Chapter Text
The Port-fucking-Mafia.
It's not something Frank has ever come into contact with. He's heard of it, sure, and the things he hears are enough to turn anyone's stomach. Sex trafficking, drugs, murder and torture are commonplace there. That's all pretty standard to be completely honest, it is a crime syndicate, in the end. They commit crimes. It's in their damn title.
No, the frightening aspect is just how put together and managed it is.
He's heard of the man in whispers, the name pried from reluctant cartel members after hours of torture and cruelty just to find anything, and for members of a Mexican drug cartel to be ready to give up their own leaders before the boss of a completely unrelated syndicate? That's more than a bit unusual.
And scary.
The Port Mafia runs like a well oiled machine, they get their shit down and leave. They don't cause extra trouble. You'd never catch even a whisper of a stray Port Mafia member robbing a liquor store for fun because they think their affiliation keeps them exempt of consequences, like you would hear of any other group. No, they mind their shit and do what they need, no extra necessary.
With that sort of work ethic and carefully instilled fear and respect, it's no wonder they managed to pretty much take over an entire city in Japan.
Colour him surprised, though, when they actually step off their turf and onto American soil.
Surprised, mind you. Not pleased.
When he hears murmurs that they're setting up a dock here, in New York to further expand business in transporting illegal substances and items, Frank decides he ought to nip that in the bud before it gets any worse. There's already enough crime in this shitty city, no need to let it fester any further.
"I wouldn't recommend it— it's— they're bad, bad news."
"They ain't normal! They've got mutants or some shit— They're terrifying, X-men level!"
"I can't tell you! If I do, t-they'll send the Demon Prodigy after me!"
Personally, Frank thinks the "Demon Prodigy" is a fairly uppity name, way too much like some super villain name out of a movie or comic, something Jr would've been into. But still, Frank is not naive nor stupid, he knows not to allow his judgment to be clouded by assumptions. After all, these men, hardened criminals, had trembled at the mere mention of the cheesy name.
Bringing it up was pretty fruitless. No matter how many gang members or pushers he got, their lips were always sealed on the details of this guy. Just the same thing every time.
"He's here, in New York!"
"I don't want him after me! I'll be done for!"
"There's no way in hell I want him as my enemy!"
Always a different variation of that, and as he investigates the Mafia's new setup in the docks, settling on a roof across from a large, always busy warehouse, that's when he hears of the first body to wash up.
Broken jaw, three gunshot wounds to the chest, and thrown into the ocean only to wash up just a few miles away from them. It's their calling card, their signature execution, and it certainly puts all the previous men's terror into perspective, because once that first body washes up, they never stop.
~~~~
Dressed in black, covered in bandages.
The warehouse is quieter than usual, only a few men keeping guard, one at the front entrance, presumably another at the back near the docks themselves, and likely some form of indoor security. He likes that it's quiet, taking down a handful of men is a hell of a lot easier than if he were to go in guns blazing on a usual day where it's filled with bulky men built to move boxes and armed with dangerous weapons.
So, he decides that this is the best possible time to do it.
Taking down the first man is easy, he does not hear nor see Frank approaching in the darkness. He's glancing to the side, peering away from him, so grabbing him around the neck and drawing the blade across his throat is silent and without real struggle, just feeble attempts to claw away from Frank.
By the time Frank carefully lets the body down to the ground so as to keep silent, he's so out of it from blood loss he's incapable of really doing anything, and so, quietly, the man creaks the door open a smidge and slinks inside.
The lighting is sparse, and he can distinctly hear two voices chatting, casual laughter shared between them.
Passing through the shadows, Frank crouches behind a crate. Peering out to the end of the building, he catches sight of two tall, suit-wearing men speaking Japanese, armed with large semi-automatic weapons, standing in front of the large end door. These men are all the security they have set for this place? He guesses that maybe New York isn't as lucrative of a business opportunity as they'd thought if they were putting so little effort into protecting their new branch. They don't even see him, don't even know that he's here, readying a steady shot to kill, to wipe them out and burn this damn warehouse to the ground, to send a message all the way back to Japan that their business isn't fucking welcome.
The first goes down silently in one shot, and the second hardly gets in a shout before he's gunned down as well, leaving only the sound of his own breathing and the waves in the ocean to bounce around the building.
It's an eeriness he's all too familiar with at this point, but nevertheless it doesn't stop being off-putting. The sound a room makes when the occupants are dead, the way things go on just as they had been beforehand, like the deaths were just another usual happening in the space, like moving boxes or friendly chatter.
And technically, they were.
He's only halfway through unscrewing the top of his gas canister when the sound of a safety clicking and the muzzle of a gun resting against the back of his head brings him to a halt.
Of course there was another. That would've been too damn easy, now wouldn't it?
