Little Monster

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Xanthippe Devereux |



Hell’s Kitchen is a special kind of jungle. The kind that can take a person and chew them up, spitting out just a husk of their soul. The kind of jungle where the weak don’t just get perish- they get devoured. It was a free for all, and if you didn’t learn how to adapt- you simply didn’t make it. Xanthippe Devereux was no exception; she supposed in hindsight her story didn’t really matter until- well it all changed. She was a small town girl trying to survive in the concrete jungle of New York, nothing that set her apart from most other New Yorker’s. She kept her head down, her nose clean, and applied herself to her job. Even had a few friends in her pathetically decrepit apartment building she’d spend Friday nights out at bars with. Xanthippe supposed everything changed when she was diagnosed with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. It started with her coordination. Bits of dizzy spells, spasms in her legs, the feeling of loss of balance. Then it became things like forgetting, getting confused; personality changes and it was around that time she was diagnosed, the time her story changed. It was incurable, and at twenty-four Xanthipe Devereux was facing death within the year. All her life wasted just doing nothing, and now she’d never get the chance to make that right. Her last months would be spent wasting away as a drooling mess in a hospital bed.

Her mom cried, her father drank more and her brother withdrew so completely into himself that he may as well have been the deceased one. And Xanthippe Devereux was terrified. It was that time that she was contacted by a group that operated under the simple name of, The Keller Agency. Later she’d learn that company never really existed. But they offered her hope, sold it on a golden platter. That she could take her life back. Xanthippe didn’t even hesitate as she agreed to partake in their experimental treatment of her condition. The woman didn’t even say goodbye to her family; wouldn’t it be easier if she didn’t give them false hope in case their treatments didn’t work? She could make up when she got back. The place itself was the first red flag to Xan. Hidden underground in New York, run from a basement with miserable, lost looking souls strapped into hospital beds. But she still had hope, until the treatments began. To this day she still has no idea what the hell was given to her, but it changed everything. Her disease was gone, and at first it appeared that’s all the injections did. The Keller Agency wasn’t happy, hell they were furious. She was supposed to be special after those injections she’d overheard one of the staff discussing. She supposed that’s why she was cast out of the program; but not to go home- no. If she wasn’t an enhanced, the Keller Agency was still determined on making money off her.

Sure she may not go for as much as one of their successful patients, but she was a pretty face and Xan supposed that she was bought for a pretty penny when the Keller finalized the deal with the Irish mob. Life again changed during her life with the mob, if one could call it that. Xanthippe still can’t close her eyes without being back in that dirty bedroom with other women who had the misfortune of suffering a similar fate as her’s. Of dirty men and hands that no matter how hard she scrubbed during a shower still felt. Or the jeering laughter of mobsters that still rung in her ears. Maybe it was the terror or the fear, or rather the terrified need to get away from her captors, but that mutant gene activated. Not that it did much good, intangibility- as if her body were mocking her. The Irish the decided her use would be better served in a human fighting ring. She still tries to forget those days. Maybe they were weeks or month- there’s no clock in hell. She would've run away, it would've been easy. Had it not been for the fact that the Irish had calculated this. If Xanthippe ran, her family would die. They made it clear to the young woman that one misstep and her family would pay the price. So she did as they asked. She tried not to imagine the blood on her hands, and that fear turned to a scorching fire in her belly.

And then he came, sweeping into the dingy little favored Irish headquarters like death personified. It had been the screams of the bastards who’d turned her life upside down that woke her up from the small cell in the basement of the building, along with the splintering of wood and shattering of glass. Was a rival gang making a hit? Exhaling the small woman drew her knees up to her chest, just waiting for whatever hell was now coming for her. How long the fighting broke out she wasn't quite sure, but at some point a few Irish Kitchen members had come, their clothes bloody and eyes wild. They had grabbed her, hands tangling in her long hair and a knife to her throat, warning her to think of her family and to not try anything while they moved her. The small group had made it to the back entrance when the first bullet exited the man on her left's skull. Panic coursed throughout the small group, and the last thing Xanthippe recalled was being grabbed, being yanked forward as a human shield; and the white hot burning pain of a bullet ripping through her side before a mixture of shock and exhaustion set in as she slid to the blood slicked ground; blackness welling behind her gaze and overtaking her frail looking body. And that's where she currently was, slowly coming to aware of two immediate things. A dull ache in her side wrapped in starkly clean white gauze, and the fact that she was comfortable and warm.

Making a soft groaning noise the young woman stirred, forcing herself up on her elbows as the previous night's events came flooding back to her. Xanthippe's breath hitched as she snapped her eyes open, gaze falling on unfamiliar surroundings. Peeling paint, revealing yellowing walls. A simple mattress in the center of a room that might be called a bedroom by New York standards. The sound of traffic and people drifted in through one small grimy window; sounds she hadn't been able to just appreciate in years. She was so lost in staring wondrously around, that she failed to hear the agile footsteps of a person approaching. No, she was too... Euphoric really that she was no longer trapped in her own hell. It wasn't until she turned her gaze towards the bedroom's doorframe did she notice the hulking and impressive figure leaning casually against it. She didn't react much, even from here she could smell the acridness of gun smoke drifting off of him. For a moment the two merely observed each other before she broke the silence with a quiet, "Who are you? What do you want? Are you with the Dogs? Some other gang? Was that you last night? Are you with the Agency?" That last question her voice turned to something further from tepid curiosity, to a vehement fear and anger as her fists clenched around the scratchy, thin blankets she was wrapped in.

The great thing about being anonymous is what people said when they think no one is listening. Frank wasn't above-beating information out of people, in fact, it was quite effective. A fist was a great tool for getting people to confess their crimes, and to lead him to others. But sometimes, little tidbits of information would float his way, and send him down a whole new path. He'd already marked the Irish as an infestation that needed to be wiped out, and fast. He was just waiting for the right moment. He was waiting for them all to scurry together in their little rats nest so he could take them out. He'd take pleasure in each bullet he buried into their bodies... But when he heard whispers of a human trafficking ring, man. His fingers just started twitching.

"I'm telling you, you get a nice little piece of broad... Any kind you want..." This idiot had no idea who he was around. Frank feigned disinterest, lowering his glass as he listened to the man bragging about his latest expenditure. The poor chump barely finished explaining what $100 got him before Frank was dragging him out the door. Back alleys were the perfect confessional, especially when you're pinned up against the wall and at risk of losing your teeth. For this low life, the dumpster made the ideal grave. No doubt someone would find him in a few days time... But that wasn't Frank's concern. He'd done his job; discovery and investigation were someone else's.

His job was easy. They made it too easy for him. A few knocks on a door, a lie about chasing some tail, and he was in. He didn't give them time to tell him what his 'options' were before he opened fire. He didn't need any more reasons to kill them, not when he'd already made his mind up. Normally, Frank liked to maintain distance when he shot up places like this shithole. This, though? This felt like it needed to be personal. He wanted to watch every single one of them go down.

Frank made it through the building in a clear sweep, with little to no problem. He'd surprised them. None of them had been ready to take someone on, let alone him. Opening one door, he was greeted with loud screams. A quick surveillance suggested that this was where they'd kept the meat of the operation. They weren't meat any longer. He gestured with his rifle, "Move." The women didn't question him, hurrying out of the room. "Head to the front." He called after them, watching for a moment to ensure they made it down the corridor without hassle. There was no one left to bother them. From there, it was a pretty quite trek to the back entrance.

