1963-11-29 - Orbital Confessional
Summary: Following the explosive beginning to the Five Families' New York war, Cable returns to his orbital headquarters to question a couple of men plucked from the chaos. (Emits by Daredevil)
Related: Family Feud; War in the Kitchen Plot
Theme Song: None
daredevil cable 

((OOC: IC date was Nov 21, 1963; scene was run on the 29th.))


For 'Little' Frederick Gambini and Bobby Farelli, it took approximately one(1) torturous eternity surrounded by gleaming steel and distant stars before the man called Cable returned after having nervous systems ablaze.

For Cable and the rest of the world, maybe five minutes separated his coldly voiced spiel and brilliant reappearance.

Either way, the two men are just beginning to regain control of their motor functions when the mutant traveler emerges from the golden light of a bodyslide and approaches their bodies with a syringe-tipped gun in hand. There's just enough time to writhe and/or scream before he sticks each of their necks and they find themselves fading into darkness.

The next time they wake up, they find themselves secured to metal tables tilted to an angle that leaves their heads well below their heels. The first thing Bobby sees when he opens his eyes will likely be Frederick's head, hooded in black cloth.

A couple feet away, a dessert tray holds a vase of water on top and a large basin with more on the bottom.

A few feet from it, Cable rises from a sofa still stinking of the alley he took it from and takes the vase from the table on his way towards the two men. "The view from here can be disorienting," he evenly says as footsteps echo through the cavernous station, "but people normally acclimate once they've spent a few hours up here. How are we feeling? Talkative, I hope."


A grunt, followed by some drool. This is the first sound and the second thing Bobby Farelli experiences, and he tries for a moment to struggle against his bindings, to no avail. "Wh… what the fuck…" The rush of blood to his head is disorienting enough, but all of this… this is seriously some fucked up shit. "… some fucked up shit!" he curses. "What is this? What do you want??"

'Little' Frederick Gambini, it would seem, is still down for the count. Truth is, he's playing dead. Best hope against hope, for the overweight mobster.


"Cooperation." The echoing ceases. "Someone just kicked off a gang war down there, not that I have to tell you."

Cable's eye lowers to lock onto Bobby's and he reaches into one of the pouches lining his waist to fetch a pack of smokes. Thanks to some overexertion at the courthouse, the left sleeve of his dress shirt now hangs in tatters, exposing the gleaming metal of his arm to the criminal.

"Cooperation," he reiterates while striking and lighting, "and stories. I don't know your world, not really. I know pieces of it, the idea of it. I've seen plenty of things like it - organizations built on oppressing the weak for personal gain - but I'd like to understand what it is that compels you to be as you are. What drives you, what you're hoping to accomplish with your business." Two more sticks are slid out, with one being pressed immediately to Bobby's lips for the taking; if/when he accepts, it'll be lit and Cable will remain kneeling. "You and this thing of yours— as you are, you're a blight on society, and if you're ever going to be cured, you need to be understood. You can help me with this - and then, of course, give me every last piece of actionable intelligence that you have on La Cosa Nostra and its dealings - now, or you can help me later, but you will help me; the only difference is how much time you spend up here, with me, before you do so."

The mutant's vase hand extends towards Freddy and tips just so, inundating his nose and mouth with a brief preview of what might await them in that interval— and, perhaps, imparting a valuable lesson about playing possum with a telepath.



'The Bob' listens with confusion and fear, sweat dripping off his brow to join the pool of drool under his face. When the cigarette is offered, he accepts it on habit, puffing a few times to make sure it's good and lit.

"You wanna understand our world, eh?" He shifts the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, where he can bite it with his teeth and puff between words. "Listen, big guy, it ain't that difficult. We do it because we can. Because in America, we're immigrants, and that ain't always a pretty word. 'Cause we ain't gonna get by like others get by, so we get by how we wanna get by." Puff, puff. "Cause we ain't gonna end up like a bunch of bog-trotting cat-lickers, or smelly, loud-mouth niggers." Puff Puff. "It's all about power, see? Far as 'actionable intelligence' goes, you can fuck right off-"

His words are cut off by the sudden gurgling of 'Little' Freddie Gambini, who jerks and lunges against his restraints in an effort to get loose, to no avail.

