Author's Note: One hundred views between here and AO3 since this piece first started! I want to thank you, the readers, for devouring this crazy little project of mine with the love and eagerness I've seen here. I also want to thank one Kalika Barlow, my former co-conspirator in this project: your continued support for and love of the world we created is without equal. Even though we aren't writing it together anymore, you've made it possible for me to continue. Don't worry, Ava will still show up when her time is right.

Press Play: Ramin Djawadi - "Watching With Ten Thousand Eyes"

It took only a short time- Frank gauged another twenty minutes or so- to find their way to the Gideon Meat Processing Center, one of the only structures in its block still standing- and even then, only just, it seemed. Following Amanda through a door marked "Employees Only"- the appropriety of which was not lost on Frank- he entered a cavernous loading bay, fingers flexing instinctively for his missing Colts. The room was swathed in darkness, illuminated only by the faint light drifting in from the skylights overhead; as his eyes adjusted to the weak haze of light pollution, Frank began to realize the extent to which the building had been repurposed to suit Jigsaw's needs.

Rows of workbenches stretched the span of the loading bay, each one weighted down with a grisly trap-to-be, their only common thread being the uniquely gruesome end each promised some unlucky sap. Schematics, blueprints, and envelopes littered every inch of workspace not dominated by machinery and tools, in some places stacked inches thick until they threatened to spill to the floor. An entire wall of the facility had been devoted to storing more mundane instruments of death; Frank detected the distinct tang of citric napalm, the coarse whiff of gunpowder. Improvised explosives, mostly single- and double-barrels for long arms. He's not planning an assault any time soon-

And there, stacked neatly atop his reinforced coat, sat his Colts and a dozen of his rifle magazines. He'd burned three earlier in the evening, another two before noon; one was missing, along with his carbine, but the count was correct.

"I'll be takin' those back now," he said mid-stride, only to find his path blocked by another figure who slid out of his periphery. Male. Caucasian. Probable age close to his own. Jacket, tie, reactive stance- either former military or current police. Taller and more broad than himself.

Threat.

"I don't think so." The newcomer pivoted a step backward, placing himself more squarely between Frank and his guns. "How do I know you won't open up on all of us the moment you're able to again?"

Amanda seemed unperturbed by this other player's arrival, her arms crossed as she evaluated them both from the next row over. "He passed. Give him some credit, he made it this far." She ducked fluidly beneath the bench, making her way past the two and picking up Frank's pistols. "Besides, if he's really going to- how smart is it to piss him off right before he does it?"

The larger man glared at Amanda, leaning back on his elbows against the surface behind him. "No smarter than bringing him here in the first place, if you ask me. I'm guessing John has his reasons-"

"Might just be your replacement." The corner of Frank's mouth twitched into a smirk as he watched the notion register with this- likely second apprentice, this thing's bigger than I thought- as he sized his potential adversary up.

Paranoid or an egomaniac- probably both. Probably carrying in a shoulder holster, looks like he can handle himself in a brawl. Dealt with bigger, though- Chino, the Russian, Balazar. Best approach involves a wrist lock, follow up with a palm to the trachea; if he blocks, knee to the abdomen, release wrist, step into the knee-

"I like him already." Amanda held one of the Colts in an amateur shooter's stance, tilting her head and squinting down the sights. "He knows he has to play nice if he wants these back, though-"

In a fraction of a heartbeat, Frank had closed the gap between himself and Amanda, seizing his sidearms and twisting them from her unprepared grasp. "Playing nice means no one died for touching my guns." He holstered his left-hand Colt behind his back, thumbing the hammer and safety down on both as he stepped back out of retaliatory range. "Next time, I don't play nice."