When targets group together, Frank considered them idiots. Then there was no need for clear shots or aiming. He could just let rip, and pick them off all at once. When they grouped together with an innocent, however, things got complicated. When an innocent was at risk, clean shots became increasingly more difficult to secure. It became a game of waving your aim, trying to follow your target before calculating when to pull the trigger. The first guy, bang. He went down like the sack of shit he was. People were more than targets. That was one thing Frank forgot. So when one of the cowards yanked this girl in front of himself, just as Frank had pulled the trigger, it was a recipe for disaster. She went down before Frank had time to register what he'd just done.

"Shit," He muttered. It was inhumane, but one of the first thoughts he had was that now, it was a clean shot. He took the rest of them out before they had time to react to the girl going down. With the amount of gunfire ringing through the building, someone would have notified the police by now. A unit would be on its way, and they'd find the girl. He could see she wasn't fatally wounded. They'd pack her up in an ambulance and reunite her with her family... So why Frank felt the need to take her home was beyond him.

He didn't sleep that night, nothing unusual for him. Rather, he waited, wondering when this girl was going to wake up. She probably had answers for him. She could tell him where the rest of the gang was hiding, if he had missed anyone. She had a motive for telling him. She probably wanted them as dead as he did. With coffee in hand, he watched as she came round. Questions were a given. "Well good mornin' to you too," He murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink. He didn't blame her for being so accusatory. After all, he'd wandered in and murdered a whole bunch of people in front of her. "And what agency would that be?"

"Well good mornin' to you too," His voice was like thunder. Rumbly, rough and low; filling the room with it’s easy baritone. He didn’t seem outwardly bothered by her hostility, the venom in her voice at the mention of Keller, rather this man didn’t seem to react much at all to the mention of the agency. ”What agency?” This could simply be a ruse to get what they wanted, or this man could be telling the truth. It was her turn to go quiet, biting at the corner of her lip while mulling over her options. On one hand, Xanthippe was pretty sure he had shot her. She was also pretty sure it hadn’t been intended, and he had packed up her wound; and hadn’t brought her to the hospital. As far as the world was concerned she was a ghost, and she would prefer to keep it that way until she could make her life and family safe enough to rejoin the living.

Finally she sighed, breaking the relative quiet of the apartment and for the first time her gaze flickered away from his face- lowering to the blankets. ”It’s a very long story.” A muscle twitched in her jaw as she forced herself to breath deeply; if he wasn’t with the agency she was still relatively safe. ”Anyway, that was you last night? All by yourself?” A sort of awe was laced in her tone as she sat a little straighter up, her hand gingerly floating down to the patch of gauze on her right side. It may actually scar, but what did that matter to her? She was away from the Irish. From what visible skin she could see, this man didn’t have the tattooing of any gang. Maybe it was odd, or naive, or dumb- but she felt a little safer with him around.

It was a reminder she wasn’t there anymore. Xanthippe didn’t really care much beyond that. It occurred to Xan she hadn’t done much but fire questions at him, hadn’t even introduced herself. ”I’m Xanthippe. But most people call me Xan, whatever strikes your fancy. Thanks… For getting me out of there, you know?” It would probably take years to get her mind fully away from that place, but she was simply thankful that at some point she may get that chance. The chance to heal and shit. The air was stifling and hot, so gingerly the woman pushed herself to the side of the bed, grimacing against a bout of nausea. When it passed she stood, very carefully placing her hand on the wall so not to stumble. ”Ah, do you have anymore of that?” Jerking her chin towards the cup in his hand the woman tried not to squirm beneath his intense gaze. Perhaps a talk would be a little easier over a cuppa coffee.

Xanthippe used to drink it all the time before her life became a shit show. Before everything fell apart and now she was just supposed to pick up the pieces? How was she supposed to go on normally? Pretend all this happened while laying off everyone's radar? What the fuck was she supposed to do? If Keller heard that she was alive and well, away from the Irish and with an activated mutant gene, enhanced gene- whatever they were calling it these days... Well the mere thought was enough to send shivers through her svelte frame. She still had her ragged jeans on, though a shirt that was not her’s and about three sizes too big, easily falling to her knees. Always a curious creature, Xanthippe had a plethora of questions for this man. Where did he learn to do that? Could he teach someone else to do even a fraction of what he was capable of? Growing up she used to visit her aunts and uncles back west.

They liked to hunt most of them, and she’d seen them firing off their hunting rifles. But it had been nothing, nothing compared to what this man could and had done. Xanthippe, as she carefully watched him with years of learned alertness, wasn't even sure he was a man so much a force. A beam of stray sunlight fell through the window, lighting on Xan's skin and the woman shuddered to think of what she looked like. When all was said and done, a thousand baths would probably be in order to feel a little closer to human. Although with her stomach twisting, and the subtle scent of coffee beans filling the room, Xan would much rather eat first. If he would let her that is. Sure, he hadn't let her die, but now that she was up was he gonna throw her out? Or... Or was he going to kill her? She'd seen his face, and paling Xan took a half-step back. "Are you gonna kill me?" Her tone was soft, rather point blank as her once expressive eyes now watched the man dully, blank of much emotion there.

A long story. It was always a long story. But those were the stories that usual led Frank somewhere, got him heading in the right direction. They were the ones that took him to the top, and that's where he wanted to be. He wanted to kill the weed from the root and make sure it was never gonna come back. To do that, he had to send a message. One that let people know he wasn't playing around. He needed them to know that if they even tried, he'd be there, breathing down their back of their neck and firing a bullet into them before they even had the chance to express an idea. "Long story, huh?" He repeated, looking down into his coffee. Third one of the morning. "I got time." He wanted answers from this girl, then he wanted her gone. There was no reason for her to be caught up in this for any longer than she needed to be. She was a pretty girl, no doubt her face had been plastered all over 'MISSING' posters. She probably had a family worrying about her. He didn't need them sniffing around for her, and he didn't need their thanks either.

Frank wasn't one for fuelling the rumors. Gangs were speculating if he was one man or an army. He liked the mystery of it. It meant they could never quite be prepared for what was going to hit them. Xanthippe wasn't a gang, however. She was a girl he'd shot. "You see anyone else kickin' about that shit tip last night? He asked bluntly, taking a long, final swig of his coffee. He wasn't the greatest conversationalist, and he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate the situation that was unfolding before him. They didn't need to talk about the logistics of last night's assault. "It doesn't matter, you're out. For good." If Frank got someone out, then they were out. Sure, he couldn't stop them from pulling some dumb shit afterward. But he got the job done, all the way through to the end.

He listened to her introduce herself, harsh eyes fixed on her as she spoke. Truth be told, Frank didn't care about her personal backstory. Everyone had one. He didn't need to know her name, her nickname... He just needed her answers. Who put her in that place? Why did she end up there? Who was 'the agency'? Diving into it all seemed off the cards, however. She wasn't gonna talk when she had just woken up in his apartment. Her last question really peaked his interest, however. He pursed his lips for a moment, tilting his head slightly as he listened to her. Sure, she had reason to suspect he would kill her. "You gonna give me a reason to kill you?" The look in her eyes told him a lot. She didn't seem scared of dying, or of him. It spoke volumes of what she'd been through. Death must have seemed like a mercy at some point.

Swapping the mug over to his other hand, Frank turned to step out of the bedroom, his body half in the room still. "There's a pot of coffee in the kitchen." He doubted the Irish or anyone else had been very kind to her for the last few years, the least he could do was offer her a decent cup of coffee. Frank may have skipped out on a luxury apartment, but he didn't skimp on good coffee. "Don't worry about the shirt," He murmured, looking down at the ring of liquid that was staining against the bottom of his cup. "I didn't try any funny business when I was patchin' you up."

