Of course, Marci would forgive him. Probably. Foggy can’t imagine that she’d divorce him over something that isn’t completely under his control, though he’ll definitely get verbally railed to the last second of recorded time. He doesn’t want to subject her to the danger of being in Daredevil’s circle just as he doesn’t want to deprive her of Matt’s light, and he knows for himself that there’s no way that he could every pull himself out of Matt’s life anymore. He’s tried. He’s failed. And if it came down to an absolute ultimatum, he hates that he knows which side he would take and that it would not be his fiancee’s.
He hopes that it never comes to that. The thought horrifies him. God, he’d been normal once too, hadn’t he? He’d just been another nerdy guy from a relatively happy family who dreamt of saving people the ordinary way. Even after he got talked out of being a corporate hotshot by a good-hearted bastard, he still considered himself a pretty run-of-the-mill dude, but then he’d been attacked and… Matt had been attacked and… hell.
“If she knew, at least she could be more alert, right? Even if she didn’t know all of the details, she’d know that she’s living with someone who has close ties to someone who gets beat up and whose bleeding heart occasionally means it’s more effective to beat up people close to him. A.K.A. us.” Foggy sighs, running his hand through his hair nervously. “She does have her mace that she carries with her and everything, and god knows she’s smarter than I am by far so she’d know if something felt wrong about people she was talking to. She’s got that uncanny ability to just tell, y’know? So she’d probably be okay.”
And if that’s true, perhaps there is no merit in telling her, whether Foggy wants to or not, whether it’s his secret to divulge or not. It would just cause unnecessary paranoia and tension. “I guess that means I’m just being selfish by wanting her to know? Is that what’s going on right now?”
Elektra’s having a small issue looking over and meeting Foggy’s eyes, preferring to think with her soft focus on the scattering of lights in the dim expanse before them. Not really looking at the view either. He’s pressing the argument, trying to lawyer a way to relieve his guilt of harboring this secret. There is probably very little she can say to soothe his inner demons or make him comfortable with either choice.
She wishes just at this moment, Matt would arrive, suited up, smiling through fresh bruises and charming excuses to the partygoers, and save her from this tricky conversation. Despite being equipped for it, despite having considered the very same problem Foggy is facing from every angle herself many years ago. Only the answer she has will not satisfy him, because he’s looking for an ethical and reasonable way to tell Marci the truth that won’t cause problems.
She exhales a deep breath, accepting her fate. “Yes,” she remarks, a little sharp in how crisp and plain her answer is. Ultimately, yes. Unfortunately, yes. “Foggy, what you need to understand is…” Elektra shifts so the sheen of her hair moves back behind her shoulder and she can look at him properly. “Marci is not likely to be targeted because of her association with Matt Murdock.” She gets his eyes, trying to gauge for a beat if he’s picking up what she’s putting down. “And not because of Daredevil.”
By Elektra’s estimate, Marci doesn’t crack the top five most likely people to be kidnapped to motivate Daredevil to act stupid. And anyone looking to motivate Matt Murdock, attorney at law, would first go for Foggy, as history has proven. The degrees of separation between Marci and Daredevil ought to help him sleep at night in that regard. But… “He isn’t the only one that pisses people off at your firm.” She doesn’t say this to make him feel worse, though it might, but then follows up in a way meant as a balm to the sting. “Marci knows you.” The idiotic bravery Foggy has, too. “And she’s choosing you.” By the sound of it, that accounts for almost everything in her book.
“Hate t'break it to ya, lady but their type s'always tryin’ to kill me.” It’s what he’s invited with the skull painted on his chest like a bullseye in blinding white so they see it coming; with every crippling blow to their criminal operations, every derailed convoy of their supply lines, every sussed out warehouse blown to smithereens along with their bloody dirty profits. Maybe he shouldn’t take pride in that, yet he does and it puts the barest hint of a smirk on his usually stoic expression. Frank’s glad to piss off whoever it is that he has— if only because nine times out of ten if makes them sloppy; makes them run at him full tilt until they’re snared in his traps or perfectly positioned in his crosshairs for the picking off. Their frustration and rage is rarely refined as his own, not leashed and tamed into true lethality like his. Maybe if they could manage it— or hire someone who has, they’d finally fucking accomplish the pesky little task of putting him six feet under the dirt.
