Frank

4 Days Later

Cerberus Forward Base, Afghanistan

I woke up on a hard cot, the fluorescent lights above flickering and swimming in my vision. Every inch of my body ached, a deep, relentless pain that reminded me just how close I'd come to the end. I tried to sit up, but a sharp stab in my side forced me back down. My head throbbed, and everything felt off, like my skin was too tight, my mind too raw. The memories of the firefight started coming back in flashes—Schoonover's arm blown off, the parahuman's fire, and then… nothing.

A shadow moved by the bed, and I turned, wincing as the motion sent fresh pain lancing through me. Russo was standing there, his face pale and bruised but determined. He was alive. I could feel the words bubbling up before I even had a chance to think them through.

"You left," I snarled, my voice rough and hoarse. "I called for you, and you were gone. I had to fight them off alone. You ran."

Russo's jaw tightened, and he leaned in, meeting my gaze with a look I couldn't quite read. "You think I just left you out there, Castle?" he said, his voice low. "I was trying to cover you, trying to get behind their line, flank them. But the ambush was bigger than we thought. By the time I got in position, you were already down. I thought…" He hesitated, the words hanging heavy between us. "I thought you were dead."

My anger flared, hot and fierce, despite the ache in my chest. I'd been out there, taking down threats left and right, holding the line for my men, and all I could remember was him disappearing. "So you thought you'd just leave me for dead, huh? Abandon the rest of us to clean up the mess?"

Russo exhaled sharply, clearly fighting to keep his cool. "I didn't leave you, Frank. I did what I could to get you out of there. I had to crawl through a pile of bodies just to reach you, drag you back to safety while half our team was still pinned down. I didn't run. I fought my way to you. You were bleeding out, barely breathing, and I got you back here. So, no, I didn't just 'leave' you."

I felt the edge of my anger dull, if only slightly, but the bitterness still lingered. I didn't trust easily, and this whole op had turned into one betrayal after another. The pain was still screaming through my body, but the moment Russo stopped talking, I shoved him aside. I couldn't waste any more time. Every second I lay here, breathing in the recycled air and antiseptic stink of the infirmary, was another second I wasn't getting the answers I needed. Answers I'd waited too damn long for. I pushed past Russo, ignoring his protests as I staggered down the hall, my body barely holding together but fueled by a purpose sharper than any pain.

Agent Orange was holed up in one of the offices on the far side of the base, right where he could keep an eye on everything without getting his hands dirty. The second I found him, he glanced up from his papers, barely registering my state. His eyes narrowed in that calculating way of his.

"Castle," he said coolly, not a hint of remorse in his tone. "Did you complete the mission? Was the target neutralized?"

The words hit me like a slap. Men had died, my team had been ripped apart, and all he cared about was his damn target. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay focused, even as rage simmered hotter than ever.

"Men died out there, even Ray," I growled, my voice barely holding steady. "Schoonover, half the squad…they're gone. I was almost gone. And you don't even blink."

Agent Orange's face twisted, the faintest flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. "The mission was clear, Castle," he said coldly, his voice sharp. "Losses are inevitable. I need to know if the target was eliminated. Pulse that was days ago, you are up and seem fine enough to move."

"Is that all?" I asked, the words like venom. "My men are dead, and all you care about is your damn checklist. Your precious mission."

Before he could respond, I lunged forward, my fist crashing into his face, catching him off-guard. He stumbled, a look of pure shock flashing in his eyes, and I didn't stop. I struck again, then again, my fists pounding into his face with everything I'd held back. The satisfaction of each impact was raw and real. I felt his flesh give under my knuckles, saw the blood splatter across the walls. One of my strikes caught his eye, and I felt the sick crunch as the bone shattered beneath my hand.

He cried out, a mixture of pain and fury, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. Every punch was an outlet for every life lost, every betrayal, every lie that had brought us to this point. He stumbled back, clutching his ruined face, but before I could go any further, Russo's arms locked around me, pulling me back.

"Frank!" he shouted, trying to drag me away. "That's enough! You'll kill him!"

I struggled, still seething, but Russo's grip held firm, and I felt the fury start to subside, replaced by a dull ache, a reminder of all that I'd lost.

One week later

Washington, D.C.

The military tribunal felt like some twisted joke. I sat in the center of the cramped, sterile room, surrounded by officers with hard-set faces, their eyes fixed on me with an icy detachment. The air was thick with judgment, every person in that room deciding my fate before I even opened my mouth. This wasn't a trial. It was an execution.

I took a breath, barely holding back the frustration boiling inside me. I knew I had to say my piece, to make them understand what had really happened out there, why I'd gone after Agent Orange. But the moment I opened my mouth, the judge, a stone-faced man in a uniform starched so sharp it looked like it could cut glass, lifted a hand.

"That's enough, Castle," he said sharply, dismissing me with a glance that barely registered me as human. "We don't need the theatrics."

"Theatrics?" I snapped, my voice low but charged with barely-contained rage. "I lost half my squad out there! They were set up, we were set up. The orders were a death sentence, and Agent Orange knew it."

The prosecutor, a captain sitting primly at a table across from me, shook his head, lips twisted in a sneer. "Your accusations are unfounded, Castle. This tribunal isn't here to indulge conspiracy theories."

I gritted my teeth, my fists clenching under the table. "Conspiracy theories? You know damn well he sent us in without any intel, straight into an ambush. Half my team didn't make it out. And I'm the one you're putting on trial?"

The judge's gavel struck the table with a loud crack. "Enough!" His voice was cold and final, with a tone that said he didn't want to hear anything I had to say. "Your actions were insubordinate, violent, and a disgrace to this uniform."