"You gonna give me a reason to kill you?" Her posture didn't change much, just shook her head in a silent rebuttal. Xan's thoughts drifted back to the agency. Sure he may have the time, but wasn't sure that even this force of a man was something that would be able to tear apart Keller. Or whatever they were going by now. It was clear he wanted answers, and yes she likely owed him that. Xanthippe probably owed him her life; and that was part of the reason reluctance bloomed on her tongue. There was a good chance that if she told him what landed her with the Irish, it would get him killed down the road. Or the Agency would realize that she was alive, and valuable now. After being directed to the coffee pot, Xan's lips quirked upwards into a faint smile. She learned to smile about little things awhile ago. Thankfully as she took her first few hesitant steps, the world about her stopped spinning as she began to feel more steady on her feet. The place was small, the bedroom right off the kitchen, that much she could see past the man's broad shoulders.

Xanthippe had hardly brushed past him when he spoke again, "Don't worry about the shirt, I didn't try any funny business when I was patchin' you up." Faltering, the woman peered up at him expression remaining unreadable. "I didn't take you for that kind of man to begin with." She stated, then added a quieter, "Thank you though." With that Xan continued onward to the kitchen, her gaze quickly scanning the room for any threats. A hard habit to break. The first thing that jumped out to her, were the sheer number of guns simply laying around. Boxes stacked, sleek looking weapons. All deadly, and instinctively she sucked her breath in with surprise. Biting the inside of her cheek her gaze slid towards the table which held empty cans of food. She was uneasy about the guns as she made her cup of coffee, and hoisted herself up onto a clear counter space to drink it.

She was never far from his gaze, watching probably making sure she didn't fuck around with his things. The mug was hot against her hands, though it was a good burn. The kind that kept reminding her this was real, that Xanthippe didn't have to wake up in that dingy bed again, deal with low-lives and opportunist. Deal with monsters disguised as men or hear all the horrible shit going on just outside that locked door. That fire that burned in her belly flared at the memories. She wanted the people who did this to her, people who did things like this- The Agency, she wanted it all burnt to the ground. But she was just a singular girl. Even if she was enhanced, she couldn't take all of this on her own. She could throw a mean punch, but that was about it. Xan's mind raced as she tried to figure out what to do next. She couldn't go home. Couldn't go back to the mob, would sooner die. Her old job and apartment was off the table.

Her family needed to continue to think she was dead. For now. Maybe someday she could go home, but until the day she could promise everyone's safety- it was just a pipe dream. Slowly, she drank her coffee savoring the rich, bitter taste. When it was halfway empty, Xan gently put the mug down next to her, her eyes roaming back to man who'd saved her. "You want answers right?" She was quiet, enough time to give him to respond before she spoke again. "It's dangerous. A regular human like you isn't gonna be able to walk this road. Not alone anyway. So if you're actually interested, I will tell you. On one condition." She spoke with more confidence than she felt, a determined frown to her lips. "I want to help. I can't go home. I can't see my family or go back to my job. They'll find me or kill them. Either way it's not an option. I'll be living like a ghost anyway. And I... I need to do this. I need to make sure that the bastards who did this, don't ever get to do it again. I need to see it with my own eyes."

It was abrupt her outburst and a fierce determination settled in her gaze. It was the same determination that had kept her alive. The svelte blonde's world had been turned upside down and twisted into something dark and scary. Whatever war path this guy was on, Xanthippe had been set on her own. And she would track down the people who did this to her if it killed her. It was the only way she could try to get back to some medium of normality. "I know, its a lot but I wouldn't be a burden. I- I have a set of talents that could be helpful. And- And if you don't me around then fine. I'll do it myself." Nervously her tongue ran over her lips, though her chin held a challenging tone. She'd fought before, tooth and nail and fist. Had seen mutants like her, and had somehow managed to scrape by. All of that couldn't be useless, right? And she knew more about that agency than he could ever find on paper or digitally.

Frank paused for a moment before following her out into the tiny space of the apartment. He'd never needed room for anyone but himself and some storage space. Rent was low, and no one asked questions. There was little safety in letting someone wander around in a space filled with as many guns as he had. For one, she could hurt herself... Worse, she could hurt him. Frank didn't particularly care how he went out. He had nothing left to lose, but being shot by some girl in his apartment by accident seemed like a pretty unfitting end to his legacy. It seemed like a rather embarrassing one too. He watched her carefully as she moved around, monitoring her every movement. Not only was he on alert in case she tried something funny but he was making sure she wasn't about to collapse. The bullet had been pretty nasty on her skin, and Frank could only do so much to patch her up. Sure, he had experience in patching himself up. He didn't care about ugly scars or botched stitches. It was an entirely different ball game fixing someone else. He couldn't just stick a band-aid on her and be done.

He kept a distance from her, allowing her to freely pour herself a cup of coffee. If she did try anything stupid, he would be able to react faster than she did. But he really didn't want her to give him a reason. He leaned back against a wall, listening to her unload on him. It was interesting, the deal she was suggesting. She'd give him information if he let her tag along. There was one main flaw in her plan; Frank didn't go well with others. He was volatile and didn't want to be slowed down. His jobs were quick; get in, get it done, and get out of there. He had his own personal beef with the Kitchen Irish, and he didn't need someone else's revenge plot dragging him down. He'd saved this girl's life, but he didn't owe her shit.

Frank let out a bitter laugh after a moment, shaking his head. "That's real cute. You see me take out an entire buildin' of thugs, but you don't think I can do this alone?" Frank did see something hilarious behind the statement. Had they put this girl on something? Is that why she wasn't processing what he had actually done last night? He wasn't insulted by it, nor was his ego hurt by anything she said. The simple fact was, he didn't need her. He didn't need anyone helping him through this. Not Red smacking guns out his hands, and not Xanthippe.

"You want the long answer or the short one?" He asked after a moment, his tongue pressing against his lower lip as he waited. "Cause the short answer is no." Stepping forward, Frank leant over the counter island that separated the tiny living area from the kitchen, and placed his cup into the sink.

"Look, I get it. Some guys did you wrong. Forced you into some messed up shit. Everyone's got their deal." He folded his arms on the back of the counter, staring across the small space at her. "No disrespect, I've got my own deal too. I don't need someone dragging me down, or holdin' me back. Especially not a girly that I just shot, and I apologise for that, ma'am, I sincerely do... But you ever been shot before? You don't just bounce back up and wander around like nothing happened. It ain't a playground punch. That bullet nearly ripped you to shreds..."

Using his pointer finger and middle finger as a fake gun, Frank lined up his aim to where he'd shot Xanthippe. "A little more to the right, and bang." He pretended to pull the trigger, fingers reeling back as he did. "You wouldn't be here drinking my coffee."

"That's real cute. You see me take out an entire buildin' of thugs, but you don't think I can do this alone?" His tone was just as fiercely determined as her's. This wouldn't be easy to convince him, but if not she'd do it alone. That much she promised herself. The day that she realized she'd been tricked, played, taken advantage of- that was the day this scorching fire fanned to life around her heart. She had the feeling he'd say no. Everything about how he lived pointed to someone who wasn't a team player. And normally she wouldn't of hung around; but her situation was anything but normal. "I saw you take out a building of very human scum." Nervously her fingers drummed against her thigh as he spoke, listing all the reasons her tagging along wouldn't work. She'd drag him down, hold him back. And maybe she would a little bit, but she could learn. Xanthippe had always been a quick study. But she wasn't useless or helpless by any means and better yet she could easily get him in and out of places, and out of a tight spot. At least that mutant gene would come in handy somehow.