It’s amusing how it excites her, though. Progress in their shared work even if the mission is assigned and not taken up by choice. They could work for someone a lot worse than the old General who scooped them up and made them a team alongside Wilson, and Thompson. Ross’s just hands off enough about it to make it chafe less; let them feel like they run their own show, as usual. And the people he unleashes them after? Usually the type to be on his and her personal radars anyway. Hell, maybe she’s got particularly personal beef with this set. It’d explain what he figures passes for giddiness on her.
“Alright— here’s the play. I’ll be the bait. They want me? They can come and get me. Let ‘em. You and Thompson can cover taking out their transport once they’re out of it; cut off or rig any and all means of escape. Wilson stays on my six. Then we press 'em between us 'til there’s none left. Work for you?”
In the service he might have climbed his way to Captaincy, but here it does not apply. He’s not their leader— hell, he’s not even the General’s right hand man, or given any privilege. There are no orders between them, only suggestions— team meets with equal say until they’re all on the same page agreeably, or as agreeably as some of them get. So it doesn’t matter that Frank’s always been a tactician or that his brutally efficient reputation precedes him— not if what he puts forward isn’t to her satisfaction.
She considers his proposal, arms folded across her ribs a couple paces away. The pleased tick to Frank’s expression at the idea of goading this faction into setting their crosshairs directly on him doesn’t go unnoticed. It reverberates in her, honestly — a warm, clever feeling meeting the buzz that comes with anticipating action. Maybe she should be, but Elektra isn’t concerned for his safety in this. Not in a way that matters. He’ll be armed to his shiny snarling teeth in the face of an onslaught and even should the worst happen, even if a wave of force turns against him, is there really any other way Frank Castle is going out of this world?
Her role in this, on the other hand… her and the other two boys, she plays with it a moment longer. Is it worth asking if Frank trusts Wade on his own to have his back? With this team, trust is imperfect everywhere. Thompson needs a little minding as well, with his commitment shakier than anyone’s. At least Elektra and Frank can more or less be counted on to see a fight through and announce their departures if it came down to it. She can see the logic — Wade’s durability, skill, and enthusiasm for violence are without question. Flash and the symbiote factor could need the guiding pressure of an extra pair of eyes.
If not for the teensy-weensy minor annoying fact of Wade’s open crush on her and his blatant ‘jokes’ about getting Frank out of the picture… but to treat his immaturity that seriously, as if it’s an actual concern, as if this thing between her and Frank is… anything… feels silly.
Saddling herself with Deadpool’s endless chatter would grind her patience the entire time, too. Hard to choose that fate.
“Okay, Rambo.” Like she doesn’t enjoy his stupid life-risking bravery. Elektra decides she may have a threatening word with Wade ahead of time, on the side. “We play the cavalry. Where should we draw them to?”
blood, blood, gallons of the stuff! a collection of icky, bloody prompts for those who like to choose violence. actions are reversible. general warning for blood, violence, murder, death.
𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :
“ that’s a lot of blood. ”
“ it isn’t mine. ”
“ what did you do ? ”
[ sigh ] “ what did you do ? ”
“ come on. have a taste. ”
“ holy shit, are you okay ? ”
“ it looks worse than it feels. ”
“ you should see the other guy. ”
“ it’s a good look on you. you should get covered in blood more often. ”
“ lean on me. ”
“ oh my god. oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck ? is that what i fucking think it is ? ”
“ … gross. ”
[ standing over a body ] “ oops. ”
“ is that a fucking body ? ”
“ look, i’m sorry, okay ? ”
“ what the hell happened ? ”
“ before you say anything, it wasn’t me. ”
“ at least it wasn’t me this time. ”
“ look at me. this iswho i am, no matter how much you pretend it isn’t. ”
“ look at me. this iswho i am, no matter how much you wish it wasn’t. ”
“ i’m not scared of you. ”
“ you don’t scare me. ”
“ shut up and let me help you. ”
“ i got your shirt all bloody. ”
“ let’s get you cleaned up. ”
“ that looks like it hurts. ”
“ i’m fine, just… give me a minute. ”
“ we are so fucked. ”
“ what the fuck is wrong with you ? ”
“ are you gonna help me clean it up or not ? ”
“ the fucker deserved it. ”
“ red looks good on you. ”
“ what the hell did you do ; tap - dance all over the body with ice - skates ? ”
“ what, did you run over the body with your car a couple times after ? ”
“ i… i didn’t mean to… ”
“ sorry. fuck, i’m sorry. ”
“ this isn’t what it looks like. ”
“ it was an accident. ”
“ motherfucker ran right into my knife, i swear. ”
“ people need to look both ways before crossing… bullets. ”
“ would you believe me if i said wrong place, wrong time ? ”
“ hey, look at me. i don’t care. are you okay ? ”
“ they deserved it, right ? please tell me they deserved it. ”
“ you’re bleeding. ”
“ what the fuck happened to you ? ”
“ you’re getting blood on the carpet. ”
“ sit down before you fall down. ”
“ that looks like a you problem. ”
𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 :
sender spits out a mouthful of blood at receiver’s feet
sender spits out a mouthful of blood on receiver
receiver finds sender covered in blood
sender tries desperately to stop receiver’s bleeding
sender helps receiver clean up after a kill
sender wipes blood from receiver’s face with a washcloth
sender wipes blood from receiver’s face with their thumb
sender licks receiver’s blood off a knife
sender licks receiver’s blood off their thumb
sender lights up a cigarette a foot away from someone they killed before offering one to receiver
receiver finds sender stood over a body
sender stitches up receiver’s wound [ optional wound placement ]
sender digs their finger into receiver’s wound [ optional wound placement ]
sender frantically checks receiver for injuries under all the blood
sender guides receiver’s bloody hands under a faucet / water source and begins washing them clean
sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood
sender tilts receiver’s head back to staunch a nosebleed
sender draws a smiley face out of the blood they spilled :)
receiver finds sender cleaning up a kill in a daze
sender looks receiver in the eye as they shoot / stab / kill someone
sender ruffles receiver’s hair, getting blood all over their hand
sender gets some of receiver’s blood on them and makes a face
sender flicks blood at receiver to annoy them
sender stomps in a pool of blood to splash it on receiver
sender slips in their victim’s blood but receiver steadies them before they can fall
sender steadies receiver when they slip in the blood sender spilled
receiver comes home to sender covered in blood and waiting for them with all the lights off
sender spits out a tooth and it hits receiver
sender tries to wipe blood off receiver but the blood on their hands just makes it worse
sender takes an injury meant for receiver
sender shows up on receiver’s doorstep covered in blood
sender sits down quietly next to receiver after receiver kills someone
sender punches receiver in the mouth
receiver watches sender lick the blood off their fingers like its cheeto dust
sender helps receiver bury a body
sender hugs receiver just to get their victim’s blood all over them <3
sender hugs receiver just to get their blood all over them <3
sender leans on receiver for support
sender kills someone to protect receiver
receiver finds sender in a frenzy maiming a body after they’ve already killed it
sender kills someone and the blood spatters on receiver
receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself
sender kisses receiver to taste the blood on their busted lip
sender shoots / stabs receiver non - fatally as a warning
Faith’s generally impatient, as a rule. Doesn’t like to stand in one place for too long, always has to be moving. Going. Tonight, though, she seems oddly relaxed. Resting against the gate’s massive hinge post in cuffed jeans and red plaid jacket that’s a little too casual for her. Fucking saddle oxfords. Suggests she hasn’t been out tomcatting — she’s in her work clothes, but Elektra doesn’t need to know that. She takes a few ragged puffs as her other hand snaps Spike’s silver butane shut and drops it in her jacket’s breast pocket. Thumbs a little blood off the corner of her mouth that’s, thankfully. about the same color as her lipstick..
