[ open ]

[castle]

Who: frank castle & anyone
What: finding work, trying out weapons, committing his first punisher act, visiting his horizon
Where: cadens, horizon
When: early-mid august

Warnings: violence, blood, murder, gore, possible mentions of family/child death

[ eventually, it becomes clear enough that murdock was right — he isn't going anywhere. for a while, he swears under his breath, carrying a bit of frustration about the trap that he never even knew he'd stepped into, but in time, his shoulders ease from their tension, as a few thoughts drift to his mind. first, he won't have a problem surviving this place; he's been through war and worse, and if there's anything he's good at pulling off, it's adapting to his situation to stay standing. second, there isn't much waiting for him at home, nothing but a skull-painted vest and a mission that he could just as well carry on anywhere. ]


( A — cadens, day, streets ) [ as always, it starts off with needing work, figuring he could start off his time here with keeping his head low and getting his lay of the land while he builds on his resources. someone mentions a need for strong capable men to help take apart a damaged building, and though the pay isn't hefty, it's a start for saving up some cash (or coin, rather).

gripping the iron mallet tight in his hands, he gives it a powerful swing, the end of the mallet colliding hard with the rock wall before him. it takes him momentarily back to a time he pretended to be someone else — pete castiglione — a man starting a new life outside of his own tragedy. twice he'd tried to be that man, and twice he failed.

the way he swings, tough and tireless, it's clear enough that this is a man who knows what he's doing, perhaps a little too well, especially as he remains fairly visible to the public eye, his violent performance of tearing apart stone visible from the market streets. ]


( B — cadens, day, weapons shop ) [ he still can't properly afford any of the better weapons, even if he's succeeded in purchasing a new blade (simple but sufficient in its sharpness to do what he needs it to do. but he does roam the shops to allow himself a better idea of what it is he plans to purchase eventually. without the military grade weaponry that's a few centuries ahead of wherever the hell he is, he'll need to improvise.

though there are a few firearms visible, his eyes fall onto a large bow, sturdy and well-made. he isn't much for archery, but considering his options, it's not out of the question — long range and silent has its advantages.

when he asks the shopkeeper about allowing a little practice, the man denies him in doing so with the more valuable piece in his hands if he doesn't plan on purchasing and instead offers him a more simplistic model, at least similar enough to its size to give frank an idea on how to work it. given an arrow with a blunt end (frank snickers a little at the precaution), his fingers run across the string of the bow before drawing it back, positioning the arrow against it to try to get himself accustomed to the feel of a new weapon. ]


( C — cadens, night, alley — cw: violence, blood, murder, gore imagery ) [ he doesn't plan on taking action tonight, but he does. it's a walk along the empty streets in the late darkness of the night, working odd hours with his new temporary job, when he hears the haunting scream of an old woman. frank's quick on his feet when he races to turn the corner, but quite quick enough —

he sees it all happen in a matter of seconds: a robbery attempt, no doubt, from some man in rags, probably hoping the old woman would simply hand over the pouch of coins in exchange for her life. the man clearly doesn't account for her sudden scream, for the pitched sound that could draw attention to his act, that could get him caught. it's always the selfish panic that prompts the next move, when the knife he held at her throat suddenly moves fast, quick enough to put an end to the scream, just as he'd hoped, even if it hadn't been the way he'd planned it. stunned at his own ill planned robbery, the man only watches her fall to the ground for a split second before he nearly stumbles on his face racing to get away.

it's all mere seconds, too quick to stop, even if frank's mind works fast enough to process the scene, always the trained soldier who knows how to assess even in the face of tragedy, even when his own stomach flips ill before the rage surges in his chest.

when his feet move, he rushes first to the woman, where she gags on her own blood, brief enough that it isn't long before she stops altogether, but too long that she no doubt suffers towards her death. there was never a chance to save her.

but there's still a chance to get the filth that did this to her.

with the iron mallet from his masonry work still hanging on his belt, he grips it hard, pulling it free before grasping the end, letting it swing briefly from his hand before he begins to move, marching fast in the direction the man ran. in the late quiet of the night, it isn't hard to hear the panicked panting breaths as they try to get away, making it easy to track him down from alley to alley, up until he finds him trapped in a dead end, struggling to scramble in climbing a wooden fence.

his own steps move slow, boots quietly marching along the ground, squelching against wet mud. calm and steady, he's barely even heard as he steps up behind the man clutching at the edge of the fence before he swings the mallet, the iron end colliding hard as the man's knee, instantly breaking the bone.

the scream that results from it is even louder than the old woman's had been, as the man loses his grip of the fence and falls backwards several feet, landing hard upon the ground where he whimpers in sobbing, desperate cries. frank moves to stand over him, lifting the mallet slowly to press the iron head over the man's mouth to muffle away the sound of his sobs. ]

Really thought you'd get away with it, huh? [ considering the situation, his voice is calm, a deep gravel like a rumble through the night's chill. it's more terrorizing than if he'd been screaming with rage. ] Guess pieces of shit like you can be found anywhere.

[ always the stink of scum wherever he goes. always up to him to get rid of it.

he sighs softly through his nose. ] She didn't deserve that. [ briefly quietly, somber, like a gentle whisper of mourning — before his teeth practically snarl with his next biting words. ] But you do.