A sort of poker face flickered over her features, the girl's face going blank. It seemed to be her defense mechanism. If he got it, then this man would realize she wasn't going to just stop because he said to. She wouldn't really know how to start out, but there were a few contacts she could try to get in touch with. People she'd met in the fight ring of sorts. Other enhanced. Someone had to know something. However, when her sharp gaze noted the fingers pulled into a mock gun position she narrowed her gaze stiffening. "A gun isn't the only thing that hurts." She muttered, a broken sort of acid in her voice. "And if you don't want my help, fine." Almost petulantly the woman crossed her arms. "I'm not as fragile as I look! And next time the bullet won't even hit me." Protesting as she slid off the counter, she didn't help her case much by wincing, her hand sub-consciously flitting down to the wound as she took a single step closer to him.

"This isn't just your war, or your fight. It's as much mine. You want me to just lie down and hope to god that I don't find myself back in this mess? Well I'd rather have control over that. I would rather be back in the thick of it. I'm not your responsibility, and I can look after myself. I've been doing just that for the past few years." Her voice, quiet before hadn't exactly risen, but quivered with a sort of anger. It wasn't directed at this man particularly, but it was clear Xan's composure was slipping. Her coffee sat on the counter forgotten as she bit the inside of her cheek, trying to get a reign on her temper. "I may be just a stray to you, some poor bitch that got on the wrong side of a bullet, but that's not all I am." Her side pulsated dully with all the movement, though she paid it little mind. "Look, the place that took me; the reason I'm even in this shitstorm- lets just say I went in normal. I came out like this." Hesitantly and with apprehension the woman gingerly picked up a spoon from the counter, holding it between her fingers as if showing it off.

Exhaling, she focused on her hand feeling the familiar vibration that she associated with her enhancement. Xanthippe was no Avenger, but she had enough control that she'd be useful. A few seconds later the spoon passed through her hand, as if made of gas and clattered against the floor. "Please. If you understand, then you know I have to do this either way. I won't be a burden." Eventually she felt her hand return to normal, solid enough to pick the spoon back up and toss it down on the counter with a little more force than was needed before turning back to him. "I'm not asking you to look out for me, or let me join some superhero clubhouse. I'm just asking that while our interests align, we work together to get this agency wiped out. Quick, and efficient. Kill them once, kill them good and kill them dead. No more of them hurting people; and I can get on my life after that. And you can get back to whatever vigilante justice you dole and patrolling New York or whatever it is you do here."

Human, human, human. Man, this girl had a thing about humans. If this wasn't Hell's Kitchen, and they didn't have stupidly strong PI's or indestructible bartenders walking around he would have labelled her as crazy. He still wasn't entirely sure the Irish hadn't pumped her full of drugs, or if they'd slipped her something to make her a little more compliant to their plans. It was a sickening reality, one that Frank would be considering even if she wasn't raving on about the philosophy of being human. He was confident in his own ability to take out whoever he came up against, and sure, one day he'd come across someone who was gonna put him down. Until then, he was happy just plowing his way through and clearing as much scum as he possibly could. Eventually, he'd catch up to the people who killed his family. What happened afterwards was another question. He wasn't sure he'd stop after that. Depended on who else reared their ugly head.

Frank remained silent, watching her carefully as she hopped down off the counter. The last thing he needed was her passing out, or ripping open her stitches. He'd already patched her up once. He didn't want to be doing it again. Xanthippe wasn't in any state to start hunting down and taking on gangs, or this Agency she seemed to be harping on about. Not if they were dangerous as she was making them out to be. His upper lip twitched slightly as she mentioned his war, and it was hard to pull his mouth out of a snarl. "My war ain't your war. You don't know shit about my fight. Like I said, I got my own deal." Sure, he wanted to clear the crap from Hell's Kitchen, but he had his own motives for that. Innocents were getting hurt, and he knew that more than anyone. But his own personal vendetta was the thing driving him.

Stepping away from the counter for a moment, Frank turned away from Xan, running a hand down his face. This girl had been through a lot already, and it wasn't her fault she was mistaking him for some good-doing vigilante like Daredevil. She probably just saw this as a chance to make sure the people who did this to her got their comeuppance, and Frank got that. Hell, he even respected it. He was more than capable of doing it alone... but Xan could be his way in. She could take him down a path he didn't even know existed. There was always the risk it was a bit of a diversion, one that could take him away from his original goal... But it could be something much bigger. It could help crumble Hell's Kitchen's underbelly.

"Alright," He muttered, turning back to face her. "I'll bite." He folded his arms tightly across his chest, watching her lift the spoon. If she was about to play some 'spoon bending' mind trick on him, he wasn't going to be impressed. The spoon falling through her hand did catch him by surprise, admittedly, but he wasn't about to show it. He remained stone-faced as he watched it clatter to the floor. He let a tense silence fill the space, staring at her again.

"You some sort of Avenger? That what this is? Guy with the shield gonna bust up my ass when he realises you're here?" The entire string of questions was heavy with sarcasm, covering up any inkling that he was impressed by her ability. "Where was that power when I shot you?"

She scoffed, a moment of amusement sparking through her gaze. "Avengers?" She tried not to sound amused. "No. Like I said, I'm not into joining some clubhouse. X-Men or Avengers. And I'd rather go back to living my life as soon as possible. And something tells me you'd give Captain America a run for his money anyway." In a quieter voice she feeling apprehensive. She didn't get to know a ton of other enhanced around Hell's Kitchen, but she knew people were polarized by them. If this man was, he said nothing of it. "The Avengers, the X-men, they have no idea whats going on. And I'd rather not go through them. It could take too long, the Agency can just crawl back into the shadows and I'll have a harder time tracking them down." And, Xanthippe would rather keep her enhancement to herself. "Where was that power when I shot you?" At this she flushed, her cheeks a delicate shade pink and she shrugged.

"They told me not to use it, they had my family as collateral; one misstep and they'd be dead. I wasn't about to risk it. Not to mention I didn't even see you or the bullet until you shot me." Not to mention if anyone was looking for her, they'd just assume she was dead. One less thing to worry about. "I can get you in and out of places fast." His sarcasm and rough tone didn't really bother her. At the end of the day he'd patched her up. He'd actually given her a roof for a night, and gotten her away from the Irish. Maybe that's why she wasn't exactly cowed of him; but one way or another she was gonna have to get back out on the streets. Start getting answers of her own. "I'm not as strong as you, or as good a shot, but I don't really need to be. Walls, bodies, bullets- there's not much I can't get through. Or get you through. It wont matter if people see you coming."

Admittedly, her control over her enhancement wasn't Avenger level. She didn't know every trick there was, but she could use it enough to keep herself alive. Enough she wouldn't be a burden. Enough she could help if he'd let her. Granted that he even wanted to be around a mutant. Some people didn't like their enhanced counterparts, and she had the feeling he hardly liked her already. The air was still charged with tension and she shifted uncomfortably, she couldn't argue further. All her cards were laid out on the table and it was up to this man what he wanted to do. Either way, she was out for blood; and she'd get it. One way or another Xanthippe would systematically pick off the people who did this. The people who took advantage of the weak and sick and told the they would have a second chance.

