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Gwen’s next quip had been halfway formed when the blur of white and shadow had descended from the rooftop, colliding with one of the gunmen in a brutal dropkick. She hadn’t needed her Spider-Sense to tell her he wasn’t part of the heist crew.

“Okay, dramatic entrance points: solid nine,” she muttered, watching the caped figure land and immediately launch into a whirlwind of baton strikes. His movements had been fluid but vicious—less acrobatic than her own style, but relentless, each swing measured to incapacitate as quickly as possible.

One of the remaining gunmen turned his rifle toward the newcomer, and Gwen reacted instinctively. With a flick of her wrist, a web had shot out, snagging the weapon’s barrel and yanking it skyward just as it fired. The shot went wide, shattering a streetlight above.

"Hey now, we're not shooting the guest star," she called out, swinging low and slamming both feet into the guy’s chest, sending him sprawling. That's when she got a better view of the newly arrived and impromptu backup, mask she recognised, at least close enough, from a particularly famous set of low budget but beloved campy movies from back home. "Is that...a Moon Knight costume?" So stunned by the revelation was she, that she entirely missed the trickle of spidersense which attempted to warn her about the incoming strike, only at the last moment turned her head to see a fist being swung towards her. "Wooooo there," She called out, ducking under the blow, before swinging out the man's feet with her own leg letting him hit the ground hard enough to stun him. [color=FF1493]"No way, my old roommate used to love those films." She called out to the new figure, finally turning to regard the truck that had been under attack, and exhaling in a weary sigh at the logo printed across the doors of the armoured vehicle. Oscorp.

"I guess some things are the same." Gwen grumbled, hands falling to her hips as she considered her next move.

Punisher War Journal

This class of criminal is embarrassing. Not only are they the usual run of gutter trash, they have no decorum. No class. No sense of organization. Instead they stand around with their junk in their hands, trying to out intimidate each other. They lean against shipping containers with the obvious goal of looking the most badass. None of them are. When I get my hands throttled around them later, they'll know where they stand in the pecking order. They'll drip cowardice down their pant legs and cry out for their mothers - even though they were wearing "really cool sunglasses."

When I lock in a fresh clip to the SIG-Sauer, it almost hisses. She's as anxious to Punish as I am. I could wipe out this whole group of them from this distance, but then they would scatter. Some tough guy would turn and start blind firing. He wouldn't hit me, wouldn't come close. Instead he would just distract me from breaking the bones of all of his compatriots. Delay that sweet sweet moment where I get to hear legs snap out of the skinbags they were slagged in.

I have to wait to hear more. Micro has already maxed out the distance volume on the sound tracers. I can hear every wheeze of these idiots asthma and shudder in the cold all while keeping them thoroughly in scope. What I'm waiting for is to hear a little more information. There are things that these monsters would say to each other easily, things they'd only say to me after I show them my bone-saw. And my bone-saw is ready.

After about 30 minutes of pointless jawing, they finally bring up what I need them to. Sinister. A new type of inhalant that works with the same sort of physics as the rebreather of a scuba mask. Disgusting. More drugs to sink deeper into the cesspool of their own minds. A part of me feels remorse - their lives as worthless as cracks in pavement, and this drug the one thing that brings them some sort of peace from that reality. They will find no peace. Not while I still breathe. Not while there is still air in my lungs. They won't be allowed to sleep until I am dead. Between now and then, there is only punishment.



The War Journal isn't always written down. Sometimes, Frank Castle just narrates in his own head. Or less of a narration and more of an internal death march. A man as lonely as Frank (although he wouldn't exactly admit it) has to keep a conversation going in his head, otherwise all he will see and hear are the bloody deaths of his family. With things as bad as they are, Frank Castle has to do what he can to stay sane. The success of this is up for debate. Frank Castle will tell you he's the sanest man in the City. This part is not up for debate - he is in fact furthest from it. Psychologically speaking.

With a flash of a muzzle, the chaos reigns. Gunfire and punishment, hailing down like gods fury in the old testament. The dozen or so dealers gathered around an open trunk immediately draw their heat, looking around in a panic. Cops wouldn't just open fire like this. Not a mask either. Maybe another gang? Or else...him.

A young looking man with a lip piercing calls out to his heavy on his left, only to have the top half of his head shredded in a shotgun blast. He was mid-vowel. His friend screams and turns, thinks he makes it a few steps but it's just the dying thoughts as his synapses fire off their last - his guts hit the pavement before even his knees, as he falls face first in his own spilled viscera.

It's over in only an instant.

12 men splayed across the shipping yard docks, the car in which handled the merchandise honking an embarrassing alarm, as if having it's own seizure. Castle fired into the dashboard, putting out of it's misery (and warranty.)

He surveyed his own work. Saw blood already spattered across his white boots. It looked good. He admired his handiwork for a moment before he heard a buzz in his ear. Micro on comms, likely out of the mobile command center. "The Battle Van" he liked to call it. The Punisher clicked the confirmation button on his earpiece, alerting Micro that he was available and listening.

"Castle. Got an update regarding two of your flagged specials. Or at least possibly. First: rumor is that Eddie Brock is back in town. The Lethal Protector. Given enough time, we should be able to track him easier, set up some sort of hello." Micro sounded eager, excited. He usually only sounded this way when he had actual intel for Frank.

"Second, the Police have reported a stiff - drained of blood completely. It's the M.O of the living vampire. Could be he's got his ire up again."

"Who was the victim?" Frank asked, his voice gruff, short, stern.

"TBD. If it's not Morbius, it's someone a lot like him."

Frank considered this.

"If he's out there killing innocents, then he'll be as dead as lip-piercing over here. I need a lift. Bring the van. We're taking some of this back with us. That drug - Sinister. Take a look at it and let me know what you think. Or find someone who can." Frank closed his comms. He didn't need to tell Micro where he was, the guy was an incredible hacker - a whiz with anything computer related. He'd find him soon enough.

And then Frank has a couple people of his own to find.