"Oh, shit!" curses Bobby Farelli. "What the fuck is this shit!??"


"They call it the water board," Cable calmly replies after righting the vase. 'They will call it the water board' would technically be more accurate, but what's a little anachronism between captor and captives?

As he rolls Frederick's hood down, he adds, "Imagine drowning without an ocean, and you're most of the way there. Simple, cheap. Unpleasant. How did you get your starts?" The other cigarette is pressed and lit for 'Little' Freddie. "You say that you do as you do, take what you wish because you feel entitled to; did you always feel that way? Did something in your lives push you to a point where you decided that preying on the weak was acceptable because they weren't like you?" His own cigarette, all but forgotten as it dangles from his lips and burns away, is briefly clamped and drawn from, then withdrawn so that he can blow smoke towards the ceiling.


The cigarette falls right out of Farelli's foul mouth. He's staring slackjawed at Frederick, having never seen such beautiful and simple torment. On the one hand, he's fascinated by the prospect of… taking that knowledge home, to use on his foes. But on the other hand, he has a sinking feeling that he won't be going home. At least, not in the same state as he was when he came here.

Freddie is still coughing when the cigarette is offered, but he too, accepts it and begins to smoke. "Don't tell him anything, Bob."

"Bullshit, I won't not tell him - won't tell him - fuck! Stupido stronzo!" Bobby turns his attention back toward Cable, frowning. "Listen, we're made men. Freddie here's a capo, got himself made a long time ago -"

"Shut up, Bobby."

"- and me, I was just made last week!"



"What does a man have to do to get made?" Cable wonders. Amber light begin to leak from beneath the edges of his eyepatch as his mind reaches out to graze the surface of theirs in the hopes that talking about the idea is enough to push impressions of it there. "What does it mean to be made? You're clearly a man with some authority, Frederick," his scar-bordered blue eye shifts towards the hooded capo. "So where does Farelli rate in the organization, compared to you? Better yet: who's above you? Equal to you?" He crouches so that he's nearer to the larger man's eyelevel, arms resting across his knees.

"If you'd like a little more time to consider how you'll answer those questions, you can start with this one: given a taste of what it's like to be at the mercy of someone more powerful than yourself, what do you see yourself - yourselves - doing with your lives once you're back on Earth, and Greymalkin is just a thorn buried in your subconsciouses?"


The impressions are there. These are untrained minds, who's egos are tickled by the very idea of being 'made'. Even though both have achieved the goal, it is something to be cherished, for if anything, the day's events have proven that being made men means nothing at the hands of a knife, or a gun.

"Well, for one, you gotta be full Italian."


Before the younger man can spill more of what is, essentially, nonsense, the attention turns to 'Little' Freddie Gambini. "He's just a soldato," he answers, ruefully. "Soldier. Made man? Means he might have a chance at wearing real hair on his underdeveloped chest some day."

"Fuck you, man, fuck you."

"Farelli is a pawn," Gambini explains. "S'far as who's above me? You tell me who's askin'. Cause when me and The Bob here get back, we get back to doing what we was born to do."

"Family business."

"Family business, capiche?"


"The name's Cable. You may have seen one of my flyers."

Throughout the city, on telephone poles, police station bulletin boards, and the walls of upscale restaurants, among other locales, there are black and white flyers advertising the man's protection/extraction/liquidation services.

The rest of Gambini's answer earns a soft snort, a shake of the head, and very little in the way of apparent surprise. "Back to business as usual, just like that, eh? What's that mean, 'business'? Drugs? Girls? Protection? Theft?" He pauses for another drag, tilts his head back and puffs towards the roof, giving them a moment to reflect, or protest, or spill, as they will. "A rundown of it all'd go a real long way towards getting you out of those restraints, big man." His eye shifts towards Farelli, brow arching.