[ and with that, he lifts the mallet again, this time for another swing, downwards hard and quick. with the echo of a rough crack, the man's screams cease completely. ]




( D — horizon — cw: blood, possible future mentions of family/child death ) [ murdock had brought him to a place like this, a place of the mind or some shit. a bit of voodoo magic bullshit that he wanted no part in, and yet he's here.

and what is "here"? some, if they've been there, would know it as a small piece of central park, specifically where the carousel is well lit up, bright enough to light up the night, the kind of music that would play at a county fair echoing from its speakers. the horses lift up and down as they go along their designated circular track. there's no one on the ride, but it's almost like anyone could almost hear a faint laughter between the cheerful melody.

the bench that faces it is in perfect view of the scene, almost as if it'd been placed there purposefully to seat its audience of one. frank castle sits upon its center, staring at the moving carousel in silence, face coated with spatters of blood, enough to hint that it isn't his but not enough to disguise the sadness behind it, eyes mournful as they look upon the circling horses, fingers curling against his knees to keep his hands from shaking. ]


( E — wild card ) ( options A-C are open to anyone around cadens, while option D is open to anyone from anywhere. for option C, feel free to approach it in any number of ways, whether it's seeing frank in the act or catching it immediately afterwards, or even just catching frank leaving the scene with a bloody mallet. i'm open to discussing scenarios and if none of the prompts work and you'd still like to do something else, i'm open to chat things up too! )

Comments

horizon

[carmesi]

[there is something — visceral — here. something that catches her in its webbings almost as soon as she steps into the horizon, emotion exuding so strongly from a place of deep, unquenchable pain. it's vast emptiness, the hollow remnants of a life so full of love, so full of promise and hope and a future, taken away in the blink of an eye.

it leaves wanda gasping for air, forgetting the reason entirely for her coming here in the first place, following instead this feeling crushing anything that feels remotely worth the effort of living.

—warm summers, golden skies, smiling children in the background, a woman's smiling face looking back over her shoulder—

when she lifts her eyes, she stands in front of a carousel, running empty. there is longing, for something that will never be brought back, and wanda's face contorts, bringing her hands close to her middle, fingers curling into fists as she tries to keep her own emotions at bay. it had been a while since she had felt this alone, this sorrow, sharp and stinging like the wound left behind when her parents were killed— when pietro left her— when...

turning her head she walks, silently, towards the bench facing the carousel. one man sits in the center of it, bloodied, but wanda can tell: this sadness is his. she sits to his left, slowly, like it hurts to breathe. the horses lift, up and down, and that chasm grows and gnaws.

wanda breathes out, quiet words of no comfort:]

I'm sorry.

[castle]

[ at first, he wouldn't assume he understands why he came here, but then, the answer is already there, etched in the surface, as he strives to dig up memories that keep getting buried with the emptiness of the passing hours, days, months, years. their laughter upon these horses remains one of the last remaining glimmers of a happier past, before it followed with the shower of bullets, before the screams overshadowed every smile that he's become desperate to hold onto.

he's here because the last bit of his life, when it was a life, remains here in this carousel.

the woman that appears in the corner of his eye moves closer like a wisp through a dream. he knows she doesn't belong in this world of a memory that he created, that he has no idea how she'd even ended up here (anything murdock explained about all of this went through one ear and out the other), but somehow he doesn't feel disturbed by her presence.

maybe because he's fallen too far into the haunting reminder of who he is, aware of the way the spots of blood sticks to his cheeks, that he'd been this man long before that day at this carousel, that there's no shame in being found like this. or maybe because he isn't even sure if she's real. he doesn't know what's real anymore.

when she speaks, he doesn't immediately say anything at all, his eyes still peering at the blur of fast moving porcelain, motions still as if he hadn't heard her. but when his lips finally part, he has to swallow, like it'd all become caught in his throat and he has to remind himself how to speak again. ]

It's empty. [ his voice remains quiet, almost strained, like a mutter caught in his lips. ] Every detail is exactly the same. Down to the chipped paint and muffled speakers. That white horse — pink straps and blue saddle — that's the one she picked. Said it made her feel like the Princess of Central Park. But she's not on it. She — they're not —

[ his eyes don't look away but they shift around as they stare at the carousel, like they're uncertain. ]

I remember everything else, every — every detail of this damn thing. So why can't— ?

[ why can't i remember them as they were? ]

[carmesi]

[it surprises wanda, the roughness in his voice that harbors such sadness. the words he speaks, they ricochet within, take a spin into the wounds that have never really stitched closed. even after all this time—wanda has vivid memories of the incidents, of the objects around her, the terrifying, constant beeping, the flash of red, the shape of the fissure in the apartment blown apart by the first bomb.

wanda catches sight of his descriptions; the white, the pink, the blue, the way the speakers are muffled from years of the same recording and system playing for hours on end.

she, wanda sees in flashes, a young girl, so blurred and out of focus.

it's deep-seated trauma, a neverending loop of cold variables. the warmth of smiles and the shape of their eyes and every which way their hair was set—all that goes away, leaves only that:

emptiness.

wanda turns to him, offers her hand, palm up, without even realizing what she's doing.]

I could try to find something within your memories. It may not be much, but to draw it out, just for moment— [it might help. it might keep the world from caving in for one more millisecond.] So they can be here.

