P R O L O G U E
P A R T II
The devil's advocate
January 2nd, 2016 - 07:00 | A penthouse apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.
Standing by one of the many windows, Wilson Fisk watched the sun slowly rise over New York. It was very much an everyday routine, or perhaps a ritual. The morning routine never changed. First, Wilson would make his way from the bedroom to an oversized bathroom and do
that routine, then brew and pour coffee before putting it on a tray at the very window he was now standing at. Fisk didn't like very hot coffee, and while waiting for it to cool a little, he would do what he did now - shave while watching the sunrise. It was a meditative experience, he found. Helped him acquire the patient, calm demeanor he was known for, and avoid the aggressive outbursts that had made him infamous. Sunny mornings like today made it all the easier. Fisk finished his shave and put the razor down. He lightly dabbed his face with a warm cloth folded in front of him and took his coffee. He drank it while reading the morning newspapers.
The top stories was the same as it had been yesterday.
"Chaos ensue as violence escalate". The article went on about the recent skirmishes in the criminal underworld, and in particular what by this journalist was called
the massacre of New Year's Eve which left over thirty people dead in three locations, all members of organized crime. While Fisk had no doubts the police was of a different opinion, media had already connected the sudden killing spree to a vigilante, or several vigilantes.
"The next Punisher" was one of the headlines, the article elaborating that organized crime might be in for a very difficult future. Fisk had no doubt the stories would become more sensible as the initial sensation wore off, but it did make for an entertaining read.
The attacks on New Year's Eve was indeed worthy of being called "massacres". They had all been carried out to the letter, with every single target left dead. One of Fisk's men had succumbed to a bullet from one of his own - the result of crossfire - but other than that, the operation had been executed to perfection. The Maggia leadership had been wiped out in one swift stroke, and with the snake decapitated it was also rendered nearly harmless. Without the organizational structure intact, Fisk had no doubt the large local manpower of the Maggia would be very willing to switch sides.
So why, then, did his mouth tighten and his fingers restlessly drum against the kitchen table?
It is nothing, he thought. But it wasn't. It was a silly, simple thing, but while Fisk wanted to put the thought away he knew he could not. During one of the attacks on New Year's Eve, the one in the port district, Richie Kalinski had said something. Kalinski was a made man of the Maggia, and one of the most prominent ones. He had been in charge of smuggling various goods in and out of the city by sea. Fisk's men had reported that as Kuklinski bled out on the ground, the man had taunted his attackers, saying that taking his life meant nothing. They had responded that Kuklinski wasn't the first man that had died that night, but that the leader of the New York Maggia, Damian Adelardi, was dead as well. Kuklinski had laughed and managed to blurt out
"Adelardi? Who fucking cares? You people don't know anything, do you?" before being shot dead. One of the men had had the good grace of notifying Jack Rose, the leader of the operation, who in turn relayed the quote to Fisk.
It was just a few words spilled out of a dying, panicked and likely shocked man, but Fisk thought that all the more reason to take it seriously. It didn't seem entirely unlikely that something wasn't as it should, after all. Fisk had never held Adelardi in high esteem, and had at times wondered how a man of such common intellect was able to lead the Maggia. Fisk had assumed it came down to the actual heads of the Maggia, those ruling over the entire east coast, being hands on in their approach, guiding Adelardi in his task. But perhaps there was something more to it. The more Fisk thought about it, the more it seemed like a plausibility rather than improbability that Adelardi was a front of some sorts. A living target, someone to attract the attention others did not want. Still, that was a very risky game to play and sounded more like something out of a novel than a ploy that might actually be used.
Fisk spit the coffee back in the cup. It had grown cold. He rose from the table and entered his walk-in closet. He chose a charcoal suit with a plain mulberry tie and proceeded to get dressed. Yesterday had been a hectic day. Fisk had made sure to keep the pressure up, continuing to hit the Maggia across town, albeit hits of a smaller magnitude. What surprised him was that the Maggia was yet to hit back. He had anticipated attacks on a number of locations, and had prepared accordingly. Instead his enemies seemed to whimper in a corner, perfectly content with Fisk taking over the house. That did not seem right, and another reason to lend credibility to Kukinski's dying words. Fisk wished his men had been clever enough to interrogate the man rather than finish him off. The logical conclusion now was that the Maggia was preparing a large scale counter attack, likely organized by the east coast leaders or, possibly, by an unknown party in New York. Yet even if Fisk assumed that was the case, how should he react? What would they do, and how could he stop it? What capabilities could they still possess, and where would they hit?
January 4th, 2016 - 15:15 | Somewhere in Pennsylvania.
The mansion was positively huge, its property sprawling over acres and acres. The mansion itself had stood for nearly two hundred years. It served as the seat and home for whoever was in charge of the east coast at the moment, and had done so for nearly a century. As such, it was one of the Maggia's more secretive locations. Not its existence, naturally, but rather its purpose. Flicking through the folder, the silver-haired man leaned back in his chair and peered at the subordinate seated in front of him.
"This is our man, I take it?"
"Yes sir, our contacts mark him as the premiere professional available for the job. He supposedly has extensive military experience, and rumors have it he's even taken on the Punisher back in the day and, well, survived."
"Supposedly? Rumors?" the silver-haired man asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His background has been difficult to figure out sir. He, or someone, has done a very good job of hiding it. What we do know is that he's taken on at least fifty contracts just in the U.S., and that he is responsible for killing a whole lot of men, including mutants."
"And how many contracts has he failed?"
"None, as far as we are aware, sir. If I may ask though... why are we not letting Joseph deal with this instead of involving outsiders?" The old man in the chair scratched his chin.
