( There's an awful lot to factor into this equation now. Karen's a grown woman, a capable and competent adult, he knows that, he respects it, but there's no pretending like this place they're at is normal. This isn't surviving a particularly rough crime spree in Hell's Kitchen, this is a place with cosmic storms that bring on things beyond what humans are meant to see. This is a city where crime isn't just tolerated, it's expected. A place where the justice system has given up the charade, where law enforcers work for the wealthy or the business owners, where it's easy to go hungry and wind up on the street.
This is a place where a woman can scream in a motel hallway, and all people will do is make sure their doors are locked and thank god it isn't happening to them. Everything about this place is filthy.
Yeah, he might be glad to see her, but more than that, he hates that she's here. Adapting the strategy for how he approaches life here is inevitable. They're gonna have to sit down, they're gonna have to talk, they're gonna have to get on the same page. He needs to know how long she's been here, how she's doing, if she's secure, if she's got food, if she's got a plan.
And he needs to forcefully shove all of that out of his mind right now, immediately, thoroughly, to focus on the situation that's unfolding. So, for the moment, Karen's getting the soldier instead of the friend.
They hit the corner, he peers around it, then holds up a silent hand at her without glancing back. Wait, hold. Let him assess.
Two men. One securing the woman by locking her hands behind her head, his thick arms wound up under her shoulders, biceps swollen and taut, effortless even as she writhes and fights to get out of his grip. The second man's sporting a knife in one hand, the other palm slapped over her mouth to mute the feral, quavering noises trying and failing to escape her throat.
He can't put a bullet in that guy without it clearing straight through him and hitting her next — and besides that, he's trying to be conservative with his ammo. He hasn't found a place to resupply yet, and he doesn't have the funds to afford it even if he had one. If all they've got are knives, and it looks like that might be the case, then he should be able to handle this without expending a round.
It's a little too much to spell out for her in the brief seconds-long window of time they have, so instead, voice low, eyes locking on hers, he murmurs: )
Stay here, don't let anyone come up the hall, and only pull the trigger if they start headin' your way fast.
( Not that he intends to let them, but he doesn't pretend to be infallible. His effectiveness comes from being thorough and being over-prepared, not from being cocky.
With that plan thrown down on the table, he rounds the corner and starts stalking silently, gracefully, smoothly up the hall without saying a fucking word. No hey, assholes! Not a sound. Sometimes you need a sledgehammer, and sometimes you need a scalpel. Frank can be both, and this'll all go more smoothly if he can clear a significant bit of distance before either of them notice him coming in the dark. He makes it to about ten feet away before the bigger guy barks out a sharp, "Hey, who the fuck do you think you are?"
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This is a place where a woman can scream in a motel hallway, and all people will do is make sure their doors are locked and thank god it isn't happening to them. Everything about this place is filthy.
Yeah, he might be glad to see her, but more than that, he hates that she's here. Adapting the strategy for how he approaches life here is inevitable. They're gonna have to sit down, they're gonna have to talk, they're gonna have to get on the same page. He needs to know how long she's been here, how she's doing, if she's secure, if she's got food, if she's got a plan.
And he needs to forcefully shove all of that out of his mind right now, immediately, thoroughly, to focus on the situation that's unfolding. So, for the moment, Karen's getting the soldier instead of the friend.
They hit the corner, he peers around it, then holds up a silent hand at her without glancing back. Wait, hold. Let him assess.
Two men. One securing the woman by locking her hands behind her head, his thick arms wound up under her shoulders, biceps swollen and taut, effortless even as she writhes and fights to get out of his grip. The second man's sporting a knife in one hand, the other palm slapped over her mouth to mute the feral, quavering noises trying and failing to escape her throat.
He can't put a bullet in that guy without it clearing straight through him and hitting her next — and besides that, he's trying to be conservative with his ammo. He hasn't found a place to resupply yet, and he doesn't have the funds to afford it even if he had one. If all they've got are knives, and it looks like that might be the case, then he should be able to handle this without expending a round.
It's a little too much to spell out for her in the brief seconds-long window of time they have, so instead, voice low, eyes locking on hers, he murmurs: )
Stay here, don't let anyone come up the hall, and only pull the trigger if they start headin' your way fast.
( Not that he intends to let them, but he doesn't pretend to be infallible. His effectiveness comes from being thorough and being over-prepared, not from being cocky.
With that plan thrown down on the table, he rounds the corner and starts stalking silently, gracefully, smoothly up the hall without saying a fucking word. No hey, assholes! Not a sound. Sometimes you need a sledgehammer, and sometimes you need a scalpel. Frank can be both, and this'll all go more smoothly if he can clear a significant bit of distance before either of them notice him coming in the dark. He makes it to about ten feet away before the bigger guy barks out a sharp, "Hey, who the fuck do you think you are?"
And that's about when things get real. )