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[Ironman] Ch: 159 [The White Queen’s Gambit]
🕑 Added 2025-09-06 12:30:44 +0000 UTC[New York City] [Late Night]
The bar smelled of booze, cigarettes, sweat of men who clearly hadn't bothered with a shower in a while, and cheap beer that had long since soaked deep into the floorboards. It was a small place in downtown, squeezed in between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the kind of spot where the regulars drop by to drink their savings away and try to forget about their troubles back home.
Frank Castle was sitting over at the far end of the bar, slowly sipping at a glass of whiskey that was mostly water. Tonight, he wasn't wearing his tactical gear or Kevlar... Just casual clothes, a black jacket, and jeans, looking like another guy looking for a bit of peace and quiet. His eyes were fixed on the mirror behind the bar, taking everything in without so much as turning his head.
The waitress, a girl who couldn't have been more than twenty-two, moved between tables with a fake smile plastered on her face. She was a brunette, with tired eyes that had already learned to stop expecting kindness. Every time she passed a certain booth, the men sitting there reached out, touching her inappropriately.
Five of them. All mid-thirties to forties, work shirts unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, tattoos creeping up their arms. The kind of men who looked like they'd been fired from construction sites for fighting. Their laughter was loud, forcing everyone else in the bar to hear them.
The tallest, a bald slab of muscle with a jaw like cinder block, slapped the waitress on the backside as she tried to slide by. She stiffened, forced another smile, and kept moving. The table roared with laughter.
Frank's jaw flexed. He didn't turn, didn't raise his voice. He simply spoke, his words low and even, but loud enough to carry.
"Don't touch her again."
The laughter cut short. All eyes turned toward the bar. The bald one leaned forward, grin splitting across his thick face.
"The hell you say?"
Frank didn't look at him. He took a sip of his whiskey and set the glass down carefully.
"I said keep your hands off her."
The waitress froze mid-step, tray shaking in her hands. The bartender lowered his eyes and kept polishing a glass. Nobody else moved.
The bald one stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked behind Frank, close enough that Frank could smell the cheap cologne and stale beer on his breath. A mug of beer sloshed in his hand.
"You got a big mouth, old man," Baldy said, voice dripping with mockery. "Maybe you need a wash."
The mug tilted. Beer poured over Frank's head, cold and sticky, running down his jacket. The table burst into laughter again.
Frank didn't laugh. He didn't move. Then, suddenly, he did.
His elbow shot backward with the precision of a piston.
Crack! Bone cracked loud as a gunshot. Baldy's nose exploded in blood, cartilage folding sideways. "ARGGGG!!!" He screamed, clutching his face, stumbling back.
Frank grabbed the mug still in Baldy's hand, wrenched it free, and swung it in a sharp arc. Clank! Glass shattered across Baldy's ruined nose. Blood mixed with beer as the man dropped, moaning, hands slick with red.
The other four surged to their feet. Chairs toppled.
Frank rose slowly, rolling his shoulders, his expression flat.
"Bad choice."
The first came fast, swinging a bottle. Frank stepped in, parried the strike with his forearm, and buried a fist into the man's stomach. "OOF!" Air rushed out of him like a punctured tire. Before he could double over, Frank yanked his head down and slammed a knee into his face. CRUNCH! Teeth snapped. Blood sprayed the floor. The man screamed, muffled through broken lips.
The second lunged with a barstool, swinging wide. Frank pivoted, letting the stool whistle past his ribs, then stepped in close. His palm shot out. THWACK! Right into the man's throat. The wet crack of crushed cartilage echoed. The man gagged violently, choking, hands clawing at his neck.
The third was behind him, pool cue raised. WHACK! The stick smacked across Frank's shoulder, splintering wood. Frank caught the broken cue mid-swing, ripped it from the man's grip, and rammed the jagged end into his thigh.
SHUNK!
"ARGGGG!! MOTHERFUCKING LUNATIC!"
The scream that followed was high-pitched and raw, the man collapsing, scrabbling at the stick protruding from his leg.
