"Frank was outside." The words sound more like an accusation than a question, and it's the first thing Karen is met with when she opens Matt's doorway.
As usual, it's dark in the apartment, Matt's face is just barely visibly in the thick darkness, the light from the billboard not quite reaching them where they are.
"Matt..." It's a bit defensive in tone, but also exasperated, after all she is very aware of Matt's dislike of the way Frank handles things, which bleeds into a dislike of her spending time near him. He had said that everytime she was near Frank, something terrible happened, and while true, the same could be said about him.
"And there was someone else, too." Karen sighed, shoulders sagging, and she inched her way inside the apartment, making her way to the living room to sit and continue the conversation.
"I'll explain what's happening." Matt settled in the chair across from her while she took the couch. She could make out the dull glint of his eyes now, the billboards glow reflecting off of their unresponsive stare in her direction.
"I got that information for him, it took a while, but I got it, and I met up with him and gave him the files and talked about what's happening here, Matt," her voice softened with stress and a pleadingness, something that must have struck Matt, because he sat up straighter and his face softened. "This guy, the Executive of this group who's running this operation in New York, he has Powers that would render pretty much any other hero and vigilante here completely helpless." Karen whispered grimly, pulling her legs up onto the couch cushion, wrapping her arms around her arms around them.
"What do you mean?" Matt asked softly.
"His powers just... turn off other powers. There's also nine other people with powers in the Port Mafia and these... abilities, they're a lot stronger than mutations." She murmured and Matt seemed to mull it over quietly.
"How do you know they'll be so much stronger?" Matt asked.
"Frank has a member with him. Some teenage kid who hasn't really told him much. He told us about ability users, though, and he said so. He seemed dead serious, Matt." After a thoughtful moment, Matt stood and made his way for the kitchen.
"I'll get us something to drink while we talk about this," Karen heard the creak of a cupboard door opening and two glasses being set on the counter top. Looking over her shoulder, she watched him poor whiskey into both glasses. "Tell me, what's an 'ability user'? I'm little behind, at the moment." Matt smiled briefly as he brought the two glasses, and Karen managed a particularly brittle one herself.
"They're like mutants but.. they're more powerful, I think. The way their talked about in the files... whoever the files were made for made a deal with the leader of the Port Mafia. They borrow the Executive and his ability when needed and they can recruit however many mutants they want here in America." Frank tilted his head thoughtfully, running his fingertips across the glass cup, perspiration gathering on his fingers, dampening them.
"So who ever it is that they've made this deal with has traded the mutants here to be able to pull favours with this mafioso?" Karen nodded, remembering the look of seriousness on the boys face as he had explained the gravity of what the Executive could do.
"That brings into question who thinks they have the authority to do that." Karen agreed, something about this was different than the usual, different than Wilson Fisk making deals with foreign entities or The Hands all encompassing grip, there was something strictly professional about it all that made no sense.
"Homeland Security pinned all of Castle's crimes on Billy Russo because they'd screwed up... maybe their involved in this?" Matt offered, and Karen couldn't help but agree. It certainly was out of the realm of possibility, after all they had down sketchy thing after sketchy thing, making them one of the less trustable government bodies.
Karen is struck by a though, "They'd also have connections to border control, they'd be able to allow them in when and with what they'd want!" Karen shot to her feet, gathering her bag onto her shoulder.
"Where are you going?" Matt's voice is filled with concern, but Karen can't help but be anxious to move. This is a lead-- an important one, and she needs to follow it. To get back home and get to work, to find if it's true that the Japanese Mafia is colluding with Homeland Security in some sort of Mutant trafficking ring-- if that's what it is, in the end.
"I need to follow up on this, Matt, I'm-- I'm going to head home and start researching this." Matt hesitated, a torn look on his face.
"Karen... are you sure you should be walking home this late at night?" Shecould say she has a concealed carry permit, she would be fine, she'd shot someone before...
