The ocean rain over Coney Island had finally stopped, leaving the night air choked with bitter cold and the sharp stench of burnt cordite.
Frank Castle stood under the flickering halogen light of the shattered Funhouse arcade. In his left hand, he held the crinkled yellow Post-it note—I ❤️ CLOWNS (Shoot me!)—holding it like it was a live grenade. His knuckles were bone-white, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck looked like steel cables.
Five feet away, Spider-Man was dangling upside down from a rusted steel roof joist, meticulously picking neon-pink paper streamers off his wrists.
"Look, Castle," Peter groaned, dropping down onto a pile of stuffed prize bears with a wet THUD. "I know your usual policy with guys who wear face paint and break the law is 'shoot first, don't ask questions later.' But this guy? He's... different. He's not just a mob hitman. He's a psychological biohazard."
Frank didn't look at him. He casually crumpled the Post-it note into a tiny ball, shoved it into his tactical vest pocket, and racked the slide of his combat pistol.
CLICK-CLACK.
"He's a criminal," Frank growled, his gravelly voice echoing off the broken mirror walls. "He ruined three Union Allied operations, stole Stark's vehicle, harassed civilians, and now he's turning Chinatown into his personal circus. He dies tonight."
"Yeah, except he wants you to shoot him!" Peter yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Did you see his face when you hit him in the chest? He didn't even wince! He looked like he just won the lottery! The more violence you throw at him, the more he feeds on it!"
Frank stopped. His cold, dark eyes flicked toward the young hero in red and blue.
"So what's your plan, Spider?" Frank asked, his tone dead and icy. "Talk him into a rehabilitation center?"
"No," Peter said, his voice dropping into rare, serious focus. "We stop him before he reaches Midtown. He mentioned something about Captain America, a vibranium shield, and a pizza parlor in Times Square. If we don't catch him in the next twenty minutes, he's going to turn the center of Manhattan into a warzone."
Frank looked at his tactical HUD, checking the GPS ping he’d discreetly planted on the rear bumper of the stolen laundry van before entering the Funhouse. A tiny red dot was currently speeding north along the BQE toward the Williamsburg Bridge.
"Ten minutes," Frank said, slinging his rifle over his chest. "You use your webs to contain him. I use non-lethal shock rounds until he's cuffed. If he tries to pull a grenade... I take the shot."
Peter sighed, shooting a web-line up toward the ceiling beam. "A temporary truce with The Punisher. Great. My conscience is going to need therapy after this."
Meanwhile, on the Williamsburg Bridge.
The stolen laundry van was bouncing over the steel expansion joints, its engine roaring with a high-pitched metallic whine.
Jack was sitting shotgun, his boots resting on the dashboard right next to Tony Stark’s stolen Macallan decanter. His chalk-white face was illuminated by the neon lights of the Manhattan skyline across the river, his [21.0% SYNCHRONIZATION] buzzing like a live high-voltage wire behind his eyes.
In his lap, he was holding a giant cardboard pizza box from a local Brooklyn pizzeria, the grease soaking through the cardboard in a wide, warm circle.
"Oh, girls!" Jack rasped into the cramped cabin, his bloodshot eyes wild and gleaming. "Smell that?! That is the smell of fresh mozzarella, garlic, and upcoming geopolitical drama!"
Natasha was driving, her hands firm on the steering wheel, her grey eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every three seconds.
"Jack," Natasha said calmly. "We have two high-speed trackers pinging our rear bumper. One is military-grade encrypted—Castle. The other is a Stark Industries frequency—Peter."
"THE DYNAMIC DUO!" Jack cackled, taking a huge bite out of a pepperoni slice and letting the melted cheese string down his white-painted chin. "They're following us! Oh, I feel so special, Red! It's like having my own fan club!"
Felicia leaned forward from the back seat, holding apair of binoculars. "Jack, Steve Rogers is currently attending a veteran fundraiser dinner at a pizzeria right off 42nd Street. There are at least fifty NYPD officers and three SHIELD security details surrounding the block."
Jack’s crimson smile expanded until it looked like his jaw was going to unhinge completely.
"Fifty cops and Captain America?!" Jack shrieked into the windshield, his chest vibrating with a low, raspy hehehe... HAHAHAHA!
"PERFECT!" Jack roared. "SERVE THE PIZZA ON THE SHIELD! COMPLETE THE QUEST! DARE 'EM TO STOP THE LUNCH BREAK! HAHAHAHA!"
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