"Because we have lost enough important men already. I would not have Joseph do something this risky when we have a man that appears more capable and of less importance able to do the job." He made a gesture to his subordinate, who left him. The man looked down on the folder again, reading it properly. There was indeed no doubt this man was capable of the job. By the looks of it, the man might well be a mutant himself. He even had a moniker to match. In fact, all he had was a moniker, as his real identity remained unknown. And what a silly moniker it was.
Bullseye.
January 7th, 2016 - 02:25 | A penthouse apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.
The sound was dull and quick, but Fisk knew the thud he'd just heard was what had awaken him and not part of whatever he had been dreaming of. With agility and deftness improbable of a man his size, Fisk got out of bed and silently picked up a very big, almost proportionate to his own size, loaded .50 pistol from his nightstand with one hand and a metal baseball bat from underneath his bed with the other. Weapons in hand, he stood still and listened. The sound had appeared to come from inside the apartment. Unsure if he was imagining the nature of the sound or not, Fisk nevertheless thought it sounded very much like a body dropping to the ground. It wouldn't be impossible. Jack Rose had been guarding his apartment while Fisk slept for the past nights as Fisk grew increasingly worried of the Maggia's retaliation, or rather the lack of it. He knew damn well that this apartment was protected - there was no way anyone outside of his organization knew he lived here - but Fisk was not one to take chances, never mind underestimate his enemies.
Another sound was heard. It was a dull sound like the one that had woken him, but this one was nearly inaudible. Yet Fisk had no doubt what he heard straight after was a very human hushing. On the wall next to him was three switches. One would light up the bedroom, one would light up the entire apartment, and one would trigger the panic alarm. Fisk flicked the panic button as well as lit up the entire floor. For all he knew, there was a team of Maggia men or crooked police on the other side of the door wearing night vision goggles. Without further consideration, Fisk lifted his gun simultaneously to flicking on the light and aimed at what would be the average man's chest height. He then proceeded to squeeze the trigger and methodically empty his clip as he strafed the bedroom door and wall. The gunfire was incredibly loud and Fisk knew all pretense of secrecy was certainly blown now - he would have to switch safe house. Yet a move was entirely preferable to death. As his clip emptied, Fisk listened for more noises as he quickly reached for one of the magazines kept in the drawer of the nightstand. Before he had a chance to react, another bang - this time from the other side of the bedroom wall - rang in his ears and he felt a dull ache in his arm. He'd been shot. Instinctively, Fisk knew that if he had been a normal sized man, that bullet would have hit his head rather than arm. He managed to grab a hold of a magazine and tried to reload, when the bedroom door suddenly burst open.
The man in front of Fisk looked like nothing he'd expected. Geared in black and white tights and armed with two pistols, the man positively looked like a clown, much like the costumed super heroes. This guy was obviously no hero, however. Impossibly fast, the man leveled his guns at him and fired. Fisk felt at least one, possibly more, bullets hit him as he reflexively threw the baseball bat at his attacker. It hit, causing the intruder to stumble and drop one of his guns. Fisk was already on the move, and before his attacked could fire again, Fisk took dropped his empty gun and grabbed the nightstand next to him, hurling it straight at the man. It hit him square in the chest, causing the man to fly back out of the room along with the nightstand. Fisk lunged after.
As he exited the bedroom, he saw the intruder lying on the floor. Yet before Fisk had time to assess the situation, the man threw a leg from the broken nightstand at his head. The impact was surprisingly hard, given the man was of average size and had thrown it while lying down. It was also accurate, hitting Fisk square on the nose. Fisk felt it breaking.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, before simply jumping at the man. The intruder tried to roll away, but Fisk managed to grab his leg, meaning the fight was all over. He quickly pulled the man towards him and him him in his chest once with his free hand, feeling the ribs breaking underneath his fist. Yet somehow the attacker didn't relent, pulling out a stun gun from his belt. Fisk knocked it out of the man's hand with a backhand.
"Enough!" he exclaimed and sat on the man, breaking any resistance.
"Who are you and who sent you?" The man beneath him seemed to have trouble breathing, but after wheezing a little and giving off a weak chuckle, he answered.
"Why, I'm Bullseye, and I was sent by someone who doesn't like you very much. For some reason though, they neglected to mention the fact th-*cough*-that you're a fucking monster." he said with a strained voice, forcing himself to stifle another giggle as it seemed to hurt. Fisk looked at him incredulously.
"Who sent you? Give me a name and you may survive this yet.""Would-would you please stop squeezing me to a puddle? So that I can answer with-without fucking dying." Fisk slowly release the pressure, pinning the man's arms instead. "Ahhh, much better, thank you. Listen pal, I don't have any loyalties to the guy employing me. I'm a freelancer. How 'bout you give me a better offer, and I'll kill
him for
you instead."
"And why should I trust a word coming out of your mouth?""Pick my left pocket, there's a PDA there." Fisk carefully put Bullseye's arms in one his left hand before reaching into the man's pocket, pulling out a little electronic device. Bullseye navigated him towards a folder.
"Silvio Manfredi?""That's the guy. "Silvermane" they call him. He's heading up the Maggia on the east coast. Real big shot. He hired me to kill anyone I found on this address, this apartment. Told me there'd probably be a big guy there. Again, though, he didn't say you're
this big." With the man seemingly finished, Fisk tried to take it all in.
"You certainly do not seem to have a problem divulging information you should not share, Bullseye.""Well, the way I see it, I'm dead anyway if I don't give you something, right? Plus, more importantly, you seem like a hell of a lot more interesting employer than that old self-conceited fuck. Oh, and I know you're the one behind the massacre of New York's Eve of course. I'd
love to be a part of something like that. So what do you say, Wilson?"