"Goes for you, too. Young or not, you're clearly the brains, here; how badly do you want to go home?"


Wait, so this is Cable? Yeah, both of these mobsters have heard of the guy, or at least, they've seen the fliers. Little did they realize that he was such a big deal. Still, these are hardened criminals. Chances are they'll need a bit more persuasion.

"Jesus, this guy really doesn't know how it works," mutters Farelli.

"Legitimate business," answers Gambini, coldly. "Lots of real estate investing, come industrial work. Import, export, and the like. Far as, not so legitimate business? You damn near got it, 'cept for drugs."

"Bunch a thick micks handle the vice," supports Farelli. "That's the Irish. Red-haired faggots think pushin' dope to black neighborhoods is the way to run a business."

"Yeah, well, they're Irish. Can't blame 'em for being stupid, raised by potato-licking hussies."

"Listen, Cable." Farelli tries to reason with the man. "You want us to talk, eh? So, here's the problem. We talk… they figure it out… you might as well board water us up here, okay? You think you're tough, but you don't know revenge like the bosses do."

"We could talk about the other families, what we know," offers up Freddie, "but we do that? You gotta guarantee our protection. Otherwise? No dice."

The two mobsters look at each other, craning their necks to do so. Yeah, this could end horribly for them, but… at least they'd die with honor.


Cable lets his smoke curl over the men's heads as he listens, skims, absorbs, and ponders. The vase remains ever at hand, ready and in sight without being raised. Gradually, as they shift towards talking about protection, the light from his eyepatch dims until it's fully concealed again, his light survey of their thoughts completed for the moment.

"I can do you one better," he begins after letting Freddie's offer linger in silence for a few seconds. Rising to his full height, he stubs the cigarette out against his gleaming bicep and extends the vase towards the tray.

"You tell me who ordered the hit. You give me everything that you have on the other Families, and going forward, you keep me abreast of what yours are up to going forward; in return, I'll protect you from all of them. If you're smart about it, you could probably parlay this into better positions for yourselves, because someone will have to pick up the pieces when the war's over, right? So it's just a question of whether you're smart enough to keep your mouths shut and take what advantage you can. You're both businessmen, ones with plenty of victimless income streams to potentially get rich off of. Can we make a deal?"


It's a tempting offer. The two men look at each other for a long moment; Freddie is the first to look over at the vase, but Bobby soon follows.

"I don't know who ordered the hit," Bobby Farelli offers up.

"You sure about that, Farelli?"

"I'm only soldato."

Frederick Gambini looks Bobby square in the eye for a long moment. It's a wonderful thing, watching the transformation taking place; Gambini holds the family name. He's not far from underboss himself, and he knows a bit about the plans that his family have laid in motion. His scowl soon turns into a smirk, and after a glance toward Cable, he bites.

"The hit was ordered by Joseph Columbo… and Carlo Gambini."

Bobby Farelli, member of the Genovese, begins to glare. His chest rises and falls angrily, and after a few moments of mounting pressure, he pops. "Fottuto frocio testa calda!" he shouts. "Fucking hothead! I'll put a fucking bullet in you, traditore!!"


Compliance earns Frederick a fresh cigarette, which he offers down to the capo amidst Bobby's curses and flaring familial pride.

"Good," Cable urges with a grimace, dropping to a knee to put himself closer to Gambini. He works on peeling the hood the rest of the way off of the man's head, pressing, "Don't let him distract you; protection from the Five Families includes him. Why did they order the hit? Do they already have a plan in place to take advantage of the situation that's about to unfold?"

After taking a moment to light a fresh one for himself, he turns his eye curiously upon Bobby to wonder, "Are you sure that you didn't know anything?" almost idly. His rank tells the mutant one thing, but the capo's goading said something different enough to elicit prying.