That isn't what she says, however.
"I'll be fine, Matt, I walk home at night all the time." His lips thin and press together tightly, and she sighs.
"I'm fine, Matt." After a moment, he nods slowly, giving in and stepping back. Karen steps out the door side into the dim hall, looking back to Matt, trying to act as confident and self assured as possible.
"I'll talk to you about it more tomorrow, Matt." The door closes behind her, and she knows he is convinced.
After all, he's always been good at telling when people are lying.
Peter can hear Ned approaching before he can see him. With his heavy, quick footfalls and the repetitive harsh, frantic whisper of "Peter, Peter, Peter!" He cannot help but turn to stare at his approaching friend, bewildered.
The loud yells and squeaks of speakers on the gym floor cover up Ned's enthusiastic approach, leaving him to be the only one to notice him.
"Ned? What's up?" Ned finally arrives, falling heavily onto the mat Peter had just been doing sit ups on.
"I talked to Ms Page last night, she met up with Frank Castle last night and a Mafia guy he was with!" The Filipino teen whispered fiercely, and Peter sat up straight from the sit up he was doing.
"What?" He breathed, quickly glancing around the gym to make sure no one had overheard them. No one was paying them any mind, as per usual, thankfully.
"She gave him the files and the Mafua dude explained some stuff. He told her what the Executives ability does!" Peter's mouth gaped.
"Wait, where is he? Where did she meet him?" Peter scrambled to sit on his knees in front of Ned.
"Near Hudson River Park! Why, you're not going to chase after him, right?" Ned looked equal parts mortified and delighted at the idea.
"I have to! I need to help deal with this, and Ms Jones told me to keep an eye out for him! I may as well just go track him down to figure this out. Two birds with one stone, you know?" Ned followed him into the changing rooms, the coach not noticing their exit, too engrossed in criticizing Flashes terrible attempts at push ups, much to the amusement of a smirking Michelle sat upon the bleachers.
"Wait, bad idea, man! You going after these guys is really, really a dumb plan!" Peter sheds his gym shirt, changing it out for the sweater vest he had previously been wearing.
"What? Why?" Peter asked, pausing to stare at Ned. He seemed relieved that he was properly listening, now, deflating slightly.
"The Executives powers are an on and off switch for other powers! He'll be able to turn off your Spider powers!" Ned failed his hands in vague gestures as he spoke.
"That's so cool," Peter breathed, to which Ned certainly seemed to agree despite his clear worry over the idea of him facing this guy. "Do you know how it works, though?"
"The Mafia guy with Mr Castle said it's through touch." In Peter's mind, it was a simple enough fix.
"I just won't let him touch me, then." He concluding, resuming changing.
"Peter!" Ned whined, "You can't just decide he wobt touch you at all! How can you fight someone without touching them?" That is a specific curious question, and to fight someone without touching them physically at any point would indeed require some creativity. Still, he's almost excited, in a way, to try to fight someone like that, to push his powers to their furthest extent to see if he can fight someone so powerful. The Vulture was powerful, incredibly so, but he had no powers that could specifically combat his own. In fact, he'd fought very few mutants, as they usually tended to keep to themselves, for fear of discrimination from the common public. So not only is fighting someone as powerful as that difficult, but fighting someone with powers is mostly an unpracticed skill.
"I'd just have to be careful and only use my webs to either swing him around or tie him up!" Peter concluded, though Ned didn't seem convinced in the least. Peter took no offense, considering that was all he has in the way of a plan.
"Things never work out as planned, Peter, you know that!" And yeah, he's inclined to agree, however it's not like he intends to fight this guy today, or even tomorrow. He has a lot of time to figure things out better.
"Ned, I'm not fighting this guy today. I'm just finding Mr Castle to talk to him. I have lots of time to come up with other options for this." Peter soothed, threw his bag over his shoulder and exited the gym and into the hallway. "Plus, Ned, I don't think I'll be fighting this guy on my own. I'm pretty sure most of New Yorks vigilantes are aware of what's happening and have their hand in trying to stop it. Everything will turn out fine. Strength in numbers, right?" He added, and hesitantly Ned seemed to agree.
