3084/A Morning Meeting

A Morning Meeting
Date of Scene:	25 August 2020
Location:	A Motel in the Bronx
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Peggy Carter, Frank Castle

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Peggy Carter has posed:
The morning really wasn't *that* early, but after a late night stake out and one of the longer fights she's had in months, it felt like the crack of dawn. Peggy took his phone call exactly 12 hours after she said, just an address given and then a click. Not long enough to even be traced. That was fine. She made assurances, took the little phone cracker the R&D department gave her, and set out for the Bronx.

The motel is a little thing. 12 rooms in a squat, long building beneath one of the MTA bridges. It smells like mildew, cigarettes, and old sex -- things that are so baked into the walls of this place after fifty years that they'll never come out. She's come alone, as he demanded, but she's got a comm unit in her ear this time, just in case of emergency. She's also dressed far more like a civilian. A deep burgundy, 1940s styled wrap dress with a high neck and 3/4 length sleeves. It hides the tension tape around her ribs and how horribly bruised her dislocated shoulder is. It also hides a thin layer of SHIELD issue body armor she's wearing as a short jump suit beneath. High heels, stockings, and a light fall jacket overtop to conceal her firearms, she looks more like an old fashioned prostitue or, more likely, a drug addict. Quietly, she knocks at the door he indicated.

Frank Castle has posed:
Peggy's knock comes literally the second her phone rings, the caller ID showing a blocked number. If she fails to answer, it rings again and again until she does without so much as a rustle of movement from beyond the motel door.

"Jesus, you really are her, aren't you?" Frank's tinny voice comes through, filtered from an extremely low quality mic. In the background the wind picks up, whistling noisily on Castle's end of the call but he shifts and muffles it shortly after, "Why are you dressed like we're going to the sock hop?" Obviously, wherever Frank is, he has eyes on Peggy -- and has likely been staking out his own meeting point since he gave her the name of the motel. No one ever said the Punisher wasn't paranoid.

"Looks like you actually came alone. I'm surprised." A pause. "Three doors to your left and one floor down. Left the key in the planter on the stairs. I'll be with you in ten minutes." *Click*

Peggy Carter has posed:
The ringing of her phone doesn't really shock her, but she blinks down to her jacket pocket, having expected the door to open. Peggy gives a little bit of a sigh and stares at the number. No dice. She finally swipes up, not even needing to say hello before she hears that now familiar voice from the tinny microphone. She sighs and mutters back into the phone. "This is how I dress most days, and going to get less attention than a SHIELD uniform walking around, thank you very much. And yes. I'm her."

She doesn't dignify anything else with a response. She simply gets the information and hangs up her phone. A smooth turn on the ball of her foot and she heads for the outdoors stairs, stepping down over old cigarette butts, a few broken bottles, and at least one needle. Within less than a minute, she's at the indicated door. Still no one else coming out of the woodwork for her. Manicured nails pick up the key and she disappears inside the motel room.

While the coffee is awful and the cups offered are the little styrofoam ones, Peggy could use the caffiene and it was better than waiting. So, after doing a sweep of the room, she avails herself of the awful coffee set up. She's removed her jacket by now, openly wearing two guns now and there's probably a knife hidden somewhere under that skirt. Neither of them was shy about being dangerous people.

Frank Castle has posed:
The room is free of any obvious bugs or traps, but it's clear when Peggy enters that Frank had already checked the place out before he retreated to his vantage point. There's two twin beds and while neither have been slept in, one has clearly been reclined on if the disturbed bedspread is anything to go by. The other has a pair of duffel bags open and placed haphazardly in the center of the mattress with magazines and ammo boxes stacked neatly in one and some spare body armor in the other. The shower is dyed a faint pink, so either Frank's washed some blood off him recently or someone else has -- who can tell in a place like this. Finally, there's a briefcase, closed but not locked, resting on the complementary desk included with the room, just on the off chance someone more reputable than a John and his date or a fugitive decides to rent the place for a night or two. Inside, if Peggy were so inclined to check, are neatly stacked bricks of hundred dollar bills amounting to about one million USD in total, and a handful have been marked with blood.

As promised, within ten minutes Frank himself steps into the room -- or rather he stalks half in with an M1911 in his grip, pauses when he spots Peggy not pointing a shotgun at him, and then holsters his sidearm before entering the rest of the way. Without a word, he goes and checks his stuff, a quick glance at each bag or briefcase telling him that she hasn't stolen any money, ammo, or Punisher-sized body armor. Like her, he's dressed to blend in, though in his own opinion he's doing a slightly better job of it. A dark grey hoodie beneath a black cotton jacket leads to athletic fit jeans and dark brown combat boots. Though he walked in with the hood up over a plain, forest green baseball cap, somewhere in the process of investigating his belongings he's removed both. "You get the tech?" he asks, voice his usual gruff, low growl as he comes to a stop in front of Agent Carter and leans his hip against the only dresser in the room, arms crossed over his chest.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Of course, the first thing Peggy did upon entering the room was pull on a set of old fashioned gloves. They look horribly outdated, though they go with her outfit, but they certainly do the job in making sure she doesn't leave prints all over the room. That lets her make the shitty coffee and poke at a few other things without worries. She even has her hair back in a tight twist with a close net across it, so she's not leaving other traces of herself unintentionally. She might be dressed for a sock hop, but certain parts of this fashion have their practical uses.

