Author Note: Sorry this chapter has been such a long time in coming, I ran into my biggest adversary, opposition, or obstacle writing this story: My co-author. But damnit, he questioned things I hadn't thought of and rewrote some integral scenes (and more since) that just wouldn't have been anywhere near as poignant without him. In fact he may have wrote this author's note too.

From the actual main Author: Jedireaper is a smartarse. He did indeed write the above blurb. Ote however, that I've kept captain smartarse's words for this summary

From Jedireaper: I'll smartass you in a minute.

Chapter Four

Analysis

Frank jinked, darting down an alleyway and narrowly avoided the gunshot as it rang out behind him. Taking cover behind a large dumpster, he readied a shot, but paused, considering his situation.

These aren't Fisk's men, someone's trying to play us against each other. That old bastard is too wily to try something like this. Especially right after a meet, it's too obvious.

Frank quickly ran through his options, and was just as keenly aware of the goons entering the alleyway and taking up position. I need to change the ante. Up the fire escape? No, it's too exposed and puts more people at risk. Shoot them? Frank got a glance at the assailants, using their reflection in a dirty window to do so. No.

Beyond the alley he could make out the shapes of innocents, and could hear their excited shouts. He was sure he could see some of them recording what was happening on their smart phones. For a moment he longed for simpler times. Idiots.

While he was certain his aim would be true, there was still the slimmest of chances that his bullets would penetrate straight through them and into the gathering onlookers. He wasn't some comic book Marty Stu (or was it Stan these days?) that never failed.

The gunmen were confident that they finally had the Punisher trapped. Two of them kept careful aim near the fire escapes, whilst the other two covered the manhole cover.

"Game's over Castle! Come out and we'll make it quick."

Castle didn't answer. Not only was he disinclined to, he was busy studying the weak link in the metal chain that was holding the dumpster he was using as cover, to the wall.

"You ain't got long to take our offer," the goon called out. Frank leveled his pistol butt against the wall and with a smack of his left palm against his right wrist, pried the chain from its holding. He caught the chain as it dropped, preventing it from clattering against the dumpster, or to the ground.

At the head of the alley, and with the sounds of wailing police sirens drawing rapidly near, the gun men charged forwards.

The first one was met with three tons of dumpster to the chest, as it was shoved hard in his direction, knocking him down. The second managed to scramble clear and past, realising his fatal mistake, when Castle drilled a bullet through his skull at point blank range.

The third gunman blinked with horror, as he watched his associate's brain splatter past him. In that moment, he regretted closing in on The Punisher as he realised their mistake. In a surreal slow motion, as the gunman's adrenaline pumped his fight or flight response into overdrive, he watched Castle glide around the falling body of his associate. In his final moments, he barely registered his own shot, as he too was swiftly and brutally despatched.

It was on target. Castle groaned as the bullet took him in the left side, the concussive force knocking him backwards. Castle's collision with the dumpster was jarring enough to loosen his grip on his (now empty) weapon.

The final thug snarled, his own weapon homing in on Frank; a split second move. That second was all that Frank needed to hurl the dumpster's chain around his would be killer's feet, causing the man to fall to the floor, his gun clattering to the side.

The stricken man let out a startled yelp, but was cut off nearly immediately as a length of chain was wrapped around his neck, with the Punisher hoisting him off the damp paving. Struggling to loosen the chain, a second later, he was slammed down hard with enough force that his neck hit the lid of the dumpster with a sickening crack. He wouldn't be moving again.

Frank let go of the chain and spun, as a clumsy punch from his first attacker whipped past his face. He'd expected it, as he grabbed the arm to the surprise of its owner, and twisted it behind the man, and shoved him into the wall; pinning him there.

He needed one alive. For how long, hinged on the answers he gave.

It was a few hours later, icy rain was seeping through his overcoat, and he wasn't thrilled about that (It was cold enough already). Detective Sergeant Kowalski blinked at the open manhole cover. "Every damn time."

The patter of rain could be heard from the nearby windows, passing almost unnoticed by the veteran Avenger. Peter Parker was still on the bench, his hands cradling his head between them, eye's focussed on some distant memory or regret.

