It's almost dark by the time the lock turns on Maurtia Falls #008. The light has that low, shrouded feeling that always seems to creep in all at once, a sudden shift from day to night. Frank had taken his time acclimating to the city, walking half to get the lay of the land and half just to let what was happening sink in. Interdimensional abduction. Super powers. The Cold War. A dog he hadn't seen for a month, but wasn't unhappy to see again.
Said dog, a grey and white pit bull all froth-mouthed from the heat, bounds in first through the door, tongue lolling and tail thumping against the furniture as he circles the living room despite the tug on his leash.
"Come on," Frank says, his voice low and his feet moving for the kitchen, even as his eyes are still circling the room for signs of habitation. Group housing, the guys on base had said. "Gotta be a bowl around here somewhere."
There isn't very much within to indicate someone else has been here- except for a few grains of sand spilled on the coffee table and partially on the floor in the living room. A tiny clear crystalline spike, no more than an inch or two tall, standing on said table, catching the light, reflecting it brilliantly.
The activity gets noticed, eventually, and Lex walks down the stairs, before stopping at the foot, his eyes sweeping around, dismissing the dog almost immediately, before eventually reaching and settling on Frank, looking at his clothing.
Unlike the retroclassic wear the locals wear, or some of the clothing many of the new arrivals wear, Lex's clothing falls into the timeframe of being on just this side of dated, even without the suit jacket in sight: the grey waistcoat and the white tie with the gold tie pin (its head marked with the forward slashed 'L' that also marks his company logo) show him as not being contemporary. The communicator is a thin shape in one of his trouser pockets.
"They mentioned the housing was shared," Lex comments, sounding almost bored. Not quite matter of fact. "You're the only one I've seen today."
Faded black t-shirts and cargo pants with the combat boots to match are more Frank's style, the rest of his inventory crowded into a military-issue duffle bag slung over one of his shoulders. Though not a tall man, his shoulders are broad, his arms long and well defined where they reach for the cupboard door's edge — and freeze, the rope of his muscles pulled taut at the sound of the other man's voice.
He knows that voice.
(They call you the Punisher. Prove it.)
Frank's head turns, slow at first like he's dreading it and then all at once, the whites of his eyes showing for a split second. He knows that voice — but not that face. Not that suit, the waistcoat and the pin, all of which earn no more than a cursory glance before his eyes come back to rest on that face. The wrong face.
The dog whines, quizzical.
"Frank," he says, by way of introduction. It's quiet, like he's just finding his voice again.
Something like fear, and then confusion- right before he gets a proper look at Lex. Interesting, considering Lex has never seen this man in his life. He tends to avoid having direct contact with the boots-on-the-ground military sort, which he can tell this man is. There are only so many kinds of people who dress in that way, after all.
Either way, he has no real reason to put this man- Frank- at ease.
"Lex Luthor," is his own response, in turn. Either he knows the name or not, and it'll certainly tell him more regardless of the reaction.
Frank isn't sure he'll be staying in government housing long. But he isn't sure he won't, either. When he'd woken up yesterday morning he'd had a mission, a calling spelled out for him in the clearest, most brutal terms he could imagine, and even on days he wasn't sure God or fate or any of that bullshit even existed, he had the skills and the means to do one thing. Today, he's got no resources save a dog and an apartment in a city that isn't his, that didn't ask for the Punisher, that put him to work in a coffee shop instead of on the streets.
If being transplanted across multiple universes isn't some kind of sign, he's not sure what is. But what kind, he doesn't know.
It's as much habit as any kind of necessity, then, that his first priority is getting a good look at the place he's landed in. He lets the dog roam out back first while he walks the perimeter of the yard, taking the occasional casual look overtop the fence into his neighbor's, learning the exits, gauging the sight lines from the windows.
Later, Frank takes the dog out for a walk, rope leash in hand, with frequent stops for the latter to get in a good sniff and the former to size up his neighbors' properties. And the neighbors themselves.
The apartments in Maurtia Falls weren't much to look at, but they had provided Bela with a place to live for the past sixteen months. Her plans to move to somewhere else had been put on hold until she had enough money to make it happen.
She's home a lot later than usual, the keys to the house already in her hand as she walks up the path to the door. A noise behind her causes Bela to turn around to see what it was, catching sight of Frank and his dog. Good thing her cat hadn't decided to go outside, it wouldn't bode well for the poor animal.
