Little Monster

"Three years ago, I started having trouble with balance, motor skills, memory; stuff like that. The doctors told me that I was sick, the kind of sick you don't get better from." It was when everything started. With the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Reminding herself to take slow, even breaths her hands nervously fiddled with the hem of her shirt, twisting and pulling at it. Her mother always hated that habit of her's. "I had a year, where I was only going to get worse before kicking the bucket- there wasn't really any cure. Could just get comfortable and wait. A couple weeks after getting sick, I was approached by this woman at my apartment. I guess that probably should of been a red flag." But she'd been younger, and scared. She was only twenty-three then, and like most twenty-three year old's, she didn't want to die.

"She told me that the Agency she worked for, The Keller Agency, had heard about my recent diagnosis, and was interested in taking my case. They were an experimental branch see. Trying new drugs, and she did warn me that their methods weren't quite FDA approved or anything. But still, I agreed." And she would of liked to tell him that it was a long, thought choice she'd made. To enter herself into that program, but honestly? It wasn't. She wanted to live, plain and simple. "From there I signed some papers, packed some clothes. The woman, said her name was Angie, but I wouldn't put too much faith in anything that comes outta their mouths, anyway she picked me up the next day."

That's when things had started going downhill. "Sure enough, three o'clock rolls around and Angie and three other guys show up on the dot. One of the men gave me a sedative. Supposed to knock me out for the ride to the place. What was going on wasn't exactly legal, and the less I knew the better." A muscle in her jaw twitched and Xanthippe suddenly felt the need to move. Like a caged wolf she began to pace a little, looking about a million miles away. There was a lull in her story, a good ten minutes until her pacing stopped and she was ready to continue. "Anyway, a few days there and it was pretty clear why it was illegal. The injections, they started almost immediately- here." She moved, sweeping back her hair to expose the nape of her neck. The pale skin was broken by th scar of a needle. Once she was satisfied he'd seen it, she continued onward, letting the cascade of hair come sweeping back over the scar.

"I shattered my leg once in a car accident when I was a kid. Jesus even that didn't hold a flame compared to these injections. They never told me what was in it, so your guess is as good as mine." Those memories were searingly vivid. "The patients were all kinds of sick and dying people. The kind you don't miss. Junkies. The hopeless, your standard no one will notice if they're gone people." Behind her eyelids was the memory of people strapped down to their hospital beds, iv's and tubes running out of more places than could possibly be safe. "I learned that, their goal was to create enhanced people. Most of the people didn't make it though. They were trying to perfect the formula. Sell to the highest bidder, we were just lab rats. But those that were successful, were sold." Xanthippe's voice had slid to something cold, something detached from the story, as if she were simply reciting a recipe for birthday cake.

"I don't know how they did it. But, there were tests. If you showed that you were changing, they wheeled you off. I didn't see them after that. Anyway, I was there for about a year and a half. They say if your genes are gonna bond and change, it'll be in that time frame. My disease went away, but it didn't look like I'd developed any sort of mutations. So I was a failure. But they'd spent money on me. With all the treatments." She spat the word as if it were something ugly, something painful in her mouth. "So, they had a few contacts. They'd come in at the end of the month and pick out what they wanted. The people who didn't get picked up, where disposed of. Can't have anyone blowing the whistle." She tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling reminding herself to breath calmly and it's awhile before she continues again.

"You think agonizing injections of god knows what, the shit making you sick all the time, being fed through IV's and being subjected to all sorts of tests from physical to mental and anything in between is bad. I did, until I ended up with the Irish." At the name her stomach twists and her skin flushes hot with fear. "I guess I should be grateful I didn't get shipped to some new country or something. The Irish have their stubby fingers in a lot of things around the city, including prostitution. So, that's where I ended up at first." She bites at her tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood, and again a long silence falls upon her where she takes up pacing again. "They keep you doped up. You know, you can't really fight back like that I guess. 'S why I don't like taking anything. Well a month with the Irish, wouldn't you know my mutation pops up."

It was an accident, leaning against the wall of the cell they'd kept all the girls in, when she'd fallen backwards through the wall. "They didn't miss a chance to cash on something. So instead of prostituion, they told me I'd be doing some enhanced fightclub. Some people were there of their own volition, some were not. It didn't really matter. If I didn't do it, they had the information about my family so, saying no or leaving wasn't an option. I- I hurt some people. And then you showed up so here we are." Xan had fought enough to keep herself alive. The fights got progressively more and more bloody. The first fight felt more like a playground fight. But eventually they'd get more and more vicious more bloody. Xan wasn't ever too popular, simply because she preferred to remain intangible and let someone tire themselves out. Wait for an opportunity to bash their skulls against things hard enough to get them to pass out. Her heart hammered about her chest, hard enough the dainty vein on her neck is frantically throbbing against her skin, and her palms feel sweaty. "That's all I got. The important stuff, yeah?"