She lofts a curious brow at the weapons and armor before giving an approving nod, but it's the brief case that gets a low, quiet whistle from her. She closes it, not disturbing or (god forbid) taking any of the money. She just likes to know.

By the time he's there, she's settled in the single 'desk' chair, a neat cup of awful black coffee at her side, gloved hands folded quietly in her lap. She watches him come in the room with sharp, dark eyes. "I did." She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a simple little machine. "Turn the phone on. This into the mini-USB drive. It'll keep trying combinations until it finds the right one then go to the settings screen for you to change it to your own." Those words sound a bit like something she rehearsed when the techie gave her the instructions, not entirely getting what they mean but she trusts they make sense. "Apparently, it's that easy."

Frank Castle has posed:
As soon as Peggy produces the gadget, Frank's reaching for it, though he only takes it if offered. Frank's not exactly Micro, but he knows enough about the current state of technology to know what a mini-USB is. The rest is easy enough to follow. Next comes the phone, produced from an inside jacket pocket. It's off, so Castle holds his thumb over the power button until it lights up with a Samsung symbol and he lowers his hands and turns his eyes over to Peggy while he waits.

Silent.

Patient.

Still.

When the little chirrupy tone alerts him that the phone is finished booting up, he brings it back up to chest level and inserts the mini-USB cable into the port, setting both phone and cracking tech down on the dresser beside him once he realizes it won't be an instant solution. "They tell you how long?" he asks in vaguely curious grunt as he steps right into her personal space. Without taking his eyes away from hers, he leans over slowly, his face passing within inches of her own before he manages to get a hand on the mini-fridge door beside the desk. He pulls it open and blindly searches for half a second before he locates a half-drunk bottle of scotch he had clearly stashed in there earlier and withdraws with his prize.

Peggy Carter has posed:
It'd be silly to withhold the thing now. Peggy wasn't here to bargain, she was here to gain some good faith. So, the older agent hands over the incredibly small piece of tech. Even she's a little boggled by it, handling the thing as she would a delicate instrument. It felt too light to be hearty. She watches the phone in silence, content as he is to not make small talk.

When he leans that close, she doesn't exactly lean away but she does give him a bit of space. She still smells a bit like her vanilla and rose, but this morning it's mainly menthol and arnica layered beneath her clothing. Probably a good sign that she's hurting from last night. The question gets a small shake of her head. "Not exactly. Depends how heavily secured the thing is. Up to an hour, he said. Hopefully not that long." She raises her mug of awful coffee to him as he takes his scotch. A silent toast, and she takes a sip with ever-red lips. Yes, she bothered with make up.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank just grunts at that, sipping his scotch without returning the toast. He watches her for a moment, and then with an expectant and slightly dismissive tick of his temple towards the door says: "Thanks" before pushing off the dresser and roaming towards the nightstand between the two beds. A quick fish around he returns triumphantly with a remote control which he uses to flick the decades old TV on and over to the news before he settles on the end of the twin bed without his gear on it.

Though he never actually says it, there's a very palpable air of him no longer seeing any reason for the two to be in the same room. The phone is in the process of being cracked, after all. Castle got what he wanted. He downs another mouthful of scotch before continuing to pointedly ignore Peggy's presence while he watches the next week's forecast.

Peggy Carter has posed:
He might not see any reason for her to be here, but she's also not going to leave. Peggy seems quite intent on, having gotten him the tool, sharing whatever information he gets from it. Dark eyes watch him as he stalks across the room, but she makes no protest as he puts the TV or settles back. If anything, she gets a bit more comfortable.

Sinking back, sore ribs rest against the uncomfortable chair she's chosen and she even crosses her long legs, a practiced motion when one is wearing at least one knife along one's thigh. But she's good at it. She lets a handful of minutes pass in silence, with just the dry, modern news filling the space between them. Finally, she offers into the room, "I'd like to know whom the phone belonged to and how you think they are related to the missing children. Frankly, I'd like to help you with the matter, for *their* sake, but I'll work on it indepedently if you utterly refuse assistance."

