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Date of Scene:	17 January 2024
Location:	Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	Franke Castle and Kaine come to the rescue of a wounded faerie. Sort of.
Cast of Characters:	Frank Castle, Kaine Parker, Glamour

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Frank Castle has posed:
Hells Kitchen is still New York City and there are still hundreds, if not thousands, of people milling about minding their own god damn business. Frank Castle is no better and no worse. He's wearing a hoodie, hood back off his shaggy black hair with speckles of gray, and similar black beard with similar signs of graying along his jaw.

This time of day, though, most people are ducking into coffee shops or the deli to grab a sandwich and some coffee. Carbs are good for fighting off the cold, gives your body fat to burn, lets you shiver more.

Frank, however, is seated at a diner that has an OPEN sign that hasn't gone out for a decade, except for the occationally flickering P. It is Hells Kitchen afterall.

With a cup of coffee and a half eaten breakfast platter infront of him.

Habitually watching people. Sometimes he doesn't even hide the fact. Stares them right down, then moves off to the next person. Counting heads and exits. Because this, too, is habit. His calloused hand reaches out for the coffee mug, turning it until the ring is over one finger before bringing it up for a drink.

Break up the pattern.

Because this coffee is dog shit.

Kaine Parker has posed:
Kaine Parker says, "O-en," that's Hell's Kitchen for "Open and Cheap." Heck, that's "Open and cheap," for a lot of places. Including Affle House, presumably pronounced Awful.

Kaine can't really afford anything that's not "Cheap" even if someone can taste the Kraft flavor of their American Cheese slices. This does not beat food from the old life, but those are luxuries he can no longer afford.

That's why he, too, is in this particular Diner. He forgets the name, places like this all look the same. Besides, it's not so much the aestitc that matters. In these places it's about the people that manage the place. The cooks, the wait staff, etc. They make or break a place. Sadly, he hasn't been here enough to determine if this is like Mel's Diner, a place people wind up returning too again and again. Or if it's a diner worthy of nightmares that's beyond rescuing.

Still, a decent meal under twenty bucks in New York is borderline rare. That's why he's here.

People like Frank may notice the signs. Not a lot of cash, a hoodie that could probably be washed and has been worn almost non- stop for three days, a pair of dark blue jeans that have been washed, brown eyes with big enough bags to fill an entire overhead department on a flight.

Superheroing without being a billionaire is nothing glamorous. In small moments like this, Kaine wonders why he decided to side with angels. Devis clearly had more money."

Glamour has posed:
Glamour. Fairy themed superhero.

To be terribly honest, Glamour wasn't feeling too super or heroic at the moment. Instead, she was feeling like death was upon her -- mostly because it was. Leaving bloody (and sparkling) handprints along the alley wall, she dragged herself forward, step by step. She didn't have much time left before her magic ran out, and then she'd be as helpless as helpless can be, ripe for the picking. Her other hand clutched her side, keeping pressure on.

She'd always knew to avoid 'cold iron'. The problem was, of course, that she wasn't exactly clear on what constituted cold iron in the first place, and often times, neither was the folk lore that told her what she was supposed to avoid and in what shape. It obviously wasn't most iron, which it was in some stories, that had any impact on her. Turns out, there *is* an accurate answer. She discovered it when the sharp tip of the meteoric iron knife entered her side and narrowly missed her liver.

"Heh," mused Glamour, "Do I even have a liver?" She briefly imagined the autopsy, mostly for the grim spectacle of her explosion into a dissolving cloud of glitter. Anger was what was next, but mostly, she felt cold. Cold and tired. One of these doors had to be open, and she had to get away.

She'd thought it was a kidnapping. Expending a high amount of magic to play hero, to assume the size and strength required, she had dived in... only to be met with fire and magic. A trap, it seems, set by those who would hunt the Fae. Fae like her.

Magic too sapped to even so much as fly, strength failing her at every turn, it was all she could do to get away.

... running. Away.

"So heroic, Glamour," She wizzed, white knuckling the door handle and giving it a push.

Inside, an exhausted chef who's spent too long over the oven and his comrades are getting the latest order up for the diner, and frankly, this is not what they needed, so when the faerie-looking girl with the dragon-fly wings staggers inside, bleeding and all but collapses into a cabinet, they can do little more than stare.

And then one utters a loud, "Fuckin' New York City."

"S-sorry. Just let me use your front door," replies Glamour, "And I'll be out of your h-hair."

Frank Castle has posed:
The type

Frank glances over at Kaine when he's adjusting in his bench. Half managing that terrible cup'o in one hand as if it were, infact, Cup of Christ. The gears turn behind his blue eyes, habitually picking out details of the mans attire in that little side glance. A game of sorting those details to put together a picture of who he might be.