She doesn’t see Elektra, first — it’s the perfume that gives her away. Femme and bold against the softer notes of Faith’s Luxe soap and tobacco. She doesn’t know much about Elektra, yet, but she can smell money on her like dope on a jitterbug. “Well, if it ain’t Doris Duke, herself.” she juts her chin out, cigarette still hanging out of the side of her mouth as she speaks, “Long time, Feline. Surprised you showed up.”
Elektra grins at the comparison, just riding the wave of excitement from being out. “Did I keep you waiting?” she asks, followed up with a pseudo-apologetic suck of air through her teeth and a sidelong look. Oops. It lasts approximately three seconds, poking fun. “I’m afraid my watch is really just for decoration.” Her brand of humor feels a little horrible just now, and that makes it all the better to Elektra. So sorry, oh well, they’re both here.
“So,” she takes her cue from the burning end of Faith’s cigarette to light up her own, briefly showing off the gleam of an engraved gold lighter before it slips back into a pocket of her high-waisted pants. “Just where are we off to?” Elektra’s energy is winding up on these small thrills — the late night sneaking, smoking on the streets of a new city, this could-be friend tasting of so much promise. Couldn’t even try to match with words how up for anything she is.
[ EIGHTEEN ] receiver thinks they’re alone but sender comes out of nowhere to rescue them from someone who intends to do harm (also for Russie)
IN TRUTH, SHE HAD EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO RUN. and how many times had she been warned to? run, they’d urged — she’d urged, her mother — when their house was stormed by those seeking the source of the conduit pulse (or were they looking for her mum? she could not quite remember anymore.) back then, rusalka had run. now, she wasn’t so sure it’s always the right thing.
the tea shop was just closed, and she was locking up when she heard a voice behind her, begging for something to eat. of course, rusalka could not help but jump, at first, because the voice sounded familiar yet strange. then, she turned, and … his face was shrouded by a hood, so she leaned forward a bit to peer closer.
pallid flesh — gaunt, hollow cheeks, a wisp of mousy brown hair falling in front of his eye —
❝ felix? ❞ she said, bewildered, a touch of fear and relief dancing together in the name on her tongue. ❝ n-no, you’re — you cannot be here, you’re — ❞ dead. the hound killed you, you’re dead, how can you be here?
before she could answer, the figure’s hand shot out and locked around her throat. “spare anything,” it croaked, voice distorting, glitching in and out like bad radio. “spare a—”
snap. a pair of hands flashed out of the darkness of the empty street and twisted the cloaked figure’s head to the side sharp enough to break its neck. when it crumpled, it still wore his face, but she knew upon seeing it clearer in the lamplight that it was doing just that. a shapeshifter, an imitation, all of its parts a little bit wrong.
rusalka breathed a quiet sigh and glanced up to see a familiar, and much more welcome, silhouette against the dim. ❝ ah… hello again, ❞ she said, giving elektra a small smile weighed by the melancholy of the last moments. ❝ my apologies… you always seem to catch me at the worst times. thank you, regardless. i once again owe you a debt. ❞
Elektra appears from the cover of the hooded figure in her civvies, looking down on it with a flicker across her features that says she isn’t sure what she’s seen, or just done. The neck gave too easily. It snapped like brittle candy, not like bone. She had known, instinctively, it would. And there is something wrong to the face beneath the hood.
Rusalka voice picks up her attention, but only for a moment before Elektra is glancing around to see if anyone noticed the killing that just happened. It didn’t really feel like taking a life — it felt like the certainty of saving one — but Elektra tends to feel much less for the humanity of an assailant like she just witnessed anyway.
“Let’s start with an explanation,” she says quickly, moving to draw Rusalka back towards her tea shop to open it up again. The welcome warm scent of dozens of spices hits her as soon as the door gives, just before she turns back again to pull the broken shrouded body in across the threshold.
She’s not really counting a debt, here, but there’s been too much weirdness around Rusalka to be coincidence, and Elektra will press a momentary advantage to find out what’s behind this. Without ceremony, she pulls the hood and sleeves back, revealing the pasty, deathly thin figure. Skin stuck like clinging plastic wrap around the bones. She just looks over at Rusalka with a brow lofted, as if to ask, you know him?
