Punisher
It was cold. The light drizzle of the evening had turned into a brief downpour as he’d begun his circuit of the Kitchen. He’d taken shelter under a covered fire escape and, not for the first time, questioned the value of his suit in the February weather. The rain passed and he made his way up and across the rooftops. Matt wasn’t sure what Frank knew – or thought he knew. More than that, the Devil didn’t like the idea of keeping a man of God waiting.
The climb to the church roof was a familiar one and he made use of looming shadows to hide his approach. It was an easy leap, only a slight spin to nail the landing, from the gargoyle overhanging from the north transept of the church to the narrow wall below. He walked along the wall, avoiding the vents and machinery dotting the route along to the partially hidden top floor apartments. Built almost an afterthought these took up less than a third of the open space and couldn’t be seen from street level. He could have easily avoided the mechanical obstacles on the roof, and the raised beds where Sister Bronwen encouraged the children to try growing thing. His invite had been to meet on the parapet so that was how he made his way around the perimeter to the only apartment in use.
High above street level the sounds of people scurrying home before the next bought of rain faded away. Traffic noise quieted. It didn’t stop. This was New York, it would take an alien invasion for that to happen. Had anyone looked up they might have seen him, but no one would raise an alarm – the Devil could be found anywhere in Hell’s Kitchen.
Matt could smell gun oil and metal, an odd undertone tang in the air … the chemical note of Kevlar and something else. He reached out and caught the object thrown casually towards him. He didn’t turn his head to track its path. He knew where it came from, where it was aimed and that it’s slow passage was not meant as a threat. More a calling card. A coin or a token, it had an odd weight to it. He kept walking along his little path, unbothered by the drop to one side, and considered the object in his hand. He felt the outline a symbol through the material on his fingers, deeply etched into the surface. Another man might have been frightened.
The Devil stepped casually off the parapet and faced a silhouette that hadn’t been seen in New York for years. Long enough for the looming shape to become part of the rich tapestry of urban myth. The rumour was that no one had survived seeing him up close. Another man might have been frightened.
But the children and the nuns of Saint Agnes saw him every day. Every day he answered questions from the older ones and counted toes with the littlest, an affectionate chuckle rumbling along with his presence. He listened to the fears of his congregation. Offered support. Was generous with his time and patience. Spent money for the good of the community … even if he was coy about the source. Matt wasn’t frightened.
“Many years ago, as I told you, I had a different life. One I lost. In the losing I lashed out and sought to bring punishment to those I thought were responsible for my loss. It became a war and my sole reason for being. Along the way I lost many who might have been friends.” The voice in the dark sighed and his shoulders dropped. “For years I lost myself in the wearing of this.” Matt let his empty hand be guided to the density of Frank’s bullet proof vest, fingers picking up details of straps and attachment loops, the angle of a neck guard. He guessed there was a skull there that matched the bas-relief on the coin even though he couldn’t feel the slick of paint through his glove.
“Why are you here?” The black mask tilted upwards. Foggy may have said it as a nervous joke – did the Pope have a hit man? And Matt thought he’d been so careful in his daytime persona, what had he missed? Where had he slipped up in spending time with this charming killer? Whatever else he was, Matt wasn’t frightened. The Punisher had had more than enough opportunities to finish him off, there was no need for all the pastoral care on the way.
“Apparently there are different worlds to this one. I walked through a door one day and the city on the other side of it was not this one. But I found a church, and a nun called Margaret Grace who didn’t mind how I was dressed or what I’d been doing before she met me. Through her I was introduced to others who were also Frank Castle and who’d also gone through doorways or took an unexpected turn in an alley. We were all so similar but … one was so lost; he would never change. One played it as a game he was bored with. And one … the Frank who belonged in that world … he had been able to separate himself from the mantle of ‘Punisher’, he could wear it as needed.”
Matt tried taking a step back but was held fast by that one hand lost against the sprayed on skull. “See, in that other New York there was also a Matt Murdock. By day he was a lawyer, blind like you, fighting for the little man and his neighbourhood. By night …” the sound he made might have been disbelief, but he’d just watched Matt jump from the corner of the church and trot casually along the narrow wall, “by night he was this ninja acrobatic weird shit-sensed Daredevil protecting his neighbourhood. And, in that other place, he had become that Frank’s reason to be a person again.”
Everything emanating from the body in front of him said that he was being truthful. That didn’t mean the man wasn’t deluded … an alternative New York? Multiple Punishers? If pushed, the man without fear might have admitted to some anxiety. Was the Holy Father’s hitman a mad man?
“I know how it sounds. I know you’re listening to my heartbeat and waiting for muscles to contract to let you know if I’m going to attack. Take off a glove, feel the token I gave you … what do you make of it?” Frank let go and stepped back to give Matt space, to show he was no threat.
The token was too heavy. When Matt flipped it in his hand it wasn’t quite … right. And that vague smell again. There was blood in it. And pain. He rolled it between his fingers glad that he couldn’t see the outline of the disk, knowing that the appearance of it and the weight of its movement wouldn’t quite line up.
