She’d worked too late again. When an anonymous source for a City Hall corruption piece asked to meet at eleven after a day of encrypted texts, she couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Karen had put in a full day covering edits and pinch-hitting on the Herald’s Special Interest desk (Manny was sick again – his kids kept bringing home inhuman viruses from school).
Ellison told her three separate times to go home. He gave up when she finally admitted (after seven o’clock) the real reason she was still at her desk long after everyone else had left.
“You’re going to burn out, Karen.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“If I see you in here before ten tomorrow morning I’m calling the union.”
Karen’s hands stilled on her keyboard, “Have to be IN the union for that threat to work.”
Ellison shrugged into his coat, preparing for the autumn chill, “Like that’s an excuse.”
He was gone before she could reply.
By eight thirty any excitement she’d felt for the clandestine meeting was well and truly over. The cleaners had come and gone. The bullpen was quiet. Now the low hum of the heating system was worming into her thoughts, pulling threads and ebbing her focus.
“Ah, fuck.”
There was an all-night Greek diner a few blocks away. Karen had ingratiated herself months ago, buying coffees for staff and regulars as she worked into the wee hours. The decision was clear. She transferred her work to a laptop, stuffed a folder full of loose notes into her bag, and grabbed her coat.
Late November in the city was always a gamble. Some years, the cold would be an ice wall with high winds that froze the scalp and numbed her ears. As Karen stepped out into the evening, she pulled her scarf up around her jaw and wished for the other sort of November – the kind with a late-fading warmth that would hold winter at bay for a few extra, precious weeks.
She barely made it down the block.
“Thought you’d never get outta there.”
A voice like dark dreams and old basements. Cold as the night and rough besides. She caught the shape of him in her periphery.
Karen stopped short on the sidewalk, “Some of us have to work, y’know.”
“Call it a lunch break.”
Frank emerged into the yellow-sodium streetlight; black hoodie pulled low over a baseball cap; a shapeless black jacket; rip-stop canvas trousers tucked into sturdy black boots. His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets.
He looked good. Healthy. No bruises tonight.
Karen ran a thumb under the strap of her laptop bag and breathed deeply. She knew he checked in on her when she worked late. Since the shoot-out and explosion at the Royal Hospitality, Frank had become a trusted shadow – watching from rooftops and side streets but never making contact. There were small signs of his presence on the edges of her life: coffees paid for before Karen arrived at the counter, better locks on her windows and doors; a potted gardenia tucked in the sunny corner of her balcony.
“Slow night, Frank?”
“Between -uh - calls, ma’am. You?”
“Getting coffee – you coming?”
She could hear him shift, boots scraping in grit. Frank sniffed, jogged his shoulders against the cold.
“Can’t say no when you ask so nice.”
Karen’s grin spread into a warm smile. “See you in the corner booth.”
They never moved together. Frank’s natural paranoia made him trail behind, always alert. Karen knew it was what he needed. He melted back into the darkness. She hitched her bag a little higher on her shoulder and started down the street, the diner’s blue and white marquee visible at the end of the block.
What happened next was her fault, or so she told herself later.
The men appeared slowly, drifting into place like ash floating from a bonfire. First one, then five, then eight of them tracking her from across the empty street; down the sidewalk; out of alleys. She hadn’t been careful. She hadn’t looked around herself. It was too late to run.
The first two were on Karen in a rush – one grabbing her mouth and waist, the other pulling her bags away and scattering the contents on the pavement. Two more appeared from between parked cars, pushing her and the first two into a pitch-black alley where the rest waited. She heard chains, the click of pistols, the snorts of too many bodies for one person to fight.
Unless that person was Frank Castle.
Even as she struggled against the attackers, Karen knew this wouldn’t last long.
Frank swung down from a fire escape with a deep shout, snapping the neck of the closest man and booting his partner in the chest. Dropping with the bodies, Frank crouched low, pulling their weapons and firing rounds into the pack now scattering from his attack.
Taking her cue from the madness, Karen locked hand-over-fist and buried her elbow into the gut of the man holding her, using the momentum to drive them both backward against the far wall. He gave a short wheeze, fell back, but didn’t let go. Karen flailed, clawed at his head, shouted.