He wasn't someone that Bela recognised, but that didn't mean he lived in this particular neighbourhood. She observes his behaviour for a minute or two, finding some of it slightly suspicious.
Frank's moving at an easy pace along the sidewalk, and the appearance of one of his neighbors does nothing to speed or slow him — it just gives his attention another place to land, casual as can be.
At the sound of the woman's voice, however, the dog starts to pull that direction, tail wagging furiously. Frank keeps a firm grip on his leash but allows the animal to pull them along a little faster with a tolerant sort of humor. "He seems to think so, anyway."
"Just moved in," he says, with a nod down the street, in the general direction of #008. "How do you like the neighborhood?"
"It's not bad." Which meant 'just about bearable.' "I have been here for close to a year and a half now and haven't found any trouble." Mostly. "The neighbours are friendly enough and there's a few amenities around."
Bela doesn't know if he wanted her to offer that bit of explanation about how she felt about the neighbourhood, but now she can't take it back.
Claire's trying to feel like she fits in, honest she is. The truth is, even if she'd come here directly from 1945 she'd still feel like a fish out of water; with the clothes (or lack thereof), the noise, and how much she's missed. She's never had her own proper place, either; she and Frank (Randall) had been nomadic in nature before the war, then they'd both gone off to serve their country and then...well. Claire'd been transported to 1743 where, if she had little to her name before, she certainly had nothing after.
It's an odd thing then, to suddenly have her own house. Well, one she shares with a woman fond of bubble baths. But it still means she could buy vases if she wanted; make this place truly her own. She's a bit like Frank (Castle) in that regard, though neither of them knows it: Maybe she'll stay in this house, but maybe she won't. As odd as it all feels, at least she has eventual options.
At least it hasn't been hard to find clothes that make her feel as if she's still in Scotland, and from the right time, too. When she sees a curious neighbor, she's dressed comfortably for simply surveying her own yard, trying to decide what she can plant in this climate, if she should. (What would the point be if she's going to pick up and move?) She's just stood up, dirt falling from her fingertips when Claire catches a man's gaze over the fence. She offers a smile and an open greeting.
Frank doesn't show any discomfort for having been caught looking over; he isn't up to anything nefarious, by his estimation, at least nothing he's guessing would negatively impact her. He doesn't quite smile back, but his expression softens a touch, like once upon a time he might have.
"Just yesterday." The dog's sniff-snuffs can be heard closing in on them from the other side of the fence. For his part, Frank's brows knit a touch at getting a good look at her— and more specifically her outfit. That's not exactly future-1950s chic. "Not so big a change for me as it is for you, I'm guessing."
"I'm only a couple days in, myself," Claire replies, walking closer to the fence, clearly not bothered at all that he was looking and inviting more conversation. "Already with an animal, or did it come with you?" she asks, only surprised either way. If the dog came with him, then it's a new piece of information on what can and cannot suddenly arrive. If he's taken it in already, then the man moves fast, and she'd be a little curious where to possibly get a cat. She always wanted one, she always moved too often.
At his latter comment, she smiles a little, though she's still sticking with her Scotland story. "Oh, I don't know. Have things changed all that much since 1743, really?" she teases at her own expense.
Better Latte Than Never may be the kind of coffee shop to use a cutesy pun for a name, but this is still Maurtia Falls, and Frank had been at least begrudgingly relieved to find it isn't exactly hipster central. There are no matching green aprons and black polos here, no strawberry cream frappuccinos, no double shot Oprah Teavana dirty chai with soy. The usual barrage of espresso drinks are still on the menu, sure, but this is the place you come for a cup of coffee you could stand a spoon up in and a breakfast sandwich that'll hold you over 'til lunch. A diner-style countertop surrounds the coffee bar, the tables are formica, the chairs aren't exactly cushy, and the staff isn't especially tolerant of customers who forget to treat them like humans.
Still, most of the baristas are friendlier than Frank. Frank isn't a How can I help you? sort of guy; he isn't a smiler or a people pleaser, he's a silent, judgmental starer, and after the extended flat look he'd given one customer's order of an extra hot cappuccino with no foam, his coworker had helpfully offered to take over the register for a while. Maybe indefinitely.
