11386/Another day, another dollar

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Another day, another dollar
Date of Scene: 29 May 2022
Location: Canelo's Auto and Body
Synopsis: Frank meets Robbie, and sparks fly.
Cast of Characters: Robbie Reyes, Frank Castle




Robbie Reyes has posed:
It's a warm, sunny afternoon in late May, and Robbie Reyes is most definitely not interested in going back to work. He's ostensibly on break at the moment, and pointedly ignoring any customers pulling up looking to get their engine tuned up or their ball joints lubed. As per the sign out front claiming that they're half off this week.

The young mechanic's slouched on the hood of a black '69 Charger in absolutely pristine condition parked in the back lot, smoking a cigarette and scrolling messages on his phone while some guy argues with one of his coworkers nearby in the shop proper.

Frank Castle has posed:
The car that pulls up is a silvery Kia SUV, not the latest and greatest, looking grimy, seems to have been drawn on. That's second to the 'klunkety-KLUNK' that sounds with every wheel rotation, to a learned mechanic. The guy who gets out of it is big. Like, real big, over six feet tall, and muscular. Hard to miss those guns. He has the unmistakable look of an Italian, dark haired, noble profile, and an Italian who's had a bad day, too.

"Hey. Kid." He addresses Robbie while pulling out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket. "You gonna lay there or what?" His voice is deep, and he speaks with a kind of snarl worked into the words.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Italian, bad day, shit car. This is where Reyes pretends he doesn't speak English, and hope the guy gets bored and leaves. Except that the kid has to open his big mouth, without so much as looking up from his phone, and inform Frank that, "Sounds like your wheel bearing's busted." He drags off his cigarette. "Maybe your CV joint."

Then, finally, he lifts his eyes but not his head. One's dark; the other's a bright green. Heterochromatic, you might call it, if you like fancy words. "And yeah. I'm gonna lay here. Cause I'm on my fuckin' break." He's talks like a street punk from East LA, and the half inch gauges in his ears don't help.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank Castle is taking out a roughed-up old Zippo, a Marine division sigil shield on the front, when Robbie's actual words reach him. He squints, looking up from his smoke, his thick black eyebrows furrowing. "The hell you say to me?" comes out in a rolling growl around the filter of the cigarette. Now Robbie gets a real close, real fast looksie-over; there's the impression that Frank could take in everything about him at a glance. Threat level: low, some West Coast punk.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The trouble with Robbie is that he's got far too much gumption for his own good. Well, that's not the only trouble. But it sure as hell is a big fat problem when he's faced with someone who looks like he could pulp him with his baby finger.

Sliding off the hood of his car, his boots hit the ground and his eyes stay on Frank's. He gives the big guy a smile that's more reminiscent of a sneer as he approaches, cigarette wafting smoke between two long fingers. "I said. I might be able to give you a hand in five minutes. But right now? I'm gonna enjoy my smoke. And you're gonna get the fuck outta my face."

Frank Castle has posed:
Up close, Frank comes into focus a little better: He smells of fresh sweat. He's perspiring. It's like he just got back from a hard run. Around the collar of his shirt, around the wrists of the sleeves, there's black smudges. Even around his hairline. Like he tried to wipe it off in a hurry. And yet? No hard breathing, and he moves like a dancer, precise, landing each movement as if gravity is holding him in place. This guy is in fantastic shape. Hey, you see plenty of juiced-up guys in NYC, even old ones--Frank's face is seamed, he's clearly over 40. @emit As Robbie swaggers towards him, he steps into it, the opposite of getting the fuck out of his face. A swift grab at the back of Robbie's neck follows up, Frank aiming to hoist him like a kitten by the scruff.

Okay, look, he's high strung too.

"You lookin' to get that face punched in?" Thirty seconds and threatening to do violence.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Know what else Frank smells of? Sin. And they don't call the kid Sin Eater for nothing.

He doesn't flinch as the big guy swaggers in. Makes sure to get a good look at him; the way he moves, the curious stains on his clothes, his skin. The lines on his face and the way he doesn't back down like most of them do by this point.