“I know this is a stretch. Occam’s Razor Matthew. I went somewhere else. I met other versions of me, and a different you. That token was given to me as a way of returning me here. It was made for me by a sorcerer, and he said it he made it from my soul.”
“You believe this …” He did; the man was convinced of it. Matt couldn’t stop the little voice in his head – though he wondered why it sounded like Sister Maggie – pointing out that he hadn’t worried overmuch about finding the (potential) Pope’s hitmanTM attractive. Discovering he was the Punisher (and also the Pope’s hitmanTM) hadn’t felt like a bar. But this? Maybe they both should be in Bellevue.
“I don’t know what happened to the other Franks. Being in that other Saint Agnes made me think about what I’d been doing. Seeing other possibilities … meeting the sorcerer and seeing what he could do. I came back changed.” Changed? Matt was certain he’d heard a rumour that the Punisher had killed whole mob families, even impaled one guy that had pissed him off personally. Changed was an understatement. Or? The cartels hadn’t been doing well recently.
“I found someone I used to know in the Church and began my return. It was time to give something back.”
“And did they know what you did before?”
“Yes. There was a lot of …” Frank searched for the word, “… debate. They wanted to be certain I wouldn’t be an embarrassment. I spent time in Rome then was posted to Bolivia, then Colombia.” There was a whole load of silence. Frank doing his best to be honest.
“Then you came here.”
“I didn’t even know Saint Agnes existed in this world. I was back in Rome, and I bumped into my friend who happened to be over for a conference. He mentioned the vacancy here, how no one had quite made the grade after Father Lantom. It was just a random comment but I had to come see.”
“As simple as that?” Matt handed the coin back. It was slipped back into a pocket on Frank’s vest. His fingertips felt like they carried an oily residue, a memory of the strange object.
“No. But that’s all I can say for now. I’m employed by the Papal Nunciature rather than the Archdiocese and the politics … the politics.” Matt imagined Frank’s eyeroll was visible from space. He might be a really good lawyer but that wasn’t something he would ever want to get dragged into.
“So. I’m here. And there’s a Sister Maggie, and that infernal coffee machine … and you. You don’t look like the other you, then again, I don’t look like the other Franks I met. The other you had darker hair, a softer face. I bet you get freckles if you’re out in the sun for too long with your colouring. The other you lit up his Frank’s world. They were scared to show it at first, but even just a few days with them and it was obvious how well they fitted together.”
“And their friends knew?” What friends? What kind of friends would the Devil and the Punisher have?
“There was a Karen and a Foggy there – you had the law firm together. There was a quite scary girl called Jones who seemed to treat that Matt like a little brother. Other people they all mentioned quite casually. Even a captain in the local precinct was remarkably okay with them as a couple. And the sorcerer …”
“You called him that before. You actually mean … like a wizard?” Matt had stepped closer to the larger figure. The night had turned colder while they talked. Just standing around in his thin costume was not holding off the chill. Though he’d dodged the worst of the earlier rain he was aware of damp patches and the contrast of the warmth radiating out from the Punisher.
“Nah, he didn’t have a pointy hat. Anyway, the sorcerer was a friend of Sister Maggie’s which, at the time, I thought a little odd though … ah … maybe all ‘Sister Maggies’ have a streak of nonconformity like all ‘Matt Murdocks’ tend to law, and justice … and being the Devil …?” Frank tipped his head to one side and looked up and down at the figure doing his best not to shiver. A blanket appeared to enfold the shorter man. A moment of resistance and he let himself be pulled into a warm embrace.
A gentle voice, like the one used for the smaller children, whispered in the Devil’s ear. “I have to ask … is that really all you wear at night? Matthew, we need to get you some protection … I mean, righteous anger is all well and good but it won’t stop a bullet. And pneumonia is not a good look for a superhero.”
He grumbled in the embrace, muttering that he was normally much more active. Fighting kept him warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held. Matt Murdock wasn’t frightened. He felt safe.
“I think I might know of a man. The version of him in the other place made this vest for me, a coat too. If he is the same man here, then it’s worth us getting to know him. He was another of Daredevil’s friends. Matt and Frank had people that loved them.”
“And they loved each other?” The question was nearly swallowed by the Kevlar.
“Yes. They met first as adversaries. As Daredevil and Punisher. And they just … got to know each other I guess.” A bell in the distance tolled for one a.m. Frank sighed. A motion that broke the peace of the moment. “I have sermons to finish. You, no doubt, have people to save.” He stepped away. “Thank you for coming to confession today. I know you weren’t really talking about being gay …”
“But I am. Or technically bi … though, at the moment, tending more to …”
“And thank you for coming here. I needed to say things to you too. I might have come to Saint Agnes out of curiosity … but I wanted – needed – to be honest with you because I think I …” he stopped himself, “I know I have feelings for you and I don’t want us to have to hide parts of ourselves from each other.”
“There are worse things than what we are.” Matt stepped back and shook himself out of the blanket. He listened a moment, tilting his head to home in on sounds of distress. Then he was gone. Back on his mission with Frank’s last words following him across rooftops – “Then go find them and give them hell from me.”