Amanda's eyes widened in shock as the balance of power shifted completely out of their control, stomach threatening another revolt at the realization that Castle had just regained the ability- now the unquestionable ability- to kill them all stone dead if he had the faintest whim to. She was dimly aware that the moment he had regained a greater measure of his killing power, Frank had trained his pistol not on her, but on Hoffman, but it was no real comfort. "Hey, whatever you say, big guy," she offered in what she hoped was a placating tone, even as her airway threatened to close with panic.

Seemingly satisfied with Amanda's reaction and Hoffman's practiced inaction- not the first time he's had a gun on him, definitely police- Frank holstered his other Colt, stepping past the two apprentices and pulling his ballistic coat over his shoulders. He took a moment to reorganize his magazines into the loops inside his coat, tucking each of his knives back in place before leveling with Amanda again. "Carbine."

It was less a question of its location and more a demand for its return; a faint movement out of the corner of his eye called Frank's attention to the taller apprentice's face. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but something about him looked all too familiar...

Better put Micro on this guy, he assessed, evaluating the new information that threatened to affect his plan. I'll need to stick around long enough to get a dossier on him prepped; need to know who's gonna come looking when he turns up dead. Overall, not much departure from his primary objective. City's not likely to care about these other two, but if this guy's not a detective, I'm a fucking fish.

"Got a permit for that?" Hoffman had found his tongue again, having evidently chosen to ignore the threat that had just multiplied before him. Castle was cautious, not likely to play the odds if they weren't in his favor- he seemed off his footing the moment he'd intercepted him before he could get his guns; clearly he wasn't expecting anyone but John and the junkie. Even if he did decide to open fire on the spot, there were contingencies in place- a silent detonator wired around his finger that would swallow the whole workshop.

It probably wouldn't come to that. Castle was just trying to start a pissing contest, and that held no appeal. He didn't really need to know who would win if they slugged it out, who could draw on the other faster; none of that mattered as long as he could still twitch his finger. Besides, even if she was willing to let them beat each other bloody, the junkie- and her rabid commitment to John- was still here, in arm's reach of a shotgun. Even she couldn't fuck that up.

"I do, actually." Frank's gaze leveled with Hoffman's as he looked to some point a few miles past him. "It's called Marine hand-to-hand and a pair of forty-fives. Don't ask me to produce evidence if you like your vital organs where they are. Won't bother me if you don't-"

"All right, no one takes any shit around here." Amanda took a half-step toward Frank, gesturing toward a discolored dividing curtain hanging in the doorway on the far side of the workshop. "Least of all John. He's waiting for you."

Well. That went- Amanda let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding as Frank edged past her, disappearing a moment later into John's room- not... completely terribly? At least everyone was still breathing. That was something no short of a minor miracle.

"I appreciate you not killing my apprentices." A man aged somewhere close to sixty sat waiting in the room beyond the curtain. This fit the profile Frank had in mind for Jigsaw; his face was gaunt, his body looked ready to give out, as though sheer stubbornness and belief in his fucked-up Aesop lessons were the only things keeping him going. He stood with a speed Frank found surprising, turning to face the vigilante. "I also appreciate your ability to learn, which is why I had Amanda bring you here directly, instead of... releasing you back into the world just yet."

Something about his eyes made Frank- uncomfortable wasn't quite the word; blue like glacier ice and folded steel, they seemed to be prying into his mind the moment they made contact, darting with all the vitality of a highly active mind.

Deluded sense of righteousness. Hates the human condition, wants to make a difference- turns to an extreme philosophy to do it. Body's failing, mind won't give up the fight. Too damn smart for his own good; got to have an engineering background to build this kind of shit.

It all made sense: the kills, the method, the location- everything but the apprentices. What was he hoping to accomplish? Some kind of lasting legacy? Neither one looked particularly cut out for this sort of work- and even if they had been, they would eat each other alive within a week of his death. Body language said more than spoken words ever would.

"Wasn't exactly a choice." Frank leaned against the wall, glancing around the room in a cursory search for security measures. "Bad idea to go around unarmed when you know the people I do. Worse idea to leave my guns in the hands of a serial killer."