During the morning rush, he's the guy in the back making your coffee who looks more like a bouncer than a barista, and consequently he doesn't get many complaints. In the afternoons, though, as traffic starts to wane and the tables start to clear save for well-entrenched internet users, Frank can be found wiping down tables, collecting dishes, cleaning steam wands—
And watching. A little too sharply for the average barista, maybe.
At some point, a cat appears in the coffee shop. That's the thing about cats, really - you don't usually see them wander in, or walk around; generally, they're just sort of there, present, looking at you uncannily. And this one looks at him uncannily, a sleek, gray little thing that's taken up residence on one of the chairs and watches Frank intently right back as he wipes down the tables. She's utterly motionless aside from the occasional twitch of the very tip of her tail.
Frank isn't really a cat person. You do right by a dog, it'll do right by you, too. A cat, on the other hand, might just as well decide to bite you anyway. This one, with her uncanny stare and her barely twitching tail, looks to him like exactly that sort of cat.
They're still animals, though, and that means firstly that he's inclined to be kind to it all the same, and secondly that he's pretty sure this is some kind of health code violation in the making. So he leaves his rag on the counter and steps, remarkably quietly for such a big man, over toward her table, trying not to startle her. He's not looking forward to chasing her around the cafe. "Hey," he murmurs a low greeting and offers out one coffee-smelling hand at a fair sniffing distance. He's not sure cats are real big on coffee, but there's not much he can do to avoid it here. "Pretty sure you're not supposed to be in here, little miss."
Kitty decides, at once, that he likes this guy. Maybe it's the cat in her instinctively recognizing someone who's not a cat person - because you really can recognize them, and your cat instincts do just make you want to go and bother them. Maybe it's the fact that, in spite of not being a cat person, he's still gentle in his movements and his manner. Or maybe it's just that he smells nice. Coffee is such a lovely smell.
So she twitches a single ear, and lifts her enormous luminous eyes to his face - not moving a single muscle otherwise. A moment of silence, and then she speaks, her voice light and warm and girlish.
It's pretty much closing time by the time Tina wanders in, but it's still breakfast time in her book. It's what happens when your sleep schedule consists of 'nap when tired, be awake when not.' Exploring this big new world where she didn't already have a personal fortress was new and different, but was getting boring. Each town the same. People, no one openly shooting at each other, plants that staunchly refused to try to murder her.
How did people even live like this?
But she's used to people's shocked reactions to her totally normal outfit (complete with blood splattered mask worn like an over sized bow in her hair) it enough now that she doesn't even glance over and check for a potential attacker when one of the booth dwellers gasps at her entrance.
She throws herself onto a bar stool at the counter top, tucking her knees in so she can spin a few full rotations before locking eyes with Frank.
Frank doesn't react all at once, but in a short succession of stages. His eyes flick to follow her spin around the chair, then take in her outfit, then land on the mask. His back straightens.
He doesn't ask if it's real. He knows what dried blood looks like. And that she looks awfully young to be wearing so much of it.
"Whose is that?" is what he settles on instead, with a nod to the mask. The blood, he means.
Being in Maurtia Falls was always an exercise in suffering, actually.
Tony Stark vastly preferred the sharp cheer of De Chima, the experimental coffee shops that used innovative and new ways to brew their wares. Chemistry, art, and science combined into one package that a genius like Stark could well and truly appreciate. It was different, in Maurtia Falls, and not just because the man in a $5000 suit would sweep into the store and attract every eye.
No, it was borderline hostile.
It was also eerie when the name he gave for the cup, always a very full of himself -- "Tony Stark" would get the rush of interest and attention. Why was he here, what was he doing? -- Business deals with contractors, of course, but smaller companies never had their own coffee fix, and so he always offered to buy the coffee for the meeting.
Which was likely how Frank was forced into making every variation of the monstrosities that would include ristretto shots, no foam, no milk, half-soy, and everything in between.
Oh, and one Red-Eye, for the man himself. Who actually stared back, if he caught Frank looking.
Of all the goddamn coffee shops in all the world, is the thought hammering through Frank's head when he sees Tony Stark scrolled on the side of the side of a coffee cup. He spares a sharp glance to confirm it, and to note that Stark is staring right back. Which, for the record, makes it pretty difficult to concentrate on making the litany of sugary over-caffeinated bullshit that composes the man's order.
