Encounter
Crime flourishes after that day. The newspapers rushed to give it a name. The snap is the most popular. Even more after hearing what happened.
The avengers came back after a week.
The avengers failed. It isn't news. They have failed before. They've broken the trust of the people before. Frank never trusted them too much. But this is far bigger.
The avengers are disbanded. The team no longer exists. So crime rises as a response. With the heroes gone it seems like the perfect chance.
The vigilantes that still exist rise to the challenge.
Red is the fastest one. He isn't surprised. That fucker can't stay down for long. He doesn't just appear in Hell's Kitchen. Not anymore. The crazy bastard started patrolling The Upper west side too. Even bordering Queens. Lasting longer on the streets. He has been spotted during the day on a few occasions. Not that he is judging. It was probably long due.
Iron Fist is a new one. Similar but so different to Red. Same ninja moves but less contained. Wilder. He can't care less.
Jessica Jones continues to be the same person she was before the incident. Controlled, bitter and alcoholic. She also took the mantle of vigilante.
As for Frank. He has been active. The Punisher is back. He goes around New York using the chaos to fade in between. Pete Castiglione got himself a place in between West Village and Chelsea. The chaos leaves rent affordable in some very specific places. The Punisher focuses on every crime he finds. Tears gangs down viciously.
He is also a construction worker. The odd-jobs guy from the neighborhood. He is Pete. With longer hair. Beard and scars. He is making a life for himself. He knows Curtis is still around and kicking. Talks to him occasionally about the life he is creating for himself.
The snap left an empty space behind. You can feel the ghosts of dead people staring at you. Or maybe it's just the dust lingering in the air.
Right now he is drinking coffee. 9 PM. Keeping an eye out for a special guy from the roof with his riffle. He has been tracking the Russians. They thought coming to New York was a good idea.
Shame on them. He is not as merciful as Red.
He sees his guy walk across the street and enter an alley. The golden opportunity.
He rushes towards his location. Mindful of his weapons and surroundings. Prepared for ambushes and for the battle ahead. His mind blanks once he finds the guy.
It's over quickly. With the guy pressed against his gun. He gets his answers. Docks, drugs, and a big name. Then the guy is dead. His brain matter splattered over the alley.
The docks huh? Nice change from the usual warehouses. He keeps an eye out on the way home. Already feeling his bones dragging him down. He wants the day to end.
Plans his moves properly.
Preparing his guns.
Then take a 4 hour nap.
Then he stares at his ceiling when a nightmare wakes him.
(The same memory. Plays a broken record that won't let him rest. He deserves it but wants to move on all the same.)
Then he showers and eats breakfast.
Both days blur together. His body is already preparing for the fight.
"Tomorrow, by the docks. There will.be a big shipping. Boss is gonna be there. During the day. Less уроды like you showin-"
The man had died before he could say more nonsense.
Takes Max out. Leaves food ready in case it takes longer.
In the meantime, he helps Martha with some plumbing. Saturday greets him when he is done. He eats a kick meal and preps.
Bulletproof vest without the skull. Guns hidden in his clothing. Knives at arm's reach.
He walks the streets with the confidence of a man that regrets nothing. (He regrets many things, his mind reminds him every night).
He wonders what would happen if he met Red there. He would get a free sermon, that's for sure. Bloody long and boring sermon. About morals and half baked measures. Yes, Daredevil does things halfway. But he can't imagine it in any other way.
And a good fight. Fights with Red are always interesting. The guy fighting like a martial artist one second, then as a boxer, then as any street fighter. He is graceful, hits like a truck, plays dirty. He can't hear him coming. The guy listening more than he should. With the movement and body language of a Soldier. But the tongue of a Choir boy. His suit is ridiculously eye-catching. Fitting for a guy like Red. It fills and showcases Red's body perfectly. Complimenting his movements and facilitating that flexibility the bastard likes to showcase.
Not that he pays much attention.
He hasn't seen him in a while. He's been gone for a while. Took a break from New York. He has heard about what happened but never paid much thought. Just the general idea. Not that he missed the obnoxious moral scolding. Or the debates that leave his trigger finger twitching. He misses the fights. Not the guy.
Yeah, that's all.
He reaches the docks and waits around the perimeter. Finding high ground, settling his sniper.
He double checks his guns. Ammunition and close range weapons. He waits for someone to arrive.
He sees cars park slowly. He prepares the shot. One to kill the big fish. Finish this before it starts. So, easy.