John's expression darkened. "I'm disappointed, Frank. You of all people should recognize what does- or doesn't- qualify one to be a serial killer. I've never murdered anyone, but they-" he gestured with an open palm toward the stack of envelopes he had been poring over at the desk- "determine for themselves if life is worth living."

Frank almost chuckled at John's words; if nothing else, he was a hell of a wordsmith. It was easy to see how he had convinced the other two to sign up; he definitely believed what he was saying was true. In some ways, it was, technically; every one of his tests had been designed with a clear- if unforgiving- set of rules, and as far as had been duplicated by forensics, the rules had never been a lie.

It still didn't mean they all deserved it, however much John seemed to think they "needed" it. "And I can put a gun to your head and tell you this ends right here, right now, but no matter what you say or do, I'm still the one with my finger on the trigger. Still my gun that has the final say." Frank's thumb strayed to the beavertail of his Colt, idly rubbing at the scoring in the metal. "Just like with your death-traps."

"In that case, you and I aren't so different then, are we?" John asked mildly, his eyes never leaving Frank's face. "You simply have your method of cleaning up these streets-" he motioned a finger toward Frank's sidearm- "and I have mine. The difference is that some of my subjects benefit from my method." An unmistakable measure of pride had seeped into his undertaker's rasp, spreading to the corners of his thin mouth. "Yours just find themselves choking on their own blood."

None of them deserved a second chance, Frank wanted to respond, realizing even as the words tried to form themselves that John would find some way to twist his statement around again and make another argument in his own favor. And maybe, just maybe, he was right about one or two of them; death had a way of making people say and promise anything they could think of in exchange for missing their dance with the reaper, but maybe that fear was enough for some of them to take to heart.

Maybe not. He'd found his own voice again, stifling the meager suggestion of truth to John's words. Some of them deserve worse. Mikhailov. That freak, Bullseye. Captain Shrote, for twisting a whole precinct into private security for the Franchettis. Every one of them had a hot date with hotter lead scheduled when he finally made his way back to New York.

"If you know this much about what I do, then you know the score. Criminals. Pushers, rapists, murderers. They'd blow a second chance the second they got it."

"And for each one that you may be right about, how many men have you shot in the back? How many have you given that chance to, Frank? Enough to say that all the rest would throw that chance away the second you turned your back?" John crossed to the far side of the room, shaking a handful of pills from a half-dozen bottles and swallowing them dry. "Didn't you give Micky Duka a second chance?"

Shit. This was bordering on the supernatural; the mention of the Saints' lackey-turned-mole stopped Frank dead in his tracks for a beat. Duka's death had been staged to give him- and, by extension, Micro- a runner who could slip under the radar. His role in Howard Saint's demise had been unknown to everyone but the vigilante and, later, Microchip; how did Jigsaw get his hands on this information?

The confusion rocketing through Frank's head must have been evident in his face; John offered him an eerie smile in response. "You're very good at covering your tracks, Frank. I didn't put this together from any database or informants. I don't know anything that wasn't made known to the general public-" he folded his hands together, still smiling the same omniscient smile- "I simply have a talent for understanding people, recognizing patterns of behavior. The simple fact that Mr. Duka's death was some weeks after all the rest of Howard Saint's associates had died was all I needed to see. What made you decide to give him that second chance, Frank?"

Again, Frank found himself at a loss for words as he mulled over John's question. Honestly, he wasn't entirely sure. Mick had been a rat, complicit in everything Saint had kept his fingers in, and his only redeeming quality had been a greater fear of a blowtorch than of the consequences if he had talked. He had made himself useful afterward, sure, had played his part well and faithfully, but that had been as much for his own protection and revenge as anything else.

Maybe that had been it. Pity. It was hard to have ulterior motives when you cringed the way he did. In any case, it had worked; he had a new lease on life as the personal courier to the Punisher, and he had taken that role seriously. He was getting good with a pistol, and he was still a damn good mole when the need presented itself.