"Okay, yeah, that's true, but please, please be careful, alright Peter?" Ned pleaded, and Peter caught his arm in a reassuring grip.
"I will, Ned, I wouldn't leave my guy in the chair hanging like that." Ned burst into a bright smile at that, glowing with pride at the title.
"Man, that's so cool!" Ned pumped his fist gleefully as Peter scuttled off, lifting the lockers and grabbing his suit. He waves goodbye to Ned as he exits the building and into the summer heat, sun beating down on his skin.
The rest of his day is spent searching.
Despite his earlier confidence, he doesn't find anything whatsoever for hours.
Dazai keeps screwing with the cars windows.
It's passing Frank off, and he knows that, so that's exactly why he's doing it. Frank knows that as well.
Eventually, Frank locks all the windows himself, leaving Dazai to sullenly click at the button, the window not budging, no matter how badly he wants it to.
He moves on to the hand compartment, clicking it open, then closing it, then opening it again. Frank's head looks about ready to explode at this point, his patience and, quite possibly sanity, wittling away under Dazai's purposeful annoyingness.
The vet is just about ready to round on him, to rip his face off if he doesn't fucking stop it, right now, but that very quickly takes last priority when a body slams into the hood of the van, crumbling it as the entire vehicle rocks with them in it. Dazai's entire body rattles right down to the bones, hands moving to clench the seat in a surprised death grip.
"What the fuck." Frank yells, staring at the red and blue clad figure as he sits up with apologies on his lips, turning back to look at them, the eye pieces widening immensely as he catches sight of Frank.
"Hey! I've been looking for you all day! I need to talk to y--" long metal arms rip him from the cars hood, yanking him into the air, a shout escaping the vigilante as he's yanked around by the man that the arms are attached to.
"... That one of your vigilante friends?" Dazai knows the answer, but asks the man nonetheless. Frank tries to start up the car again, but the engine whimpers and whines, smoke billowing from the crumpled up hood, the engine without a doubt crushed, along with whatever else just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
"No, dammit, the cars fucking dead." The man seethes, kicking at the peddles frustratedly, his ministrations only seeming to cause further damage to the already dead vehicle.
"Hey, do you think that if I asked that strange man nicely, he'd crumple me up like he did to your car?" Dazai couldn't help but feel giddy. Death by way of being crushed to mush by a super villain isn't exactly what he had in mind, however he isn't too picky at the moment. He hates this stupid, stupid assignment and the detestable old man who assigned it to him, and he thinks that getting himself killed would really inconvenience Mori, what with many years of his reconditioning and lessons going down the toilet. The creepy asshole would have to go friend some other kid to make into a strange reflection of a child long lost, to start from scratch at reshaping someone near to a fleeting image of a girl with a butterfly pin and an attitude.
Like Elise.
And him.
"You're not doing that, come on, we're ditching the truck." Frank yanked the duffle bag onto his shoulder, kicking the door open and jumping out. Dazai leaves in a much more civilized fashion, simply opening the door and stepping out, meeting the elder man around the vehicle.
"Are you sure I can't...?" Frank cuts him off quickly.
"Yes, I'm sure, now get moving, we need to go." Frank pushes him, gentler than he had expected, in a different direction, the elder man grabbing his forearm and tugging him through the mass of screaming civilians.
It's a bit overwhelming, constantly having loud, shouting people run into you without any care of where they are or who their running into. All they care about is survival, running on pure adrenaline as they push and shove, leaving Dazai to try and cover his head from scrambling, panicked hands, grabbing at anything to push and propel themselves forward. Dazai isn't used to this whatsoever, he deals with the desolate aftermath, the dead running the streets red, not the living scrambing and hitting. The people the Mafua held against their will never got close to touching Dazai, too many armed guards pointing weapons at their prone forms. They were always weak to his touch, crumbling under the violence he could inflict.