Usually, that becomes a very dangerous game.

Tonight, it's something to keep his mind occupied.

"Cold." He manages, lifting his cup to point at the window. Even he's startled by his own voice... can't even remember the last time he spoke to someone that wasn't pointedly to achieve some ends: Order dinner, explain why he's twisting a mans head in a vice before his eyeballs errupt from his skull like a poptart from a toaster. "Outside. It's cold."

That hoodie isn't enough. Maybe his point is understood or maybe he needs to work on his small talk game. it is with a great deal of relief that 'something' happens back behind the service counter, through the swinging door that leads into the kitchen, to break up his lack luster attempt to strike up some kind of normal conversation.

The fuck does he know about talking to people?

Well, he knows plenty about whatever's going on with Glamour... maybe not the particulars, obviously. Doesn't matter what kind of steel it is, if it punctures Frank, it hurts.. and he does have a liver.

One that's seen its fair share of sharp objects over the years.

With a sideways glance beyond Kaine, he peers through the open window where he just barely makes out the back entrance bursting open and the sparkly looking Fae Hero stumbling in to crash into a cabinet. With his forehead curling, he looks around the shop, counting how many civilians are there... how many people might be in harms way if whatever trouble caused that, follows that.

"Fucking New York City." He murmurs under his breath and sips at his coffee, hand crawling over to cover the butter knife he'd used to spread some jam on his, quite frankly burnt, toast. Just in case he has to stab a mother fucker tonight.

Kaine Parker has posed:
Kaine's startled someone is talking to him. Most of the people he speaks with these days are either wearing some kind of mask or are carrying some kind of gun. The latter is less civil and tend to speak less than the former. They're a shoot first, ask questions later sort of crowd. So, hearing an actual voice speak to him without being hindered, or them being up high, almost scared Kaine.

"It has to do," he finds himself replying. "If you keep busy then it's not as cold. Old trick," he knows motion creates heat. Keeps the body warm, the blood flowing. Again, it has to do.

Hearing a commotion coming from the kitchen Kaine rises from his spot to see what's going on. There's a lot of commotion, some wings and the sound of someone falling. Brown eyes try to figure out more details. Then he starts counting people. If he could get away with webbing up injuries, they would work better than stitches for a couple of hours. It just means exposing himself as a hero. So, he's trying to figure out how many people he needs to distract to make this work. If he can make it work.

Glamour has posed:
Indeed, a place like this, you can see into the kitchen pretty easily. Righting herself after her momentary faulter, Glamour valiantly pushes herself beyond the kitchen and into the diner promptly, met with at least one diner-goer raising a camera to record the dubious going-ons, as they always do.

"'Scuse me, pardon me," rasps Glamour, pale and sweating, the nimbus of light that surronds her lightly pulses before winking out altogether.

"No, that's not a good sign," muses Glamour as she notices this. "Just need to get to the door, pardon me."

Of course, it's all too late. The door opens a second time and two figures stride inside, both dressed in black. Definitely armed, even if they're not showing it yet. The way one has his hand tucked into his coat pocket, the way the other has his fist clenched around something. Armed, and driven with dangerous purpose. Intent.

And though they're not expecting any trouble from the crowd, they're absolutely ready for it. What's the swaying? Head on a swivel?

"There you are. We've been looking for you everywhere," says the first, a tall man with blond hair, shoulder-length. There are tattoos on his neck. They look vaguely ... eldritch. His calm tone of voice is screaming 'professional'.

"Aw shit," says Glamour, freezing in place and turning around to face them. "Really?"

"...no. We just followed the sparkling trail." begins the other, more heavy-set and barrel chested man. Greying hair, scar from a blade that took out the sight out of his left eye. Doesn't seem to be slowing him down. He's gesturing down at the mix of blood and, well ... fairy dust marring the counter, cabinet, floor...

"...ah, yeah. Good point," mused Glamour aloud. She takes up a fighting stance. Raw, untrained, but she's got the spirit, at least.

And then she falls over.

"Fuck," she utters.

One of the two men smirks. "Everyone stay where you are and none of you have to get hurt. Get involved, get hurt. It's really that simple. And put away the cel phone camera before I take out your eye."

The camera is dropped. %

Frank Castle has posed:
A handful of civilians, but Frank makes a point of staying near exits, so that positions him pretty close to the front doors where Glamour is stumbling. At first he probably looks like he has no intention of getting involved... and in reality, he's strongly considering staying out of it. This isn't his fight.. and he doesn't know these people from a hole in the dirt.