Stark looks different in person, but people say that about everybody famous, don't they? Frank has never met the man, just seen pictures of him on magazine covers and tabloids, a couple clips on TV years back, and he can't say his memory is especially sharp. He knows who Tony Stark is, though, and how likely it is that Iron Man of all people might have turned on the news for the first criminal trial of a so-called vigilante.
A guilty man might just bolt. Hell, anyone more committed to self-preservation might at least excuse themselves to the back room for a minute. Frank just makes the guy's coffee. Not perfectly, granted, but with enough intermittent-but-steady eye contact and attitude that any mistakes come off more like challenges than opportunities for correction.
"I got something on my face?" he says finally as he slides the to-go tray over with one hand. If he's about to get outed as convicted felon here, he'd just as soon get it over with.
Coffee was Daisy's one constant in life. She'd like to say she wasn't addicted to it, but, that would be a lie.
Ever since Lincoln's come back, Daisy's found it easier to get out and socialize. She was still struggling of course, but, it was a lot more manageable now.
Looking up from her laptop as she sets her coffee down, Daisy stared openly at the man wiping down a table in front of her. She knew him. Where did she know him?
After his run in with Stark the other day, Frank is putting a little more effort into differentiating between the generic is that an imPort? stare and something more. Hers therefore catches his attention, but only in a vague, wary sort of way at first; he doesn't recognize her, so maybe it's nothing.
Until she says his name. That's not nothing. The corner of his mouth twists in vague consternation, and he spares a sharp glance up at her.
"If I'm supposed to know you, I don't," he answers, short.
Whenever M winds up working in one of the porter cities, he always tries someplace new. Today's selection is Better Latte Than Ever, after something about the place caught his eye. Having ordered just a large plain black coffee (yes the most boring, basic order ever), he sits down at the counter, dumping a large duffel bag at his feet. Though wearing the normal t-shirt and jeans, he's also wearing a large leather jacket over the getup, unusual for the weather. Also unusual is the odd speck of red dotting along the lower half of said jacket. It's not his fault scumbags have a tendency to bleed everywhere.
After taking another sip of his coffee, M leans in towards Frank, smirking. "Am I particularly interesting to you, or do you bore holes into all your customer's heads?"
There's a difference between just watching somebody and watching to let somebody know he's watching them. What he's doing today is a little more the former than the latter, but given that odd fleck of red on the other man's jacket, maybe he shouldn't be too surprised to be noticed, or called out. Something about his gaze shifts, subtly appraising, but he doesn't pause in his work.
"Little warm for a jacket," he answers with a nod to it. Casual, like maybe he doesn't mean anything much by it. It just caught his attention. He's just the meathead cleaning the espresso machine here, after all.
Maurita Falls, for all of its faults, is at least honest. De Chima is filled with nerds and fangirls, Heropa is the perfect Southern stereotype of insulting compliments and Nonah is Nonah. Of course, Maurita Falls being what it is, he does not go into the city unarmed - he carries a knife in a holster, discreetly hidden by his shirt - but not so discreet enough that a sharp-eyed person might tell what it is.
That said, he doesn't always go to Maurita Falls - most people he knows lives in the other three cities. When he does, it's usually for his job as the spokesman for the Heropa Animal Shelter and the go between other shelters, since it's not that uncommon for southern shelters to send animals to the northern ones.
After work was concluded, Carl decided to take an early dinner and went to the closest place he knows would have a good cheap meal. The door bell jingles, Carl takes off his sheriff's hat and with the one eye was wasn't mangled and covered by the eyepatch, he sees a familiar face.
Shane. Another dead person from Carl's world. Working in a coffee shop. How long has he been here? Does he know that Carl, Daryl, and Andrea are here? Shane's arrival conflicts Carl, judging how his heart tightens at the sight of older man. He helped him and Mom when they thought Dad was dead. But then he tried to kill Dad, later on when he start to loose his mind. And Carl put him down for good, when he came back as a walker. It's uncanny, to see Shane again, walking and working, like a normal person.
Carl stands still, trying to figure out how to work this out. He doesn't want to talk to Shane while he's still working - that's just something you just don't do, especially when you are still trying to figure out how to live in this insane world and come to terms with the fact that you are dead. It's bad enough with Andrea, but at least she wasn't killed by a member of her own group twice over. He only remembers his place when an grizzled old man nearly stomped over Carl, snapping "Move out of the way!" before making his order. Several heads turn (and one teenager snapped a picture with his phone when he realized Carl is an imPort) and already Carl is the center of attention. He ducks his head and waits in line behind the old man, who gives Carl the stink eye.