The click of footsteps came into his earshot and Peter looked up as Tony Stark's shadow fell upon him. The strained look on the older Avenger's face spoke volumes. Peter picked up his mask but halted halfway to donning it.

"She's asked to speak with you. She has little very time left," Said Stark, turning something over in his hand, rather absentmindedly.

Peter sighed and gave Tony a sour look. He would not have been the slightest bit surprised if the tech mogul had lost track of time whilst working on some creation. It wouldn't have been the first time. "Why didn't you call me earlier?"

Tony followed Peter's glance, and set down Hank Pym's outdated helmet that he was carrying. As he did so, he looked right at his impulsive young associate and spoke in an even tone; he'd had years of practice with Peter. "Jarvis just informed me. I came to get you immediately."

Peter flushed slightly at that. "Oh. Sorry. I should have-" Peter looked away. This was becoming habit, and at some point he was going to need to take a good long look at himself.

Stark waved it away, with a small conciliatory smile. " Forget about it. Just go and make use of the the time she has left."

Peter nodded and left silently.

After the Wall Crawler was out of sight, the scientifically minded Avenger tried to make sense of the situation. Much like the likeminded Reed Richards though, magic left him cold. Anything that defied hard science the way mysticism did, left him cold.

Give me empirical data any day of the week. He chuckled and smiled slightly at that thought, considering who some of his friends and allies were, or had been: Thor, The Scarlet Witch, Doctor Strange, even Merlin.

The mystical world was real and all around him. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

On top of all of that, it had been Thor's brother, Loki who had caused the formation of The Avengers in the first place. Funny name, Avengers.

She stirred weakly as she sensed his approach. "Spider-Man," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Madame Web," Peter finally found his voice. He felt like the world's biggest hypocrite even being here. He knew he had rarely treated this woman with the respect she had garnered.

Looking back on it all, he finally realised that whilst she had been cryptic, most often infuriating him, she'd still had his back. What would he do if he had the same power, her power to see the future? How would he deal with it? And would he strive to change what he saw?

He knew his answer, it was barely a choice, no. As surprising as that answer might have been, he remembered something that Kitty Pryde had once shown him. It had been a warning: A glimpse of the X-Men's Future Past files. A record of an alternate timeline created by the actions of the mutant extremist, Mystique, causing the roundup and slaughter of those that carried the Mutant X gene, in a timeline that now no longer existed.

Technically, it had still happened (according to Kitty anyway) but she'd managed to undo the damage that had been done, and restored time as it should be (mostly). Playing with time was a tangle waiting to happen.

Peter considered the possibilities: It was a terrifying amount of power to be saddled with. And it was enough for him that with great power comes great responsibility. And he never wanted a greater-than-that responsibility on his shoulders.

He smiled ruefully at Madame Web. "I should have said thank you before now," he began, clasping her wizened hand, "I'm sorry."

"I know, Spider-Man," she whispered. "I know who you are at heart, as I always have. It is why I prepared for this moment a long time ago…"

"In a galaxy far, far away?" Peter joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Madame Web stared at the Wall Crawler blankly, before her eyes widened and her pale skin whitened. "The Castle will check the King, and there will be a sinister shock."

She took a pained breath and one of her last, as Peter held her hand gently. "I am sorry Peter," she continued, "my time here is over... but your time to rise... is here..."

"I will." He made those last words she'd hear a promise. "I will, Madame Web!"

She smiled at him, her eyes warm, and with those words she fell back with a deep sigh, her chest falling and not rising again.

Spider-Man placed his clairvoyant guide's hand to rest at her chest, repeating his words: "I will."

It was dark, and cold. She could tell there was water streaming down the side of the manhole's sewer walls, even if she couldn't see it; and the temperature within had begun to plummet. The metal clanged as her feet and hands climbed the railings towards potential freedom (and fresh air), noting as she did, the tiny amount of street light that filtered through the gaps of the manhole cover.

Where are we?

Aisha paused, concentrating on keeping her presence known to her close friend below, who was climbing the railings in a somewhat more awkward fashion, with her right arm missing. Taylor seemed to be mumbling to herself, but nothing Aisha could pick up on as coherent.

She gently nudged Taylor's shoulder with her left foot, keeping her grasp firmly on the railings. "Psst!" Aisha whispered loudly, "Bug girl!"