[castle]

[ each of his words is just a thought spoken out loud, like he's caught himself in some kind of dream that he's trying to piece together, still not fully understanding how it's all even possible, too foreign for a man so tied to the horrors of reality that the natures of any supernatural elements are far beyond anything he'd bother to try to comprehend.

it's why it's practically impossible to imagine someone else in this place here with him, even if he could somewhat comprehend himself on that rooftop that he'd stumbled onto with murdock when he'd been pulled into it. because they'd been on those rooftops together, had those same conversations, fought those same fights.

but this — this is a world all his own.

it's only when he catches the sudden rise of her hand that he finally manages to turn his eyes to her, catching a moment to map out features that don't come from any memory.

though he doesn't reject her hand, he doesn't take it either, staring down at her fingers, at the detailed marks of lifelines across her palms. so they can be here. in those passing seconds, he wants to cling to that offer, grasp it tight and not let go. but he hesitates.

his eyes lift, still half caught in a daydream, while the rest of him latches to what he only knows to be real. ] You ... some angel or somethin'?

[carmesi]

[she knows the word is not meant to be a compliment, born instead from a place of true lack of understanding as to what the mysticism of this place is. it is new for many, and some are much, much more grounded to the impervious laws of the world than she is.

it's not rejection, but she, too, hesitates, fingers curling lightly onto the palm of her hand.

no matter how strongly, how familiar this feeling—wanda is still a stranger to this grieving man, whose bloody and bruised appearance brings no significant amount of concern to her.]

No, [how to explain what she is—without drawing attention unto herself, when this is so much more important?] but I can dig into the minds of others. Trace those lost memories for you.

[castle]

[ he doesn't expect a yes to his question, not when he doesn't believe in any of that spiritual bullshit, his ignorant days of any measure of catholicism far behind him that any suggestion of a mystical being is just laughable.

but if she's here, she's something, or this place is that something, and she's just bringing words to the strangeness of it all.

a part of him doesn't believe her or, rather, doesn't want to believe her, because the idea of aiding him in clutching onto the memories of his children, his wife, his family — they don't seem real. either that, or he's too terrified to see it become real.

again, he stares at her without a word, searching for the honesty in her eyes. plenty of faulty mediums or tarot card readers who'd take advantage of a grieving man. not hard to tell when someone's putting up an act. but she doesn't seem like a liar.

he lifts his own hand close to her, hovering near — and then carefully nudges against her knuckles, closing her fingers against her palm. ]

You don't wanna get inside my head. [ it isn't voiced like a jab, but a sympathetic warning, as if the dried blood against his own knuckles weren't warning enough. ] You don't need my war inside yours.

[carmesi]

[he volunteers to close her hand for her, as if certain that he doesn't want her to go poking into his head; his words, however, give her pause, as isn't it always a grieving person's response to want so badly to see what was lost, even if for just one more time? there is kindness in them, despite the bloodied knuckles she looks down at.

but frank doesn't know, that when he touches her hand, she can feel this palpable emotion straining at the seams, drowning her in something that is just so familiar to her own pain.

wanda breathes out, counts to two, and inhales again. if only she could consciously slow the beat of her heart so it wouldn't ache so much.]

I've never really known peace.

[externally, internally; it's tiring, to cruise through this world constantly waging war with all elements. so, despite his words, despite his actions, wanda brings both her hands to hold the one he had raised to meet her own. his sadness is too loud in the horizon, so loud she could drown herself in it and never get back on her feet again. she's practiced at this, learned enough to know how much to push, how much to give, as she connects and draws out in swathes of cool scarlet, her eyes a blanket of red as memory after memory filters through her cognizance, without really looking through them, bits and pieces of a violent life with far too much damage to fix, until she hits the emotion she was looking for—

warmth, love — immense, abundant — marred with a deep sadness.

here. wanda pulls it at the forefront of frank's mind, the smiling faces of a boy and a girl, excited to see him come home—a perfect home—and a wife just as loving. she lets the memory linger for a while longer, so he can hold on to it. she closes her eyes and squeezes tightly at the hand she holds with her own, the image of such family life a mirror to her own desires once before.]

[castle]

[ a part of him is still almost convinced that he'd somehow imagined her, merely a passerby venturing through a memory, some guide at the fork of his dreams. but when she talks of peace, that's when he knows this is a woman all her own, the weight carried in those words like an echo of the familiarity in tragedy.

but if she is real, then she shouldn't be here, recognizing the size of the open wound that's permitted a visitor, except when he opens his mouth to speak and urge her away, her hands are suddenly moving, slipping around his.

it becomes too much of a daze to protest, dizzy against the spark of red, until the discomfort surges with a newfound warmth within his chest. it grasps tight as clear images work through his mind, breathing sharply as his lips part, words lost from them.

lisa with her beaming smile. frank jr with his sly playfulness. and maria — with eyes that had always recognized the monster within, that understood the stormy waves of his mind long before he'd grown aware of the rising war living inside.

maria who had always known and chose to love him anyway.

his lips quiver, eyes suddenly wet as the details come together as easily as if they were right in front of him, nearly unable to breathe from the shock of reviving the happiness that came before the tragedy. ]

How— ? [ it's barely a clear sound before he shakes his head, as if fighting a sob with teeth grinding tight. swiftly, he then brings in his other hand to grasp his fingers against hers. ] Stop. Stop.

[carmesi]

[he needs only say it the first time, wanda already relinquishing her hold on his hand, taking back the magic she breathed into his memories in an attempt to give them more color, more clarity. wanda keeps her hands to herself, stock-still as she leans back a little, watching him as emotion overwhelms him.