She waited awhile, the silence making her skin crawl and in an effort to break it the woman motioned to her side. "How long before I can take these out? The sooner the better." Xan just wanted to be doing something. If it killed her trying- that was fine. In laymen's terms- she was already dead to anyone she cared about. Family, job, friends- that was behind her until Keller was out of the picture. For good. But unfortunately he was right. With these stitches in what she could do was very limited. Hell, even sliding off the counter had been painful. Forget actually fighting. And it wasn't so much that she cared about messing her stitches up again, scars didn't matter to her. It was more that she'd rather not make herself seem anymore vulnerable than she already had. Not to mention she hadn't stitched them up, and Xan would guess patching her up once was enough for the nameless man before her.

It was hard to trust people in Hell's Kitchen, and that was one of the reasons why Frank worked alone. Everyone capable of doing the job was a criminal and they were exactly who he was trying to avoid. But she was starting to appeal to him. Having an enhanced on his side would make surprise attacks a lot easier. Last night proved that the gangs he was up against weren't the smartest bunch, but the higher up he got in the chain, the harder it was going to be to get to them all. Walls were gonna get thicker, and glass was gonna get tougher. Xanthippe might be just what he needed. It didn't stop him from being apprehensive, however. Sure, he was down his own line of vengeance, but she was a liability. Frank had years of Marine training under his belt. He was taught how to separate the emotion from killing... Xan was driven by pure emotion. He didn't need a loose canon putting them both at risk. It was gonna take more than one ability to get her ready for what was ahead.

"If you'd told me you could do that, I'd have just opened fire," He mused coldly. It was a pretty inhumane aspect. Just shooting without care when she was caught up in it, but it would have gotten the job done quicker.

Something told him she wasn't quite up to that with her abilities yet. If she could have done that and avoided taking a bullet, she would have done. Frank wasn't the guy who'd train her up though. He could teach her how to aim and pull a trigger, or how to take down a guy double her size.

"You sure you don't wanna pay that Xavier guy a visit? Heard he's got a pretty sweet school for kids like you," That's what she was to him. A kid who hadn't had the chance to live her life. "How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-two? This isn't a business you wanna start in." Frank was leaning towards taking her up on her offer, but he wasn't going to without knowing if she was truly prepared for it.

"He could be your way out," He suggested sincerely. "Teach you how to control your ability... Plenty of people there who could protect you. Keep these lowlives from getting their hands on you again..." There were other ways out of this situation than shooting your way out. Maybe not for Frank, but Xanthippe could still get out before she even got started.

Moving around to stand in the kitchen, Frank paused to pour himself a new cup of coffee. He only stopped when Xanthippe asked him how long she would have the stitches in for. Frank was no medical professional, but he'd stitched himself up enough times now to have some idea about it all.

"Lemme see," He murmured, hand moving to carefully lift up her shirt. He probably should have asked before pulling up her top, but considering he'd already patched her up it wasn't as though he hadn't seen it already. He used his other hand to gently peel away the dressing he'd stuck over the area. "I'd say about ten days, maybe less... Your abilities give you acclerated healin'?"

Frowning she shook her head, "Twenty-six actually. Curse of the baby-face runs in my family. I figure since I can't really hurt anyone, I don't need to go there." She lost control, Xan just couldn't interact with anything solid. It wasn't like she breathed fire, or controlled the fucking weather. No one got hurt unless she wanted them to. "I don't think many people wake up one day and just want to start doing this. But shit happens, things change." He could refuse to work with her, that wasn't going to stop her. Xanthippe couldn't really do much else until the people who did this were in pieces, their work destroyed. Then Xanthippe could do whatever the hell she wanted. Go to that school, go back home. The world was at her fingertips. Had Xanthippe felt like she could of taken off into the sunset, she'd of happily done so the moment she woke up here.

Had there been a way she could escaped and felt like it would be safe- she would. Admittedly she wasn't a creature that was inclined towards violence. Growing up she'd always been one to talk things out, rather than use her fists. The only reason she even knew how to throw a half-decent punch, was because her older brother. He had insisted that she know how to do at least that much before moving to New York for schooling. As much as he had been a thorn in her side, Xanthippe missed him. Owen always meant well and she wondered what he'd been up to the past two years. Did he get that job at the fancy accountant firm? She hoped he did. Had he ended up proposing to his then girlfriend? Whatever Owen was up to, she hoped he was happy.

Xan's thoughts were still lingering with her brother when she felt hands with a surprising gentleness lift up the hem of her shirt. Almost at once she went rigid as stone, her breath caught in her throat. She had to remind herself that he hadn't pulled anything last night and wouldn't now. Her nose scrunched up when he peeled the gauze back, the tape sticking to her skin most uncomfortably. Almost against her will, Xan chanced a glance at the skin and winced. It was red and angry the stitches a stark juxtapose to the otherwise pale unbroken skin surrounding the wound. It wasn't too terribly big, but it looked nasty. "I'd say about ten days, maybe less... Your abilities give you accelerated healin'?" Mutely she shook her head, making herself meet his gaze again. "No. I wish though. Times like this that would come in handy, yeah?"

She'd like to be out there; but with stitches? That wasn't going to happen. At least she could take these tend days to figure out what she was going to do. Figure out where to start because she hadn't ever done anything like this before. Sure she dreamed about it a trillion times over the past two years; her chance to set things right. Make sure no one else got the shit-cards she gotten herself. But now that she had the opportunity- Xanthippe really wasn't quite sure where to start. That was one of the other reasons the blonde wanted to work with this man. He seemed to know what he was doing, knew how to hunt down the agency that did this to her. "So in ten days, what do you think? Am I useful enough now?"

It was clear that this girl wasn't about to change her mind anytime soon. With or without Frank, she was going to go after the people who did this to her. He had to admire that, the drive that she had for all this... But it was also irritating. He'd just saved her ass, pulled her out of there and now she wanted to jump right back in. Anyone else would be running for the hills right now, but not her. Innocents needed to stay out the line of fire, and she didn't seem to get that. He was giving her a way out, and she just didn't want to take it. It raised the question, though; just how innocent was she anymore? She'd clearly been dragged through hell and back, and it was pushing her on... Frank was capable of some pretty messed up shit, but even he didn't want to think about what those men had done to her. Just because she was out didn't mean it wasn't happening to someone else, in some other basement somewhere. The job was never done.

"I ain't gonna hurt you," Frank spoke softer than he had done before, voice low as he continued to examine the stitches. He couldn't blame her for tensing up around him. She had every right to feel defensive around him, and any man for that matter. It would take a lot longer for that lack of trust to heal than any physical wound she would encounter. He hadn't done the prettiest job. She was sewn shut, that was the main thing. She was lucky he was such a pristine shot, even when she was being dragged around. Far as he could tell, there were no bullet fragments left in. It was a pretty standard patch up job. It still looked like it hurt like a bitch.

Carefully, he pressed the back of his forefinger and middle finger against the reddened skin, just above her stitches. He took care not to put too much pressure on her wound, in fear of stretching it out or popping it open. He doubted it was a pleasant feeling, his trigger toughened and bruised fingers on her skin, even without the hole in her side.

"Wound's runnin' hot," He muttered, moving his fingers to check the skin just left of the stitches. "We need to get you some antibiotics before it spreads out..." That was always a risk with home patch ups. There was always a chance of something not being sterile enough, or bacteria floating around and getting caught up at just the wrong time. He was used to it. The first couple of times he stitched himself up, he'd made himself ill. Toughened him up, though. He no longer felt nauseous when he drove the needle in against his own skin, and he knew just what antibiotics to get and where to get them from.