"Mick was useful." Frank shrugged at his own halfhearted answer. "He's kept making himself useful."

"So that's it?" John asked, seemingly amused by Frank's admission. "He makes himself useful. It isn't that he's redeemed himself in some way; he could still be forging passports, or dealing drugs, or smuggling weap-"

"No." A single word brought John back to his smirking silence. "He's proven that much. Planted a bug a few times to make sure-" don't mention Micro if you can help it- "and he's clean. He knows not to fuck up."

Dammit. Something that looked distinctly like triumph flashed in John's eyes. Even trying to avoid lending him any kind of legitimacy, John had guided him straight into a checkmate of his own making- and he knew it, still smiling that same insufferably right smile. All that was left was to bow out with some semblance of face remaining.

"Fine. Call it redemption if you want to."

"Don't think of this as defeat, Frank." John closed back to him, gripping the vigilante's forearm as he spoke, voice completely devoid of the self-congratulation he had expected to hear. "I only showed you something you'd done without realizing. The first step between taking a life and saving one." He gestured to the desk and its massive stack of envelopes. "Take a look through some of those, if you like; you'll see I have my reasons for what I do, just like you do."

Wordlessly, Frank nodded, slipping from John's grasp and plucking the first dossier from the stack. A balding, middle-aged man stared at him from a monochrome photograph, his sunken, pitted cheeks covered with patchy stubble. Just below his jawline, someone- probably John- had written four words in thick black marker: "Jack Anders- Con Man." Frank unclipped the photo from the inside of the folder, passing it back to John.

"Anders?" John asked rhetorically, studying the man's face a moment. "He preys on the goodwill of others, pretending to collect money for wounded veterans and officers and pocketing the money for himself." Sensing the simmering resentment roiling from Frank, he passed the photo back. "What would you do to him, Frank? Shoot out his kneecaps, as a lesson? Put a round between his eyes, so he could never do it again?" He chuckled grimly. "Or would you rather I dealt with him? I already have his test in mind, and all the materials I would need; even with Amanda and Mark always fighting, we could see if he values his life or his face more within three days' time."

Mark. First name's better than nothing, Micro should be able to trace him by the time Mick shows up with the next supply run. Got to keep this going 'til then.

"No, you take this one," Frank answered, returning the mugshot of the now-dead man walking to its folder. "I'll take the next."

To say John Kramer was surprised by Frank's response wasn't entirely accurate; he had expected the vigilante to come around, or to at least pretend to. What he had been surprised by was how quickly he made that concession- for a man who had spent two years surrounding himself with absolutes, and the consequences of those absolutes, he had changed his tune far too quickly.

Sometimes you had to take small steps forward- and backward- to make progress. "Are you asking to join me, Frank?"

If he thinks he has control of the situation by being offered a choice, he'll choose to stay. John resumed his slow circuit around the room, remembering some absentminded lecture on staying moving to preserve motor function as the tumor continued to grow that Lawrence had given him before he'd become his patient. He hasn't learned yet, hasn't changed, but who he is now was born in the face of death, just like us. That will take time to correct. Ideas began to populate his mind- small lessons to nudge Frank toward his eventual rehabilitation, ways to ensure they stuck... and that he stuck around long enough to receive them.

"No. I'm telling you I am-" Frank stepped away from the wall, straightening his shoulders to brace against the weight of his own compromise- "but there are gonna be some changes. You're not the only one who's done their homework; I was following this case from New York. You want to keep going, we put my targets in your 'tests'- or your targets that I green-light." He closed the gap between himself and John, the older man's marginal height advantage suddenly evaporating as his diaphragm tightened with a suppressed cough. He wasn't the type who could be intimidated, but he was smart, that much was obvious; he would recognize the proximity for the statement of intent that it was.

Fuck up, you die. It was that simple.

