#null quotient.

      “You must have a pair of brass ones to be showing your face in a place like this.”  Warmongers and those that profited from death en masse weren’t particularly well liked in the war ravaged straits between what was left of the Republic and the rapidly expanding First Order - even the Hutts ad the scum that made a living off of the suffering of others weren’t sitting easy with the rapid escalation in violence that had overtaken the galaxy since the Republic itself crumbled, overthrown.   “Which tells me either you’re a fuck ton stupider than everybody says, or you got a death wish --”  Fingers curled around the edge of his beer, pulling it up to his lips to take a long pull.  There were whispers in the circles that Frank loitered in, that Tony Stark had seen the light, that the man that had made more fortunes than he could spend in a hundred lifetimes dealing methods of death that made even Frank’s kill count look like grade school, had grown a conscience.  If it was true, he could prove invaluable.  If it wasn’t?  Chances were high one of the two of them wasn’t walking out of this meeting, and Stark’s kill count with his own two hands?  Frank doubted it would even reach all ten fingers.

          An oddity, something out of place, that did not belong -- why, and how were questions he had yet to answer, and he could practically feel the weight of his Master’s gaze on his shoulders, from half a galaxy away.   The boy, for he was little more than that, even if he was still older than when Snoke first found him, spoke of the rebellion as a current, present, living thing which, in its’ own right, it was, but Kylo sensed that it was not this war, nor this rebellion which the boy spoke of, and not only because he kept speaking of the Empire.  “The Empire is dead and gone, and cold in its’ grave.”  The voice was crisp and metallic, rasping through vox and mouthpiece.   “The Supreme Ruler and the First Order control the galaxy now, and it will take more than a handful of rebel remnants to bring them to their knees.”  

     She grimaced, twisting against the ropes once more, her shoulders and chest burning with the effort thrown into trying to wrench herself free, but she froze, her breath caught in her throat at the sound of weight, heavy, laden, a crack of leaves the snapping of branches, and her gaze turned up, slowly, to stare down the gleaming red eyes of the wolf.  Massive, broader than two men across the chest, as tall as she, fur pitch black, the cool air rippling in visible waves as the heat of its body collided with the frosty air.   Her heart hammered, her stomach clenching, throat dry.   “Don’t -- “  To say her words lacked conviction was an understatement.  “Stay back!”  That sounded at least a little more determined. 

     “Doctor Lecter.”  Her tone was polite, cordial, an edge of something sharper buried beneath the southern drawl that she’d worked so hard, over the years, to diminish.   “You’re looking well.”  While true, it didn’t exactly seem like the best thing to say to one of the FBI’s most wanted, standing in the middle of her apartment.  Uninvited, unannounced.   Her hand itched to reach for the pistol at her waist, but she forced herself to remain still, her gaze guarded as she watched him.  “Is there -- something in particular I can do for you or is this just ... a social call?”

       “It’s not as bad as it looks, really.”  It was a matter of unfortunate timing, honestly, that the holovid call had come in after the training accident, before Poe had had time to make it to the medbay -- weeks and weeks without a word, and this was what he heard from Ben, with a wet handtowel pressed to his forehead and the gash over his eyebrow, an eye that was six shades of purple and swelling rapidly, jumpsuit pulled down around his waist and tied off, leaving the blood stains standing out in stark contrast against the white undershirt.   “You know me and my hard head, we’d survive a close encounter with a Sarlaac.”  A flashed, toothy grin as he dropped down onto the edge of his bed, eyes warm, and maybe a tiny bit sad as he watched Ben.  He looked tired, and Poe wondered if it was the training or the nightmares, but he didn’t ask.  Not yet, anyways.  

    “Listen, pal -- I might not know much about creating memories that last a life time and all but -- I’m pretty sure you’re going about this all wrong, if that’s your intent.  Maybe try.”  It was hard to banter when he was drowning in his own breaths, his head ringing, muscles screaming.   “A nice glass of red wine.  Or whiskey.  Corellian’s my favorite, of course.  A good movie, good meal.  That’s something worth remembering.  This?”  Nose wrinkled and he half scoffed.  “Pain fades.  Memories of pain fades, it’s how soldiers soldier on, it’s how people have babies, more than one being the operative intent there, it’s how you pick yourself up and keep going.  Pain?  Pain lies.”

       He doubted his attempt to loiter in the masses would work well -- the Emperor’s lap dog wasn’t generally one to miss much -- but then again, maybe he was just reading a bit too much into the fact that the Sith had just happened to slither his way into the one and only bar on this shit hole planet in a galaxy full of planets that Frank Castle happened to be holed up in waiting for his contact to arrive.  Sure.  Cause he was one given to believing in coincidences.   His jaw clenched, mostly concealed under the shaggy beard that crawled over the lower half of his face, sinking back a little further into the back booth, watching the man’s path in the holo-mirror along the back wall.  A hand settled, in the shadows under the booth and robe, onto the blaster at his hip.  He doubted it would be exactly effective against Skywalker, if it came to a confrontation -- but it sure as fuck could cause enough chaos and mayhem in the hole in the wall pub to give him time to escape.

     “Yes -- this one does seem to fill that particular niche,” Clarice agreed, fingers trailing over the photographs, technical analysis, blueprints, crime scene photos and lab reports that had been reviewed multiple times in the last few hours by them both, hoping for something new and fresh to pop out, or maybe just hoping for a connection to be seen that she’d missed thus far.   She needed a break.  Food.  Sleep.  But there wasn’t time for that, just yet.  Another hour, she decided.  And then she would take a few hours, and come back fresh.  “There’s a display of knowledge, talent, skill, in the build of the device.  A sophistication that one doesn’t usually see in biological attacks that aren’t terrorist attacks.”  This seemed personal, on more than one level.  “There’s a sense of pride, but not arrogance - they don’t need to brag, because the results --”  Three dozen dead, dozens sick, growing worse by the hour.  “The results speak for them.  And no one has laid claim to it - none that can verify the details, so far we have half a dozen claims that have been disproven, but the person behind it hasn’t spoken up.  Not online, on the news, to a police department or national bureau, not a whisper, anywhere.”