—but emotion has also eased a bit, in the air around them, and her lungs don't feel as constricted anymore.

his family was beautiful, the love and tenderness she felt play out something so special, obviously heartbreaking now that it's lost forever. to remember that instead of the frightened faces of the sons she loved so much, maybe she was being a little selfish.]

I stopped it.

[she whispers, urgently, setting her hands on her lap.]

—just... [though sometimes wanda wonders, if her boldness to quiet the overwhelming sinking into despair is something she should be allowed to have such control over. he hadn't necessarily given her permission, had he? slowly, she makes to stand, thinking he needs his space.] Just breathe, okay?

[because those gulps of air, they can be miserably hard to take.]

[castle]

[ as soon as she stops, as it all stops, he draws his hands back, turning away from her so he can lean over his knees, fingers gripping them tight as he clamps his eyes shut and settles himself from the overwhelming pang of memories that had been struck through him. his throat feels tighter somehow, like he's short of air, and when he brings his hands up again, it's to rub over his face, trying to get realigned again.

for a long moment, he says nothing at all, quiet save for his breaths gradually steadying again, along with the same familiar sing-song melody of the carousel, still playing out low from its old speaker system.

eventually, he finds his voice, deep and still somewhat strained as his head remains down. ]

... The hell did you do?

[ it isn't angry, but some unease is inevitable, finally lifting his head slow to look at her, eyes slightly red from where they'd been damp. he knows she'd said it before, about digging, just before he'd warned her not to. but experiencing it makes him realize just how much he'd ignored the implications of what she was suggesting. ]

They were right there. They were— [ he swallows, raising his palm to his face again, rubbing once more, voice cutting off before it slips from his lips again, even quieter this time. ] I ... forgot about her dimples. Lisa's dimples. Got 'em straight from her mom, you know?

[carmesi]

[it is impossible for wanda to not immediately empathize with him, even as he looks at her with red-rimmed, damp eyes. any attempt to stand up and give him his space quickly evaporates as she sits back again on the bench, this time a little closer, to put a hand over his shoulder.

she can barely hear him, but it's enough— she knows exactly what the words he says are.

lisa, the girl in his memories. the princess of central park. wanda leans in a bit, hunched over, letting him speak.]

Yeah, I saw. [just as quietly, her hand remains hesitant but reassured just over his shoulder blade, right over his heart. she used to be able to do similarly with pietro—feel his heartbeat racing a mile a minute after he's done his high-speed stunts. hesitantly, she offers,] One of my boys had dimples, too. I would try not to pinch his cheeks whenever he smiled, I—

[her time with billy and tommy had been so short, but it had been so precious to her.

he had asked her how before, but magic is difficult to explain. she thinks, maybe, she could try to explain why it is she was drawn here, how come her emotions got so tangled with his own, to the point she had to do something lest it was impossible to rise out of it all again.]

I've lost everyone in my family, too. I can feel your pain, your sadness, and it — it led me here. I'm sorry. [she repeats, a whistle of a sound with her syllables. because she felt it, because it was tangible to her when she glimpsed through—] You love them so much.

[present tense. that kind of love never dies. not for people like them.]

[castle]

[ the tragedy he could see in her eyes and along the lifelines of her open palm, hear in the quiet of her voice as she spoke of having no peace, it becomes clearer all at once, and he begins to realize the carousel that he's found himself in front of isn't meant to be a memory at all — it's a site for mourning. all it once, it makes sense somehow that she's stumbled into the tragedy of his mind.

loss is a common friend, but the loss of one's children is an entirely different curse. ]

Yeah. [ he quietly whispers, still trapped a little in his throat, but calmer now as his breathing once again evens out, and his heart steadies itself slowly.

for a few breaths, he only looks at her, because words can never quite offer solace. sometimes the presence is enough, and though he'd be inclined not to want to be touched, to be so used to no one wanting to be near him, her hand aids in collecting himself. ]

Your boys — [ his voice, albeit still carrying a slight rasp, is almost gentler now. ] What're their names?

[ what are rather than were. ]

[carmesi]

Tommy and Billy.

[she answers immediately, and a whole ache of issues rises up anew. she had been wandering recently, between two sides of the coin—the darkness in her soul and the bits of wanda that remained, the prophecy of the scarlet witch such a heavy weight for her to bear. though it has been a few weeks already, wanda has not been able to reconcile what she had done—

how it had hurt boys that were not meant to be hers.

but she's still a mother. she had given birth to her kids; even within the hex, the pain had been real and they had been real. they had chosen her.

with her free hand, wanda rubs at her nose, smudges away the tears on her cheek. she looks over her shoulder, away from the carrousel, leaning the weight of her head against the arm keeping closest to frank's back.]

Twins. Just like my brother and I.

[all her family is gone. she draws a shaky breath, sniffles against her sleeve.]

I was thirteen when I noticed I forgot what my parents looked like, what their touch felt like. I can't even... remember my brother's voice. I try — to remember, but it never sounds right. But I remember the bombs, and the gunfire, and my heart being ripped out of my chest. Over and over— [she swallows] I can't bring my own memories like yours. My magic won't...

[she turns to look back towards the carrousel, lips thinning into a line.]

They were about the age of your kids. How old were they, Lisa and...?

