nysalogs | (CLOSED-ish) There are things too terrible to remember.

He's in the Killbox with Rocket when he hears the call. They claim to need all hands on deck and he lifts his eyebrows as he cranes away from his work to try and get the raccoon's attention. Finally, something ready-made for him, capturing prisoners is much more his speed than running around in the woods with a bunch of half-animals half-people.

"You're going, right?" he asks like it's a given. He's gleaned a few things from working alongside Rocket in the short time he's been here and wasn't rudely interrupted by his stretch in Dranbu. Mainly, that he cares much more than he lets on, and maybe that's something else they have in common. "I think I know someone else I can rope into helping us. Meet you on the transport?"

Sure enough, not twenty minutes later will see Frank Castle with a strong hand around John Murphy's elbow, all but tugging him along. His gaze locks onto Rocket as he shuffles them in next to him on the train to Wyver. He had prefaced this meeting by calling Rocket 'his boss' which might be why he has such a grip on the young man, he won't have him offending the one person he's managed to forge some type of kinship with.

"He's here to impress his girlfriend," Frank explains blithely, still eyeing them both to see what they'll do.

Rocket likes this feeling of being someone's boss. It's a feeling a person of his standing (whether it be height or the general populace's assumption that he's a non-entity due to being a step above a petri dish growth) doesn't get much of. One could get high off that feeling. One could maybe even get addicted to that feeling.

As such, Murphy's treated to Frank's boss being three feet worth of furball wearing a cloak over a blue jumpsuit and a toolbelt kitted out with a variety of odds and ends around his waist. His arms are crossed. His expression is confident, though irritable. He is attempting to command a presence much bigger than he actually is. Whether he succeeds is in the eye of the beholder, but the Napoleon Complex is strong with this one.

"Maybe if you tell that to the jerks trying to carve off a chunk of Darma's toes, they'll write you a sonnet," he mutters, his ringed tail swishing behind him. He's eyeing Murphy with the kind of incredulity of a person who is quick to make judgments based on appearances despite being the sort of person who gets judged by exactly that (and having a number of people in what might be called a friend circle- past and present- that definitely aren't what people expect). Frank seriously better be being sarcastic. He is not here to play wingman for a lovelorn, unproven kid.

Murphy, the little shit that he is, gives Frank a little resistance, purposely walking slowly so he has to tug on him. There's small talk as both of them traipse through the city but Murphy grows quiet when they approach the train platform with a little more speed in their stride.

Murphy's eyes squint, making quick sweeps across his surroundings, tries to pick out Frank's boss as if Murphy has a single damn clue.

How the hell does Frank even have a boss? He doesn't seem the type.

The train is already there, waiting for passengers to both leave and board it. Frank doesn't waste any time directing all of them onto the train. First of all, "I don't need to impress Emori," he grumbles, yanking his arm free of Frank's grasp. Secondly, "You're the one who asked me for help." Even though Murphy doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.

And finally, "What in the hell are you supposed to be?" Murphy's gaze ticks down to the bipedal rodent and openly gawks at Rocket incredulously.

Murphy is right in that Frank usually wouldn't be the sort to have a boss. Yet he had easily picked out Rocket's similarity to himself. They both live in solitude, though they don't thrive on it. They both enjoy working with their hands. Their workdays were carried in comfortable silence until one of them picked up a thread of conversation from hours previous, and yet it's seamless. There's a multitude of reasons why he had volunteered to work for him, and he wouldn't take it back now.

"Manners," he snaps critically, stepping on John's foot with the sharp and heavy heel of his boot. Behave, the daggerlike gaze he gives the younger man seems to say, even as he shoves him deeper into the train and nudges in beside him before turning to Rocket. "Gang's all here." These two will be a handful, but he can't think of anyone better suited to the task at hand. He (thinks he) knows what he's doing.

Rocket's bared teeth snarl promises a retort that'll contain a great deal of cursing until Frank mercifully steps in and does what he can't- he can bite and claw and snap verbally, but he can't slam his tiny cybernetically enhanced foot on someone's instep and do more than superficial annoyance.

"This is gonna be a delightful trip, I just know it," Rocket mutters, taking the lead once they've boarded since he's smaller and easier to get lost in the tangle of legs as people select their seats.

"Hopefully the ride won't get hijacked by demons this time." He's saying this not for anyone's benefit, but because he's a shit.

Murphy opens his mouth, ready to say something when suddenly someone drove their god damn heel onto his foot. "Fuckin' A," he hisses out in pain. "Are you trying to break my foot? That's a good way to break a foot."

