1963-07-11 - Unexpected Allies
Summary: The Punisher and the Winter Soldier become unexpected allies.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
bucky castelione 

Bullets smack into the timber near his head, and The Winter Soldier manages to stay ahead of a burst of automatic fire with a surprising amount of agility. He lands behind a low retaining wall and rolls twice, and when he comes out the other side, he levels a compact SMG at his attacker and looses two bursts of accurate, tightly concentrated automatic fire. The men go down with a cry of pain and hit the deck of the warehouse, and Winter Soldier kips to his feet and keeps moving.

He's pelted by someone unloading a shotgun from across the warehouse, and holds his left arm over his face to protect him— he catches some stray shot but for the most part it all hits the armor under his heavy coat.

Bucky slides to a stop and comes up with a heavy, slab-sided old 1911 and fires twice— at fifty yards, it's a hell of a shot, and he puts both the rounds right into his attacker's upper thorax.

Four down, so far, but ten to go, in this warehouse tucked into the docks near Queens— and it's one man against a squad of Mafia drug traffickers. Still, Winter Soldier's holding his own.

For the moment, anyway.


Winter wasn't the only man with a vested interest in this place. A lone van rolls its way into view, on the side the simple slogan of "Meat so fresh it can't be beat!" The picture on the side of a smiling pig holding a butchers cleaver. It rolls along towards the fight picking up speed as it comes closer and closer to the warehouse.

The Van rattles and roars down the road in the drivers seat what looks to be a lone floating skull, but is actually a man in a pitch black trench-coat. His leather clad hands gripping tight to the wheel as he looks ahead towards the carnage. Blue eyes covered in black eye-shadow narrow down on the scene unfolding before him as his face ticks slightly. Things were going to get complicated.


Winter Soldier has the high ground and he's got a small arsenal with him. Dodging gunfire and moving with alarming speed he scoops up an old surplus M1 carbine on the run, racking the action and shouldering it. He slows for two steps— that's it— and with a single well-placed shot, drops a man trying to ready another shotgun from across the warehouse floor. He takes two more steps and drops behind a giant steel girder supporting the roof, peeks from cover, and fires a few scattering suppressive shots to try and prevent some ambitious Mafiosos from charging into the building.

Which means when Frank rolls up on the scene, there are six men in trenchcoats and Fedoras outside the main warehouse entrance, holding a variety of illegal and sawed-down weapons, and the moment that his headlights hit them, they blink in shock— then almost as a unit, they start pelting his van with buckshot and bursts of automatic gunfire.


Even as it's being pelted with rounds the van revs its engine for a moment. Once… Twice… Three times. "Your Punishment's due." He speaks in a slow calm voice even as one of the bullets slams into the glass cracking open the entire window and almost managing to plant a round into his head. A lucky slight miss.

He ducks down towards the ground dropping a brick onto the gas peddle before sliding out from the side of the van itself. Tucking and rolling with grace his coat flutters out into the wind, just in time for a round to clip him in the shoulder tearing open his coat, and digging right down through the cloth to touch skin. His own roll proves a lot less graceful as the shots he was trying to make mid roll go wide slamming into the side of the building while he slams into a stack of boxes in the nearby shadows.


The newcomer pulls some of the attention from Winter, and the Russian agent narrows his eyes behind the heavy mask protecting his face. The thick goggles and odd grill make him difficult to identify, and under the flickering, heavy trenchcoat he's wearing modern military load-bearing gear.

He takes a moment to reload a few firearms while his attackers are all focusing on Frank, his motions steady, even boringly efficient, requiring little thought or focus. The 1911, the SMG, and then the M1 carbine, and then he darts from one point of cover to the next, trying to get a better angle on the Mafia men— and unaware of the ticking time bomb of explosives in Frank's improvised attack van.


A quiet clenching of fist as Casteleon tries to force himself back to a stand the crimson liquid leaking from his right shoulder as he steadies himself. If things had properly gone to plan it would have been a surprise attack in the middle of what should have been a high profile deal between the Russians and the Italians. A perfect time to dole out a bit of punishment.

Instead of reaching for his own 1911 that had been knocked out of his hand mid-dive he reaches into that trench-coat of his pulling out a German stick grenade. Even as the truck speeds along the back doors flapping in the wind. He reaches back his arm wincing through the pain and flings it hard as he can.

The device soars through the air flung hard and fast right towards the open back doors of the meat truck and towards the barrels of fuel and makeshift explosive. It flies up in a wide arch before hitting the back bumper of the truck bouncing off and then landing down onto the ground near the winter soldier.


Winter doesn't miss the sight of a stick grenade. He's seen many a potato masher— up close, and personal. So when Frank whips the explosive at the van, Winter doesn't stand around asking too many questions. He turns in place and hauls ass back the other way, moving at a sprint that would make Jesse Owens jealous. He vaults off a second-floor catwalk, hits the ground in a tuck and roll, and fetches his back up against a stack of girders.