If it was hard to listen to, it must have been harder to talk about. Frank was right, everyone had their own deal. Xanthippe’s went deeper than the ever imagined it would. Hell’s Kitchen was a cesspit, and someone needed to clear it out before it poisoned anyone else. It was stories like Xanthippe’s that made him lose any small flecks of belief he had in the justice system or Daredevil. He had none left to begin with, but it drove on his belief that those systems didn’t work.

The scar on her neck haunted Frank. He had his fair share of scars, but nothing he could name off like that. It was such an invasive reminder, a stamp of ownership right there on her neck, constantly taunting her. He could only imagine the pain she’d have been through when they forced a needle into her skin, when they reopened the wound each time, and never let it heal. It turned his stomach.

She was just a kid, that’s what got to him the most. She was a goddamn kid, and she was scared. Someone took advantage of that, and from then on they just exploited her for whatever they deemed necessary. It went deeper than a sex trafficking ring. Someone was out there turning people’s bodies against them and forcing them to become something they didn’t want to be. He’d heard of some cancer patient somewhere that’d been left disfigured by a similar medical scam. He thought it was a ghost story, one used to scare people. He never thought it would reach Hell’s Kitchen. He never imagined it on his own turf. It was the kind of thing the military needed to raid and shut down, but it wouldn’t surprise him if he found out they were involved.

Frank could feel the anger and rage bubbling up inside his chest as he listened to her talk. To know that she’d been passed around like she was worthless between the Agency and the Kitchen Irish. He felt his hand instinctively ball up into a fist on the kitchen counter, trying to keep himself calm as he just listened to her speak. Part of him regretted just shooting his way through the building yesterday. He wished he’d slowed himself down, taking time to pummel each and every one of them. A bullet through the skull was too much of a mercy. He blew out a slow, long breath, his hand uncurling with the exhale. He lay his palm flat against the countertop, his trigger finger systematically and silently tapping on the surface. He needed to keep a lid on it, for now, let her get out what she needed to tell him. He’d asked, and she was opening up. He just needed to listen and get the information that he needed. Now was not the time for anger.

He let her say her piece before he responded, knowing not to jump in when she paused or to try and ask questions. It was probably the first time she’d ever spoken about it out loud; the first time she’d ever listened to herself admit to it all. Understanding and processing trauma were the most difficult stages. He knew that better than anyone.

Once she’d finished, Frank didn’t know where to start. It didn’t seem right to just ignore what she’d been through and move on to what they were going to do next. He struggled relating to people and opening up. But they needed to be on the same page.

“I got shot in the head…” He explained quietly, not wanting to startle her after she’d just put herself out there. It made him uncomfortable to share with her, and it was a very startling statement to just come out with. “Point blank range, execution style. Someone put a DNR order on me in hospital…”

He wasn’t going to tell her about his family. He simply didn’t want to. No one needed to know, not unless he wanted them to know. The only time he mentioned them was when he needed answers, and God help anyone who brought them up. He didn’t want to hear the names of his children in anyone else’s mouth. He didn’t need the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen sullying any memories he had left of them. It was hard to think back beyond what happened in the park.

Frank huffed in a deep breath, quickly telling himself to move on from the conversation about himself before she started asking too many questions. He just wanted her to know that he understood how it felt, to be mistreated in a time of need; to be failed by people who were supposed to save you.

“Your car accident,” He straightened, his hand still resting on the countertop. “Was it in any newspapers? Local press? Anything that made it public information?”

It seemed like a trivial bit of information to pick up from her entire story, but it was possible that someone had been keeping an eye on her. She may have been selected far earlier than originally thought, and if not, how did the Agency get her medical information?

“We need to find out how they found you,” He explained. “Someone might have sold your medical records. We find them, we might get a lead."

When she was done, Xanthippe cleared her throat, hoping to get rid of some of the thickness there. She was tired just telling him that part of her history, the sort of tired that clung to her bones leaving her feeling... Simply cold. Eventually her pulse stopped thudding in her ears, though her posture was still stony and rigid. "I got shot in the head..." His statement was soft, softer than he'd spoken to her so far and Xan felt her stomach twist when he told her the rest. "I'm... I'm sorry." It didn't seem to be the right thing to say, it didn't feel like it covered the gravity of being shot execution style; but she didn't know what would. And she figured a sorry was better than silence.