WHILE CIRI DOESN’T EXPECT, NOR WANT, SYMPATHY, SHE AT LEAST DESIRES SOME MODICUM OF RESPECT. Men the size of boulders have wept over less. A frown deepens on the ashen haired girl’s lips, bordering on a pout of royal proportions. But after a moment of deliberation, the little Witcher smooths the frown away, not wanting to show the woman got to her. “I’m not blind,” she spits back, fingers digging grooves into her arms. There is nothing she despises more than being underestimated. Granted, however, the stranger was right. The number of odd rituals she’s seen villagers do to appeal to curses, with no evidence of it working, could baffle a person. But that’s what ignorance & fear does — it could drive a person mad. “Maybe I will,” she shrugs, verdant eyes catching the look the woman flicks to the sword at her back. Hmph. Everyone fears the blade. “Villagers can be superstitious to the point of foolishness, but they’re not always wrong.”
CIRI DID NEED THE COIN. If she had any chance of making it to the next town, she needed supplies. Even now her stomach grumbles with hunger. But she’d been taught not to take people & beasts at face value, and this woman did not seem like the monster the denizens of this village claimed her to be. Ciri wouldn’t be talking with her now if that were the case. For now, she’ll remain cautious but non-hostile. “We needn’t quarrel,” she finally says, though it is clear the girl has no qualms drawing her sword if need be, if her twitching fingers were any indication. “These people are scared. If it isn’t me, they’ll come after you with pitchforks.” A pause & she inquiries, “What is it they’re so frighten of anyway?”
“You’re not?” Elektra replies with an obvious faux-shock she learned from her own teacher. The pretend drops, but sarcasm still drips from her voice. “Hm, it’s a miracle. Many lose their sight or more in vicious attacks like yours, and have to live with it.” And a rare few still go on to do amazing things with their lives, too. This girl had apparently not suffered any long term effects, physically speaking, beyond the impressive scar. Probably a point of pride for her now, by the looks of her. Sensing a lot of pride in this one, actually. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Elektra feels herself relax a bit as Ciri suggests a peaceful route. She doesn’t want to have to hurt this young woman for coming after her based on villager fears. “You may be right. It seems time for me to move on from this place.” Though where to, she isn’t sure. She doesn’t love the idea of running away, but she also doesn’t have a particular reason to stay, either. Elektra considers the question — as there seemingly is an answer — as she eyes Ciri, just as she notices the shape of the hanging silver medallion. She rises and comes closer, her tone tilting curiously and almost accusatory towards it. “Where did you get that?”
jessica’s been mulling over her options for the past couple days, weighing out the costs that would give her the least amount of grief. but, no matter how much she’d rather keep elektra out of the loop, there was that saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, if only to make sure that elektra’s purposes are just as she’s said. with luke embroiled in all this misery, the PI finds herself unable to walk away. sure, he’s a big guy, perfectly capable of handling his own fights. but, where the Hand is involved, none of them could take them on their own. “ you really think matt’s not gonna catch a whiff of this bullshit? the dude’s a danger magnet and you know he won’t let this go. ”
On the subject of Matthew, Elektra feels herself treading along a very narrow path where a single misstep on either side will send her stumbling down into a dangerous ravine. She hates to think of him, hates to be in the same city, to feel like around every corner he might be there, unavoidable. To be disappointed each time he isn’t. She doesn’t want to betray herself to this Jessica woman, to show care, nor show a wish to harm Matt that doesn’t exist. A great challenge to stay neutral and in control while still convincing Jessica why it’s necessary Matt doesn’t know she’s here. But after a brief moment, she thinks she’s found a balance.