Slowly, his arms raise up in a sign of surrender, but the gun does not move, nor does the owner speak. They're caught in silence, just the two of them.
"Y'know... New York's a pretty shitty place to try and set up shop, Japan don't got a lot of Vigilantes, but New York sure as hell does." The owner's steady hold does not falter at the warning, and as Frank slowly begins to turn, he's jabbed in the head, hard, with the pistol, the person holding him at gunpoint clearly displeased at his attempt to get a better look. He falls still once more.
"Not a lot of people here tonight. You people aren't being very careful to protect this place... unless having no one here to hold down camp was intentional." If he's quick enough, he can knock the gun away and keep this one alive for a short while to get some insider information about this whole situation.
He acts.
He moves quickly, pushing the other's wrist out of the way and twisting it hard until the telltale snap of a broken bone fills the air, the gun dropping from his assailants hands and hitting the concrete with a deafening clang. Swiftly kicking the weapon away, the metal skids across wet concrete, grating on his ears. It's easy to take him down hard, even in the shadows of the corner they're settled in. Frank grabs his arms and shoves back, a sharp gasp rattling from the abused lungs of the assailant as he's pushed, back first, into the corner of a crate, Frank's other arm shoved lengthwise against the windpipe of his attacker. Frank is bending him awkwardly over the crate, gangly limbs tense and shaky, but he does not move to defend himself, nor to shove a hand away or to try to escape. He's perfectly still. Frank would have thought he was unconscious had it not been for the fact that he could see the other peering up at him.
White bandages, is his first observation. It shouldn't be. It should be how old he is— or perhaps young is a better term, because for God's sake, he looks barely a day over fifteen.
Nope. Nuh uh. Frank doesn't do kids. He doesn't kill children. And right here? That's a kid, a kid he's been shoving around (not undeservedly, after all the boy had put a gun to his head) and he's here in this shithole of all places, looking like some sort of mummy, wrapped up like that.
"Who the hell are you? Why are you here?" Frank asks but doesn't let up, trading out the oppressive choking arm for yanking him upright by his dress shirt, noting the twitch-like wince when he's pulled up.
"Does it really matter?" The reply is soft, but it isn't gentle. Maybe his voice could be described as being on the gentler side, but he doesn't think the word quite fits. It's less gentle and more flat and subdued. He's quiet, but not happy nor shy, not angry either. He just... is. And an expression that matches such a description is reflected up on his face.
"It does in determining whether or not I kill you right here." He's bluffing, of course. Frank isn't going to kill the kid, but he doesn't know that. After all, the Punisher doesn't exactly hold the best reputation for leaving behind survivors.
"Ah, you'll kill me? Scary, scary... Say, what response exactly will cause you to put me six feet under? Please, do tell! I don't want to be off the mark with my answer." His voice is giddy sounding, but it's hollow, just like before. It's creepy. Unnerving.
Not right.
"You think this is a damn joke?" He gives the kid a good shake at that.
"No, no, I'm being dead serious about this— I'm always serious about death!"
"Why. Are. You. Here?" His words are slow and steady, and he listens carefully for the sounds of any approaching vehicles, because for every moment spent here, talking to this kid, the more likely the idea of an ambush is.
"I'm here for the same reason everyone else is. I was sent." Frank yanks the coat off the kid's shoulders, checking his waistband for any other weapons. There's none to be seen, but nonetheless he tosses the coat aside and pats him down—much to the very vocal distaste of the kid, who makes more than one attempt to kick or hit him.
"By?" Frank pulls a zip tie from his back pocket and gestures for the teens hands, which are given over unceremoniously.
"No need to play dumb. You know who I'm employed under." Frank sure did, and maybe as the name Mori Ougai curls in his mind like a diseased snake, he tightens the zip tie a bit too tight, but the kid doesn't complain, so Frank clasps a hand over his shoulder and starts walking him out.
"Yeah, Mori Ougai, the Port Mafia. You aren't welcome in New York. We're going keep coming after the Mafia until they back the fuck off, or they're all dead and gone." With the cap of the gas canister popped off, he keeps his hand on the teen as he dumps it in a trail to the door. Now standing in the doorway, he tosses the empty canister inside the building before rummaging through his pocket and grabbing a lighter, flicking it on, stepping back a few feet and tossing it.
It's instantaneously bright, the gas catching and lighting up the whole of the side. The fire slowly but surely crawls up the walls, building momentum. It's intense, watching it burn, but lighting shit on fire just to watch is not anything he's been too keen on doing lately, so he tows the kid away, down the block. The teen walks in an odd way, like his back is too stiff and he can't—or won't—move it too much, which, recalling the hit he'd taken to the back from the crate's corner, is pretty damn understandable. Probably hurts like a bitch, if he's honest. Still, the kid cranes his head back and stares at the burning building with an uncertain look on his face.