It's when he is loading that he sees a man in black beating pieces of shit. Black shirt and a black blindfold over his eyes. Reminds him of the first photos that were published on Daredevil.
So this is most likely Red. Stealing his win.
Might as well let him. He relaxes and watches Red's movements. He breaks bones, flips and kicks people eventually falling. He knocks the big shot with a well thrown billy club. He ties everyone's hands together. Trapping them, ready for the police.
He should kill the guy. But doesn't. Maybe he doesn't want to be berated for efficient crime fighting. Or he just wants to chat with Red. Take your pick.
Red jumps his way away from the scene.
Naturally he follows. Red takes turns and twists meant to lose anyone. Luckily he is not anyone and he follows him pretty well.
A sigh comes from the man in the alley.
"The fuck do you want Frank?"
"Just wanted to talk. Is it that hard to believe, Red?"
"Yes. It seemed you were getting pretty comfortable on that roof. So I left."
Even from that distance he noticed. He shouldn't be surprised. But God does Red make it hard.
"Didn't say hi. Or even a nod."
"Fuck off, Frank."
"Heard about your expansion. How's that going for ya?"
See him. Making small chat with the devil.
"It 's fine."
"Making quite a name for yourself."
"That 's better."
The conversation lies there. Ignored by the increasingly tense man in front of him. Nothing seemed amiss during the battle. Is it an injury? He is favoring his left side. And has a small limp. So small you wouldn't see it unless you focused too hard.
"Got hit?"
Red turns to look at him. Snarl in his lips.
"Those pijamas protect shit."
Red ignores him in favor of going to the nearest fire escape and climbing.
"Didn't take you for a coward. Seems dying once does that to you."
A stick is thrown at him. Followed by quick disarming punches. Great.
He dodges and counters by grabbing Red arm and twisting. Red twists his torso. Using that flexibility of his to snap out of his grip and try a spin kick. He kneels and directs a punch at his stomach.
Then, the bastard runs into him, kicks him from behind, effectively throwing him into the ground before trying to dig his elbow into his stomach. He rolls away and stands up. A grin making its way to his face.
Red tries to kick and he takes some hard blows to the stomach. So he goes all out. Hitting him square in the face many, many times. Drawing blood. The stomach taking his breathing. He even tried to replicate one of those kicks Red did. It went badly. Winning him a hit to the side of his face with a stupid stick.
It was fun. Demanding a way only Red can be. So yeah. Fun.
Eventually, both get tired and back down. It's around 2 PM.
"Want lunch?"
When did he say that?
Red doesn't answer. Picking his clubs from where he threw them a while ago.
Sigh. "Why not."
They look bloody. Walking down the street. People don't give a fuck. Got to love New York.
They arrive at the taco truck. And order some tacos and nachos with guacamole.
Then they find a roof and sit down on the ledge. They are mostly silent. Looking, brooding or thinking. But not alone.
People walk underneath them and he just watches. None of them look above. Who would know he would end up eating tacos with the devil during a Saturday evening.
At the very least he knows no one will catch him off guard with Red around. Frank is aware of his surroundings, but not as well as him. He hears people from rooftops a block away without needing to look. How the fuck is anyone going to sneak out on them?
"How'd you get hit?"
Red takes another bite. Finishing his taco.
"Got distracted. I'm fine. Just a bruise."
As if. He probably fucked his ribs. He doesn't say it. Not in a mood to fight again.
"That pijama is shit though. What happened to the spandex?"
"It wasn't spand- Nevermind. Not like you care. I decided to let it go. It no longer represents what it's meant to."
Right. Murder by a copycat. Fisk. Red's supposed death. Thank goodness he did pay a little bit of attention.
"I am searching for something else. In the meantime this is enough."
He feels the peace slip back in.
They stay like that, until Red makes a move and he does the same.
They part ways. Nothing special on the way home. Just the reminder that Red is still kicking ass. For once nightmares don't plague him during the day.
When he arrives home. He takes off his gear, takes a bath and rests on the couch. It's old but does what it needs to do.
He thinks of Karen. Who did not answer the phone. Who he couldn't find in her own house. He doesn't know where she worked. And something akin to fear claws up his throat at the thought of searching and finding that damned dust in her place.
He has to dig more. Dig at her friends. The lawyers. At the very least one of them must now. He needs to know.
He goes to bed. Drained from the sparring with Red.
I should visit Hell's Kitchen.
He closes his eyes.