Frank was hip-deep in bodies. As one man went down, another would appear. Two, then three of them would come at once, clubs and firearms flashing in the distant street light. But he was in excellent form, meeting their swings with deadly efficiency. Bulky sounds of crunching bones and deep blows played bass to the grunts and guttural yells of men in battle.
Karen screamed. She scrabbled back for anything soft on her attacker, sinking her nails into the exposed skin of his neck. The pain was sharp, and he whipped her sideways into the wall. The impact knocked the wind from her. Karen crumpled to the ground.
Frank must have seen it happen beyond the fray. His roar shook the air. Bowling the men out of the way, he barreled down the alley toward her.
The shot that took him down was a surprise.
Far back, one of the gang stood frozen in place – his finger still on the trigger of a smoking handgun. The bullet caught Frank in the shoulder, spun him on one foot, and sent him crashing to the ground. In an instant, the horde was on him with vicious kicks and terrible sounds of delight.
Karen lay in the filth, eyes glazing over with tears. She couldn’t make out more than Frank’s outline in the darkness but could hear his grunts as more boots landed on his ribs, shoulders, stomach. There was a closer click of a bullet chambering. Her attacker was on his feet and moving in.
“I’d say ‘don’t be nosy next time,’ Page. But there won’t be a next time.”
She gasped, working hard to fill her lungs despite the threat of tears and surging adrenaline. Frank had tried so hard to protect her. He had taken care of her as best he could. He had lost his whole world and had found a new one in Karen. He had so little. He had done so much and now it would end in a dirty side street because a shitty councilman wanted to keep his steady diet of kickbacks and bribes.
The beating was slowing down. She couldn’t hear sounds of resistance from Frank. Karen was surprised to find – rather than her life flashing before her eyes – she was thinking of coffee, gardenias, and the way Frank smiled with just his eyes when he thought she was biting off more than she could chew.
The men were stepping back from the rumpled shape on the ground.
A gun pressed to her temple.
Everything was over.
No.
Something – everything – twisted. The world stopped and red mist rolled into the alley and across her vision. A new sound arose from the darkness; like a freight train. Like a B52 bomber hurtling towards the earth. Like tornadoes and banshees and starving wolves in the wild.
Then the blood began.
The gun was out of the first man’s hand before he knew what was happening. His fingers ripped from his palm, carried with the piece as it flew through the air. He sank to his knees with a high-pitched yelp cut short by a sharp crack. His body swayed once then fell on its side.
The others turned to the source of the sound. Each man wore a distinct look of surprise as one, then another and another fell – or flew – to his death. Their shouts were drowned out by deep animal growls that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
NO.
Panic, a brand known only to those who haven’t planned ahead, permeated the air. Confusion caused them to lose focus, to try to run. Some tried to escape the alley. Some tried to climb the fire escapes. None of them managed to get more than a few feet before being dragged back into the dark and pulled apart. The stench of gore, hot and thick, filled the cold air.
Blood – black and sticky – painted the walls and the ground. It stained Karen’s clothes and ran in rivulets into the grates. It crept up her arms like tattoos and flecked the pale skin of her throat, covering the bruises blooming from the first attacker’s hands. There was an unbodied sob.
“Karen?”
Frank rocked from his side with a deep groan. He clutched at his sides, head rolling as he processed the pain. When there was no answer, Frank lifted himself by the shoulders, finding a way to sit up. He hissed, palmed a broken rib, scanned the alley.
“KAREN?”
The deepest part of the darkness resolved into a single shape. It seethed, surged, and became solid.
It was crying.
“F-Frank?”
He tried to stand, shouted as his body failed to respond. From the ground, Frank reached into the night, fingertips straining. “Please –“
Karen moved into the light. Frank's eyes grew wide. She could feel the change – whatever it was – wrapping tightly, threading hot lines of energy along her limbs. It was making her strong. Karen shuffled to him (one shoe heel had snapped in the initial attack, the other… god knew where it was in the mess of this place).
Karen reached him and fell to her knees at his side. They skimmed their hands over each other’s bodies to comfort, to understand what was happening.
“Frank,” she whispered, voice shaking, “What happened…to me?”
He shook his head, gaze unfocused, one filthy hand reaching up to cup her jaw. “I don’t know – you were –“ His eyes rolled back, head hitting the ground as, finally, the Punisher lost consciousness.
Overwhelmed and covered in blood, Karen tipped her head back and howled.
Overhead the sky of New York City cracked open.