He stumbles forward, thanks to Frank pushing him. It's a good thing he is as lanky as he is because weaving through a crowd is easy. There are people all around them, all cramped up on his train. Murphy is visibly uncomfortable, has his arms tightly wrapped around him.

Small spaces remind him of the bunker.

That was just one bad time.

"Huh," Murphy says dumbly, his gaze drops down to where Rocket is. "You're joking, right?"

"You're fine," he insists, finally letting go of Murphy entirely when the train starts moving and there's no actual way for him to bolt. He lifts an eyebrow at Rocket's suggestion but decides it isn't as weird as anything he's witnessed already. He's just going to assume that happened at some point. While he won't step on Rocket, he will cast him a mild look that seems to convey they shouldn't terrify John if they want his help, or something like that anyway. "Maybe we should focus on the task at hand."

"Anything can become the task at hand if it's a thing that happens." Rocket will not relent, but he also doesn't confirm or deny whether he's joking, which could make it better or make it worse. Delightful, this trip will truly be.

"But sure, let's focus on how a bunch of shitheads are giving Darma an unsolicited pedicure, and how hard I'm gonna hit them when I find 'em."

"How do you even know," Murphy shoots back. He brushes his shoulder against Frank's, trying to get him to stop breathing down his neck. "Personal space, you heard of it, right?"

His attention flits down to Rocket. "The opossum makes a good point." He jerks his thumb down in Rocket's general direction. "Pedicure?" His brows furrow, it's not a word he's actually heard before. "What the hell is that?"

He shrugs and backs up an arbitrary step. Not like he still couldn't kill you from here, John. Then he's looking to Rocket, obviously bemused though trying his damnedest not to show it.

"I'm not an expert or anything, but I think it's when you get your toes painted in the salon." They don't have salons in their weird post-nuclear society??? Shocking.

"Opossum?" Well, fuck that's a new one. He can add that to the list of things he's been called.

And meanwhile, his delightful sarcasm feels like it's going to be wasted on some of those present. He sighs and presses his face to the window. "Y'all can stick to the hitting things part of this, okay? That's clearly what we all can agree you're good at. I'll do the thinking."

Murphy likes his space, Frank. If you're going to kill him, at least give him some breathing room.

Why would anyone want to paint their toes? That sounds more like a grounder thing. Salon? Doesn't Frank mean a saloon like in those old western movies? It's something that Murphy watched from the archives back on the Ark.

He was alone and may well have spent it doing something.

"I guess that's not an end-of-the-world luxury." Murphy assumes it is one, even if it sounds odd. "Let me make something clear, you're not my boss. I'm here because I'm helping you both out. And I'll let you know if you're thinking is stupid."

"I like hitting things," Frank remarks blandly, hands in his pockets as he watches the scenery go by. "Especially things shaped like criminals."

But the mystery is intriguing too. This is technically his op, isn't it? But he has no issue relinquishing the credit to Rocket, John or anyone else. He's never been in it for the glory despite his sometimes conspicuous methods.

"Maybe we could all get along and hit things together." That was more his angle from the start, honestly.

PECKING ORDER, JOHN. IT GOES YOU, THE DIRT, THE WORMS IN THE DIRT, ROCKET'S STOOL, THE WYVER GOVERNMENT, AND ROCKET... But fortunately while that is the thought in Rocket's head as he tears his rust-brown eyes from the window, he does not voice it.

"You might be asking a lot from three extremely brash alpha personalities all in one space, but I'm down with it." He guesses. If he kills something and gets paid for it, it's a good day. "This is either kids being shits or somebody who knows what they're doing and I'm really hoping it's the latter. Beating up on punkass kids ain't worth it."

Murphy realizes he will always be at the bottom of any order, the bottom of the barrel. The dirty gum sticking to the sole of your boots.

He wishes Bellamy was here. Bellamy, Echo, Monty, Harper, Emori. Anyone.

But he's stuck with Rocket and Frank. Things could be worse, Murphy supposes.

"Yeah," Murphy mumbles. "Punkass kids usually have reason to act like shits." Murphy knows, he used to be one. "Let's be the good guys and take in some criminals."

Frank nods, he's not about to fuck up a couple kids unless he thinks it will benefit them in the long run. Either way, he thinks they're the team for the job.

"Our stop is next, look alive."

(CLOSED-ish) There are things too terrible to remember.

Sacred Monument: w/Rocket & Murphy

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sorry guys!

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sorry my dudes, finals killed me

and then december in general took a bite out of me

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