He seemed to want to move forward with their conversation as he quickly changed the subject, back to the accident when she was a kid. Scrunching her nose, thinking back she quickly nodded. "The local paper. Yeah. My mom hung it up in our living room." She'd been maybe about twelve when that accident happened. She was from a small town in New Hampshire, and the news of a girl being struck by a car had caught a snippet in the local paper. Since no one had died, and aside from her leg, had been injured it didn't really make any other splash. Her over-protective mother thought that if she hung that paper up, it'd bring Xan good luck. Like, getting hit by a car was the only bad thing that could happen to her daughter. Xanthippe wished she was right.

A pang of homesickness twinged in her gut at the memory. She used to hate how overprotective her mom could be. That's why she went to school out here, was looking to settle down around here. To have some independence. Most days Xanthippe kicked herself for that. She nearly missed his next statement, course of action. Which was good because had she'd done this on her own, the blonde would of just run about nilly-willy in search of answers. "So, what? You can't really stroll into a hospital." The young woman pointed out, raising an eyebrow. Even though she wasn't exactly able to keep up with every news story, she'd overheard the Irish talking about this man enough to know that they weren't the only ones after him.

The man before her, who could put a bullet through the skull of a criminal without blinking, had surely made himself plenty of enemies. Xanthippe didn't even know if they were still around; but she'd bet they were. She hadn't heard anything about a sudden mutant outbreak anywhere, or super-mutants attacking places in droves. Which meant that whatever the Agency was trying to accomplish, hadn't been realized yet. There was still time to go and find them. "Hey, Frank?" There was a bit of silence between them and quietly shifting her weight foot to foot Xanthippe mumbled, "Thanks. I know you said you had your own stuff, so... Thank you. For the medicine and food and stuff too." He was the first person in a long time to show her some kindness, and she would feel better expressing her gratitude.

“Why not?” It was a cocky answer, one that made it clear how much Frank disregarded rules. He’d done it before, fully loaded, and no one had stopped him from just strolling into the ward.

“Where’s local for you?” If it was outside of Hell’s Kitchen, no one had a reason to be looking out for him. People knew of him around here, but no one was expecting him to leave New York anytime soon. Even if they did try and stop him, they’d have a hard time.

Getting information from hospitals was easier than people thought. If Xanthippe came with him, they could simply walk up to the front desk and ask for her internal medical records. That’s when things might get trickier. Main suspects in selling medical records were the case doctors, and they could be harder to track down. Even if they did find the doctor, it would be hard to get them to talk about the Agency. No doubt they’d been paid off or threatened. Frank had his ways though, and they often worked.

Frank didn’t like the idea of getting soft on someone, but Xanthippe’s story had got him riled up. He was gonna take down the sons of bitches who did this to her. No doubt it would crumble some of the crime in Hell’s Kitchen too. Taking out a big player in the game like that could have some serious damage on the rest of the scum who relied on them. Hell, they could even have answers for Frank. Everything seemed interlinked in this godforsaken city anyway. And if they didn’t, at least he’d get the pleasure of wiping them off the map.

The only problem was that going home wasn’t easy. If Xanthippe had been missing for three years, people could recognise her. Especially with such a distinct name at the hospital. Patient confidentiality could be waived in favour of reporting missing persons. It might not have been as easy as strolling up and asking nicely. Nice was boring anyway. Other than being recognised, it could have a real effect on Xanthippe. She might want to see her family or stay home. That could screw up the entire plan, not that there was much of one at the minute anyway. Still, if the Agency could buy her medical records direct then Frank was sure he could find a way to secure the file from New York. Pay the right people and you can get anything in your hands.

Balling up some of the fast-food wrappers, Frank shoved them back into the greasy bag. He may not have had the most glamorous apartment, but he didn’t need wrappers lying around. Xanthippe’s thanks took him by surprise.

“I shot you,” He reminded her, shoving the paper bag into the bin. “Least I can do is get you back on your feet.”

It was a weird feeling, starting to care for someone again. Frank was certain he would just push it down until it didn’t bother him anymore. She was a short-term partner, nothing else. And he needed her on her best game if they were gonna work together.

“How’s it doin’?” He asked after a moment, glancing back across to her. “You could probably have a shower if you wanted.”

A sort of disbelieving chuckle bubbled past her lips. "Aren't you afraid of being caught, just walking around? You know, cops, I'm sure the plenty of other people who'd like to see you dead?" Xan was even weary about going back to the hospital and she hadn't killed anyone. Forget a couple dozen of people. "And it's Dublin. New Hampshire. That would be home." The answer is short, sweet, simple. The ghost of a smile chasing across the crest of her lips. It was gone in a matter of seconds though as something more sober came over her face. She was kind of hoping he wouldn't suggest going back there. If it couldn't be helped, she'd go- but the woman didn't really want her family to know she was okay.

