Chapter Text
War Journal, Day One: It’s been over two weeks since I left the hospital, and I am alone. My house is empty, my wife and children are in the dirt, and I am alone. I spend most of my days eating breakfast, weight training after, lunch, resistance training, dinner, and then out to the shooting range. No one asks me anything, but how would they? They’re all dead.
The funeral was a week ago, and I was the only one there to see the caskets lower. Maria was in the center, with Lisa and Junior at her sides. They were so young, so innocent, they didn’t deserve this. Those bastards did. The Cartel, those bikers, those mobsters, all of them deserve to be in the ground, not them.
I still set the table the same. No rhyme or reason, I do it because I always do. I make sure the house is picked up, even though there’s no one else inside to mess it up. It’s always neat, always clean, always like no one lived in it at all. Frank Jr. won’t run through the halls, tracking in mud. Lisa wasn’t there to play with her dolls, making up a whole different life before my eyes. My wife wasn’t there to help me with the dishes, so I washed and dried them all. The pots are never used, other than the smallest ones. And only one plate ever gets used. Still, I set empty plates next to my seat.
I steam press my marine suit, every morning and every night. It has my medals of honor and purple hearts. I remember wearing this as we saluted that star-spangled banner, my face set in stone as my eyes were still back there, my ears still hearing gunfire and explosives, and my heart amping up for a fight to happen. But it never came. Instead, my wife’s rushing hug as she leaped into my arms, my children running to my legs as I met them with smiles and laughs. I don’t smile much anymore. And laughing seems like a joke.
I never looked down on my fellow soldiers, war is not something meant for a kind heart. But I never had a kind heart. And when the war was over, I wasn’t fearstricken over fireworks, or taken back to horrors with flashes of light. No. I missed it. I was a good father, a good husband, I made damn sure of it. But I missed being a good soldier, I missed fighting a war. I was never meant for this time of peace, I wasn’t made that way. But I could live with it, let my weapons down, and hold my children up, hugging my wife.
I can’t do that anymore. And I know what war I can fight. The criminal element is no different than an enemy force, the only difference is that they don’t have any rules. Neither will I. They take drugs to dull their senses, sell them off to the youth, and make a quick buck out of destroying lives. I threw out my painkillers, and let myself get hit with an automated baseball bat I rigged up in the garage, let the bat hit me as I don’t move, not even flinch. They can’t see me flinch, they’ll think I’ll give in. Fear is where to strike.
Murderers, rapists, muggers, drug dealers, they all have a play in what happened that day. I know it, I saw those cars, those men. Mobsters, enforcers of that sick underworld that scraps off the innocent for their own gain. They own some police officers so that they can sway the law in their hands. How can we live in a country where we can’t trust its laws, without taking action?
Most people will think I am some harbinger of vengeance, that I want to exact some emotional relief from the deaths of these monsters. I don’t. I feel nothing now. No joy, no sadness, just apathy and the occasional cold hatred one would feel for seeing a spider get fried with fire. I cannot let the enemy know that what they fight is human. They must think I am some monster, unstoppable with its mission. Damn what anyone else has to say, this isn’t their fight. It’s mine .
The punching bag broke this morning while I was practicing Krav Maga. I then used it as practice for knifefighting. Then, I took it to the firing range and nailed the center of the bag from fifteen miles away. Won’t help much, this city has so many angles that it’s like a sniper’s paradise. The best part too, most police won’t be able to source the sound of the bullet, so best to cover the muzzle flash as best as possible. I can’t risk this mission being over, the police will try to enforce their laws on me, not knowing that those laws have become tainted by the criminal element. They use those laws as a shield from their true punishment. And so, I shall be their Punisher.
I scouted out a nearby club, which is a major hub of a narcotic that the men who came to take my family come from. They dealt the first blow toward my land, and so they shall drag the entire underworld into this war. No matter what, no bribes shall persuade me, no threats can scare me, and no lies can trick me. This war will never stop, until either they’re all dead or I am. Either way, I think the world will be a better place if either happens.
Next stop, the city. They’ll think that it was a fluke, a mere publicity show of a minor arm of this sinister organization, and carry on. They’ll learn when they’re gunned down on the streets, mangled, and left in trash cans, the higher-ranking members tortured to learn what they know of their bosses. And then, I’ll climb those chains of command, until I keep chopping off the head. But this snake will not want to die without its head, and there’ll always be someone wanting to be the head of it all. And I have made that spot cursed, and keep taking care of them until they get the message. But I know my foe, they are a spineless, cowardly lot that will backstab and lie just to get the better slice of the pie. I want to throw it in their faces, shove it down their throats, and choke them to death with their ambitions and desires. Show them all that these acts of violence and debauchery that it’s worthless, they’ll end up dead once I get my hands on them.
Will there be a day when it ends? I do not know. I am on the first step of a personal crusade, with no end in sight. Fine by me, I’ll keep fighting, keep training, keep killing until it is done. Once it is done… I’ll be either old, dead, or a different man to care for anyway then. Now, is the time for Punishment.
War Journal, Day Two: Last night was eventful. The nightclub was filled with people, which made my job harder. Almost blew it with the bouncer asking who I was, and started to check his list. I got lucky, as there was someone who puked on the bouncer, getting him mad. I snuck by and entered the nightclub.
