@warjournaling ⇢ thanksgiving starter.
New York was like the bridge between Gotham and Metropolis. In Clark’s eyes, parts of the city would feel so alive ------ so progressive, so busy with it’s corporate American grind. The deeper he wandered, the more like Gotham it resembled. There was a sickness, deep within the city. A sickness that seemed heavier here, than most. Not exactly his ideal destination for spending Thanksgiving. It was the job, though. Already he had chewed off more than he could swallow, which only made him wary of politely declining the story Mr. White had designated for him. It wasn’t all bad though; the story had real meat to it -------- a real chance to make a difference, and shine a little justice on a corrupt system. That, and well, it had brought him across a familiar face. One he’d never expected to run into.
Things bound to get complicated; the wheels were churning, bringing him one step closer to achieving his goal. Tonight, however, all work would be put aside. It was a day of thanks. A day of reflection, and by 7:23pm ------- Clark had taken it upon himself to bring a little bit of the holiday to someone he thought was in need. Why bother asking, when he knew how the guy would react? No. He’d do it his way; without a word, showing up at his door with a large paper sack stuffed with food. Nothing like Ma’s cooking, but it would have to do.
There was every chance that this would go south; that the guy wouldn’t answer, or simply wouldn’t want anything to do with him. It was bad enough that he’d already invaded his work. Poking around the construction site, asking questions ----------- recognizing him. This could have been the cherry on top. The ultimate closed door. Clark hoped that it wouldn’t be. Passing through the hall, he could see the struggling residents ------- hear the arguments through thin walls ( even without incredible hearing ), or the babies crying, It was lower income; poverty stricken, but invisible. Out of the way. No one looking for you, no one caring. So he’d offer a smile when he could; a happy thanksgiving to house wives, or single mothers stepping outside their door and hollarin’ at their sons who stormed through the hallways. Finally, he was met with the door. HIS door. Frank Castle. Or Pete, as he called himself these days. An exhale gave him the push he needed to tap his knuckles against the door.
❝ ------- Hey, Frank, ❞ it’s low, but he knows that the man can hear him. ❝ It’s Clark. Er, Clark Kent ------- from the Daily Planet. I know you’re there...look, I brought food. So...wanna let me in? ❞