STRIKE's primary headquarters is in the United Kingdom. The London Branch was set up in one of the buildings that used to house the Diogenes Club. Rumlow hadn't been to the London office in a few months, but he was required to. With him he brought along Frank.

"It's been a minute since I've been to London," He said, when they were walking around outside of the gated yard of the offices. "Though, I haven't been since the war. Never left the base until I was transferred."

"You were a military man, Castle?" asked Brock.

"Marine. Though, I would have thought you and the other spooks must've known that."

"Believe it or not, Frank. Spies often have better things to focus on than what you're up to."

"Is that why we're here?"

"Yes, Frank. Because everybody's got a spot of trauma. Especially after New York. That's why we're here. Nobody has the nerve to actually go back to the states after that."

They were greeted at the door by a man in his mid forties, his hair was mostly brown, but parts of it were steadily turning gray. He wore a pair of glasses and a pained smile.

"Brock, good to see you. Who's your friend?" he asked, his accent distinctly a Queen's accent.

"Rich, this is Frank. He's a bonafide Avenger," said Brock.

"Ah…Might want to keep a bit of a tight lid on that, my partner's a bit…he's been on the fence about The Avengers since New York, you understand," said Rich.

"I wasn't there," said Frank.

"That's not going to matter, Jeff has a bit of a hard time with anything related to them. It's a bit of a sore spot."

"Alright then, I'll keep mum as the brits say."

"Well, you two are the last to arrive, so I'll be escorting you down to the pit."

The pit, it turns out, was a room in the basement of the building. It had a white tiled floor and a circle of plastic chairs. There were only a handful of people present. Seated with her legs crossed and her face wearing a rather jovial expression was a woman in her late twenties, who had a shock of long purple hair tied back in a ponytail. Frank thought he recognized her from somewhere, but couldn't tell from where. Beside her sat a bald black man who was drinking coffee from a paper cup. Rich took the other seat beside him. Then Brock took his seat, Frank sat beside him, not really knowing anybody else in the room.

"So, what's your story?" Asked the woman with the purple hair. Her accent was very posh and very English.

Before Frank could speak, Brock spoke for him, "Braddock, this is Frank. He's a veteran. After a fashion."

"I see," said Braddock. "Afghanistan."

"How'd you know?"

"I did a nifty little sherlock scan," She waved her hands about mysteriously like casting a spell. "Just kidding, it was a lucky guess. A guy I used to date was in Afghanistan. You carry yourself like him."

"Is he going to be here?"

"'Fraid not, he's dead. Died on a trip to New York," she said, suddenly cold. The way he phrased it must have done something to him, because he felt a shock of dread climb up the back of his brain.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's a lifetime ago,"

A new man started to enter the room, but everyone could hear him before they say him, muttering, "Fucking stairs, they couldn't get me still can't get me lift or something."

It was a voice that Frank knew all too well, but he never expected to hear it this far away from home. He never thought he'd see Curtis Hoyle in London of all man entered frowning, but the second he and Frank looked at each other the frown vanished.

"Frank, how the hell are you?"

"Hoyle, I've been better. Not being hunted by the law anymore."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"What are you doing in London?"

"SHIELD picked me up and thought I could put my experience towards group therapy. Especially in the light of a mess of trauma coming in from its agents."

"I'm not a SHIELD agent, I'm a STRIKE agent," Replied Braddock.

"It's more or less the same thing," said Brock.

"I joined when it was an independent operation. That's the difference."

"It's good to see you too, Bets. I'm sorry about Tom, he was a good man."

Braddock didn't say anything, but she fixed Rumlow with a look of annoyance.

"Let's not fight, I mean this is supposed to be a place of healing, right?" said Rich.

"Healing is pain," Said the man beside Rich. Jeff, Frank supposed. "It's like being born. It's nothing but screaming and pain."

Curtis took a seat, his eyes wide, "I guess that's a good enough place to start, Jefferson. Healing is pain. Great. Tell us about how your week has been going," He clasped his hands together and pointed towards Jeff.

Jeff sipped his coffee, "It's been an adjustment. Rich and I have been in London for a year now, but it's not quite home yet. I'm not sure it can ever be. But, at the same time. I would sooner die than go back to New York. I know with the reconstruction that all of the intelligence jobs are there, but I physically can't do it."