They were easy.
This wasn't.
Frank yanked Dazai closer to him, using his own body much like a shield as they traversed the streets, the man spotting something as they changed course, cut through the stampede sideways, eventually pushing through and popping into an alleyway.
The vet doesn't let go of him, though, perhaps thinking he'd try to disappear into the crowd and away from him. Dazai just stands still, observing Frank as he turned the safety off his pistol, keeping the no doubt heavy duffle over his shoulder and the weapon now at the ready in his hand.
"Where exactly are we going now?" Dazai inquired blandly, arm itching to yank away. He didn't, though, because he didn't want to start up an argument at the moment. Usually, he would take great pleasure in passing the man off, however Dazai's own frustration with the situation is taking precedence over it.
That's not smart, Dazai-kun, you should not hold your own worldly emotions over the job. You can't let yourself act so selfishly. How am I meant to feel when you hurt my feelings like that?
Mori's voice would be soft yet mocking as he spoke those words, a common talk the man would have with him, one he had had many times since he was young and Mori was just his doctor, a man he took refuge in away from his father, a tyrant.
A gentle hand in his hair, carding through with love, a feeling he has long lost, his rights to the man's bittersweet affections lost with age. He yearns for it. He hates Mori, and he hates himself for not being enough.
Mori's right, as usual, though, he shouldn't let his discomfort get in the way of the assignment. That would be rather pathetic of him. People who pathetic are worthless, even more worthless than Dazai himself is by nature. He wants to vomit. To die.
Mori wouldn't approve of this.
The too much in his chest is getting too strong, too overwhelming.
His wrists itch in a way that only a blade could quell, but he can't.
"I'm dropping you off at a hotel." Dazai's brow rose at that. The man hadn't left him alone once, judging him too unpredictable to do so. Has he lulled him into a sense of comfort? That he can leave Dazai unattended for a degree of time to do something else?
Can he take advantage of this?
"Oh? And where exactly would you be going?" He plays it calm, nonchalant, not even bringing up that he would be alone for the first time in days, not to tip him off that he may be up to something.
"To look for the Executive, to kill every last member of the Port Mafia here in New York." Excitedly, Dazai grinned, jamming his finger in the other man's direction.
"Will you kill me too?!" He bounced on the balls of his feet, childish delight written into every movement in his body.
"Kid, we've been over this." Frank sighed, peaking out into the now nearly desolate street, glancing around, only a few stragglers are left, some with their phone out filming, and others who simply are not frightened, just going about their usual day.
"Damn." He clicked his tongue, peering out as well. The fight is still going on, the spandex wearing vigilante swinging around, the arms chasing him. His movements are quick and precise, and soon the long, sharp claw like tentacles have tangled themselves up into a knot.
"Doc, come on, we've done this so many times! Can't we just shake on it and call it a day? I have other stuff to do!" The vigilante quipped petulantly. The doctor, given the white coat, doesn't take kindly to this.
"We always do this, Spider-Man, and we can stop doing it when you're dead!" He shouted, one of the arms wriggling free, snapping at the young vigilante as he flipped away, thin white webs shooting from his wrists and sticking to the opposite building, propelling himself away from. The arms that are now untangling themselves, on the prowl for the Spider Mutants blood.
"My grasp on English is very good, impeccable, I'd say, so please tell that that is indeed the stupidest nickname in the world, right?" Frank darts into the street, pulling Dazai with him, carefully dodging the debris now littering the streets underfoot.
"It is stupid." Frank returns distractedly.
"Thank God it's not just--" Dazai is cut off by a shout.