“Hold your shirt up for me,” Frank instructed her calmly. There was no sense of urgency or panic in his voice, and he wasn’t barking instructions at her. He reached behind her, pulling a first aid box out of one of the cupboards. There seemed to be more medical supplies than food in his kitchen at times. “You’re not doin’ anything until I redress your stitches and get you some drugs.”

Hissing, sucking her breath in when he pushed the against the reddened skin, Xanthippe remained quiet while he took a look. She had been running her mouth nearly since she woke up, more talking then she'd done in awhile. She knew he'd promised he wouldn't hurt her, but Xan still had to make a conscious effort to stay still while he poked around at the bullet wound. It was only a few minutes before he sighed that her wound was running hot, and she'd need antibiotics. He didn't sound too concerned over this, and Xan tried not to be either. Instead she just grit her teeth and quietly thanked whatever may be out there for this break. To find someone who wasn't going to hurt her, someone who took the time to stitch her up and give her antibiotics.

In the silence she observed him. Noted the bruises the dotted his face, the nasty split lip- like he'd gotten the wrong end of someone's fists. His fingers were calloused, hands soaked in violence but given how careful he was being Xanthippe was under the impression, they hadn’t forgotten kindness. Not yet. His hair was short, close to his skull on the sides, a little longer up top. A military haircut; that was likely where he had gotten the training to kill people like he did she mused to herself. "Hold your shirt up for me." He instructs, there's no rush. No growl that rumbled with impatience, one which lost it's overtly sarcastic edge. So, she complied staring straight ahead while he fumbled behind her, pulling out a first aid box. So, her curiosity transitioned to the weaponry stacked around the small apartment.

Where the hell did he even get this, and how? Friends? Was this guy the kind of person to even have friends? Her gut instinct was no, not really. "You're not doin' anything until I redress your stitches and get you some drugs." His statement wasn't quite flat- but final. Almost immediately the crests up her lips quirked upwards into a little smile. "You got it." She agreed mildly enough, a pleasant enough agreement in her tone. The redressing wasn't a walk in the park. Her side stung like sin, but the svelte blonde forced herself to breathe evenly. He was quiet, focused on the job of making sure it didn't get infected, or anymore infected, and it struck the petite woman that she really did feel like a stray dog taken in. Outside the thin windows, the sounds of Hell's Kitchen could be heard.

Shouting, laughter, cars rattling over shitty holes and honking at jaywalkers and other drivers. The heartbeat of any metropolis; though there was something more viable about New York's heartbeat. Louder, faster- more in your face than other cities. "You got a name? Something I can call you?" Maybe she was prying- alright Xanthippe was prying, but she couldn't keep calling him That Guy, or Picasso with a Gun, and while that last one amused her, she doubted it'd have the same effect on the stone-faced man. And since he hadn't really verbally and explicity agreed she could tag along with him, Xan didn't really want to piss him off. Or give him anymore of a reason not to help her.

“Sorry,” the word just seemed to tumble out from between his lips when he heard Xanthippe hiss. He meant what he said – He wasn’t going to hurt her. He knew how much these wounds could hurt, and infection would only make it worse. You never forget your first bullet, whether you’re shooting it or getting blown apart by it.

He tried to be as gentle as he could when he redressed the wound. It was hard, though, considering how he would often just haphazardly stitch himself up and slap gauze over it. Frank rarely gave his injuries a second thought anymore. They slowed him down, and it was an annoyance; one that he wasn’t going to give into. He was a stubborn bastard, and he wasn’t going to let some amateur gang member with a knife slow him down.

Xanthippe staring at him didn’t particularly put him off; he knew what she was doing. It was the same thing he had done when she was asleep. He chalked it up to human nature. She was trying to figure him out, trying to place him in the mess that was Hell’s Kitchen. Frank didn’t really fit anywhere. It wasn’t a sad cliché he was gonna cry about, it was just the truth. No family, no friends. Not having a place meant not a lot of people expected him to exist. He liked it that way.

Dressing her wound again, Frank mentally listed off the things that could possibly go wrong. Busting her stitches seemed to be the main concern, especially if she didn’t pay them enough attention. He didn’t want to redo them; it would cause more pain than it was worth. It was easy when she was knocked out and not fighting against the pain. If she was awake, it was going to be one hell of a trial getting her fixed up again.

“Almost got it,” Frank mused, gently palming the sticky back dressing against her skin. He needed to make sure it stayed on. He’d laid another gauze down between the dressing and the stitches, ensuring the suture wouldn’t get caught on the dressing if they needed to remove it again – and they would.

He kept his hand over the area for a moment, giving it a chance to really stick down and set. They didn’t want it peeling off in the New York heatwave that seemed to be suffocating the city. Moisture wouldn’t help the healing process either.

“Got a lot of names,” He muttered as he took his hand away. He paused, glancing down to check it had stuck on properly. “But we can start with Frank.” There was no point in keeping his name from her, not if they were setting out on some common goal together. She was going to find it out eventually, whether it was from him, or if she decided to get smart and search for his wallet.

Once he was convinced the dressing wasn't going to peel off from her skin, he took a step back, "You're all done," He offered her his arm, not wanting her to get cocky and jump down from the counter top again. "If we're gonna start doin' this together, you need rest."

"Frank." She murmured, testing the name out. It fitted him as well as a name fitted anyone she supposed. The apartment was hot, with a few electric fans combating the heatwave, making the air sticky and uncomfortable. She'd always been more of a winter girl; easier to get hotter than colder she'd always figured. The man worked quickly, a confidence in his movements as he finished up with redressing the ugly wound. Thankfully he made quick work of it, and before too long had passed he was pulling his large hands away from her, stepping back to admire his handy work, making sure everything was alright. "Thanks." Softer than she'd spoken to him before, there was a genuine note of gratitude. Before she could once again slide off the counter, he was offering her one of his arms, silently indicating to let him help her.

She hesitated for a minute, but what good would messing with the stitches do her just because of her own pride. Gently gripping the offered arm Xan was helped down and steadied before he backed away from her again motioning to her side. "You're all done." She still felt sore, a little stiff; but it'd get better and she could grin and bear for the time being. "If we're gonna start doin' this together, you need rest." Dumbstruck into a couple minutes of silence she furrowed her slender brows together, and a suspicious- "Really?" She tried not to sound so excited, though couldn't really hide the animated light that crept into her sharp gaze. "I'll be really helpful. No trouble." She promised at his further confirmation.

Perhaps she shouldn't be so eager about this. After all, all he had really agreed to do was let her come along while he was killing people. She would be helping him do so- though that would be a bridge she dealt with when she came upon it. It wasn't like Xan hadn't seen violence. Hadn't seen all sorts of fucked up things with the Irish, or the Agency. It wouldn't be completely foreign to her, when they got to it. And hopefully, they'd take care of their common business relatively quickly. She could get back to her life. Could start teaching again, and that would be fantastic. Sure, she'd always be a bit haunted from the past two years- but that was just something she could deal with later. Assuming that things even panned out.

For the first time in a long time, too long a time, a glimmer of hope snuck back into that wide-eyed gaze. Xanthippe knew the dark-haired man had been serious when he'd directed her to get rest, and so complying she wordlessly edged around him heading back to the bed that she'd woken up in earlier. The blonde didn't even think she was tread until she very carefully lowered herself onto the mattress, careful to mind the stitches like she was warned. Sleeping on her right side wouldn't be an option until the stitches were taken out. Xan tried not to toss or turn so much as she curled up, on top of the blankets as it was simply to hot to sleep with them on. She couldn't exactly pinpoint when she drifted off, but eventually the events of the previous night had caught up to her and soon enough she was asleep, her light snores whispering about her.

