11522/Ghost Rider and Punisher walk into a bar

Ghost Rider and Punisher walk into a bar
Date of Scene:	09 June 2022
Location:	Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls
Synopsis:	Sister Margaret's isn't as destroyed as much as usual
Cast of Characters:	Jacob Walker, Frank Castle, Robbie Reyes

---

Jacob Walker has posed:
It's early enough on a week night that the bar isn't too full, and Jake's checking inventory behind the bar. Not terribly exciting, but he's the low man on the totem pole. For once, he's abandoned his usual dress shirt for a plain gray t-shirt and black fatigue pants.

There's that faintly pinched look to his face that means any one of his addictions is acting up...or perhaps it's his passenger lamenting the fact that there are all these delectable looking killers coming and going and she's not allowed to eat *any* of them. If a monstrous wolf spirit could pout, she would be.

Frank Castle has posed:
Delicious, savory, juicy killers, and Frank Castle is waygu amongst them. He shoulders past the door, face like granite, in a mood. Is he never not in a mood? There must be as many words for Frank's bad moods as there are for rain in Seattle.

Frank Castle has posed:
"What, do you live here?" is his greeting to ol' buddy Jake, tending bar looking just terribly heroin chic.

Jacob Walker has posed:
He's not quite got that cocaine-era Bowie gauntness, but he's working at it. Frank's advent has Jake looking up from noting something on the little note pad he's using (one dozen glasses broken in a brawl, to be replaced as needed), and swallows hard. A combination of trepidation and the Wolf indicating her displeasure that they aren't going over the bar after the man trailing blood behind him in the ether like a shark emerging from a frenzy.

"Well, got bills to pay,"Jake observes, letting his eyes hood and his glance fall, ostensibly to check his notes. Better that than staring at Frank like a dog with his nose pressed to a butcher shop window. "What're you having? Also, got a call from a concerned friend of yours," Trying to keep his tone off-hand and mostly managing, but the tension in his shoulders is not so easily banished.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
One of the pool tables at the back, there's some punk ass kid sharking it up with a couple older guys. Speaking of heroin chic, the boy's pretty lanky, dressed in black; black leather jacket, black tee shirt, black jeans so tight they look like they were painted on. Shredded knees, combat boots, half inch gauges in his ears. Looks like he listens to My Chemical Romance, the whole nine yards.

He looks up from the shot he's about to take, noting Frank's arrival with a slight frown. Then refocuses on the task at hand: sinking the 7 ball. Which he misses by a mile.

Frank Castle has posed:
"Beer." One might get the impression Frank doesn't even like beer; he just mechanically drinks it like tap water once Jake serves it up. He sniffs, scowling. "Concerned friend, huh. I don't *have* any friends, so sounds like someone is jerkin' you off."

*CLACK* goes the missed shot, and Frank's slate eyes skip over to the pool table and the lousy pool player getting the guys to amp up the bets. Not a gunshot. Not at all. It takes him a second to recognize Robbie, nonetheless--the memories, they make it tough, don't they? Then...ah. Right. "You know that kid?" he mutters to Jake, tipping down another gulp of beer.

Jacob Walker has posed:
The Wolf has very definite Opinions about the boy at the pool table. Most of them involve her wanting to slink around so he and his unseen passenger don't spot her. It's rare enough that something frightens her that Jake keeps going silent to attend to that wordless, urgent fretting.

The missed shot doesn't make him flinch, but his fingers tighten on the tap for an instant. At least pouring beer is sufficiently rote for him to do it without spilling or shaking. He's got enough of his own little vice in his system that the junkie tremors are in abeyance for now. "Fuck, man, I dunno. Not sure what they wanted, exactly, other than to try and threaten me with you." He shrugs. "Which I don't get. I've got nothing worth taking, and as far as I know, never done anything that'd have you gunning for me."

For the umpteenth time that evening, his gaze slides to Robbie. Not checking him out in the usual sense, not by the gauging look in his eyes. "No," he says. "Why?" Nevermind that he's very clearly on alert where the kid is concerned.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Maybe Robbie's noticed the attention levied his way, and maybe he hasn't. But the next time Jake looks over, he makes sure to wink at him, straight-faced. So chances are, the 'tender isn't being all that stealthy in his attention after all.

"Nah, man," he's telling the older Hispanic man who'd bet high on him, only to watch him miss shot after shot. "I ain't fucking with you. My hand slipped." He slaps him lightly in the chest with the backs of his knuckles. "I got the next one, no te preocupes."

Drawing back to take a drag off his cigarette and swig of his beer, his mismatched eyes watch Frank at the bar for a few moments, before flitting away. Now it's *his* turn to look slightly tense.

