Even living in NYC, where alien invasions and superpowered catastrophes have somehow become the norm, the sky shattering open is something entirely new: a rift opening above the skyscrapers and pulsing with a strange livid energy, like an infected wound. Frank had been on his way back from a bodega, sauntering down the street and in the middle of a satisfying bite of a bacon-egg-and-cheese when the chaos broke out. It was centered on... something happening out by the Statue of Liberty. Aliens and wizards and interstellar calamities are above his paygrade; he doesn't even know who he'd call to help deal with this kind of thing. Even the Defenders don't really operate on this level. What's Red gonna do, smack the sky rift with his baton?
So Frank is standing stock-still on the street, jaw craned upwards and staring at that purple light — temporarily, for this moment, rendered dumbstruck and just another civilian New Yorker agog at the unfolding disaster. Then, snapping out of it, he starts striding through the crowd, muscling his way through, intent on getting back home, because if aliens are gonna come pouring through those rifts then he's gonna need his arsenal.
But then he's halted again by shouts from a nearby alley, a woman's voice going louder in her distress. He hesitates, but not for long. Pivots quickly, barely misses a beat, and heads right for trouble.
No one ever said he was good at self-preservation, or anything.
Once he's standing in the mouth of the alley, the men shoot a glance behind them and can see that Frank Castle doesn't cut a particularly imposing picture: he's built solid, carries himself with a kind of boxer's bullishness, but he's not even six feet. He's surprisingly good at blending into a crowd, at looking wholly average. But when he talks, his voice is a gruff rasp: ]
Think you'd better leave the lady alone and keep on movin', fellas.
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Even living in NYC, where alien invasions and superpowered catastrophes have somehow become the norm, the sky shattering open is something entirely new: a rift opening above the skyscrapers and pulsing with a strange livid energy, like an infected wound. Frank had been on his way back from a bodega, sauntering down the street and in the middle of a satisfying bite of a bacon-egg-and-cheese when the chaos broke out. It was centered on... something happening out by the Statue of Liberty. Aliens and wizards and interstellar calamities are above his paygrade; he doesn't even know who he'd call to help deal with this kind of thing. Even the Defenders don't really operate on this level. What's Red gonna do, smack the sky rift with his baton?
So Frank is standing stock-still on the street, jaw craned upwards and staring at that purple light — temporarily, for this moment, rendered dumbstruck and just another civilian New Yorker agog at the unfolding disaster. Then, snapping out of it, he starts striding through the crowd, muscling his way through, intent on getting back home, because if aliens are gonna come pouring through those rifts then he's gonna need his arsenal.
But then he's halted again by shouts from a nearby alley, a woman's voice going louder in her distress. He hesitates, but not for long. Pivots quickly, barely misses a beat, and heads right for trouble.
No one ever said he was good at self-preservation, or anything.
Once he's standing in the mouth of the alley, the men shoot a glance behind them and can see that Frank Castle doesn't cut a particularly imposing picture: he's built solid, carries himself with a kind of boxer's bullishness, but he's not even six feet. He's surprisingly good at blending into a crowd, at looking wholly average. But when he talks, his voice is a gruff rasp: ]
Think you'd better leave the lady alone and keep on movin', fellas.