It wasn't a calm sleep, that much was obvious as she'd make soft noises beneath her breath, face contorting with worry even in her sleep. Unfortunately this wasn't uncommon for the blonde. She'd always been something of a fitful sleeper, and the past couple years hadn't helped with that. She'd get a prescription of Xanax when this was all over. God knows she'd probably need it. It was a good solid six hours she was asleep, long enough that when she woke up Xan noted that the sun was starting to sink behind the city skyline. She woke up slightly disoriented, though it passed pretty quickly as she looked around the room, relaxing slightly. For awhile longer she remained on her back, staring up at the ceiling collecting her thoughts, allowing herself to leisurely return to a state of full-alertness. Finally, mouth dry and feeling a little better than when she'd crashed the woman stood.

Purposely she let her feet loudly scuffle against the floors, letting Frank know she was up and walking around. Last thing she needed was to startle him and accidentally get shot again. The setting sun threw a palette of colors into the apartment. Orange hues and pink glows lit the walls with haunting shades. Even the rundown apartment looked pretty with the setting sun. "You around?" She called as she carefully poked her way out of the bedroom.

“Really,” Frank sighed, folding his arms across his chest. This wasn’t a decision he wanted to regret any time soon. If she was stupid enough to go out there and do all of this by herself, then he may as well make sure she had someone there who knew how to handle all of it. It wasn’t going to be easy. A flashy ability could only do so much against these guys; maybe freak them out, catch them off guard. But it was going to do very little in terms of getting them to speak. It was something he could still work with, however. It was sure to come in handy at some point.

“If we’re doin’ this, we do it my way,” He reminded her firmly before she stepped away to get some rest. “You don’t do anythin’ until I decide you’re ready.”

It seemed unfair, considering how much Xanthippe had already been through. She was probably sick of listening to people tell her what to do, but the list of things that could possibly go wrong was far too long to let her do her own thing. Frank wasn’t about to hand her one of his military grade rifles and let her go. There was a lot of discipline and training to come before he even thought about trusting her with a weapon; if she even wanted to work with weapons. Maybe she would leave the guns up to him.

First kills weren’t easy, regardless of the situation. Frank could remember his clearly, and he could remember the nausea and anxiety that came with it the following night. It didn’t faze him anymore. There was no connection between humanity and the men who found themselves on the receiving end of his bullets. He couldn’t see it. They weren’t human, and they weren’t worthy of living. He’d come a long way from his first kill. He doubted he’d ever go back to having such a response.

Frank waited around the apartment for a short while after Xanthippe went back to bed. He gave her her privacy, pulling the door closed once she was in bed. She’d been through enough. She didn’t need to worry about being disturbed whilst sleeping. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself whilst Xan rested up. It wasn’t particularly desirable to leave her alone in his personal armoury. He needed to get her medication before any sign of infection started to get worse.

He waited for an hour, making sure she was definitely asleep before heading out. It wasn’t hard to find someone in Hell’s Kitchen that was selling off prescription drugs in a gloomy, damp laundromat. It wasn’t a pretty deal. The woman behind the counter seemed to know what he wanted as soon as he walked in. As he approached the desk, she pulled out a large resealable bag filled with small yellow bottles. Money changed hands with very little questions and Frank made a mental note of what was available here. Personally, he didn’t like taking medication. Regardless of how much pain he could have been in, he didn’t want drugs slowing down his reaction time or affecting his judgement calls.

There was a sense of relief when he returned to the flat. It was quiet, and Xanthippe was still asleep. He carefully shut the door behind him before moving into the small space of the kitchen. He’d stopped off on the walk back, figuring she would probably need some food. Frank hadn’t picked up anything fancy, just a bag of fast food; burgers, fries, and a salad box. There was enough for both of them. He had no idea how hungry she may have been when she woke up, or if she would even like what he’d brought home. It was still better than letting her go hungry.

There wasn’t long between him returning and Xanthippe waking up. He looked up when he heard the door open, in the process of making a new pot of coffee.

“Yeah, I’m here…” He replied gruffly, “Brought food.”

Following his voice out to the kitchen area, where he was making another pot of coffee Xan's gaze slid to the counter were a greasy bag of food was waiting. In response to the aroma of fast food and fresh coffee the woman's stomach rumbled. She didn't pay much mind to his rumbly tone, it seemed to be his normal. Quietly, and chancing a glance over at the stoic, imposing man she carefully opened the bag, pulling out a burger. It would do just fine. She'd never been a picky eater, and something didn't exactly scream "gourmet cook" about Frank. More like, "could probably kill you with one hand" vibe. Instead of opening the burger wrapping and diving into it like her stomach would of really liked, she turned quietly holding out the burger for him. "Here and-" She paused waiting for him to take the burger before handing him his fries. There was one salad box, but two forks so they could just split that.

Once he was set, Xan took her own food out and after peeling the wrapping away, started in on her dinner. She was actually pretty hungry, just had felt a little too sore before she went to bed. For awhile she was quiet, her chatterbox tendencies quieted by the food. However it was a small kitchen, and he was by no means a small man; and in the small space Xanthippe was made further aware just how small she felt next to him. At least they were on the same side, because mutant or not; she'd not want to be at the barrel of his gun again, or his fists. By the time she was full, Xanthippe had eaten most of her burger, a handful of fries, and a few bites of salad. It had grown completely dark by this time, a dingy overhead light throwing down a gloomy, yellow light in the small kitchen.

His earlier statement about her not going out until he thought she was ready floated back through her mind. What did he mean? Everything about him screamed soldier. From the way he dressed, spoke, and even his haircut. So, what exactly did he define as ready? Figuring if they'd be working together while interests aligned, honesty would be a pretty good policy. At least a base level of it. "So," she started, throwing a sidelong glance in his direction. "What exactly do you mean until I'm ready?" Was she about to be put through ridiculous, rigorous crash-course in fighting? Not that she was exactly opposed, but the idea of sitting on the sidelines while he got into the thick of fighting made her a little antsy.

There were reasons for not sending her out before she was ready, and Xan acknowledged that. It had been difficult to convince him to even let her tag along, and she didn't exactly want to get herself or him injured or worse- killed. So yes, she needed to be prepared, but she didn't want to be spending all her time here. Sure, while he was out exacting people for his own deal, Xanthippe had no idea what and didn't feel quite inclined to ask, she could spend time getting back on the mend. Then if things went well, after he deemed her stitches well enough to take out; training would go by quickly. "Actually, what do you plan on doing?" The curious edge slid back into her voice, as she crossed her arms; gaze steadily remaining on his face as she tried to picture what this training would involve. Guns? Fists? Both?

Frank honestly hadn’t expected Xanthippe to hand him some of the food. He’d brought it home for her, and he wouldn’t have been bothered if she’d eaten it all herself. He paused for a moment before taking the food from her, murmuring a “Thanks,” under his breath.

It was a strange thought, wondering what she’d actually been fed whilst the Kitchen Irish had kept her hidden away from the rest of the world. It wasn’t something he was about to ask her, though; it was undoubtedly a touchy subject. Frank wasn’t exactly the best listener either. If she had something that she wanted to unload on him, then he wasn’t going to stop her. It had to be her decision to open up about it, and he wasn’t going to push her to tell him what happened when she was there. He needed information from her, but he wasn’t going to piss her off in the process. They were supposed to be helping each other.