But it's hard not to notice details:

Black clothes, clutching obvious weapons hidden inside their coat pockets. Big guy, graying, barrel chest. Scar, blind in his left eye. Frank glances up from his coffee mug, looking up at the big man through the bushy black brow cast down slightly. Then moves, turning suddenly, but not aggressively into the seat with his hand coming up to trace down his beard. The other hand, having tucked the butter knife into his sleeve, flicks back and forth between the pair.

"A little late for Halloween aint it?" Animated, drawing their attention to him. An obvious, moving, threat... even if nothing he's doing is overtly threatening. It's human psychology. Present a target and professional men will fix on it. Especially predators.

And Frank always knows a predator when he sees one.

A cocky, almost clownishly New Yorker smirk: Seen it all, done it all. The smirk vanishes instantly. Head tilting side to side, still sitting in a booth with a hand curled over the edge of the table and the side of his seat. When he speaks next, all the playful New York banter is out of his voice.

"You boys have showed you're men... best run along before I prove otherwise."

Kaine Parker has posed:
Kaine sits at his spot as everything spills over. He doesn't. He stays sitting and starts to put sugar in his cup. When someone looks at him, or questions, "You're one mutie killing another mutie. I'm not going to stop you guys from cannibalizing each other. Make the streets safer for everyone else," and he goes back to his drink. Yes, the comments may get some looks. However, they're fleeting.

Brown eyes drift up sometimes, and when the attention is off of him, Kaine takes the giant glass sugar container from his hand then pockets it. In that big pocket of the front of his hoodie. He'll then grab it with the other hand in the pocket.

A moment later he's chucking the glass cannister towards one of the guy's and then going in for a rushing shoulder tackle a second after the toss. That's the hope, he could always trip, miss, etc.

Glamour has posed:
Their eyes are on Frank, now, focused. One predator to another. Oh, they *clearly* know what he is. If they knew who, they would absolutely have left by now. Not just the diner, of course, but the entire street, then the city, and maybe the country. Just in case. "Stay out of this. This isn't something you want to be part of, and it's not your business." They don't try to butter it up, claim that she's a dangerous criminal. They can tell he wouldn't believe them.

Meanwhile, the bleeding faerie lays on the ground, wings twitching slightly as she pushes herself up a little to see.

"Ow," says Glamour. She doesn't have much strength left, and the spell that makes her this size will run out fairly soon of its own. She'll be reduced to five inches. She briefly imagines being stepped on, and being stuck to someone's shoe for the whole night, assuming she even survived it.

Not a fun thought.

Blearily, she raises her head. Sees Frank, stepping up and talking. Distracting. Distracting long enough for a glass container to be chucked ...

... and caught. Reflexes that fast can't be natural, can't be -- but they aren't faster than Kaine's. His shoulder tackle sails into him, sending the heavy set man crashing into the countertop with a thunderous, splintering crack.

He's briefly stunned, but only briefly, before he throws a coiled ball directly at Kaine: one that splits into several coiling, ethereal serpents that try to bind him up, twine around him ...

... bite him. Are those magical fangs poisonous? They appear to be dripping *something*.

"Fuck!" yells the slender man as he sees his partner crash into the wood like that.

"Fucking New York City!"

Frank Castle has posed:
"You got that shit right." Frank counters it not being any of his business, but all the time for talking is done. Soon as Kaine hurls that sugar container, bless him for that because the thought of taking on both of these men was not something he was looking forward to, the burly black haired figure of obsessive vengence pulls himself out of the booth with a surprisingly nimble motion.

Caught the container. That's good to know.

But the big guy is hit like a freight train by that small guy with the hoodie... That's also good to know.

Turn the tables. Slender man, hurled something that looks like it turned into a bunch of god damn snakes, also good to know. Magical. Hate magical. Not scared of it though... Not Frank's first rodeo with a couple of Ministry of Magic knockoffs, either.

Only way to counter it is to get up close where using it is impractical and dangerous for both people. Say with firearms. Unless they're sporting a holdout pistol in their pocket, which he doubts. Face to face with the Slender man, neck popping as he comes, waiting for him to make the first move. "Whatever you swing at me, you're losing. Wand, magic missile, fist.. I'm going to break it off and beat you to death with it."

That knife drops down into the curl of his fingers, jutting out between his knuckles.

Kaine Parker has posed:
Kaine sees that coiled ball hit him. Not good. Then it begins to split into several restraints and they're bitey. He can see those teeth coming for him. "FUCKER!" Kaine swears before a distinct, "THWNK" comes from his wrist. The motion is quick, a flick of the wrist and a familiar, yet brief, motion comes from the hand. Frank may recognize it from a person that's not prone to swearing. He's more of a quip kind of guy.