"Fair enough, Frank." John nodded, a trace of unexpected warmth creasing his face. "You choose the next target, and design the test. Consider it an 'initiation,' if that idea appeals to you. Amanda will help you as best she can- she's more suited for this work than she lets on- and make sure everything goes as it should." He gestured to the Colt riding just above Frank's knee. "You have an insurance policy that's been around nearly a hundred years; it would only be fair to allow me one, as well."

He wasn't unreasonable, as far as serial killers went. Maybe the actual Jigsaw Killer- no, three of them, possibly more, don't move until you're sure- could be allowed to continue working for a while, as long as he had a handle on the situation. Amanda seemed like the favorite, it made sense that she would be told to shadow him with this; she "got it" the way she was supposed to. No read on the other guy. He's slippery. Bullet between the eyes at the first convenience.

"Deal." Frank nodded his accord, which John mirrored a second later; the mutual assumption of deceit threatening to ignite the air of the room as it arced between the two killers' eyes, both waiting for the other to make the first move. John took the initiative, stepping past Frank and returning to his desk, reaching beneath it- the vigilante's gun hand strayed to the trigger for a moment as he felt the cold rush of intuition flood his senses- and producing Frank's carbine, presenting it to its rightful owner stock-first.

"I believe you were looking for this, as well." John chuckled as his new apprentice clipped the rifle to its attachment point on his armor. Gestures of goodwill will mean nothing to him on their own- but withholding them will. He watched as the vigilante departed, the same omniscient smile lingering on his mouth a moment longer. "He'll learn," John murmured. "One way or another, he'll learn."

As Frank entered the workshop proper once again- thumbing his fire selector down to safe, no sense risking a misfire with the spring tension he'd calibrated- he noticed two developments: the first, that the second apprentice had left their vicinity; the second, that Amanda was trying, and failing miserably, to mask her anxious intrigue.

"So... how'd it go, Castle? Didn't have to pull the trigger, huh?"

Frank largely ignored her, offering only a noncommittal shrug and grunt in response as he passed, sidling past a jumbled mess of components that were supposed to be an upcoming test.

"I'm, uh, supposed to show you where you can stay here, if you don't have something else figured out yet." She followed close on his heels, nerves all-but shorting out with her pair of steps to each one of his. Whatever had happened in there, he didn't seem to feel like it was important enough to talk about- which made it all the more important for her to understand. He'd dug deep enough into her head for one night, it was time to return the favor and poke him for a minute- and nevermind the old saying about sleeping dogs.

So, what, you can play twenty fucking questions all night when you don't have a choice, but now that you do- nothing, huh? It played out much better in her head than she dared assume it actually would.

She's not going to shut up until you acknowledge her, he realized with a twinge of dismay. He came to a stop- nearly running her into a bench to avoid tripping onto him- and turned to face his spiky-haired shadow. "I've got a safehouse already set up-"

Stick to the plan. She's probably easier to get information out of than the other two, without doing anything fun to get it-

"-but I've learned the hard way, never rely on just one," he amended, making an effort to relax his expression slightly. "Lead on."

And lead, Amanda did, with something eerily resembling morbid joy as she all-but danced her way across the workshop, stepping with the practiced ease of someone intimately familiar with everything in its proper place. Frank followed with slightly less dexterity, reaching a trio of small rooms just off one of the corridors leading to the bay. "It's not much, but it does for now," she said, gesturing to each of the doors in turn. "First one's mine. Last one belongs to the bastard- sorry, guess you got stuck in the middle."

Storage closets. The rooms' long-forgotten purpose became evident as Frank stepped into the room, flipping the lightswitch and illuminating a bare bulb set into the wall just above a crude workbench. Opposite the bench sat a narrow barracks cot; every remaining inch of space along the wall was dominated by metal shelving. At least there's room for a few choice pieces.