Taylor had halted her climb and had almost lost her grip on the cold, damp metal. The two young women from Earth Bet's eyes would have met in the darkness, but Taylor could only see a dim silhouette, so she spoke: "Why?"

Aisha glanced up, and reached her left arm up to touch the underside of the large cylindrical cover. Droplets of icy water ran down her fingers from where they'd met the rain pattering metal, and she shook it off. She turned her head down to Taylor below, "Can you use those bug Force powers of yours to see what's above, or is your head still too fuzzy?"

Below, the girl that was Skitter, frowned and concentrated.

Taylor could feel them, all of them, practically like billions of tiny little lights, all interweaved by even tinier glowing strands, all of them individual, and yet in this moment, (and even perhaps before she'd thought about it) connected to her.

It provided her briefly with an immense clarity, an image of where they were, but the reception was so bright and clear, it startled her. She'd never gleaned so much information, nor understood it. This was too much, too bright, too detailed- it was overloading. There were splinters of bark, and specks of dust; there were flakes of skin, and decaying exoskeletal shells; there were droplets of water that were like tiny floods, and puddles like oceans; with tiny fractious little stones that looked like towering mountains, and dead leaves that looked like- dead leaves?

And then it was gone. The lightbulb that was her power had sparked with blinding brightness, but now it seemed like the filament had burnt out.

Aisha had been studying her friend for the last few seconds after she'd gone quiet, and heard her giggle. "What's so funny?"

"Dead leaves," came the slightly echoed and distant response, though Aisha noted the distance was not in metres, but in Taylor's voice.

"Does that tell us where we are?" Aisha glanced back up at the miniscule shaft of light through the gap in the manhole cover.

"Dead leaves. In pools." Taylor's voice sounded more insistent this time.

"So I guess it's safe," Aisha sighed. She reached up and heaved the heavy metal cover from the sewer access pipe they were in, with a spatter of rain blasting her, as she climbed up and out.

Cornell Cottonmouth Stokes gazed over the sepia coloured streets of Harlem, the windows of his limousine pattered with rain, and the dancing reflection of fairy lights, a smile spreading on his lips. These are my streets. He'd come a long way, clawing his way up the food chain, built on top of his family's legacy; and now, he had businesses, people, fine company, and all of it within finger snapping distance.

The kind of power my family dreamed of back in the days. The days when the cops would call him 'boy', and the people of Harlem were openly oppressed, poverty rampant. His legitimate businesses had brought Harlem into the light and allowed it to thrive.

At least, that's how Cornell saw it.

All these businesses, and the less legitimate activities meant he had to keep everyone in line. As his Mama once said; don't hit them, make them fear the day that you will. And as much as he despised the things she'd made him do, he now saw the logic of it. If someone stepped out of line, you dealt with the problem yourself, you didn't cower out. The moment you didn't lead from the front was the moment you lost your power.

With his reputation seemingly preceding him, the shutters to his private car park allowed the limo to move out of the empty, wet streets of his home.

This part of his business empire was the newest but as the times had moved on, he had moved with them. The nightclubs he now owned were proof enough of that, and whilst he had been initially resistant to the idea, they were now major sources of income.

He smiled as he sipped the dark rich liquid contained in the glass he held, and considered his retirement plans. Not that he was going anywhere anytime soon, but things were looking smooth for him. He'd reduced down the more illegitimate sides of his business, and drugs were no longer pedalled on his streets. It was one of the very few things he and Cage had ever agreed on.

He placed the cognac glass on the marbled table, with a clink, and relaxed back, taking in the dark wood panelled finery of his Nightclub office. There was the matter of that girl Fisk was after, and how much she was really worth to Fisk. "She must be something really special to get that fat cat lookin' her way."

Frank Castle slung his combat braces onto the grubby looking table, in the darkened and dingy back room. He turned as he heard a low moan from his captive: Without any hesitation he gave the man a meaty punch across the face, sending him back into slumber. Frank didn't want the man to realise how much trouble he was truly in (at least not yet). Not until everything was properly set up.