In this city, Frank isn't surprised to catch the weight of a knife holster on somebody's hip, although on the hip of a teenager with an eye patch may be a first. It isn't any of those things that catch his attention, however. It's the way the kid stops when he first walks through the door. It's the unsubtle click of a phone camera that Frank's come to interpret as imPort. It's both of those things together that make Frank's eyes narrow a touch. This kid wouldn't be the first person to recognize Frank, but he isn't exactly the type Frank would expect to do so. How many teenagers watch the news close enough to know his face? How relevant is the Punisher to a high schooler?
(How many orphans did he leave in his wake?)
Frank doesn't need to know the answers to those questions to notice the way the boy shrinks under the unwanted attention, however. For his part, he tries not to add to it, fixing the orders and sparing only occasional glances to the kid as he moves up the line — and if you know what to look for, maybe the duck of his head, the modest silence in which he works is sign enough of some small emotional turmoil, but there's no urgency to his body language, no recognition. When Carl reaches the front, the woman at the register offers a wryly tolerant "What can I get you?" as she tries not to roll her eyes after the crabby old man.
Once his order is ready, though, it's Frank who slides it across the counter with one big hand and studying eyes, and offers a rumbled, "There's a table 'round the column, if you want." To keep out of imPort-fan camera range, that is.
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maskormenacelogs2016-08-15 04:59 pm
maurtia falls #008 | lex luthor
Said dog, a grey and white pit bull all froth-mouthed from the heat, bounds in first through the door, tongue lolling and tail thumping against the furniture as he circles the living room despite the tug on his leash.
"Come on," Frank says, his voice low and his feet moving for the kitchen, even as his eyes are still circling the room for signs of habitation. Group housing, the guys on base had said. "Gotta be a bowl around here somewhere."
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The activity gets noticed, eventually, and Lex walks down the stairs, before stopping at the foot, his eyes sweeping around, dismissing the dog almost immediately, before eventually reaching and settling on Frank, looking at his clothing.
Unlike the retroclassic wear the locals wear, or some of the clothing many of the new arrivals wear, Lex's clothing falls into the timeframe of being on just this side of dated, even without the suit jacket in sight: the grey waistcoat and the white tie with the gold tie pin (its head marked with the forward slashed 'L' that also marks his company logo) show him as not being contemporary. The communicator is a thin shape in one of his trouser pockets.
"They mentioned the housing was shared," Lex comments, sounding almost bored. Not quite matter of fact. "You're the only one I've seen today."
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He knows that voice.
(They call you the Punisher. Prove it.)
Frank's head turns, slow at first like he's dreading it and then all at once, the whites of his eyes showing for a split second. He knows that voice — but not that face. Not that suit, the waistcoat and the pin, all of which earn no more than a cursory glance before his eyes come back to rest on that face. The wrong face.
The dog whines, quizzical.
"Frank," he says, by way of introduction. It's quiet, like he's just finding his voice again.
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Either way, he has no real reason to put this man- Frank- at ease.
"Lex Luthor," is his own response, in turn. Either he knows the name or not, and it'll certainly tell him more regardless of the reaction.
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maurtia falls group housing | OTA
If being transplanted across multiple universes isn't some kind of sign, he's not sure what is. But what kind, he doesn't know.
It's as much habit as any kind of necessity, then, that his first priority is getting a good look at the place he's landed in. He lets the dog roam out back first while he walks the perimeter of the yard, taking the occasional casual look overtop the fence into his neighbor's, learning the exits, gauging the sight lines from the windows.
Later, Frank takes the dog out for a walk, rope leash in hand, with frequent stops for the latter to get in a good sniff and the former to size up his neighbors' properties. And the neighbors themselves.
Maurtia Falls housing
She's home a lot later than usual, the keys to the house already in her hand as she walks up the path to the door. A noise behind her causes Bela to turn around to see what it was, catching sight of Frank and his dog. Good thing her cat hadn't decided to go outside, it wouldn't bode well for the poor animal.
He wasn't someone that Bela recognised, but that didn't mean he lived in this particular neighbourhood. She observes his behaviour for a minute or two, finding some of it slightly suspicious.
"Nice evening for a walk, isn't it?"
Small talk. That's how Bela was going to play it.