Rich chimed in, "I haven't had quite the same level of boredom with London that Jeff has. It's peaceful here, there aren't superheroes, and I was a scientist before New York, so I can find work outside of STRIKE assignments."

"So, you're describing this less as healing as pain and more like healing as a new part of your life?"

"I didn't say that, necessarily, Curtis. Like Jeff, my entire life vanished in the span of a day. My wife, my son, my brother and his wife. All gone," he punctuated it with a snap. "I can't help but think of them every day. Peter, he would have been thirteen now. His birthday was last month. Or it would have been last month."

Jeff put his hand on Rich's shoulder. The other man seemed to be repressing any kind of sadness. He forced himself into a kind of strange solid state between nothing and crying.

"So, yes. There is pain, it's just. Unlike Jeff, I have a bunch of distractions."

"An astute observation, you Betsy?"

"My week goes about the same as it always does.I wake up at six in the morning. I exercise. I eat breakfast. I check the hiding spots in my home. Then I leave for work after locking and unlocking my doors. Usually about five times. I find the routine relaxing."

"That sounds exhausting," chimed Brock.

"I didn't exactly plan my daily routine around what you find relaxing, now did I?"

She clicked her tongue, "From there. I'm here all day. When I'm not out on the town. I try to unwind. Go to a club. Meet people. Girls, men, it doesn't matter. But I can't quite…There's this barrier. A kind of paranoid barrier. Anytime I'm getting on with someone I meet I imagine all of the possibilities. I look into them and I become afraid of either being murdered by them or them being murdered. Talk about exhausing, that's exhausting."

"It can be difficult getting back out into the world, especially after suffering a loss like you did, Betsy," Said Curtis.

Frank spoke, "I'm not sure if I can help, but I am very aware of…loss as it is. I didn't lose my family in New York, I lost them years earlier. It gets better over time, but I guess my coping skills with that aren't exactly the best."

"What did you do to cope?"

Frank paused, his tongue running along his teeth, "I went around New York and murdered every single person still alive after the battle. Every person who was involved with the death of my family, I buried. Then I kept going. I executed the heads of New York's criminal underworld. From Harlem to Staten Island. I killed corrupt cops. Businessmen. Rapists. Every single criminal that crossed in front of me had me seeing red."

"Jesus Christ, you're a dark customer, aren't you?" she said.

"But again, it didn't change the facts. I killed them because I wanted revenge. Because I was just a ball of rage. Because they preyed on a desperate city and I wanted them gone. I don't feel guilty about it, what trips me up is my life before. Now I can't go back."

Rich and Jeff immediately looked uncomfortable after Frank's very intense little speech. Betsy seemed a bit intrigued, but her quizzical smile vanished and she drew her pistol from an ankle holster.

"Betsy, what the hell are you-!" began Curtis.

She raised a finger to her lips and whispered, "Someone is in the building that should not be. Is everyone here armed?"

One by one, the other members of the support group pulled out firearms. Especially Frank, who had the embarrassment of carrying around a 3-D printed handgun. Brock looked at his white plastic gun and made a dismissive laugh, "Cute gun, Castle."

"Shut up."

The group made their way upstairs. Not one of them heard a gunshot, but they could see the result of a brutal massacre. All of the staff on the first floor had been riddled with a great series of needles. Great metal prongs that had ripped through their necks. While at the center of it all stood a man in a black catsuit and a helmet. His dark hair fell to his shoulders. He had a man held up by his neck, needles slowly pressing into the tender flesh of his neck.

"I want to make it clear, young man. I am not ideological. I'm only an assassin for hire. I was sent in to make a point. If your agency wishes to pitch a fit, take it up with Vixen," he said with a harsh growl.

Betsy immediately drew a bead on him and fired. The man dodged away and slammed his captive down to the ground, stalking around the office turned abattoir. He ran at her and knocked away her gun before swiping at her face. Taking her eyes with her.

The action cost him a bit more time and the other spies opened fire on him. It turned out, his fancy helmet didn't hold up well against a rain of bullets.