"I don't know why, exactly," Frederick admits. "Doesn't take a genius. Cavassini held the keys. No one likes to admit it, but he held all of the power. Taking him out assures he won't squeal to the feds. We've already been making moves to depower the Bonnano's, the Genovese…"

"Yeah, keep talking, Gambini," spits Bobby Farelli, before turning toward Cable. "He thinks he knows everything." He smirks. "He doesn't." A wicked look is fired at the capo. "You don't know what kind of muscle we have."


"I'd like to know," Cable interjects. Clamping the cigarette between his teeth, he gingerly spreads the hood out so that he can then begin sliding it onto Bobby's head at a measured pace. "Troop estimates are always handy." To Freddie, he then says, "Right— decapitate the enemy, take out their support, claim their resources while they're hurting and/or distracted. Makes sense. Who pulled the trigger?" His gaze returns to Bobby.

"If you don't have an answer for me, Bob," he advises, "then you may want save your breath."


"Hey, I don't know," answers Freddie, sounding pretty damn honest. He's watching as the hood gets placed over Bobby's head, and he doesn't want any more of it. "Not my job, pal. I didn't order the hit, wasn't my job to know who pulled the damn trigger." He eyes Bobby again, who is now frantically trying to reach the hood, to no avail. "Course, I can… try to find out."

Bobby makes a few trembling noises. He doesn't at all believe that there will be any protection for him. What he does know… well, he's just too damn stupid to keep his mouth shut.

"F… freaks like you," he tells Cable.


"Do so," Cable instructs Freddie while rising to grab the vase. "We'll be meeting weekly going forward, so that you can debrief me."

He's awfully free about discussing this in front of a man who's just sworn to kill his potential pidgeon because said man's hunch is spot on: the mutant doesn't need two of them, and given a choice between a soldier and a sergeant, well…

There's no choice at all, really.

But as metal fingers clink on glass, Bobby somehow finds three little words that just may buy him a reprieve.

"Mutants in your ranks?" he presses, hissing as his hand wraps around the vessel without lifting. "More. Now. Everything. Prof, reference 12S."

The air above the two men becomes a rippling, shimmering, gradually expanding burst of color from which an image gradually emerges: http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/0/77/197794-147432-stryfe.jpg

"Have you seen this man?!" he demands, his controlled veneer all but vanished as he squats to put himself a foot or two from Bobby's face and the same image unfolds in the hooded soldato's mind.


Freddie closes his eyes, grimacing. So, the rumors were true. The Genovese were employing mutants.

Bobby yelps, and screams out loud when an image appears in his head. "What- no! No, I swear, I, I don't know who that is!! Listen, I only do what I'm told! They… they come to us! I don't know how, or who tells them, but they come to us! We pay 'em, they do the dirty work, that's… that's all!"

"He's lying, Cable," answers Freddie. "He's tryin'a play you."

"No! No, I swear, it's true!"


"If he is," Cable growls while extending astral fingers into Bobby's psyche, "I'll know— and if he isn't, he's just been recruited. He'll leave you alone, keep whatever he's heard and seen here to himself, and if he doesn't— "

The eyepatch is ripped free, revealing an eye blazing with amber energy that threatens to - but doesn't, quite - lick across Bobby's skin.

"— I'll know. I can see what you see, hear what you hear. Know your plans before your make them— I'll protect you from your associates, but if you - either of you - so much as thinks of blowing this op, nothing on Earth will protect you from me."

This is - at least in part - a bluff: he's got the tech to inconspicuously wire them for sight and sound - for their own sake as much as his - but that's about the extent of his omniscience.

"Now:" The vase is set down and the mutant rises, slowly exhaling on the way up. "Both of you will be meeting with me once a week. Bobby, you'll be learning all about the mutants; where they come from, where they're kept. Freddie, you already have your assignment. A word of any of this escapes your lips, and we'll come back here to square things. Capisce?"


The bluff is certainly effective. For as tough as these men are, they've never been exposed to this level of technology. Nor are they stupid enough to turn down such a wonderful business opportunity.

"Well, 'Bob'," grumps Freddie, "Looks like we're friends, now."

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