"I didn't know you worked with others." When the bandaged boy finally speaks, the howls of emergency vehicles are already filling the air. Frank grimaces at how quick they are.
"I don't." The van is there, and he yanks the passenger door open and dumps the gangly kid in, slamming the car door and just barely missing his ankles before he could pull his feet into the car. Going around the other side, he jumps in, glimpsing the kid trying to wriggle upright, not wanting to put pressure on his broken wrist which was now pressed tight against the other.
"It's just that none of us tolerate organized crime, so the Vigilantes will get involved. Quick." The kid watches him with an unreadable expression, and as he pulls out of his parking space Frank looks back at him through the mirror. Casting glances at the boy is the best look he'd gotten at him up until now.
Dark hair, either black or brown—it was difficult to tell in the lighting—wavy and curling around a face that still held a frightening amount of youthfulness for someone with his sort of occupation. Bandages ran across his face, wrapped around his head, more up his neck, and his arms that are now half bare without the coat and the folded up sleeves. The arms, at least till the elbow, are stark, sterile white. Even in the dark, he can spot a bit of the now familiar brightness of bandages on the small stretch of his ankle that's exposed.
They'd describe him as dressed in black and covered in bandages. So far, this kid was ticking both of those boxes, what with his now burning coat, black blazer and dark dress pants, and of course, the abundance of bandages. It makes sense, but it also doesn't. However, he knows not to underestimate. Clearly the kid's not a good fighter, but if he really is the Demon Prodigy, for him to garner such fear, he's sure as hell gotta be good at something.
"... How brave." That's the last thing the boy says for the rest of the drive.
They pass by a fire truck.
Neither of them turn to look at it.
~~~~
"Ms. Page, this is starting to get a bit too common for you to be here," Detective Mahoney comments as the blonde haired woman strides in with all the usual confidence that says she knows she'll get what she came for.
"It's starting to be a bit like a second home, these days," she returns mildly.
"You know who this is about." She sighs and glances away, shaking her head slightly.
"How about we continue this chat somewhere more private?" He offers, though it's not really an offer. They both know that.
"You mean interrogation?" She accuses none too pleasantly, but follows him nonetheless.
"I thought this was like a second home?" The detective opens the door for her and she slips in, taking a seat as she always does. The room is far more comfortable than most, the table being wood rather than metal, the chair is cushioned and the walls are painted a warm beige to hide the fact that they are solid concrete without even a layer of drywall.
"Suddenly, I'm inclined to move out." She smiles thinly as he sits across from her.
"Well, Castle is stirring up trouble again." Karen frowns.
"He was cleared of all charges," she reminds him, voice only slightly defensive and accusatory.
"That doesn't stop him from adding new, substantiated charges to his empty roster." He enunciated each word carefully to her, knowing firsthand how good she is at twisting his words and throwing them back in his face.
"I don't even think he's in New York right now to begin with." She sighs, leaning back in the chair to stare across the table at the dark skinned man.
"You haven't had contact with him?" He inquires, sitting forward.
"Not since he's been cleared, no. Last I knew he was traveling outside of New York. California, I think."
"Ms. Page, you do know it's a crime to attempt to mislead an officer?" Her eyes narrow and now she herself sits forward, arms settling on the tabletop, hands folded.
"Detective Mahoney, pray tell, what I have lied to you about since starting this conversation?" He stares at her, long and hard, looking for any sign of wavering in her conviction, but there's none. She's rock solid as ever, staring at him with a challenge in her eyes, and Christ, maybe she should become a lawyer with Murdock and Foggy and drop journalism as a whole, because for as good as a journalist she is, she just may make a better lawyer.
"Just keeping you on your toes, Ms. Page. But this situation... It's serious. I can't tell you anything more, but keep an eye out for him, an arrest warrant may be issued for him soon." She's interested, he can tell she wants to know, but they're both well aware that he can't go off spouting important information about pending cases to people outside the force, especially not to a journalist.
"I won't ask, but Detective Mahoney? I'm not his caretaker. It's always me getting called down for this stuff, and I never have anything to add."
"Well, one day you might have something, and we're trying to be safe rather than sorry about all this. We don't want things to get out of hand." He opens a folder and shuffles through, setting down a set of forms for her to sign to confirm this conversation took place, along with adding any possible updated information.
"Sign these and you can go. We'll call you if we need to talk again." It's a matter of minutes before the papers are all signed and handed to the detective.
She breathes a sigh of relief leaving the police station, shaking off the oppressive feeling as she walks down the street to hail a cab to take her back to work.
As she waits, she dials an unnamed number, and on the third ring, the phone is picked up.
"Frank?"