“Matthew can occupy himself with Hell’s Kitchen, I’m sure of it.” Does she need to cause something suitable as a distraction? With the ever-present criminal whack-a-mole in his neighborhood, she doubts it, but files that away as an emergency idea. “He doesn’t have the capacity for violence needed to go up against the Hand. They’ll destroy him.” Because he isn’t willing to deliver fatal blows, she thinks, the odds are irreparable against him in this. Perhaps alone, that would be true. Side by side… Elektra tries to keep emotion from her voice, to sound as if it would merely be a waste and certain tactical mistake to involve him, but she keeps steady on Jessica to see how this argument is received.
most people equated super strength with an overzealousness to use powered fists as a solution, and while it certainly does come in handy, jessica’s all too aware of the damage that it can do when not tempered. especially since there were still a number of ways left in their arsenal to extract information that didn’t involve incapacitating their interrogatee.
the temptation to call it a day weakens in the face of a promising lead. with an exasperated roll of her eyes, she takes her long strides to the corner of the store, jumping up to throw her gloved fist through the security camera. “ look for the rest while i swipe the tapes in the back. we don’t need anyone tailing our asses uptown. ”
Jessica goes about the business of covering their tracks; swift, efficient, smart. When she turns around with the bit of instruction, there’s a tinge of impressed across Elektra’s expression. At least an appreciation that wasn’t there before. Something in the challenge Elektra had laid down answered in a way she really likes. Only takes a moment to realize it’s because it’s a fucking relief to be working alongside someone with an ounce of competence and common sense.
She doesn’t say anything, just gives a small nod and does her part busting up the remaining security cameras. About a dozen of them in there, too, being a jewelry store. She contemplates making it look like a robbery, but there’s no real point. When Jessica comes back out, Elektra is in the middle of a smattering of black glass. “All good?” she chimes, rather satisfied for the moment by all the breaking of things, and then tilts her head on her way to the door. “Come on. We’ll get a cab.”
jessica knew about as much as danny and matt explained, but whatever was beyond why they were in new york and what the four of them needed to know to stop them wasn’t anything that piqued her interest. understanding the lore behind some freaky cult isn’t really in the wheelhouse of information she aims to keep handy. but, she wouldn’t ignore further explanation either if it helped understand how to rid of them.
another muttered expletive beneath her breath as she heaves a sigh. as gaze remains heavy on the other, jessica discerns no deceit in her tone nor does she see a reason why the lady would lie to her about them being back in town. “ and, what ? still doesn’t answer my first question. you here to get the band back together ? you keep saying they as though you aren’t apart of it. ”
Since the call for a frosty peace, Elektra has scarcely moved. Her gaze holds onto Jessica strangely and her arms remain low at her sides. Here at the question of her alliance, her weight shifts back in place, and her head tilts minutely at the same time her gaze lowers, almost so that she appears to be considering the tops of her cheekbones. Affronted in some way either slightly or significantly… depending on the metric.
I’m not. Easy to say, hard to prove. What good are words when the past is unspeakable? “The Hand is an international shadow organization with power over death,” Easy to fall back on the old mantra, with a minor tweak that’s now a fact in her mind, and then segue to the real meat. The convincing. “…Power they used on me. I don’t thank them for it.” Cold vengeance in her tone, eyes that haven’t forgotten. It’ll have to be enough. “What’s your interest?”
“Me?! I-I’m just a mook. Everybody knows YOU’RE the brains a'this operation.” Oh Elektra warms his old Italian heart with her teasing— jokes delivered in a scarily even deadpan that most people would confuse for utterly complete seriousness. They miss the wicked gleam in her dark eyes that gives away the true intent. Frank just counts himself lucky for the time spent in close enough quarters that he’s been able to learn her little tells, and discover just how cheeky and hilarious she can be. “Nobody who knows you is gonna believe for a second you took orders from the likes of me. Now if y'tell ‘em you were BOSSIN’ ME AROUND— maybe.”
Elektra doesn’t bother pointing out he might struggle to find anyone who knows her well enough, because on second thought, maybe that’s the part that amuses her the most. That anyone would get that off a first impression. So they’re going a little rogue — what could Ross have really expected when he put together this ‘team’ with scotch tape and chewing gum? She likes the way he looks, snapping together his weapons of choice and sorting ammo. A gun oil smell to the air. “Well, the Hand isn’t going to wait until my name is drawn from a hat,” she drawls. If her name is really in there. Sue her for looking at things at the worst possible angle. Can’t say so, but she appreciates Frank having her back on this one. “Ready?”