[castle]

[ frank can feel the hurt in the confession of their names, the ache that comes with pulling up the memories, but he knows the ease of comfort that comes in keeping it alive too, the sort of relief that surged amongst the pain when she somehow resurfaced images of his own children fresh once more in his mind. hurtful to remember but the kind of hurt you'd do anything to never lose.

little by little, he pieces more of who this woman is, not by name or reputation, but by the weight she carries — sons lost, brother lost, parents lost. everyone in her family, as she said. what he finds sitting here on this bench is a mirror image of his own grief, the threat of unbearable loss swallowing one whole that has become a familiar and sole friend. ]

Frank Jr. [ he exhales a small breath, managing a faint shift of his lips that could almost be the vague hint of a smile as he retreats into the memories. ] He never hated me for that one. Said he liked taking after his old man.

[ he looks down at his hands, skin scrapped at his knuckles where he'd bled through. his son might have had pride over him, but he can't say he feels the same about himself. his nails vaguely rub at the dried crimson but he doesn't make much of an effort to scrape it off. ]

Eleven and ten. Lis is the oldest. Would've been fifteen now.

[ with a hard swallow, he catches his breath before continuing. ]

Time, it— it makes it hard to hold on. Cause that pain, the grip of it, it— that never goes away, that'll always stay with you. Everything about the day where you lose it all. But all that comes before that? Time ... it eats at it, all the good — the laughter, the echo of it — until all that's left are the bullets and the stench of what you were left with when they were taken away from you.

[ lifting his head again, he looks towards her, quiet to take in the comfort of the solemn silence. at some point, the carousel's song had stopped. ]

You ... you helped me hold onto it a little longer.

[carmesi]

[wanda thinks it says something, that one can come into the horizon and present themselves however they want—nourished, healthy, clean—and yet frank sits beside her, dried blood on his hands.

five years is a long time to mourn, to be so despairingly alone, and with such violence as she had glimpsed in his head. there's also this indisputable sense that he doesn't care if he dies doing what it is he does—whatever the hell it is he does. and so he speaks, holds on tightly to these memories of his kids, tiny glimpses into their personalities, and his words about time are fractured as if he's trying to make sense of the words in his head; something abstract into something concrete.

and yet, wanda finds herself understanding completely, feeling every word that he says. that is the core of most of her grief, how time and thus the world move on, leave her stuck in time when everything just keeps passing her by.

when frank lifts his head to look at her, wanda pulls her hand back but does not remove herself from this proximity. instead, she reaches that same hand to place over his bloodied knuckles.]

I know what it's like. [she mutters—when she went to see vision's body, i can't feel you, and the all-encapsulating grief that came from it. time, there never is enough time. she smiles suddenly, a bit tightly, patting his hand a few times to try and keep herself from crying more.] —this might sound weird, but your sadness is so — loud. I noticed it the moment I stepped inside the Horizon.

[taking her hand back, she leans her shoulder against his, pulling at the sleeves over her wrists.]

I'm glad I could help.

[castle]

[ the fear of forgetting has always latched onto him, and maybe it'd been more of a threat for him, on account of how he had lost it briefly, how his skull had been struck by that bullet and not all of his memories had been quite together for those first few months he'd woken from the coma that should have taken him completely.

but it becomes little things, toys they liked, songs they listened to, pictures they painted, all that keep it stitched as something he can grasp onto, while he fights to hold the echo of their laughter. ]

No one's ever said it like that before.

[ that his sad is too loud, and if there wasn't such a heavy weight of grief washed over them on this bench, he might find some amusement in the idea.

he might not be all magic and mystical but somehow he understands what she might have felt in that. he can almost feel the same from her. not any magical sensibilities. just an instinct. ]

Sorry it ... pulled you in here.

[ or however she got motivated to come in here into his space. no one would be so anxious to be here. he turns forward to the carousel in their view, most days he isn't sure if being here is a comfort or a torture.

but glad you came, he doesn't say. gratitude is something that always becomes a bit more difficult to convey when someone seems to help him at their expense.

finally, he confesses, ] I'm Frank.

[carmesi]

[perhaps others, unlike wanda, could not really just feel emotion and thoughts from others the way she can. she doesn't know how else to describe it, how the world around her revolves in volumes of how guarded people may or may not be with their thoughts—like with peter, she can hear his stream of consciousness a mile a minute before he's even in the same room with her. with most, wanda's respectful, makes a concerted effort to not poke into their minds; most people have everything under a tight lock, anyway.

frank, here, seems the type who, like steve rogers, keeps his memories under a vault. appearances are deceiving, however, or perhaps wanda's just (un)fortunate enough to have ran into him in a moment such as this.

wanda shakes her head when he apologizes, noting, as she raises her eyes, at the real sentiment behind those words. she isn't sure if she's glad she came here, but there is a sense of... calm, relief almost, at having shared such vulnerable truths about each other—about those they love.]

Wanda.

[an offer, in return, wondering momentarily why his name seems familiar to her.

—no matter.]

You're new, aren't you?

[castle]

[ frank will often prefer to be alone (not lonely, as karen would insist, but simply alone, as he would phrase it), to face his own demons for himself without dragging someone else into it. but even he knows there's the occasional comfort with company, depending on the companion, where the waves of his war can settle a little bit more calmly against the shore, at least for a little while.

it's a rare moment now in sensing a bit of that, maybe because wanda isn't someone who looks at him with obligated pity. there's mutual understanding in the loss and while he'd prefer her loss didn't exist at all, he knows her compassion isn't empty.

he frowns at her question, not because there's anything particularly offensive by it, but he does feel strange about the concept of him being new with anything. ]

Why, I look that lost to you? [ some slight flat humor, mostly. ] Guess I am, in a way.

