Wolfwood ♡ LAPD Misadventure

In the flash of a second, the desolate plains he knew vanished. Instead, Wolfwood was swarmed by a brand new hell he couldn't have imagined. A flurry of impossible sound - blaring horns, screeching tires, a thousand indistinguishable voices assaulted him. People as far as the eyes could see, towering buildings reaching towards a sky he didn't recognize, pressed in. He stood there, bewildered, without a clue in the world as to what twisted dimension he'd stumbled into.

His hands, still gripping the Punisher, instinctively tightened. The weapon, now fully unwrapped with its extended barrel poking from the cross itself, had been ready to obliterate a target just moments before. But here, there were just people. Dozens of them, staring, pointing strange squares with flashing lights that pierced the artificial night. The darkness was abated by vehicle lights in every direction and blindly bright signs that burned into his vision. His trusty dark sunglasses, thankfully, shielded his eyes from the worst of it. The words these people were yelling didn't make any sense; his world had just flipped, welcoming him into something that had to be a fever dream, or so he thought.

It turned out the sudden appearance of a man in a black suit with a giant cross-shaped weapon seemed to trigger a collective panic. Before he knew it, Wolfwood was caught in a wave of these dozen uniformed people, calling themselves 'LAPD'.

"No lawman I'd ever heard of," he muttered internally, his confusion staggering him. But in the chaos, they'd brought up clear enough words he recognized: 'weapon,' 'brandishing,' 'endangering.' He could have easily bashed his way through them, that much was clear. Yet, something in the sheer, bizarre nature of the encounter made him surrender, if only to observe. He allowed them to drag him into their peculiar vehicles and to what he recognized, grimly, as a police station.

Now, he sat in a sterile, brightly lit box. They'd called it an 'interview room.' One metal table, two hard chairs, and the faint, unsettling smell of stale air. His hands were cuffed to the table, a petty indignity that rankled more than it should. Alone in the silence, he had a chance to look down at himself in the table's cold, metallic shine. His familiar dark suit, crisp white shirt, and clerical collar were now rumpled from the rough handling by these strange lawmen. His black hair, usually spiky and unkempt, was thoroughly roughed up and messier after their head-to-toe search. As always, the five o'clock shadow gracing his jawline was a permanent fixture, a silent testament to a life lived on the run, far from this bizarre normalcy. He knew he'd get out of this; it was just a matter of figuring out how these people operated, what rules governed their strange reality. The real question wasn't if they could hold him, but what new hell awaited him beyond these four walls, and if it would be as utterly baffling as the 'Walk of Fame' they'd claimed to arrest him on. The silence was annoying, though. He tapped the metal table, glancing at the blank reflective glass on the other side of the room.

"Hey, are we going to get this over with sometime today?"