Jacob Walker has posed:
Frank's gaze lingers on Robbie. Cold. Steady. A crocodilian eye, sizing up what stands on the riverbank. "You're lookin' at him like he fucked your mother and you wanna be next, that's why." Marines are always polite. Under his breath, sort of darkly amused, "You better make sure he doesn't take those assholes for everything they got. That's the rule, ain't it? You take drinking money but leave 'em feeling their kids." You know, the rule nobody follows. "Or there might be trouble," Frank adds, blithe. There's always trouble in here.

He snorts, thumping his beer bottle down on the counter. "Oh, sure, every idiot teenager likes to call in that the Punisher is gonna get you. Was all the rage a couple years ago. Had to put a stop to it."

Probably that didn't mean killing those kids. Maybe? Hopefully?

Jacob Walker has posed:
Robbie's wink gets him a roll of the eyes and pursed lips. Don't be flirting with me, kid. There's the faintest warning shake of the head, before he snags his own drink from behind the bar and takes a sip. Just water, by the look of things.

"C'mon, Frank, you know that if I was angling for any rough trade in here, it'd be you," Jake retorts, deadpan, turning a momentarily fierce stare on Frank. Despite what he knows of what Castle's been up to over the past years, despite Micro's warning, there's so much of him so very convinced that this is still his friend, the Marine with his guitar and his fervent desire to get home to his wife and kids.

"This caller knew you'd talked to me recently," he says, rolling his shoulders and then turning it into a shrug. "And...I'm not the bouncer here. Those guys stupid enough to let some little punk shark 'em to broke, well, caveat emptor." A breath, and he says, more quietly. "But my gut says there's something hinky there."

Robbie Reyes has posed:
That little punk looks to have just lost his game, going by the sound of raised voices and accusations being leveled at him. There's a shove that sends him staggering back a step. Then another. One of the men comes at him like he's going to crack that bottle over his head, then shove it somewhere the sun don't shine.

But he's met with a fist cracked into his face hard enough to slam him into the opposite wall. Hard enough to shake the masonry loose. And if he's still got all his teeth after that, it'll be a miracle.

The other guy is immediately grabbed by the throat, lifted off his feet, and thrown atop the pool table with a solid CRACK. "Tal vez quieras reconsiderarlo, pendejo. Donde esta mi dinero? Huh?" His head's slammed into the table again, and held there as his buddy tries to gather his wits about him.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank Castle's crocodile agate eyes snap back to Jake. As a special treat for more or less flirting with him, Frank grabs him by the shirt (again) and yanks him to drag him over the entire bartop, dumping him on the floor. Then, no words, he rises with pantherine grace and wades right in because he might have a few problems he needs to work out with his fists.

A classic setup and one Frank's well familiar with from those hundreds of hours of hand to hand combat training. He doesn't hesitate--hesitation gets you killed--and rips Robbie's prey away from him and flings the guy into all the nice new chairs. Then he turns to Robbie, expression flat, and kicks him in the shin. That area has a ton of nerves, and Frank's both very, very strong and is wearing combat boots. And apparently remembers what happened the last time he punched Robbie in the face. Maybe the shin will work out better. Less threatening, possibly more painful.

Jacob Walker has posed:
He takes the pull and fall neatly enough - Jake's had some sort of training in how to roll - tumbling over the bar like he meant to do that and coming up neatly on his feet. No harm done, and he's just about to turn back and see what needs doing to calm this all down.

Except that it's really not up to Jake alone. Not remotely. That uneasy fear of Robbie's passenger combined with hunger and aggression for the fellow predator that is Frank make for a mix as volatile as rocket fuel. He snaps back around as if he'd been struck again and goes wading into the fight like he thinks he's twice his size. Nevermind the balefire glimmer, yellow-green, in his eyes or the way he's attacking without regard for his own safety. There's just enough sanity left that it isn't Frank he attacks, but one of Robbie's foes.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Poor Robbie. All he wanted was his goddamn money. The money he earned fair and fucking square with a cooked game of pool, that is.

He's about to take a swing at the guy for telling him he "don't got the money," perhaps in the hopes it might change his mind. But then some vulture swoops in, steals his payout, and slams him into some chairs. Some chairs that apparently needed some colour, in the form of a smear of blood as the guy lands facefirst into one of them.

The other poor sap is scrambling to get up after having two teeth knocked out and his nose likely broken, so he's easy pickings for Jake. And Robbie? Well, he takes the kick to the shin with a rageful growl, body buckling just for a moment before he surges forward with a lightning-fast one-two-three of fists to Frank's face.