Not yet, until they could be safe without Xanthippe fearing someone was going to come and shoot them in the night. "By accident. And you could of left me in a gutter." Maybe he didn't think that what he'd done was all that good. But she did. Hell, even if she got shot in the process it was much better than being back with the Kitchen Irish, or the Agency. Not to mention he was giving her a chance to get back to some medium of normality, as close as she could get after all this. Technically he didn't have to do any of that. But her point had been to thank him, not to make him uncomfortable, or paint him into a martyr. She'd guess he wasn't used to thanks, as he transitioned pretty quickly to motioning to her side. The one he'd shot.

"How's it doin'? You could probably have a shower if you wanted.” At the thought she nearly sighed with content. Her muscles were tense, stiff, ad sore. Blasting them with hot water sounded just about heavenly. "That actually sounds just about perfect." Xan agreed, her eyes suddenly brightening at the offer. The time seemed to have no effect on the city just outside the window, cars still rattled and sped over potholes, sirens wailed, and people still chattered, screamed and laughed with one another. It'd be weird not having restrictions. Not being confined to one room most of the day. No more being dragged out to participate in things she didn't want to be in.

Once Frank pointed her towards the bathroom, she was off. Much like the rest of his place the bathroom wasn't glamorous. But it wasn't dirty and that was an improvement. Hell, pretty much everything here was. It was habit, locking the bathroom door before turning to the shower. Fiddling with the controls and once the water was hot, steam rising up in a thick covering the blonde undressed and stepped in; instantaneously relaxing beneath the scalding stream. She hated the silence, gave her time to think, time to remember, so she hummed softly beneath the steady hiss of water. Simply to keep her mind busy. She stayed in there a little longer than necessary, about twenty-five minutes before she was finished and out of the small bathroom.

She felt like a new person. Any dirt she'd picked up from the last time she'd showered had been scrubbed off, hair taken care of and her muscles were more relaxed than they'd been in awhile. It was getting late, and Frank wasn't far from where she'd left him. "If you're tired, you might as well take the bed." Tonight, she probably wouldn't get much sleep. Between nightmares and her six-hour nap; Xan wasn't exactly tripping over herself to get some shuteye, so she figured he could use that instead. Plus it was his and she was perfectly happy on the couch.

Afraid. That was something Frank hadn’t felt in a long time. He didn’t see the point in being afraid anymore. Scared usually meant that you were worried about what was going to happen, how something was going to hurt you, what you were going to lose… Frank had no one left to worry about him, and nothing left to lose. When you had nothing, it was very hard to be afraid. It wasn’t a healthy outlook, and maybe he should have been concerned with his own wellbeing more often. It was something that just didn’t click in his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to care very much. People should be afraid him. But he wasn’t afraid of shit.

“They’d like to see me dead, but it ain’t happenin’,” Frank knew he wasn’t immortal. There was a bullet out there somewhere that had his name on it, but he didn’t see it coming for him soon. He had too much to do before then. He hadn’t met the person who would kill him yet, he could just tell. No one had even come close to comparing to him. Daredevil certainly wasn’t going to do it, and he’d already escaped a DNR and a bullet to the head. It would take a lot to stop Frank Castle from coming back.

The hospital seemed like the quickest route to finding how the Agency had found Xanthippe, but he could tell from her curt tone that she wasn’t particularly interested in going home. It struck him as slightly odd. She still had a family to go back to, but she didn’t want to. He didn’t feel like telling her her family probably be in more danger if the Irish realised she was missing. Families were easy targets, especially when it came to manipulating someone into doing something. He didn’t want to panic her any further, and he doubted the Irish actually knew how to get to them. He would just have to get to them quicker. The gang was probably trying to recuperate before attempting to strike back at him. They wouldn’t just let him waltz in and take what was theirs. They’d come for him eventually, and he’d take them down again.

“You don’t wanna go home? That’s fine,” He reassured her. “There’s other ways of gettin’ your files.”

If it came to it, Frank would even be willing to go to the hospital himself. She wouldn’t have to step foot in there if she didn’t want to. There was no point in upsetting her over it.

Saving Xanthippe didn’t seem that heroic to him. It was just the right thing to do, even if he did have his own selfish intentions of getting some answers from her. Being praised for it just felt awkward to him. It wasn’t the image he usually projected. He wasn’t sure he wanted praise for it either. He wasn’t used to being told he was a good man.

He used the time Xanthippe was in the shower to clean up the kitchen a little bit more, carefully not to use too much water and disturb her time in the shower. By the time she was out, he had disassembled the gun he’d been using last night, the pieces of it neatly laid out on the small table. He sat there, carefully cleaning and maintaining it.

Frank glanced across at her, hands stilling on the metal. He listened to her offer, but simply shook his head in response, “You take the bed when you need it. You need to get proper rest if you want your side to heal. Couch ain’t gonna give you that.” He’d slept in worse conditions than the couch in his apartment.