"Well, as long as it's dry... better than some places I've holed up." He stepped into the room, silently grateful for the absence of any serious mold smell. His last remaining safehouse in New York had been built too close to a runoff culvert- when it rained above, the walls rained as well.

This room had taken foresight to set up; he doubted John had gone to the trouble simply to have the room "just in case." He had anticipated every step of their interaction up to this point. Getting one past this guy is gonna be tricky. He probably already knows the score, knows I'm about to punch the clock.

"I guess that makes you one of us, huh?" Amanda asked, watching as Frank set his M4 on the workbench and began to shed magazines. It had been hell to try and find them all inside that coat after she had knocked him out; the man was practically a walking armory. The fact he moved at all in all that gear, let alone with the speed and- fucking terrifying- grace he'd demonstrated in offing Triple was both awe-inspiring and horrifying; Castle had to be a machine, one of the ones from the movies with that insane time-travel plot.

One of us.

Face ripped open, probably swallowed a pint of blood after his tongue had been split. The fat man and his thousand-yard stare, his slack jaw hanging wide enough to reach all his chins. They don't know me, they don't owe me anything. Why didn't he give me up? Why were they ready to die for me?

You're one of us. You're family.

"...If you want to call it that," Frank said, busying himself with recounting his magazines. The count was right. Of course the count was right.

He had to center himself. Amanda was already becoming a liability with her knack for dredging up memories he'd rather kept buried. He needed to learn how to tune her out before it distracted him back out in the streets; even a split-second's hesitation meant the difference between pulling the trigger and picking buckshot out of your liver.

Amanda noticed the shift the moment the words left her lips; Castle had locked up the same way he had during his test, looking for all the world like he'd just bitten a live wire. It had only lasted a second, but it had definitely been there. What kept happening to him?

Goddamn it, that is gonna be what sets him off. He keeps unplugging like that, and when he comes back, he's not right. Stupid, fucking stupid! Amanda felt a tiny noise somewhere in the register of a whimper escape her throat as Frank turned and locked eyes with her. They were... dusty, almost; she didn't know how else to describe it, no matter how many words spun through her mind in the eternity that passed with each second they stood staring at each other.

Somehow, this was when he was most terrifying- when whatever it was that happened in his mind crawled to the surface, left him... vulnerable, for that short beat in time. It felt like an entire conversation had taken place without a single word said- though what their irises had said to one another, she had no idea.

"I'll... let you get settled in, Castle." She backed slowly out of the room, darting to her own and latching the door frantically.

At least she's not a threat of her own accord, Frank assessed, field-stripping his carbine to reorganize his mind. He wasn't sure how he knew this, exactly- John's self-appointed moral superiority didn't leave room for outright dishonesty, and he had called her capable; and twice now she had wormed a fingertip under his mental defenses and pried at his armor- but she was just as scared of what she could do as he was wary of it. That was a good enough reason. Any momentary damage she could do would only happen in an environment where he could shake it off.

Time to go. Xavier was probably long gone, and without a better sense of his bearings, there was little chance of getting back to his base of operations either way; it was time to move forward on another front while the window was still open. Frank picked his way back out of the Gideon building, retracing his steps for a few blocks before coming to the pay phone he had noticed while following Amanda earlier.

Anything he needed to know, Micro could find for him; it was more a matter of knowing which questions needed asked first, and how to ask them to avoid revealing his... unorthodox play. Micro had been extremely useful in dealing with the cartel- the intelligence and networking he provided had meant the difference between stopping their new drug from ravaging the streets, not to mention that agent he had been put in contact with. Romanoff, she'd said her name was. Her tech had pulled both their asses out of a sling during that final assault.

Might be worth following up on. For now: mission at hand. Intelligence on the known players in the Jigsaw killings, weapons for the safehouse. Frank deposited a handful of quarters, dialing the number his operator had provided him.

The line hissed with static as Micro's encryption engaged. Secure line. "First rule," a distorted voice on the opposite end of the line demanded.