[ his eyes peer around the space, the environment around the carousel feeling so large, yet so small all at once. from the sides, it looks like it could go on further into the park and yet it feels almost suffocating from where he's sitting. ]

Think I fell in something like this once. Looked different.

[carmesi]

[wanda leans back with his answer, taking a deep breath—crossing her legs at the knees so she can have a perch for her elbow, allowing her head to rest against her hand. she follows frank's gaze, out towards the carousel, how it really is just a small part of everything that he could technically make his. the horizon can be pretty daunting.

there is abundance here already, though. wanda cannot imagine how creating more would help. the horizon is generally a place one draws up with a place of familiarity, of comfort. this place offers very little of that.]

Yeah? This is the Horizon, and all the Summoned have our brains connected to this space.

[it's hardly surprising if he saw someplace different.]

What did it look like?

[castle]

[ a name like "the horizon" sounds like the kind of thing frank would want to actively avoid, especially once murdock had dragged him into it, like a damn dream prison cell, as if he hadn't purposely ignored half of the weird shit that happens around that man from simply not wanting to know.

coming back to it on his own terms had felt different, and sitting here now, he wonders if he should have stayed out of it completely. ]

Makes it sound like we all got some invisible wires coming out of our heads into some computer or something.

[ he's not much of a techy guy either. but he'd take that over magic. he sighs, straightening up a little. ]

Just — city rooftop. Stumbled into it. [ forced into it, but he'd rather not talk about that fight. ] I heard they, uh — it's all based on stuff we think about or something, right?

[carmesi]

[wanda's noticed that over the past few months, the horizon has been shaped a little more to look a lot like a city, mostly due to specific people's horizons. she doesn't need to glance behind them to notice the glaring avengers tower in the distance.

—she gets that reference, though.]

I can promise you this isn't like The Matrix.

[after a moment, she stands up and takes a few steps away from the bench. her hands poised in front of her, she takes on the regard of frank's horizon, takes in this intrinsic understanding that he created without much thought put into it. a reactionary creation of his world—a window into his mind. too personal.

she turns back to face him. she's been helping people out a lot with this kind of thing, using their "mind" for magic.]

It's not that difficult, even if you've never done something like this before. Just— think of something, and really focus on it. [she pauses. suppose she'll be using the same example as she used with matt before (sorry, frank).] Like a tennis ball. Think of what it looks like, how it feels, how it's supposed to act. If you think of it and believe it's real, you can make it appear inside here.

[for her, it's easy— separating her hands, there's suddenly a fuzzy, yellow ball in one of them. she makes sure that frank is paying attention to her before tossing it over to him.]

weapons shop!

[godshattering]

[ Claude's spent the last couple weeks slowly expanding his network of merchants he does odd jobs for: balancing books, organizing storerooms, all sorts of things in between to explore options of potential jobs since the added coin doesn't hurt. His newest merchant friend just so happens to be the owner of this weapons shop, and he's seated at a makeshift desk off to one side while he thumbs through some very poorly arranged ledgers in need of some assistance.

While he works he mostly tunes out anyone shopping in the store around him, having only glanced up briefly when the latest man walks in before turning his attention back to his task. At least until he overhears some talk about bows and he looks up again, pen paused over the inventory lines he's tallying and watches curiously. This probably isn't something he should get involved with - considering it's not his store or anywhere close - but it's when that test draw is done that his interest is piqued too far to continue minding his own business. ]

You're going to injure yourself before long if you fire off too many shots that way.

[ It's said matter-of-factly but not in an unkind tone; rather, it's downright upbeat. When was the last time Claude got to give anyone pointers on archery? Far too long and the prospect of being able to do is exciting enough to get him to set down his pen and stand up to saunter over. Those ledgers can wait. ]

I take it you've never used a bow before? [ That's paired with a cheerful smile since it's a genuine question even if the stranger's grip has already told him as much. Confirmation never hurts though, and Claude looks at the bow in appraisal before nodding once. ] This one would be a solid choice to start with. Not that I have anything invested in the sales here, but it's a decent size and shouldn't require much maintenance.

[castle]

[ frank would say that he's well versed in weaponry and could easily describe the specific uses of any firearm from carbines to rifles, pistols to revolvers. hell, he could even do a hell of a job working a crossbow with ease if he could get his hands on one, but the bow categorizes itself as pretty damn old fashioned that his fingers instantly fees the need to readjust the moment he gets his hand on it, aware that it isn't quite right while also craving the familiarity of something a little less medieval.

it's not like him to feel like such an amateur, a quiet huffing breath escaping him when the younger man calls out the flaws to his posture, suddenly awkwardly lowering down the weapon with a little discomfort at not being so much the expert he often prides himself to be. ]

Never been my usual style. [ which is the truth, even if it feels a little cheap of an excuse to be so notably unskilled at something. but as the man describes the weapon in his hands, he peers back down at it, running his thumb against the carved woodwork. ] Just need something that can take care of a bit of hunting for me.