As the restraints go around him, Kaine gives his would be attacker the finger. Sadly, the attacker has his own worries. That "THWNK" launched a grey-ish silver orb toward the guy. It's a web ball. The kind that cocoons an assailant completely upon contact. They would both be taken off of the board thanks to close proximity and unexpected orb projectiles. Those teeth will have trouble biting his various limbs, thanks to a red and black costume under the clothes. Sadly, the hands and face are completely exposed.

Kaine is going for mutually assured destruction here. Well, mutually assured restraint.

Glamour has posed:
...so, now, there's a heavy-set guy webbed to the counter. He's got this expression on his face that just asks: How did I get here? Why is there webbing on me?

It comes out as a single sentence: "I fuckin' hate this city."

Slender guy, on the other hand, has problems of his own. Namely, there's a highly dangerous man talking to him in a way that suggests he might just be capable of what he's threatening. While Kaine is bound up, he's in no mood for further surprises. He goes face to face with Castle.

And then makes the first move.

He's fast. Too fast. A chop. A feint. A stab with the knife. He's good.

He's just not good enough.

Frank Castle has posed:
There it is. Face to face.

Frank tilts his head, blood pumping fast through his body as his heart starts beating in time with the rush of adrenoline that flows through his veins in a way that's terrifying.. familiarity.. comfort. It washes away all the darkness of his throughts that civil, polite, conversation can't. It brings him a calm that should make him uneasy how effortlessly all the pain washes away in the face of very real mortal danger. The very real promise of violence.

Run as he might.

Even with all that adrenoline, however, Frank is just a mortal man. Training has made him dangerous, but it's his focus and singleminded determination that makes him the Punisher. "That was a mistake." Even as the knife is swinging.

Wouldn't matter how fast it was coming at him.

The blow will land, he's not scared of a fist hitting him. The blade would hurt, definitely, but he knows just how to angle his body. The punch catches him, but not directly. It lands a few inches back from brow with a slight turn so it almost glances off, but rather hits pinky side against the hardest part of his skull. "They call that a boxers fracture." He explains in a quiet, dangerous tone of voice. "The fifth metacarpel bones."

The swinging knife hand is caught with a downward punch right behind the thumb, stabbing the butter knife, still covered in jelly, directly behind the ligament near the medial nerve. With his other hand slapping around int he same motion to hit the guy so hard in the ear that it almost certainly shattered his ear drum, body tucking in so he flips him down over his hip... his legs hit the table, folding him up with Frank kneeling down ontop of him with the bloody knife jutting out from between his fingers pointed down at him... while a trail of blood runs down the center of his forehead from the punch.

All seriousness. "I don't know what the hell you're doing with the lady and I'm not some knight in shining armor running in to save her. What I do know is that you're a predator... a monster. Because I recognize my own. She's going to stand up, leave, and you're going to let her. If you don't, I'm going to hurt you and I'm going to keep hurting you until you die from it... You think you hate New York now, just wait until I'm fucking done with you."

Glamour has posed:
It did not, in fact, go well for him.

Glamour observes the fight. It's like nothing she's ever seen before, personally. Brutal, bloody, and vicious. And one sided, really. The slender man was just in no way prepared for just *what* he was suddenly faced with.

She feels woozier by the moment.

"...got it," rasps Slender from his new posiiton. He's not going to contest it. He knows when he's been licked.

Fuckin' New York. He scadaddles as soon as he's allowed to, grabbing his friend. The webbed one.

.. and then they're gone, vanished. Disappearing in a haze of glimmer and magic.

...for that matter, so does the fairy-girl. Perceptive eyes might notice a small trail of glitter it leading up to one of the rafters above, but thankfully, she was able to park herself there with the last of her strength. Easier to do when you're about five or six inches tall.

And then she faints.

Figuring out who they were will come later.

Frank Castle has posed:
"That was smart."

Frank lets the man up, sparing someone doesn't come easy for him, so there's only the slightest hesitation. Only for the pair to vanish moments later in a burst of fairy dust leaving him standing there wiping blood off his fingers with a napkin. Then glance around at all the people staring at Kaine, all tied up, and the lack of a fairy girl... Probably for the best.

All his colorful words were exhausted with threats.

With a grimace, the knife clatters down on the plate of half eaten eggs, but he takes the bacon. One does not throw away bacon. A few hundred dollar bills are tossed onto the table as well, far more than enough to pay for his food and to replace any dishes that were broken in the short spat.

His hood jerks up over his head as he pushes out into the cold, blowing into his palms.

Best not to be here when the cops show up.

Kaine will have to sort himself out.

"So much for keeping a low profile." He murmurs to himself in chastisment.