But he's not having any of that. That grab, and the way it lifts him up on his tiptoes. No, he isn't having any of that at *all*.

The answer to Frank's question is a fist slammed into his gut. And for such a scrawny kid, he hits like a goddamn freight train. Almost literally; it's going to leave a very pretty bruise if he makes contact.

Frank Castle has posed:
Sin. Like hooks, the sins of Frank Castle. Human death stacked on him like a mountain of cordwood. It smells like dry incense, waiting only a touch to light it up and send fragrant smoke spiralling to Heaven.

That fist Robbie throws lands on *extremely* hard abs, yet--unexpected, the kid weighs what, one fifty? Frank twists, *refusing* to gasp in front of this little asshole. Instantly his rage is ignited as he barks something incomprehensible and sends his weight springing forward, behind the first two knuckles of his right fist. Right for Robbie's nose.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Well, if Frank's the tinder, Reyes is the spark. Maybe, if the guy's watching real close, he'll see it in his eyes: the way the irises ignite first, a ring of fire around those pinprick pupils. The way he takes the hit to the nose, and there's that sickening crunch as it breaks, and he's slammed back against the hood of his car.

The way he turns his head quickly to one side, teeth bared as the pain sears through him; and right in front of Frank's eyes, those bones in his nose repair themselves, and the flesh becomes whole, even as the blood's dripping down his chin and staining his coveralls. "Get the fuck outta here. GO." He's still refusing to look at the big guy. Seems like he might be in pain, or something else entirely.

Frank Castle has posed:
It's a shame to dent the beauty of the Charger, but Frank doesn't even notice. He rears back, his expression going horrified. He just got away from a tricky situation (is the SUV his? Haha, no, but borrowed courtesy of Micro), he was coming in to dump the car and vanish into the subway, he wasn't looking for trouble but god damn has trouble ever found him. Like always.

His gut, aching and churning, now clenches with fear. The instinct for bad news bred into him by New York and the Corps leaps up his throat and makes his hand dip for his boot knife. Does a Marine of his caliber back off from a scrawny mechanic? FUCK NO and yet....he can't control the way he backs up, putting the knife between him and, though he knows it not, his own doom. "Jesus everloving Christ," he breathes, "what the fuck are *you*?"

The rest of him is pawing at the Kia's door, ready to get outta here. Go. Run away.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Jesus Christ didn't get him into this mess, and he isn't gonna be able to get him out of it, unfortunately. One minute it's his irises; the next, the whites are gone, too. Burned away, and the whole eye socket's ignited, peppering ash and smoke when he jerks his head around to try to hide his face from the other guy.

"I said *leave*," retorts the boy, staggering away and leaning heavily against the side of the Charger. The voice is nominally his; it comes out of his mouth, it uses his voice box. But there's something deeply *wrong* about it. The sound is like metal shearing apart, a low roar subluxed with a harpy's scream.

Whatever it is, it ain't human. And neither is the way his skull starts splitting open along tiny, hairline fractures; splitting, smoking, then closing themselves up again like he's battling his own disintegration.

Frank Castle has posed:
This thing isn't some kid. Frank stares, fascinated, disgusted. "You ain't human. You're some kinda devil." Hearing himself say the words jolts him into action. Into the car, Castiglione, do I need to repeat myself, sir no sir, he's in the driver's seat in an unlikely flicker of motion. We're not out for devils, not today, the devils we wanted were men and now are smoking heaps, uncannily like the mechanic here, we're LEAVING. Frank cranks the ignition so hard it almost breaks off in his hand. "I'm comin' back for you," he shouts. "Whatever you are, I'm comin' back!"

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The last thing Frank Castiglione sees in his rearview mirror is that mechanic watching him with smoking craters where his eyes should be, spitting ash and sparks into the burgeoning dusk: through me, the way into the suffering city. Through me the way to eternal pain. Through me the way that runs among the Lost. Before me, nothing but eternal things; abandon every hope, who enter here.