Kid's got no finesse, but he sure knows how to land a punch and make it hurt.

Frank Castle has posed:
One-two-three and Frank must be Mohammed fuckin' Ali because he flickers side to side, only catching the third strike on a surprisingly handsome cheekbone. The skin splits, blood flies. Frank's expression becomes a faraway, almost dazed look, strategizing and considering his options, time slowing down. This is the kid whose face fell off, after all. Frank never forgets a face, especially when one turns to a metal skull in front of him. Aaand Jake is lunging after some bad luck Latino, which fits with how he remembers him from the field, unpredictable and inconvenient. "

Jacob Walker has posed:
*Unpredictable and inconvenient* It'll be his epitaph, if Jake's ever dead long enough to have a true grave, and not merely a series of cenotaphs left in his trail.

Frank's seen him like this before, those occasions when something in him snaps or slips and he's no longer cool-headed and patient, but seized with something like blind rage. Not so far gone that he loses the ability to fight, but it's the look of a man holding nothing at all back.

Poor Mister Missing Teeth now has Jake going ape on him, fists and feet like he took him trying to bilk Robbie very, very personally. Most of the rest of those around the bar are looking on with interest, as if this were staged for their entertainment, but there are a few drinkers getting up and starting to circle, as if looking for an opening to join.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
Missing Teeth is trying to swing at Jake, but he can't see very well through the blood; and he's not much of a fighter, to boot. He misses by a mile, and stumbles into the pool table, slamming facefirst into it.

Robbie's fist comes away with blood after that vicious cross, and he drops back a step, rolling his shoulders with a crackle of leather. Cracking a dimpled grin when he sees the look on Frank's face. Without taking his eyes off the (much) bigger man, he brings his hand up to wipe the smear of blood off his knuckles. Slowly, meticulously, cleaning it off on the thigh of his jeans. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

Frank Castle has posed:
"Maybe a skull's got it," Frank fires back, which is not his best line but it'll do. He knuckles blood off his craggy face in almost the same motion as Robbie. His attention dips to where the young man is wiping blood onto his tight jeans, not daring to linger too long, there's action afoot. And Jake is being an absolute moron and with a sigh Frank reaches out to peel him off the unfortunate guy. "Walker, for fuck's sake. WALKER!"

Jacob Walker has posed:
Jake apparently intends to kick this fool to death right here, only Frank's snagging him by the back of the collar and dragging him off. All too reminiscent of a dog owner hauling his pet out of a fight. A couple beats of furious resistance, then he's rounding on Frank. Another instant where there's someone looking out of the blue eyes who isn't Jake, before he blinks back to himself. "Castle, the fuck?" he demands, before orienting on Robbie, unthinkingly trying to range himself at Frank's side. Pack instinct, and blood's already been drawn.

Robbie Reyes has posed:
The guy looks like he might be unconscious. Probably still breathing, since Frank pulled Jake off of him in time, but he ain't doing so well.

Robbie, meanwhile, is eyeing the blonde with a wholly unreadable look on his face. Surprise? Confusion? Disgust? Who knows. He shoulders past him, pats the unconscious guy down, and digs out his wallet. Then rifles through it for the precise amount of cash he's owed for the lost bet, and pockets the money.

"You two have a good night," he murmurs, winking at the pair, then aiming to sidle past and head out.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank Castle claps Jake on the cheek a few times. "Come outta it." There's that glimpse, that other *thing* peering through, and despite himself, Frank swallows. Oh. Yeah. There's that other thing about Walker that....he just decided was in his best interest to pretend not to see. *Why did I come back to New York, the place is packed with assholes like this.*

As Robbie ghosts by him, Frank follows him with a fuck-you kinda look. He lets Jake go, but not before he hauls him close and informs him, "Get a haircut."

Jacob Walker has posed:
At least Jake does not try to tell either of them that they're no longer welcome here. Brawling is very much part of the standard floor show at Sister Margaret's. He's already turning to deal with the two pool players - whether that'll be calling an ambulance or just shoving them out the alley door is still up for grabs.

Then Frank's collaring him again, and it's clear there's snark behind his teeth he's wise enough to refrain from letting out. Instead, he says in all apparent docility, "I'll think about it."

A glance after Robbie, and he looks back to Castle. "What's your problem with the kid?"

Frank Castle has posed:
"Problem? I ain't got a problem." Frank kicks aside some damaged furniture, and all the other drinkers who were thinking about joining in change their minds. "C'mon. I'll stand you one." That's the Punisher kind of apology.