"Hey, wait! Mr Castle, sir, I need to talk to you!" Frank cusses sharply under his breath, ignoring the younger, flashier vigilante to break into an outright sprint with Dazai. His spine burns with a sharp pain, and he wants to yank him to a stop, to try to reprieve some if the nauseating pain that course up his spine like a current of electricity, but Frank is sure of himself and is in a hurry, and Dazai too isn't keen on the other vigilantes catching up. One us enough trouble for Dazai, throwing a second, younger, stupider one into the mix? Dazai's good.
"Ow- ow ow, can we at least slow down a bit?" Dazai whines, Frank doesn't slow.
"Not right now. We need to make it somewhere out of sight." Dazai grimaces, and the his breath is coming easy with all this running, the brace choking the breath out of him with all this movement. He just might vomit on the other man,and maybe if he does, then he'll really kill him? Dazai entertains the idea briefly, but decides to keep his dignity in tact for at least a little longer. Or at least what little dignity he had to begin with.
They make it to where the police cordoned off the streets, fleeing into the crowd and away, slowly their pace to a light jog as they pushed through. The likelihood of Spider-Man finding in this sea of people is not high, so they relax a little, Frank pulling out his phone and clicking away at it.
It's a little while that they wait just outside of the clump of people, Frank making a short call, and his theory of it being for a taxi is proven correct when a little yellow car pulls up.
They both climb into the back seat, both ignoring the young Indian man's attempt to speak with them, but despite their pointed ignoring of his chatter, he still attempts to make small talk, veering off into the topic of a 'Mr Pool' who pays for his services in high fives and tender hugs. A little weird to not only accept such a thing as currency, but to also be chatting to two complete strangers about it, but they still listen to his chatter despite it.
The motel they pull up to looks like shit, inevitably, but Dazai has begun to stop caring, just hoping that there's no bed bugs in this new shithole their stay in.
Frank pays the man and he pulls away, leaving the two to check themselves into their new room, the woman behind the desk not commenting on their ruffled appearance, apathetic to them, just simply telling them that it costs one ninety to stay two days in a two bed room, and that's cheap, too cheap, and Dazai knows his preference of no disgusting bugs in the room is likely not to be met.
He does not complain, though, and neither does Frank, just simply entering the room with the old, rusted key, the lock sticking and refusing to open for a few strenuous moment.
When they enter, the room smells like sex and alcohol, and Frank clearly notices it.
"Gross," He comments to himself, carefully checking the lining of the bed for any unwanted pests. "You manage to pick the grossest hotels." He hums, sitting lightly atop the mattress, lightly brushing his fingers along the brace, the bruising already no doubt forming beneath it from all the running they'd done.
"Yeah, well I don't exactly have a lit of money to be spending on hotels." Frank huffed, checking his own bed as well, finding nothing, seemingly. "I'm leaving you here, uncuffed. Behave, and don't leave this room. I'll know if you did." Sincerely, Dazai doubted that, but he still puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender to the other man.
"I won't. And don't kill too many people, I don't want to get in too much trouble when I have to go back." The man snorts, shaking his head and heading to the door.
"I can't promise, kid, but you know that at this point, you aren't going back there." Dazai stuck his tongue out childishly, which draws an amused expression from the other man.
"That's what you think, old man, but I'll definitely be going back, whether you like it or not." He shakes his head exasperatedly, opening the door and half stepping out.
"Don't leave this room." He reaffirms and Dazai agrees, and soon Dazai is alone, truly, for the first time in nearly a week.
He doesn't climb into the bed, but instead runs his hands through his hair before pulling the coat off and onto his head, pulling it tight over his face, allowing it to envelope his vision and remove him from the bigger world.
It's relaxing, to deprive himself of his sight, something that is no doubt the opposite for others, but perhaps if he hides himself away, pretending he's somewhere else, perhaps sith Oda and Ango, sitting in Bar Lupin, a cold whiskey sat upon a coaster in front of him, he'll calm a tad.
His lips bleed from how hard he worries them.
He remains like this for twenty minutes before moving once again, exiting the room to make a call with the pay phone.