The explosive goes off like a thundering roar, taking out almost a quarter of the warehouse— slightly foiled by Frank's unexpected leap and injury, but more than enough to send up a tremendous burst of fire and smoke, and thoroughly flatten the half-dozen Mafiosos who had their drug deal so rudely interrupted. Frank expected the blast— they did not. So now the Punisher has the upper hand as they roll around, badly dazed and disoriented, and two of them on fire.


Blood continues to slowly roll down the torn open shoulder of his pitch black trench-coat thankfully not enough to quite take out the arm but more then enough to make it hurt like hell. His motions are quick as he makes a run for the next segment of cover timing his movements with the shock of the explosion so he can re-position on the off chance they have grenades as well.

In his rush to move for cove he catches a quick glimpse of the Winter Soldiers own dive away his arm reaching down into that jacket of his so that he can pull fourth a well used m1a1 the stock folded over to actually let it fit inside the confines of his thick leather jacket. The entire weapon having been painted a matching black to blend in somewhat with the darkness of the city. He sets up a position before quickly opening one shot after the next of his semi-automatic variant.


The two men get the downed Mafiosos in a crossfire, and neither of them pull punches— they cut them apart, several of them before they can even get off the ground. Blood starts pooling, limned black by the fire from the burning van.

Winter Soldier edges around the pile of girders, his weapon still shouldered but not quite trying to buy a bead on Frank. The two men eye each other for two beats.

"Thunder," Bucky calls to Frank, in a low, rasping muffle that is concealed by his unusual facemask. He's got American weaponry and American load-bearing gear— the classic friend/foe codeword might help cement any uncertainy in Frank's mind.


"Lightning." Casteleon calls back in that long faded Italian accent. His voice is hard like a long gravel road well worn from smokes and the drink. Even as he lowers down the rifle silently. His own skull mask showing through in the night as he puts one last bullet in the head of a crawling mafia type.

The mission wasn't quite FUBAR but the hope had been for a quick in and out, one explosion no one quite sure what happened then a quick pass through to collect weapons and leave, this wasn't exactly what he was expecting but at least part of it worked out. One less group of mobsters in the world, one step along the path of his own personal holy war.

"Close call." Stated firmly as the masked man comes back to a stand folding his own rifle back away as he reaches down to snag up his 1911 from the ground.


Winter lowers the muzzle of his own carbine, nodding agreement. "Federal?" he asks Frank. He drifts a little closer, the weapon held at low arms— he's a man who's clearly accustomed to gun violence. They look to be about the same age, though Winter is clearly not in any sort of 'military' trim. But the weaponry is the sort that a soldier would have picked.

"US Army. Special assignment," he tells Frank. "Classified. Call me Frost," he suggests.


"Deniable" The man counters, before placing a small scrap of cloth up over his right shoulder slotting it down into place under the rip in the flesh, just a bit of gauz to try and lesson some of the bleed out. "Call-sign Punisher" A slight motion of his shoulders rolling showing a glimpse of the high end military grade ballistics vest that he's wearing under the trench-coat, along with enough weapons to arm a small nation on his person, grenades included. "Nice to meet you frost"


"Fair enough." Winter looks around and starts picking up guns and ammo from the corpses, using one of the trench coats as an improvised sling. "Punisher. I've heard of you," Winter says, his tone marking a bit of grudging respect for the man. "Didn't know you were in the city."

He starts going through wallets next, too, and tosses their valuables in the trench coat also.

"This was supposed to go to a warehouse in Queens. Russians no-showed." Imagine that. "You have any leads on the warehouse?" he grunts at the Punisher, tossing the folded coat into the back of a slat-sided paddy truck with a canvas cover on it. He ignores the fire and flame gouting from Frank's burning vehicle.


The flames themselves are an interesting thing however, shaped into the form of a skull with two unbusted barrels for eyes in the middle of it. Its husk broken out like a banana from the sheer buckling force. "Have leads on the shipment. New drug, locals call it Bliss, but the dealers call it Joy. New drug, gives one hell of a trip. Stole it from the Russians in the first place."


"Sounds like it's time to work on the distribution network." Winter slings the duffel bag into the truck, then faces Frank. After a beat, he removes the goggles protecting his face, revealing soldier's eyes— cold and empty, a thousand yards vacant.

"I'm not authorized to tell you that the Italians are running distribution out of Northside," Winter says, after a beat. "Or that they're dealing from one of the mansions on Cherry street. Don't know what one."

He opens the truck door and climbs into it, tossing his carbine onto the seat next to him, and turns the engine over. He rolls it towards the door, leaning out the window to look at Frank.

"Be careful, Punisher. I will see you again." And he revs the engines and starts rolling out the back service door.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License