"Everyone fights, no one quits." If he was using that call-and-response protocol, the situation in New York was far from unfucked. "Get ready for a shitstorm, Micro."

"Don't tell me the Families are already there." Microchip's voice was no longer distorted, though the intermittent hiss of his encryption filter still set the hairs on Frank's neck on end. "I can't send the courier for another three weeks, he's got more shadows than he knows what to do with. Hammerhead's in fucking Bosnia, and Blackjack's wrapped up in something up north."

"They're not, as far as I can tell, but we can't be too careful. No mercs, Duka draws less attention as Freeze." Frank leaned against the phone, tallying up gear in his head and cross-referencing their code. "I'm going to need a crate of pineapples, the Pig, the Finger... firewood. Lots of firewood. Trying to get a taste for the local flavor. Nothing too far out of the usual, though."

M60. L96. Fragmentation grenades, and a pallet's worth of ammunition. Playbook on major gangs, human traffickers, dealers, cons back on the streets with a rape or murder to their name. That should make the new "panic room" look legitimate.

"You got it buddy. Barbecue coming up. Anything else?"

Frank weighed his options. There was no code designed for what he was about to ask for; names were involved. Steeling himself, he lowered his voice, speaking much more rapidly. "I've got partial profiles on Jigsaw. Three operators, no complete tags on any of them. First one's- let's call him a person of interest. Last name unknown, first name Mark. Looks police or security, thirties, Caucasian. Bulky. Second one's a survivor, should be easy to find. First name Amanda, age bracket upper twenty to low thirty. The third one's going to take a bit more digging."

"They always do." Micro chortled amid a burst of static. "Sorry, listening."

"Last name unknown, first name John. I got eyes on a pretty extensive setup in a meat packing center. Gideon. I'm not sure if there are more than the three, they seem capable of independent operation without central leadership."

"Can't cut off the head of the snake, or it sprouts a dozen more, so, split it nose to nuts- wait, snakes don't have-"

"Task at hand, Mister Wizard." The amount of digging Micro would have to conduct to turn up information on John was admittedly funny in its own regard; he didn't have access to Finch's sequences anymore after the Tampa operation had blown their cover, but his own black-hat algorithms were almost as good. "I want a dossier on all three sent with Duka. Money's in the usual place, and I should have some liquid assets to send on the return trip as... amends for the John Doe."

"Sometimes, I think you enjoy giving me the runaround, you know that?" Micro sighed. "All right. I'll send Duka with your shopping list and gear. Try to get a safehouse set up so he doesn't have to make dead drops, that sixty isn't going to hide anywhere." A pause, the encryption popped like bacon draped on a scorching engine block, and then- "Give 'em hell, Frank."

"Will do. Castle out."

As Amanda heard the workshop door slam shut, a sigh of relief escaped her lips that she hadn't realized she had been holding. He seemed like he understood- at least, a little- but that was still no guarantee they were safe. No way of knowing that he could ever be anything else again, except...

...well, the Punisher. A million worst-case scenarios flashed through her mind, each more vivid than the last. A knife buried in her throat; gunned down because she was working and didn't hear him come in; head caved in and brains scraping along the floor as he dragged her away by the ankle like some slasher villain and its meal-to-be. No matter how many times she blinked, or reassured herself that John had vetted him just minutes before, that she was being paranoid and stupid, the images kept burning into her subconscious. He had a track record to prove that it not only could, but almost definitely would happen.

Even Hoffman didn't deserve what would happen if Frank decided he was done playing by their rules. Deflecting some of the horrors her mind had concocted to her partner by circumstance helped take the edge off, but-

Shit. Her palms were bleeding again. Heaving another sigh much too large for her petite body, Amanda began to dig through the milk crates that served as catch-all storage for her few personal effects, finally happening upon the medical kit she'd picked up, "just in case" something "went wrong" in the shop. At least if I wrap them up, I can't keep doing it...