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At the sound of the woman's voice, however, the dog starts to pull that direction, tail wagging furiously. Frank keeps a firm grip on his leash but allows the animal to pull them along a little faster with a tolerant sort of humor. "He seems to think so, anyway."
"Just moved in," he says, with a nod down the street, in the general direction of #008. "How do you like the neighborhood?"
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"It's not bad." Which meant 'just about bearable.' "I have been here for close to a year and a half now and haven't found any trouble." Mostly. "The neighbours are friendly enough and there's a few amenities around."
Bela doesn't know if he wanted her to offer that bit of explanation about how she felt about the neighbourhood, but now she can't take it back.
"Do you have any housemates?"
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It's an odd thing then, to suddenly have her own house. Well, one she shares with a woman fond of bubble baths. But it still means she could buy vases if she wanted; make this place truly her own. She's a bit like Frank (Castle) in that regard, though neither of them knows it: Maybe she'll stay in this house, but maybe she won't. As odd as it all feels, at least she has eventual options.
At least it hasn't been hard to find clothes that make her feel as if she's still in Scotland, and from the right time, too. When she sees a curious neighbor, she's dressed comfortably for simply surveying her own yard, trying to decide what she can plant in this climate, if she should. (What would the point be if she's going to pick up and move?) She's just stood up, dirt falling from her fingertips when Claire catches a man's gaze over the fence. She offers a smile and an open greeting.
"Hello. New to the neighborhood as well?"
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"Just yesterday." The dog's sniff-snuffs can be heard closing in on them from the other side of the fence. For his part, Frank's brows knit a touch at getting a good look at her— and more specifically her outfit. That's not exactly future-1950s chic. "Not so big a change for me as it is for you, I'm guessing."
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At his latter comment, she smiles a little, though she's still sticking with her Scotland story. "Oh, I don't know. Have things changed all that much since 1743, really?" she teases at her own expense.
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better latte than never | OTA
Still, most of the baristas are friendlier than Frank. Frank isn't a How can I help you? sort of guy; he isn't a smiler or a people pleaser, he's a silent, judgmental starer, and after the extended flat look he'd given one customer's order of an extra hot cappuccino with no foam, his coworker had helpfully offered to take over the register for a while. Maybe indefinitely.
During the morning rush, he's the guy in the back making your coffee who looks more like a bouncer than a barista, and consequently he doesn't get many complaints. In the afternoons, though, as traffic starts to wane and the tables start to clear save for well-entrenched internet users, Frank can be found wiping down tables, collecting dishes, cleaning steam wands—
And watching. A little too sharply for the average barista, maybe.
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They're still animals, though, and that means firstly that he's inclined to be kind to it all the same, and secondly that he's pretty sure this is some kind of health code violation in the making. So he leaves his rag on the counter and steps, remarkably quietly for such a big man, over toward her table, trying not to startle her. He's not looking forward to chasing her around the cafe. "Hey," he murmurs a low greeting and offers out one coffee-smelling hand at a fair sniffing distance. He's not sure cats are real big on coffee, but there's not much he can do to avoid it here. "Pretty sure you're not supposed to be in here, little miss."
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So she twitches a single ear, and lifts her enormous luminous eyes to his face - not moving a single muscle otherwise. A moment of silence, and then she speaks, her voice light and warm and girlish.
"Would it help if I bought a drink?"
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How did people even live like this?
But she's used to people's shocked reactions to her totally normal outfit (complete with blood splattered mask worn like an over sized bow in her hair) it enough now that she doesn't even glance over and check for a potential attacker when one of the booth dwellers gasps at her entrance.
She throws herself onto a bar stool at the counter top, tucking her knees in so she can spin a few full rotations before locking eyes with Frank.
"Yo."
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He doesn't ask if it's real. He knows what dried blood looks like. And that she looks awfully young to be wearing so much of it.
"Whose is that?" is what he settles on instead, with a nod to the mask. The blood, he means.
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Tony Stark vastly preferred the sharp cheer of De Chima, the experimental coffee shops that used innovative and new ways to brew their wares. Chemistry, art, and science combined into one package that a genius like Stark could well and truly appreciate. It was different, in Maurtia Falls, and not just because the man in a $5000 suit would sweep into the store and attract every eye.
No, it was borderline hostile.