I felt a rush of helpless fury. "I was trying to save lives-"

"Your behavior was unacceptable," he interrupted, not even bothering to look me in the eye. "Assaulting a superior officer in the middle of an active deployment, disregarding orders. We've heard enough. This tribunal finds you guilty of gross insubordination."

The words hit me, cold and final. There was no chance for rebuttal, no chance to explain, to even try to fight back. No lawyer, no defense, nothing. It was a kangaroo court, a farce from start to finish, and they all knew it.

"You are hereby dishonorably discharged from the United States Marine Corps," the judge continued, barely pausing as he laid down my sentence, "and sentenced to serve time in federal prison." His voice rang out, cold and detached, a final nail in the coffin they'd built for me. The words hung heavy in the room, final and unforgiving. As soon as he finished, a doctor stepped forward, clipboard in hand and a forced, professional expression on his face.

"Given the nature of your injuries, especially the head trauma," he said, glancing at the judge for confirmation, "a psychiatric evaluation will be mandatory before you begin your sentence, Castle."

I wanted to tell him where he could shove his eval. I was fine, angry, betrayed, but not broken. I didn't need someone digging around in my head, trying to tell me what was wrong with me. I needed justice, or at the very least, the chance to expose the lies that had dragged me here. But I could see it in their eyes: to them, I was a man on the edge, unstable, no longer fit to serve.

I wanted to stand up, to shout, to make them understand the betrayal I'd been forced to live through. But as the guards moved in to escort me out, I realized that nothing I could say would matter. They'd made their decision long before I stepped into that room. They took me to a side room where there was a man waiting for me.

"A psychiatric evaluation will be mandatory before you begin your sentence, Castle," a different doctor said as I was forced into a chair, his voice clinical as he adjusted the clipboard in his hand.

I barely registered what he was saying, caught up in the haze of it all. The dishonorable discharge, the prison sentence, it was like they'd taken everything I was, everything I'd fought for, and tossed it into the trash. I should have been furious, raging, but a strange numbness was starting to settle in, dulling everything down to one, hard point.

"Castle, I'll be conducting your psychological evaluation now. Standard procedure, especially given your head injury." He was reading from the clipboard, barely glancing at me as he rattled off a list of questions about my symptoms, my thoughts, my memory of the mission. I answered as tersely as I could, letting him go through the motions without giving away more than I had to.

"How would you describe your current emotional state?" he asked, his eyes flicking up to meet mine for the first time.

I bit back the answer that was hovering on my tongue "Betrayed," I wanted to say, but I knew that wouldn't get me anywhere. "Fine," I muttered instead, forcing myself to keep my tone steady.

He made a note on his clipboard, his face giving nothing away. "Have you experienced any changes in perception or memory since the incident? Any unusual thoughts or physical sensations?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, I felt a strange prickle at the back of my mind, like a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. But I shook it off. "No," I said flatly. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

The doctor scribbled down a few more notes, his expression unreadable.

The doctor continued, flipping through his clipboard. His eyes were still as clinical as ever, but his questions started to shift into territory that grated on my nerves.

"Have you felt any sudden surges of energy or aggression beyond what you would consider normal?" he asked, barely glancing up.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "I've been through hell, and you're asking me if I felt a little… energized?" I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it. "I'm a Marine, Doc. I know what adrenaline feels like."

Unphased, he made another note. "Alright. How about intense emotional responses? Sudden anger or sadness that seems beyond your usual temperament?"

I grit my teeth. "Beyond my usual temperament?" My voice came out harsher than I intended. "I just got stabbed in the back by the people I fought for, and you want to know if I'm feeling… sensitive?"

He paused, giving me a strange look. "Any experiences where your perception of time has slowed or altered in unusual ways?" he continued, as if he hadn't heard a word I'd said. "Or any unexplained bursts of strength or resilience?"

I wanted to slam my fists on the table. The questions were absurd, like he thought I'd somehow developed powers overnight, like one of those parahumans. The thought alone was infuriating.

"No," I said firmly, my patience thin. "I'm not a parahuman. I'm just a Marine who's tired of playing these games. That's it."

The doctor didn't flinch, just took another note, his expression frustratingly neutral. I clenched my fists, feeling like some kind of lab rat they were poking and prodding, looking for signs of something I didn't have.

The doctor skimmed over his notes, then looked back up with a practiced calm that only made my jaw clench tighter. "One last question, Castle," he said, in that detached tone that made him sound like he was talking to a kid. "Have you experienced anything that you would consider a… trigger? A moment of extreme stress or trauma that might've activated something in you?"

I felt a surge of anger flare up. A trigger? Like I was some parahuman waiting to snap? I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a low growl. "Do I look like one of them to you, Doc? I've been in combat, been in ambushes, watched men die under my command. You really think I would've noticed if I'd 'activated something' in the middle of all that?"

The doctor blinked, the hint of a frown crossing his face. He hesitated for a moment, and then, finally, he put his clipboard aside. "Fine," he muttered. "You're clear. You're fit to be transferred."

I barely had a chance to breathe before the guards in the room closed in on me, steel-faced and ready. They clamped my wrists in cuffs and moved me toward the door, their grip as cold as the chain links biting into my skin. They walked me down a sterile hallway and out into the cold air, where a transport van idled, waiting to take me away.

Otisville. I knew the place, knew the rumors that circulated around it. On the surface, it was just another federal prison. But if you talked to the right people, you'd hear whispers of another story, one that involved secret facilities, cells designed to hold the special inmates, the ones who needed more than iron bars to keep them inside, and the ones you needed to disappear.

So now the real question, does he spend a chapter in prison feeling sorry for himself or does he escape on the way there