As she began to dress her self-induced puncture wounds, a curious thought flitted across Amanda's mind: does anyone deserve what Castle does to them? What she had read about him- not counting the urban legends, anyway- suggested he had a pretty strict criteria for who he killed, and every one of them was either at large, connected to some known, dirty quantity, or had a serious prior to their name. He chose his targets with the same level of precision and care that John did.

Eric Matthews. If anyone deserved it, that prick did, for what he'd done to her. Everything that he had set in motion. That thought had kept her awake for nearly a month straight, soon after John had found her. One simple, stupid bad break, and that asshole cop had torn apart what life she'd made for herself at the seams. And if it hadn't been for that sentence, maybe...

Before she could dwell on it any further, the sound of the door once again jarred Amanda from her reverie of regret. Was he back? What was he doing here again? Didn't he have a safehouse somewhere else in the city? Her heart thundered a dozen beats between each of his heavy footfalls, blurring the edges of her vision as the footsteps grew louder, the door to the room adjacent to hers creaked open and closed-

Have to get away from him. It was an irrational fear, she knew it. He had been as close to pleasant as she could imagine him being, other than that brief glimpse of-

-what was it, anyway? Some absurd corner of her brain wanted to call what she had seen... Frank. As if there was a difference between that side of him and the glorified murder-hobo they called the Punisher.

What if there was, though? It was a risk and a long shot, but maybe- just maybe- that was what she had stumbled upon twice now. If it was, maybe there was some way to...

Fix him.

Self-preservation momentarily forgotten in the wake of the stroke of what felt distinctly like mad genius, Amanda slid silently through her door and around the corner. Castle had left his door open- strange of him, he seemed too much like the paranoid type for that- and...

He was doing push-ups. Bracing his weight on his rifle. His armor and coat had been laid neatly on the workbench, leaving his arms bare as he continued his regimen, body moving smoothly even as he swapped hands on the lead-breathing dragon that looked to serve as his weapon of choice.

The man's a fucking Olympian. Somehow, seeing him performing this kind of self-maintenance put her more at ease; whether because it meant he wasn't born as some god of death and destruction, or the suggestion that if he was working out, it meant he wasn't conserving his energy to kill her, she wasn't sure.

Seventy-eight, seventy-seven, seventy-six. Frank's internal countdown continued to tick even as he allowed his thoughts to wander.

What John had said earlier... wasn't entirely wrong. He'd taken a risk on Duka, and the kid hadn't made him regret it. Dave had been a bit of a grifter to make ends meet, but he'd stood up to Quentin Glass without flinching, had given the man nothing for all his torturous efforts.

Had someone like either of them crossed in front of his rifle sights? The world was slowly going to shit; Micro's algorithms had predicted a major economic meltdown within four years, and people were already starting to feel the crush. Petty crime had spiked, even with his own existence trumped up to mythical proportions as some all-knowing, all-slaying boogeyman of Hell's Kitchen to keep the hardened dirtbags' heads down.

I don't mind stealing bread from the mouths of decadence. He'd heard that song cutting through the static midway through Kansas during his exodus, and it had a certain kind of justification to it he couldn't argue.

Sixty- switch- fifty-nine, fifty-eight.

Had he shot some poor bastard just trying to make ends meet after every real option had failed?

Fifty-six, fifty-five, fifty-four.

What about what he was doing now? Dire circumstances made for some seriously strange bedfellows. Only time would tell for sure, but something about the other apprentice had put him on his guard. If he could just place the face...

Forty-one, forty, elbows. Thirty-nine.

Amanda was scared shitless- and much as he hated to admit it, no matter how good she was getting at blowing holes in his thought process... she was all right. Reminded him a little of Mick in that regard. Whatever she had done to put her on the list for Jigsaw's little murder game, this was probably a better use of her time than her past.

Maybe another good scare would set her back on the rails.

Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one...