaw, the burning determination in his eyes, or the sound of his gravelly yet beautiful voice echoing in her ears.
Elektra nudges her between the ribs, a wry little smile on her lips. “That’s Frank… want to meet him?”
Karen doesn’t hesitate, nodding emphatically. “I want an interview.”
How did this happen? It feels more lol a date than an interview. Karen doesn’t know how she ended up sitting across the table from Frank Castle, sharing a plate of fries and a pot of coffee at two in the morning, but she’s clearly not conducting an interview. Her pen and pad are laying long forgotten on the seat beside her.
She’s frowning, the heat of an argument starting to swirl inside of her. “But how do you expect the vulnerable people in your neighborhood to fight against someone like Fisk? The elderly, the single mothers who can’t stay home from work to watch over things, the people who desperately need the money Fisk is offering?”
Frank shook his head. “You’re missing what I said before. It’s not about individuals protecting their homesteads. This isn’t the wild west. We have to all link arms and stand against the person who is trying to destroy an entire neighborhood. One person selling out and walking away because they're scared is like pulling a thread on a sweater,. If you're not careful the whole fucking thing will unravel.”
She shakes her head, snatching up a fry and popping it into her mouth. “That’s a nice sentiment Frank, but I don’t see a lot of people out there like you, and I don’t think you can stand guard over ten city blocks all by yourself.”
He smiles at her, a truly unexpected reaction. Her stomach flutters, and she tells herself that it’s the greasy fries coating her insides and not the the way one corner of his mouth slants up first that sends the butterflies out in droves. “Come on, Page. You don’t think I could take on Fisk?”
She gets the feeling that he’s showing some restraint here. At least he’s not flexing his muscles, which are clearly ripping underneath his soft cotton tee. She secretly wishes he would. Clearing her throat, she reaches for the coffee mug to hide the warm hue of her cheeks behind. “I don’t doubt you would try…”
Frank’s expression changes. There are no longer hints of amusement lining his features. It’s all serious business now. “Listen, whatever you write, just make it the truth. We’ve got enough lies being spread by the media, and it’s killing the people of this city. I’m definitely not the only person out here fighting, but we need people like you, people who have a way with words.”
This flusters Karen, her heartbeat picking up it’s pace. She’s always known that a certain amount of responsibility lies in her job, but seeing all those faces tonight in the crowd, seeing Frank’s passion as he rallied everyone behind him. It makes it all the more intimidating. She’s terribly afraid she’s going to let them all down. “Fisk is just… he’s so powerful. I don’t know how any of this can make a difference, and it’s putting people’s lives in danger. Is it even worth it?”
Frank’s eyes darken. “There are already people that have died at his hands. Innocents whose blood ran in the streets because he wants to line his pockets with money. He cannot be allowed to continue.”
His words make her shiver. There is danger in them, their certainty like the edge of a knife slicing through the air. Something tells her that Frank will make sure, one way or another, that Fisk’s malignancy stops, even if it means Frank himself has to reach into the giant man’s chest and rip out his heart. The thought gives Karen a little thrill. “Something tells me you have more planned than a few protests, Mr. Castle.”
"Maybe, maybe not, at least nothing I'd tell an on-the-clock reporter." There it is again, his smile. This time it’s secretive, and he’s looking at her from under the bill of his cap like he’s afraid if she looks in his eyes she’ll really see what he’s about. “Those overgrown boys running around in their footed pajamas are doing a piss-poor job of protecting this city. Maybe it's time for something different.”
The waitress catches her eye, coming over with the bill. Karen digs around in her purse, pulling out her wallet to pay. When the waitress leaves, she fishes one last thing from her bag. A business card. It slides across the table silently. “Anything you need, Mr. Castle. I’m here to help.”