[ not for animals, but no need for specifics. ]

[godshattering]

[ Hunting doesn't register with him as anything except what he knows it to be here in Abraxas: for game, for monsters, something that falls in between those two things. Whatever it is probably also isn't his business so Claude doesn't react, really, beyond nodding slightly as he studies the bow yet again before glancing back up at the other man. ]

Well, everyone starts somewhere. I'll admit picking up archery from square one makes it a tad more difficult but it's definitely not impossible with a little practice. One important thing is that no matter which hand you're using to grip the bow, you don't want to hold onto it too tightly. Same goes for the bowstring.

[ And a live demonstration's always more helpful than just talking about something, isn't it? A quick look towards the shop owner shows he's occupied with someone else wanting to buy things from the other end of the store, so Claude picks up a bow for himself from the rack. It's not much more elaborate than the one held by his new student so at least there's no cause for stress from the owner. Hopefully. Anyway, he demonstrates the loose grip he's talking about and the right stance, even if he doesn't have an arrow. ]

Put too much stress on either part and you won't actually have any control of where your shot's going in the end, and that defeats the purpose of lining one up in the first place. It feels counterintuitive, but you'll also tire yourself out much faster if you're not careful.

ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʟʟᴇʏ

[righteously]

( It's the scream that brings him running. Not hers; he's still hauling his weary ass back in from the desert when the old lady falls. Still unsaddling his horse, and only just making his way through the otherwise empty streets.

No, it's the guy he hears — faint at first, something he'd probably have dismissed if it didn't linger just long enough for him to recognize it and pick up on the direction.

He doesn't make it in time.

The yelling cuts off abruptly in a way that can only really mean one thing. )

Son of a bitch.

( Three, maybe four seconds later he finally rounds the alley, rifle in hand — which he immediately levels at the back of the guy standing over the body.

Frank's greeted with the unmistakable ch-chnk! of a chambered round, a cocked firearm. )

Drop the hammer, Maxwell Silver.

( Kind of ironic, considering it's being barked out by a guy also covered in blood that isn't his own. )

[castle]

[ when these things happen, frank's usually just walks away from the mess, but he isn't surprised these days when there's the occasional witness. typically it's in the form of a blind man trying to play hero, but occasionally it'll switch to someone else brave enough to point a weapon at him.

he hears the cocking of the gun but it doesn't frighten him, doesn't even make him flinch.

his eyes lift in the darkness, feeling the hovering presence behind him — stern and experienced, just by the steadiness in the voice. probably not an idiot. gun would suggest an advantage over the mallet. at least in most scenarios. so there's the conviction of having the upper hand. ]

Little late there, hero.

[ frank doesn't turn around and he doesn't drop the mallet either, though he lets it hang along his side, not positioned for any threatening swing. ]

Already did the job.

[righteously]

( Joke's on you, Frank — it's totally an idiot. Unfortunately, he just happens to be an idiot that's competent at violence. )

Yeah, I can see that.

( He returns flatly, unwavering. )

Drop it. Let me see some hands. ( A beat, and then more gravely, in case there's any question: ) I'm not kidding.

( He'll pull the trigger. He's not a greenhorn. He's dropped a man before — more than one. Dude's not a monster, in this case he'd probably aim to take out a knee before he went for something more lethal, but still. A bullet's a bullet. They don't tickle. )

[castle]

[ frank's not one to drop a weapon, not unless someone else is being threatened, someone important. fortunately, here, there's no one he cares about like that, no one to have to stay up worrying about.

he's alone.

he does, however, turn around, slowly, fingers still on the wood handle of the mallet. it remains loose, with no intention towards using it. not again, anyway, as turning around exposes the bit of spattered blood along his face. ]

You wanna shoot me, shoot me.

[ i wake up most mornings and i want it. i hope for it. ]

But this asshole right here? Just killed an old woman in cold blood while robbing her. Ain't the kind of guy who needs to stay alive.

[righteously]

( It's the recognition that hits him first, that has him taking his finger off the trigger. Just a fleeting moment of familiarity, maybe a little disappointment — really? It had to be a summoned? Somehow, that feels a little worse than some rando douchebag local.

Another thing that rings familiar: that suicidal apathy, that I don't care anymore, pull the trigger. Yeah, he's been there for a year or ten.

His eyes flicker from Frank to the body, studying it like he might be able to divine the truth somehow. He's got a pretty good gut for when people are lying, but all the same, he's gotta ask: )

You got any proof?

[castle]

[ he doesn't need another matthew murdock. someone to get up in his face about right or wrong, about religious morals, and about whether we should leave death in the hands of god. he doesn't need that shit because he's not going to listen anyway. the things he does, he does it his way, and even in this damn place he can't seem to get out of, that's not gonna change.

with the question, he scoffs quietly enough, but it's actually almost surprising that it's even asked. usually the killing is enough for people not to care what the murdered asshole had done to deserve it. they only ever care that it's frank's hands they see dirty.

but he can answer calmly enough, never steering his eyes away and never hesitating on an answer. ]

You'll find her a few blocks off that way. Throat sliced open. Her blood's spattered all over his arm, the same one that held the knife he cut her with after trying to rob her. If it isn't still clutched in his hand, then no doubt it's in his pocket, also covered in blood. You shouldn't need to be a detective to put the rest together.

[righteously]

( Out comes a long-winded answer, with just the right kind of specifics. One long look at the body - at his hands, specifically. At the knife lying two or so inches away, because apparently that dead hand went limp. He's gonna wanna swing by the alley later, see the old woman's corpse. Gonna wanna check the body — once they've got some damn distance between themselves and some insomniac civilian.

