Impunity of The Punisher

One-Shot

'I know all,' Metron spoke, a soft timbre to his voice. 'But from you, all I can glean, is your actions. I wish to see more.'

The shimmering walls fluttered as the watchful God stood from his marvellously, mechanised throne. With each step away, a continuous hum came to life. Finally, he came to stand over the shaking figure on the floor.

'Please, have a seat.'

The spasms finally eased and brushing make-believe dust off his clothes, he rose to his feet. With not so much as a look of confusion, the visitor wasted no time in throwing himself onto the godly chair. His eyes widened as the background noise disappeared.

'Cosmic cube!' he exclaimed with glee, the intangible walls now rippling like water.

* * * * *

The moon was hiding behind thick rain clouds, almost scared to show itself to the mysterious city. High-rise apartments and over-indulgent skyscrapers littered the landscape.

Taking cover behind an industrial warehouse vent, The Punisher made a slow calculated squeeze upon his rifle's trigger. It's resounding exclamation spread throughout the area as he confirmed the hit, but not the kill.

Now Frank was angry. Castle knew it would have been simpler if he had gone for the kill shot. But he thought this hunt—this deserving occasion—needed a crescendo. A flourish. But he failed. His prey's body armour was more than impressive.

That suit probably cost more than my old house!

The Punisher made a mental note to re-evaluate his criminal stereotyping. He took up his weapon and headed back inside the warehouse as his military mind went to work. The target was possibly the most dangerous man he had never met: observant, intelligent, patient, inventive and highly-trained. But he left one opening. He was a creature of habit and that particular rooftop was his favourite. There was no doubt—Castle had wasted a significant opportunity.

It was that damn pounding memory inside his head. Like a throbbing tumour, it made him impulsive, made him forget his training and made him angry at this new world—far away from his dear family's graves.

He recollected that distinctive, fuzzy feeling. His limbs went weak and his eyeballs shook under some invisible strain. The walls of his battle van had flickered in and out of existence. Like an ominous freeze-frame set in a stain-glass style, they treated him to an omnipotence of events that his mind couldn't quite fathom.

Fifty different scenes unveiled themselves around him all at once. Frank's expert eyes tracked as many as he could. As he focused on a single scene, his mind would "hear" it.

Each event was a simple glimpse into the world: he saw homeless people begging for change, bent cops taking their dues, minor criminals harassing the working class, families going about their days and dealers selling their wares.

Coming to terms with this strange gift of knowledge, he skimmed over the uneventful—the mundane. Finally, he found a couple of instances involving himself. Like watching a cinematic playback of The Punisher in action, he observed his own unique method of drawing information from two mid-level criminals. Smiling he remembered it all with a dark sense of deja-vu.

Then something to the right caught his eye. Small flutters of a dark fabric that gave away the illusion of a still image. A black outline—barely visible in the darkness. A man, almost entirely covered from head to toe in shadow. Frank was entranced. Dangerous eyes stared out at him. The Punisher was now attentive.

Sound came into play. Carefree giggles preceded a mother and her young son walking into a quieter alley. Then the statue stepped off—his cape spreading out, catching the air. His drop to the ground was muffled, but it caught the mother's attention. Before she could scream, he closed the distance and a pair of gloved hands were at her throat, strangling the life out of her. An audible snap echoed through the alley as her neck broke under his grip. The boy turned, only to see her body flop to the floor.