The fourth hesitated, knife glinting in his hand. He circled, breathing heavy, eyes flicking between his friends writhing on the ground and Frank standing in their midst like a storm.
"Walk away," Frank said, voice calm.
The man lunged instead, knife thrust forward. Frank caught his wrist and twisted hard. SNAP! The bone gave way like kindling. "Heeekkk!" The man shrieked, knife clattering to the floor.
"Arggg!" Frank smashed his forehead into his nose.
CRACK!
"Gaahhhh!" Another scream, cut short when Frank spun him, hooked an arm around his neck, and yanked back. The choke held tight. "Kugghh!" Three seconds later, the fight drained out of him. His body went limp.
Silence crashed over the bar. Only the groans of broken men filled the air.
Frank stood tall, chest heaving once, then steady again. He grabbed a napkin from the bar, wiped beer from his face, and tossed it on the counter.
The bald one was still alive, crawling toward the door, blood streaming down his face. Frank walked over and planted a boot between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor.
"You don't touch women. You don't use fear to feel big. You don't get second warnings."
Baldy wheezed beneath him, gurgling through the blood.
Frank crouched low, whispering in his ear.
"You remember this beating. You carry it every time you think about putting your hands on someone who can't fight back. You so much as look at her wrong again, I'll finish what I started. I'll break every single bone in your body and then I'll bury you alive."
He stood up and kicked the baldy one last time. The man gasped, scrambling out the door, leaving a trail of blood behind.
Frank turned back to the others. Two were unconscious, one choking, another whimpering as he pulled the cue from his leg. He ignored them. His eyes found the waitress, still frozen by the bar, tray clutched in both hands.
"You alright?" he asked, voice soft now.
She blinked, nodded quickly. She was stunned by the violent beatdown, but was glad. Those bastards deserved that beating.
Frank tossed a handful of bills on the counter. "For the mess." Then he walked out.
...
[Outside the Bar]
Frank stepped out of the bar and was about to disappear into the city, but he stopped when he saw it. A black BMW parked at the curb. The back door stood open like an invitation he didn’t want.
Inside, a woman sat waiting. White dress, diamond necklace that probably cost more than the bar he had just left, blonde hair, and white heels.
Emma Frost. The White Queen.
'What the hell is she doing here?' Frank wondered.
Frank’s eyes narrowed. He saw the news and heard the whispers. Shaw was dead. She had taken over the Hellfire Club and was carving her way through the criminal underworld piece by piece. And now she was here.
He didn’t waste time pretending he had a choice. When someone like her shows up in your path, you either get in the car or you get buried. Frank walked forward, boots crunching against broken glass on the sidewalk, and slid into the back seat.
“What do you want from me, White Queen?” He asked.
Emma smiled, faint and cold. She crossed one leg over the other, fingers laced lightly in her lap.
“Straight to business. I do appreciate that in a man. Saves us both from wasting time.”
Frank didn’t blink. “Talk.”
Emma tilted her head slightly, studying him like he was an interesting piece of art. “You’ve been busy tonight. Five men in a bar. One with a shattered nose, another with a collapsed trachea, a third bleeding out on a pool table... Tell me, Frank, does it ever get dull?”
He didn’t flinch. “You didn’t pull me out here to talk about my hobbies.”
Emma smiled before saying, "I want you to work for me."
Frank replied, "I don't work with crime lords."
“Oh, you will work for me, Frank. Not because you want to. But because you need what I have.”
“I don’t need a damn thing from you.”
Her smile widened slightly, patient, like a teacher humoring a stubborn child. “Frank, I know you’ve gutted half the underworld over the years. Every man who touched your family is in the ground because of you. But tell me something… did you ever find him? Did you ever get to the one who matters?”
Frank stayed silent.
Emma continued. “The Owl. Real name. Real face. Where he hides. The man who pulled strings and made sure the system failed you. You’ve been chasing shadows for five years, and you’re no closer to him than you were the night your family bled out in that park.”
“Keep talking,” Frank growled, voice low.
“I can give you that trail. I can hand you the Owl’s true location, his network, his safehouses. Everything you’ve been bleeding for.” Emma’s tone was almost gentle, like she was offering a gift. “All I ask in return is simple. You and I… cleanse the board together. Every head of every crime family. Removed. Permanently. The filth of this city carved out root and stem.”