It it doesn't hold up, he'll deal with it somewhere more private than here.

A beat later. )

Okay.

( Sounds a little something like resignation, tired, begrudgingly accepting what the next hour of his life's probably gonna look like.

He lowers the rifle, and is maybe a little ever-so-slightly childish when he declares: )

You're carrying it.

( In other words: they're not just gonna leave a friggin' body lying in the open.

He knows a place. )

[castle]

[ frank doesn't say anything at all for a moment, brows tightening a bit with the surprise of confusion. he even observes a bit of the body language to make sure this isn't a stunt, that he isn't gonna get himself shot in the face with that rifle in the next few moments once he lets down his guard.

but he doesn't see any signs of a ploy. ]

What, that's it?

[ maybe he really has been around matt too much. he's developed his own expectations. ]

No grand speech or moral lecture?

[ surprising as it is, he'll take it, exhaling a brief with a muttered christ before he tucks his mallet into the loop of his belt. ]

[righteously]

( The question earns Frank one vaguely incredulous look.

You want a grand speech? Okay, here we go: )

Four score and seven years ago, hurry the hell up.

( The whole thing screams impatience, and he peels his eyes away from Frank to scope out their surroundings for any extra eyes. )

Let's save the interrogation for somewhere a little further away from a crime scene.

c. weapons shop!

[monomachy]

[As Diana enters the shop, she greets the keeper by name, offering a wide smile that is returned in kind. Besides the fact that she's a fairly regular customer, she's helped him with a few projects in the months she's been in Cadens. It doesn't get her a discount, unfortunately, but it does mean he doesn't watch her quite as closely as he does some of his other customers, allowing her to peruse his wares in peace.

She notes that she isn't the only person in the shop (as anyone entering this sort of establishment would), but doesn't pay much mind to her shopping companion until she sees him lift the bow. Though it's clear that the weapon is unfamiliar in his hands, he seems to figure it out quickly enough. Not a novice then, but also not a master.

Her eyes track along the length and breadth of his arm as he draws back the string, and then shakes her head slightly. She puts down the axe she was examining, and steps towards him.]

You'll need a longer draw.

[She says it simply, stating a fact. She extends one hand, letting it move just below his elbow, not touching him but the instruction clear.]

Lift here. You'll feel it more in your shoulders.

[castle]

[ it's a hard thing to try to accomplish out of the public eye, trying to ease his way into feeling comfortable with a new weapon. when the woman steps up to try to guide him on it, there's an inevitable awkwardness. nothing to do with her being a woman, but simply because the necessity of being shown how to work something tends to be uncommon territory.

he watches the motion of her hands, shifting his elbow to follow the instruction. not too long, he feels exactly what she suggests, the tension in his muscles different from how he'd started. ]

Lot different from a firearm. More manual labor required of the arms, huh?

[monomachy]

[For her part, Diana doesn't seem to have a problem giving unsolicited advice in the middle of the weapons shop; she's worked with some of Cadens' freshest recruits at the training grounds, and has gotten into the habit of correcting posture and grip without a second thought. Once he's got his elbow in the right place, she takes half a step back, surveying his form.

She snorts, amused. But her tone doesn't turn condescending, just blunt.]

Yes, a bow requires more than just one finger. [She smoothly goes back to instruction.] The arrow must be parallel to your collarbone, and you will have to find your anchor point. [She taps the corner of her mouth as she speaks.] Draw the string, and rest your index finger here. Keep your arm straight. See how it feels.

[castle]

[ the commentary from him is slightly sarcastic, but not at all mocking. honestly, he can respect the craft, even if he finds some of his preferred weaponry back home to be more efficient for the purposes he usually carries them for. but careful study like this, where every position of the body is plenty important, even more so than it already is with use of a gun, he's gotta have plenty of respect for that. ]

Got a lot in common with the rifle.

[ he angles the arrow as instructed, parallel to his collarbone as she suggests, similar to the way he'd position his more familiar weapon, even if here he's positioning the ammo rather than the weapon itself. ]

Different structure, but you can't just grip it and force it to work for you. Gotta treat it delicately.

[ which is what he does as he follows her steps, easing his index in the correct position, arm straight as he angles the blunt arrow to the positioned circular target in one corner of the shop. with careful attention, he eyes it with a focused stare before he finally loosens his hold, letting the arrow fly. without the sharpened end, it won't cut through the target but it can be seen bumping hard right into the center circle, even leaving a scrapped mark.

frank lowers his arm, exhaling a breath and nodding. ] Think it feels good.

[monomachy]

[Does it? Diana has never held a rifle, except to break it; she can't comment on how similar its use is to a bow. But his tone makes it clear he believes what he says, so she tucks the information away in the back of her mind.

She focuses once more on his posture, on the way he holds the bow. "Delicately," as he says, but not gingerly. He's comfortable holding a weapon, no matter the kind. His hands are calloused, those of a warrior, so she is not at all surprised when he hits the bullseye on his first try. He has training of some kind, even if not with a bow.

Nodding in approval, Diana moves to go pick up the spent arrow. A shame it was blunted; she has no doubt that with the strength of his draw, he would have sunk it nearly halfway up the shaft into the target.]

It looked good.

[She moves to hand the arrow back to him, fletching first.]

I would see if he has anything made of hickory, or yew. Those are strong woods, and make the best bows.