I started with the element of surprise, no one noticing me, my coat, or the body armor I wore. Pimps were out by themselves, counting their money and snorting their drugs, too out of their minds to even be aware of me approaching them, cutting their necks open as they choked on their own blood. I tilted them over, their necks not visible as I kept moving, a mistake I’ll regret as I went from target to target.
After a couple minutes from the first targets, a commotion was caused. I stepped into the shadows, sneaking near the main office as I kicked down the door, and showed off my SMGs and their rate of fire to their bosses. I then threw out a special treat outside the door, a canister of tear gas, and wore my trusty gas mask. I waited till I heard coughs and shouts, and walked into the hallway.
Armed with my desert eagle, and walked through as I placed a bullet in their heads. All but one, just to learn who and where they’re getting their trade from. He spilled his guts, telling me about a deal tomorrow night, and how he’s just some grunt. Finally, with my intel for the next mission, I threw the lucky guy through a window, watching as he landed on the ground face-first.
I needed a marker, a symbol in the empty nightclub to let them all know who they were fighting. A grim reaper, a skull to mark their dooms. Hope the cops don’t mind the vandalism. After the skull was sprayed onto the floor, I made my escape quickly, the sirens just starting to come my way. I kept looking in the rear-view mirror, ready for those red and blue lights to be on my tail, but they never came. I got home, cleaned and laid my weapons to rest, and ate a tv dinner.
I watched the news, reporting my act. A massacre, they called it, though I watch as the talking heads argue about whether this was good or bad. I turned off the tv, and went to bed, soundly asleep for the first time in weeks.
Today, I looked into the flaws of my setup, as well as my options as to what was next. Drugs, sex, money, so many organizations to dismantle. The sources my intel told me were a deal later that night: Drugs for people. Teenagers who ran away from home were snatched up by this scum. If my mission is to be successful, I have to save them. To have any innocent die on my watch is a failed mission. I’m doing this for them.
Last night, although swift, was sloppy. Next time, hide the bodies that way I can gain more of an advantage. I don’t regret killing the nightclub owner last night, just regret not asking him some questions, forcibly. This time, I’ll talk to the people making a deal, and make them talk to me.
I need to remain hidden. I can’t let anyone see who I am, let alone the hostiles. Witnesses cannot be allowed for as long as I can maintain it. A hidden identity is absolutely crucial to keep my mission going as long as it can. Having a stable base of operations to perform from as of now is needed. In the future, I’ll make sure my base of operations is mobile, on the ground, and always moving. But right now, I’m focusing on New York City. I’m not done here yet.
I made a list of hostiles, the low rankers known to me. Their crucial to learn about their higher-ups and their higher-ups. Until I get to the top. Then, I’m coming for them. I’ll plan a trip to my military connections, learn about who my prime targets are, and take them out. Such a shame that Fisk was already arrested, but then again, I wouldn’t know who that lard of tub was anyway.
Surprising what you can learn from war. My muscle memory is coming back to me. My crouching walk is faster, my aim is sharper, and my muscle mass is getting back to what it used to be during the war. Blindfolded, I can disassemble and reassemble all of my weapons in under two minutes in a row.
My mental state took a bit of time to shift back into being a soldier, but I’m thankful. If not, this would be some meaningless, reckless vengeance quest. This is doing what needs to be necessary, what needs to be right. What needs to be done.
War Journal, Day Thirty-Two: It’s been a while, my cover is blown. The trafficking operation was stopped, and I learned more intel. Weeks rolled by as I climbed the chain, snuffing out the scum that has filled our streets. The amount of money I burned away as I broke a drug lord’s knees still staggers me, but I know that won’t be the last time I do. Refined my art. Sniper Fire is a favorite, able to clear out a drug party from a distance with ease. I’ve set off so many traps, tripwires, and explosives, but my personal favorite was the beartrap to the face. And every time, I left my tag: A skull. It was working, because I notice that these bottom-dwelling scum would see my symbol and freeze with fright. Run, even. But they wouldn’t even dare try to hit or shoot me. Like I wasn’t even human.
But after a while, I fell under the suspicion of investigators. I fit the bill: A veteran with high military skills, a slaughtered family, and prime targets. I knew I had found out, and they were only working on a warrant for my arrest sooner or later. So, I packed up my life and said goodbye to my home as I went into my van.
It was modest, made to look like a painter’s van. Inside was a cot, a wall for my shotgun, my pistol, my sniper, my automatic rifle, my two SMGs, and my grenade launcher, boxes of ammo and explosives, a police scanner to listen to their patrols, a radio to fill me on the news, and tanks of gas to fill up on the move. I drove out of my home and lived on the streets.
Wasn’t long before I knew what was coming. The news marked me as a dangerous man, and to report to the authorities if they see a man of my description. Since then, I made sure to wear my casual clothes, hat, and sunglasses when on the streets during the day. I park my van in the alley as I get food for the day. I would prefer to cook my own food, but until I have a new base of operations, a could packets of ramen are gonna have to do.
My mission has never been easier. I stalk the streets at night, waiting and driving as I look into the alleyways. I disguised my van, hiding the painter’s logo on it, and put a black tarp over it. I get out of my van and approach drug dealers, muggers, and worse as they freeze, and their eyes go wider than their victims as they see my skull and face unmoving. They know death has come.