Frank Castle has posed:
If there was any doubt as to Frank's personal stance on Peggy's continued insistence on staying in the room while the piece of SHIELD tech worked its magic, it should be thoroughly dissolved once she speaks up again. He sighs softly, tilting his head to the side as if he's collecting his thoughts and emotional baggage all at the same time. "I don't know you and, quite frankly, I don't trust your employers," he growls aside to Peggy, turning his overcast gaze her way, "What would you do if we traced this back and discovered it was SHIELD financing all this? Maybe they're looking to secure some more influence in New York. Maybe they're doing it for all the right reasons. Everyone gets a puppy and a milkshake at the end of their big multi-step plan to kidnap their way into leverage. What then? What's your next move?"

It's a hypothetical situation, but he seems to genuinely be interested -- and what's more he seems to be taking it very seriously. This clearly isn't just a challenge of her allegiances and priorities, this is a test. What /would/ she do if she found out SHIELD was behind the abductions, and would it be enough to satisfy The Punisher.

Peggy Carter has posed:
There is the most quiet microexpression on Peggy's face when he says he doesn't trust her employers, but it's not one of protectiveness. In fact, it's the opposite. A moment of wariness. Maybe she doesn't trust them either? She did come alone. But she puts it away as quick as it came across eyes and lips. He might not even notice. However, as he asks her that question, she does uncross her legs and sits forward a touch. He might not be watching her eyes, but she's watching his. She's as open book as Margaret Carter gets.

"Look. I came here alone. If you want to search me for bugs? You can. I have a single comm unit in my ear. It's not broadcasting. It's there for an emergency bail out if needed. If you've done any of your homework, you know that they aren't just my employers. I *was* SHIELD. For many years. I knew the inside out, upside down." Her lips tighten just a bit, eyes flickering to the window for a moment. "...It's not that way any more. If we had evidence that SHIELD was behind this? Hurting it's own city? It's own people?" She seems about to say something, but then stop sherself. A little laugh, something horribly bittersweet but honest about it, escaping her throat. She looks back to him, "I'd say I'd help you blow it up. Go to the press, get those kids out. But that's not the truth. I'd offer to work on it with you inside and out. I'm a spy, Frank Castle. It's what I do. I'm already on the inside and I could get to those kids faster than you would anyway. Once they innocents were free, then we go to the press. Then we tear it down, brick by brick. But going in first with guns and bombs is only so effective. I'd offer you my skills... My unique skills, to be effective as possible in getting those innocents safe. It'd be up to you if you took them or not. I'd be working on tearing it apart with or without you, once I had that information." There is nothing about her voice or demeanor that says she's lying.

Frank Castle has posed:
Frank doesn't offer an in-depth analysis as to his thoughts on her response, but he doesn't bother hiding the fact that 'going to the media' isn't exactly his idea of a takedown. Undoubtedly it would involve a lot of sabotage, explosives, and assassinations to do it Castle's way. However, the rest of it, the fully encompassing response says a lot. Frank puts a lot of faith in his ability to spot a lie from a mile off, but what's more it's the way she approached the question. If she had immediately assured him that she'd do whatever it took, no matter who it was behind it, it might have come across a bit too perfect an answer. If she had first claimed that there was no way SHIELD could be behind it, obviously her loyalties went too deep. But she didn't. There was a hesitation there before she admitted to no longer 'being' SHIELD. There was something bitter in that laugh.

Pain is hard to fake, and Frank's familiar enough with the feeling to recognize it when he sees it.

So she was either a very good liar, or she was telling the truth. Either way, Frank would no doubt do some more investigating of his own, but for now...

"I don't think it'd be very American searching Margaret Carter for bugs in a seedy motel," he grunts as an aside, chasing the words with another swig of scotch as he continues to consider her answer. "I pulled the phone off one of the kidnappers in the cemetery. Looked like the point man for their little operation," he explains after a long pause and without much ado or build up. Sliding to his feet, he mutes the TV and tosses the remote onto the bed behind him before he approaches the phone and the cracker still working away in silence on the dresser. "I'm hoping it has something I can use to trace me back to his boss, and from there..?" To /his/ boss and so on and so forth. Peggy should know the deal.

Peggy Carter has posed:
Another long sip is taken of that bitter, awful coffee. She's determined to finish it by this point, maybe she's just in that sort of a mood, or it's a good distraction from the strange air between them. His commentary about not being very American gets another of her slightly edge with bitterness laughs. She shakes her head slowly, "No, but it'd be properly paranoid and rather SHIELD. Everyone forgets that, just because we mostly operated on American soil, we were never American." Says the woman with the decades old British accent. She seems content not to dwell on the question he asked her otherwise.

His explanation of the phone gets a slightly more interested glance of her eyes. She tilts gaze over, seeing if the cracker has finished it's job yet. "The kidnappers were the ones shooting at the same man I was shooting, correct? I wish I had more information on them but...I don't think they have anything to do with why I was tracking Richter. Still, if you want some deeper searches, I can do them. If you want to keep the names out of SHIELD entirely, that's on you. I'd still ask to assist in the field. You know how to contact me and I've been good on my word." She nods to the phone.