They were in one of the many abandoned warehouses that dotted much of Manhattan's seedier districts. Frank had specifically chosen this one because of its vicinity in Hell's Kitchen, with Fisk's tower only a couple of blocks over. If he was going back there again, it didn't need to be a long journey.

He checked the man's bindings before hauling him out into the warehouse and into the chair he'd prepared, securing him to it.

On a table set about five feet in front of the captive, was a laptop displaying a paused scene from Liam Neeson's Taken; a film The Punisher had chosen specifically for the brutal scene. The film served a double purpose, it would demonstrate the thug's immediate future, and it would also provide Frank Castle with something to alleviate any boredom he'd accumulate in the intervening hours.

Shafts of the winter morning sun glared through rusted holes in the ironwork, and larger patches of light shone through clearer gaps in the dirty and old windows. Water dripped down from the previous night's rain, making a trickling noise as it pooled on the warehouse's concrete floor.

In the centre of the cavernous building Chris stirred, shaking his head as he came round. His feet felt wet (and bootless), the sensation making him glance down. His ankles were bound and secured to the metal chair, and they were sat half an inch in the slowly pooling water. In fact, as he regained further lucidity, he could see quite the large puddle that he was sat in. He tried to pull at the bonds holding him to the seat, preventing free movement, but couldn't find the strength required to break them.

He noticed the trails of cables leading into the layer of water at his feet and this told him all he needed to know. "Oh crap," he murmured, resigning himself to his apparent fate just as the reason for his current predicament stepped around him and into his field of view.

Castle was a towering mass of muscle over his leaner captive, imposingly staring down at the man. "Awake. Good." His voice was deep and gravely, and it sent a shudder down the man's spine.

Chris spat to the side, clearing his throat, and then glared at the Punisher; "You may as well kill me, man; I'm dead already."

"You are half right," Frank Castle picked up on the pleading in Chris's voice, "you are dead already." Punisher picked up a two-inch thick power cable that wasn't in the pool of water, but laying next to it. The end of the cable had been knifed off, exposing the highly insulated copper wiring.

Chris swallowed; he could hear a nasty electrical buzzing sound coming from the cable and didn't want to think about how many volts were about to juice him, but the sound sent him into a cold sweat. "Shit!"

Punisher continued, moving closer to the thug-from-the-alley. He brought the cable close to the man's face as he made his purpose clear, "I have a question for you. If I don't like the answer, the next few minutes are gonna hurt. And if you don't give the answer, the next few days are gonna hurt."

The thug from earlier wilted, now in this powerless position, slumped weakly into the chair he was trussed to, staring down at the reflection of the sunlight from the almost opaque window high above. The Punisher stepped back, satisfied that Chris understood him absolutely fine. "Who sent you?"

There was a brief flicker of hesitation across Chris's eyes, "Kingpin." His voice cracked a little.

Frank's eye's barely conveyed his scepticism, but it was there. He loosened his grip on the power cable, letting it slide slowly towards the water beneath his boots. "Kingpin," he echoed.

"Yeah, he-" In that moment there were sparks as the cable met the water and sent jolts of electricity into the lying sack of shit, as he let out a juddering shout of pain. Frank could feel the electricity conducting through his own body and relished in the feeling. He'd endured far worse.

After a scant few tens of seconds, he pulled the cable back up, and let it rest a few inches above the water. "Try again."

It took Chris what seemed like an eternity to refocus on his surroundings, he could feel fatigue gnawing at him, and could smell a faint grilled-bacon scent in the air. It took him another couple of seconds to realise it was him as he controlled his breathing. Chris's eyes snapped to the sociopath still stood in the water just used to electrocute him. "Jesus Christ," he spat, "fuck you man!"

There was a juddering scream from the man as the cable dropped into the water again. After a few seconds it quietened down to a whimper as Frank Castle spoke, "We can do this all day. I'll only ask this one last time. Answer correctly and I'll make it quick." Frank paused, letting the implication sink in. "Who sent you?"

Chris was already dead and he knew it. If he spoke, it would be his family that would pay the price. So he repeated through his gritted teeth: "Kingpin, motherfucker!"

Chris spat at Frank, and Castle just shrugged as he started wrapping the thick cable around his forearm as he asked, "Which eye do you want to lose when I fry your brain?"