He wasn’t surprised at the speed that she wolfed down her own food. She probably needed something healthier than greasy fast food. It was the only thing Frank could provide on such short notice. Coffee and fast food wasn't exactly a diet that would speed up her recovery.

Once she was done with her food, Frank set down his own half-eaten burger and moved to the sink. Picking up a glass that he’d left to dry, he turned the tap on. He listened to Xanthippe speak as he watched the glass fill up with water, staying silent as he did so. Rescuing her from the human trafficking ring complicated his plans. It was unusual for him to have to worry about anyone else in his assaults. He’d have to refactor his plans around the presence of an extra person, especially an inexperienced enhanced like Xanthippe. He didn’t particularly care about how many beatings he took, yet part of him doubted Xan was quite as robust as he was. That being said, she had bounced back from the gunshot. Her determination was solid, and that would go a long way.

“Here,” He muttered, turning back so he could set the glass of water down in front of her. He reached across to pick up the unlabelled, yellow bottle. He opened it swiftly, tipped out a pill, and held it out in his hand for her to take. “Should help with the infection.”

It was a far cry from the fatherly concern he used to express. He’d always been so attentive and caring about his children. It didn’t bear thinking about now, how far he’d come, and how cold he’d grown. He didn’t want to care for anyone else. He didn’t want to let anyone else into that vulnerable place again. As far as he was concerned, he’d stepped out to find Xanthippe the medication because it benefitted them both. She’d be no use to him with a fever.

“You’re ready when I say you’re ready,” He stated matter-of-factly, staring at her across the counter. “You ever hold a piece before? Shot one?” Frank hadn’t picked up a gun until he was eighteen and in the military. It was an intimidating feeling.
“First thing you need to do is learn to defend yourself, you can’t take someone down if you’re not looking after yourself first,” Hypocrit. The last thing Frank thought of when he was in a fight was himself. He wanted to get the job done, regardless of the bruises that came with it. “Right now, someone gets a well-placed hook on your side and you’re going down like a sack of shit.”

Brutal honesty was something he’d learnt in the Marines. There was no time for niceties and ‘treading lightly’ around sensitive topics. Everything needed to be plain and simple, clear for everyone to understand. It came across as harsh, but at least he knew how to communicate.

“We’re not getting anywhere without answers first. You tell me what I need to know, then we’ll start thinkin’ about plans.”

For a long minute she stared warily at the pill in his hand. What exactly was it? From the bottle he'd taken it from, there didn't seem to be a label. She didn't exactly put much thought into where or whom he'd gotten that from. It was a guarded sort of motion, carefully picking the pill up between her thumb and index rolling it for a minute. "Should help with the infection." Frank stated, picking up on her discomfort. A petulant frown stained her lips as the blonde regarded the pill a little longer. Still a little reluctant, Xan ended up taking it; washing it down with the water he'd provided. The woman didn't even try to keep the grimace off her face as the pill slid down her throat.

If this helped her not get an infection and end up in a hospital, then she could choke it down. Once she'd taken that, she leaned against the island, resting her back against the thing as he rather honestly answered her questions. There was sugar-coating to his words, nor beating around the bush. Partially she was grateful for that. Xan didn't need to be talked to like a child. She didn't need him tip-toeing around her because of where she was coming from, what she was coming from. On the other hand, the way he spoke reminded her something akin to a bull in a china shop. Not inherently bad, simply different than how she would usually speak.

“You’re ready when I say you’re ready,” He started off, his tone already stiff with authority. It was clear who was the leader of their little team. If it could be called that even. A momentary alliance of interests? Or just two lost souls doing what the law couldn't. What Daredevil wouldn't. Frank's lecture carried on with much of the same tone it had started off with, quizzing her about if she'd even ever held a gun, or shot one. Xan couldn't say she did. While her relatives may of liked guns, she'd never taken a shining to them. While they went out hunting, she'd rather walk around with a camera, shooting things that way. Now, her morals were a little looser. Her ethics a little more gray.

If it meant getting closer to the agency, protecting the poor bastards who they'd royally screwed their lives over- Xan thought that she was more inclined to pull a trigger. And in retrorespect, she knew that this choice would change her. But much like her motto thus far in life, she'd deal with that when it became a problem. Tuning back into the conversation she caught Frank warning her that she'd have to defend herself, as right now a good hook to her side and she'd be, "going down like a sack of shit.” The woman sighed a little about this. He had a point, but it still made her antsy to stay here while things would be happening without her.

“We’re not getting anywhere without answers first. You tell me what I need to know, then we’ll start thinkin’ about plans.” Ah. The svelte woman supposed she hadn't really given a lot of information. It wasn't going to be easy for her to talk about it, but he'd need to be in the loop to figure out where to start. At the thought she balled her fists, the knuckles turning white. After a moment of tensed shoulders she exhaled, slowly uncurling her hands. "Yeah. You want me to start at the beginning?" Her eyes faded back to that voided stare, mouth firming around the edges as she regarded him with an air of contrived blankness.

Things felt tense between them as Frank waited for her to take the tablet from him. He understood why. He offered very little explanation as to what the pill was, and it went against everything doctors advised about not taking medication from unlabelled containers. Hospital and doctors weren’t an option for them. Gunshots needed to be reported to the police, regardless of patient confidentiality. Especially if the shooter turned up at the hospital as well. The police would want a full report on what happened, and whilst Frank was quick on his feet, he didn’t need them interacting with him, or seeing his face. He knew enough about gunshot wounds to take care of her himself. Sleep and antibiotics would be her best friend. If she needed him to get painkillers, he would. For now, he wanted to see if she could go without. Not because he was some sort of sadomasochist, but because pain medication would slow her down further.

He let her take the medicine in her own time, but he needed to make sure she took it. That was one thing he wasn’t going to waver on during her recovery. She could hate him for it all she wanted, but an infection would just land them in deeper shit. Bullets were great for causing infections, what with the debris they could leave behind. Luckily for Xanthippe, it seemed to be a pretty clean shot.

She’d been on the receiving end of a bullet, but now she needed to prepare herself for being the one to pull the trigger. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. For Frank, it was second nature. His finger felt like it was constantly twitching whenever a situation started to move south. It hadn’t always been like that. There was no turning back after your first kill. You could never pull another trigger in your life, but you’re still a murderer.

Frank wasn’t expecting her to leap into it immediately, no matter how set she was on it. Sometimes firing a gun at a non-living target was enough to put someone off the idea of it. It would be a long time before Frank even thought about letting her fire at a living target. It was going to be a difficult process to take her through, and he wasn’t sure time was on their side.

If word got out that the Punisher had shot his way through the Kitchen Irish’s trafficking ring, then other rings were likely to drive themselves deeper underground and try to hide. Sources could dry up and become harder to get his hands on. Or, if Xanthippe didn’t show her face to them, they could let their guard down. They may not expect her, or Frank, to strike back at them again. It depended on how they wanted to play it. The way he saw it, they quicker they could move, the better.

Despite his rough tone of voice, Frank was good at reading people. He didn’t have to look down to notice her clenching her hands. She’d been through enough trauma, and Frank wasn’t about to put her through more. Things would have to move at a pace she was comfortable working at.

“Just tell me what you can,” He responded quieter, this time, his voice much softer than it had been before. "From the beginning."

If they were going to work together they needed to have some sort of trust between them, especially if they were going to be using firearms. He needed her to know that she could disclose sensitive information to him and that he would take it seriously. He was willing to believe anything she told him… It couldn’t be much stranger that intangibility and other mutant powers.