Frank’s eyes locked on hers. There was no trust in them. Only calculation.
“You’re not asking me to cleanse the underworld. You’re asking me to clear it out so you can take the throne.”
Emma didn’t blink. “Of course I am. Why lie about it? This world runs on power, Frank. Someone will always sit at the top. Better it be someone who can actually control it… rather than some slobbering animal with a trigger finger. You hate criminals? Good. So does my boss. I’m going to kill them, and I want you to help me do it. The difference is, when I sit on their ashes, I’ll make sure the rot doesn’t grow back.”
"Your boss?" He asked, surprised.
She let the pause hang in the air before replying. “Tony Stark.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. He almost laughed, but it came out more like a scoff. “Stark doesn’t play mob boss.”
Emma leaned back. “He doesn’t need to. He’s playing the long game. The politicians, the agencies, the charities—he’s rewriting the rules of the world. But to do that, he needs the rot in the streets burned out. That’s my job. And now… it’s yours.”
Frank sat back against the seat, silent for a long moment. His mind ran through everything he’d seen on the news these past months. Stark dismantling human and mutant experiment labs. Putting S.H.I.E.L.D. back on the map again. Stopping alien invasion and Sublime. The man didn’t just talk about fixing the world. He did it.
And in his wake, crime had plummeted. Whole neighborhoods rebuilt. Veterans and the homeless are given jobs and homes. Kids pulled off the streets before gangs could sink their hooks in. Free treatment, medicine, jobs, education... A stable life that stopped them from turning to crime. All the things Frank had fought for in his own way, Stark had managed to put into motion on a global scale.
If Stark was behind Emma, this wasn’t just another turf war. This was a purge.
Emma’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Stark gives me The Hand. I give him a cleansed underworld. And you, Frank… you get what you’ve wanted from the beginning. A clear shot at the men who think they’re untouchable and your revenge.”
Frank leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He studied her like a man deciding whether to put a bullet between her eyes or hear her out. Finally, he spoke, his voice low.
“Point me at the target.”
Emma’s smile widened, just slightly. She reached into her clutch and slid a folded dossier across the seat.
“The first is small, but symbolic,” Emma said. “A warehouse in Brooklyn. Drugs, guns, trafficking. The kind of filth that spreads like mold. Take it out, make a mess, send a message. Let the city know the Punisher is back on the board… and that the rules are about to change.”
Frank picked up the dossier and tucked it into his jacket.
"Happy hunting, Castle."
---
[Manhattan, Same Night]
Virginia “Pepper” Potts sat cross-legged on the small couch in her one-bedroom apartment. The sound of traffic bled in through the thin windows, mixing with the faint clatter of pipes in the walls. She had graduated only three months ago with a degree in Business Administration, and reality was hitting fast. Rent was high, bills piled up, and the city did not wait for anyone to catch their breath.
Her laptop screen glowed in the dim light. She had been scrolling through job boards for hours; most postings were either scams, unpaid internships, or “entry-level” positions demanding five years of experience. Her coffee had gone cold on the table beside her.
Finally, she landed on the Stark Industries website. The interface and bold logo at the top of the page felt almost intimidating, like staring at the future itself. She clicked on the “Careers” tab. The listings appeared one by one. Engineers, programmers, logistics managers… jobs she knew she wasn’t qualified for.
Then she saw it.
Administrative Assistant.
Pepper sat up straighter. The description was straightforward: scheduling, filing, handling communication, preparing reports, supporting executive staff.
"Well, nothing I can't handle," She mumbled to herself.
Her pulse picked up. It was Stark Industries. The kind of job that could change her life overnight if she managed to land it. She clicked “Apply.”
The online form was long, but she filled it carefully. Name, education, past internships, references. She double-checked every field, reread her answers twice before hitting submit.
The screen flashed: Application Received. Thank you for applying to Stark Industries.
Pepper exhaled, leaning back against the couch.
"Gotta give it my all or live in one of those homeless shelters."