It was also eerie when the name he gave for the cup, always a very full of himself -- "Tony Stark" would get the rush of interest and attention. Why was he here, what was he doing? -- Business deals with contractors, of course, but smaller companies never had their own coffee fix, and so he always offered to buy the coffee for the meeting.
Which was likely how Frank was forced into making every variation of the monstrosities that would include ristretto shots, no foam, no milk, half-soy, and everything in between.
Oh, and one Red-Eye, for the man himself. Who actually stared back, if he caught Frank looking.
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Stark looks different in person, but people say that about everybody famous, don't they? Frank has never met the man, just seen pictures of him on magazine covers and tabloids, a couple clips on TV years back, and he can't say his memory is especially sharp. He knows who Tony Stark is, though, and how likely it is that Iron Man of all people might have turned on the news for the first criminal trial of a so-called vigilante.
A guilty man might just bolt. Hell, anyone more committed to self-preservation might at least excuse themselves to the back room for a minute. Frank just makes the guy's coffee. Not perfectly, granted, but with enough intermittent-but-steady eye contact and attitude that any mistakes come off more like challenges than opportunities for correction.
"I got something on my face?" he says finally as he slides the to-go tray over with one hand. If he's about to get outed as convicted felon here, he'd just as soon get it over with.
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Ever since Lincoln's come back, Daisy's found it easier to get out and socialize. She was still struggling of course, but, it was a lot more manageable now.
Looking up from her laptop as she sets her coffee down, Daisy stared openly at the man wiping down a table in front of her. She knew him. Where did she know him?
...Oh shit.
"Frank Castle?"
She had caught his trial on TV back home.
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Until she says his name. That's not nothing. The corner of his mouth twists in vague consternation, and he spares a sharp glance up at her.
"If I'm supposed to know you, I don't," he answers, short.
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cw: description of gory child death
Delayed but I'm just ending the thread like we talked about. :)
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After taking another sip of his coffee, M leans in towards Frank, smirking. "Am I particularly interesting to you, or do you bore holes into all your customer's heads?"
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"Little warm for a jacket," he answers with a nod to it. Casual, like maybe he doesn't mean anything much by it. It just caught his attention. He's just the meathead cleaning the espresso machine here, after all.
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That said, he doesn't always go to Maurita Falls - most people he knows lives in the other three cities. When he does, it's usually for his job as the spokesman for the Heropa Animal Shelter and the go between other shelters, since it's not that uncommon for southern shelters to send animals to the northern ones.
After work was concluded, Carl decided to take an early dinner and went to the closest place he knows would have a good cheap meal. The door bell jingles, Carl takes off his sheriff's hat and with the one eye was wasn't mangled and covered by the eyepatch, he sees a familiar face.
Shane. Another dead person from Carl's world. Working in a coffee shop. How long has he been here? Does he know that Carl, Daryl, and Andrea are here? Shane's arrival conflicts Carl, judging how his heart tightens at the sight of older man. He helped him and Mom when they thought Dad was dead. But then he tried to kill Dad, later on when he start to loose his mind. And Carl put him down for good, when he came back as a walker. It's uncanny, to see Shane again, walking and working, like a normal person.
Carl stands still, trying to figure out how to work this out. He doesn't want to talk to Shane while he's still working - that's just something you just don't do, especially when you are still trying to figure out how to live in this insane world and come to terms with the fact that you are dead. It's bad enough with Andrea, but at least she wasn't killed by a member of her own group twice over. He only remembers his place when an grizzled old man nearly stomped over Carl, snapping "Move out of the way!" before making his order. Several heads turn (and one teenager snapped a picture with his phone when he realized Carl is an imPort) and already Carl is the center of attention. He ducks his head and waits in line behind the old man, who gives Carl the stink eye.
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(How many orphans did he leave in his wake?)
Frank doesn't need to know the answers to those questions to notice the way the boy shrinks under the unwanted attention, however. For his part, he tries not to add to it, fixing the orders and sparing only occasional glances to the kid as he moves up the line — and if you know what to look for, maybe the duck of his head, the modest silence in which he works is sign enough of some small emotional turmoil, but there's no urgency to his body language, no recognition. When Carl reaches the front, the woman at the register offers a wryly tolerant "What can I get you?" as she tries not to roll her eyes after the crabby old man.
Once his order is ready, though, it's Frank who slides it across the counter with one big hand and studying eyes, and offers a rumbled, "There's a table 'round the column, if you want." To keep out of imPort-fan camera range, that is.
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