Facing Solomon's offer, Frank Castle kept the same attitude he had for everything else: "Fck off."* It irritated Sophia enough that she nearly raised her fists to settle things the old-fashioned way. But what truly surprised Solomon was that Frank didn't recognize him at all, despite having met him once years ago.
"You think I'm just some trend-chasing kid out looking for an urban legend?" Solomon had to adapt his tone for this ex-soldier—abandoning his usual refined diction in favor of language that could make an etiquette teacher pass out. Nearly every sentence began or ended with the F-word. There was no point lecturing Frank Castle on "There are two kinds of English: correct, and everything else." That would be lost on someone who grew up in a rough neighborhood and graduated from public school before joining the U.S. military.
"I'm here to give you a proposition. One that benefits us both. I know you hate being investigated—but don't even think about pulling a knife. You can't beat me. I've already looked into everything you want. I don't care whether you plan to rot in whiskey or disappear off the grid. I'm offering you a job. If your brain's still functioning, maybe you'll remember our last chat—my offer hasn't changed. It's all written on this sheet of paper."
Frank took a swig of his Jim Beam and ignored the contract Sophia had placed on the bar top. The blaring music and his drink were all that mattered. He didn't even glance at the video call, until the sheer presence of Sophia beside him finally got under his skin. With a sideways glance, he muttered:
"You're not here in front of me."
"Really?"
Frank frowned. The music started stretching, distorting. The bar lights trailed into smears of color, and the air felt thick. He thought he'd been drugged. His instincts flared, and he reached toward Sophia's thigh holster—but then came the sound: music turning into groans of metal. Lights became smeared paint. From inside his whiskey glass, a hand emerged—ringed with three ornate bands—pressing onto the bar top. Then came an arm, a head, and finally Solomon's upper body, climbing out of the glass like a genie in a twisted fairy tale.
"What the fck!" Frank barked, his voice guttural and raw. But his mind refused to accept what he saw. This had to be a hallucination. He stood up, groping the air, trying to find something solid. A way out. Anything real.
"I'm standing right here, Frank Castle," Solomon said, laying a parchment scroll on the bar.
"Fck!" Frank shoved through the frozen patrons like they weren't even there. His eyes widened, heart racing. Fists clenched. Adrenaline pumped through him like fire. He didn't know what this was, but he was ready for it.
"Look, I know this is horrifying," Solomon said calmly, "but don't hurt the girl. I owe Sophia's father a big favor. I don't have time to fly across the world to meet you in person. My alchemical golem can only be in one place at a time, so I'm using this method instead. You think I enjoy tasting your awful Jim Beam? Time is slowed here—only you, Sophia, and I can move. So take a breath and listen to what I have to offer."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you'll never find the target of your revenge," Solomon said, honest and direct. "Not because I've hidden it, but because you're simply not going to find it. You need me. I've inherited the public side of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resources. I can get you anything you need. Don't—"
"Recruitment?" Victoria Hand flipped through the dossier. "An Afghan War vet. Officially listed as deceased. What's so special about this one? I get that there's a difference between special ops and regular infantry, not to mention all the new tech these guys would have to learn. But if you need someone, why not just reassign a few operators from our own spec-ops division? Also—since when do you drink Jim Beam? I thought you hated cheap bourbon."
"Ever since my water elemental construct got shot," Solomon grumbled. "I figured drinking Jim Beam was an appropriate punishment." If he hadn't reacted fast enough—triggering the emergency glyph on Sophia's back to teleport her away—Frank Castle might've killed her in close combat. Sophia herself, raised in Siberia, hadn't taken it personally. But Solomon did. He'd promised her father to protect her, even if Sophia was technically older than him.
"Frank Castle disabled my construct. That proves he's got skills. And I still don't know how he fired that many rounds so fast—the feedback wasn't detailed enough."
"Maybe next time let our special ops talk to him instead of trying magic tricks," Victoria said, slapping the dossier onto Solomon's ornate Renaissance-era desk like it was a hunk of cold steel from her S.H.I.E.L.D. days. "He's a soldier. He needs people who speak his language. You don't have that background, and you won't understand someone like him. Next time, let us handle it."
"I just… I know you're busy, Hand. It seemed like something I could manage on my own."
"Not with that entry method."
"It was a tech projection this time!"
Victoria reached forward, casting a shadow over Solomon's hologram. The digital projection flickered and yelped as she jabbed her finger through it. Then she sat back down.
"There's no difference. Frank Castle values sincerity. His thinking is still tied to military structure. If he can't understand you, he'll never trust you. Are you willing to let him get to know you?"
"Frank Castle has a raw, straightforward sense of justice. He's the kind of man who'll fight for the innocent. I'm sure his file says that somewhere. He represents the most brutal yet honest form of good—an eye for an eye. That's what I need." Solomon sighed. "Now look at me. British boarding school. Oxford education. Rowing team, fencing club, classical oil painting and sculpture. What part of that do you think impresses a guy like Castle? And my real self? Dimensional butcher. Alien executioner. Mission-focused, collateral-blind, master of magic that no one can comprehend. It's terrible PR. My marketing sucks."
"Do you need people to like you?"
"No." Solomon shrugged, then pinched his nose and took another punishing sip of Jim Beam, grimacing.
"I'll handle it," Victoria said. "The agent still tailing Wilson Fisk hasn't left New York. He's ex-military. He and Frank Castle will have something to talk about." She adjusted her glasses and added dryly, "But if possible, please explain yourself to Castle next time. Preferably before you crawl out of his whiskey glass."
(End of Chapter)
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