Not entirely sure where this came from but, well, here it is...
Karen Page prides herself on being a decent private investigator, emphasis on decent because, well, there's always that darned Jessica Jones. But being decent in a city like New York is good enough for Karen Page who, as she says to herself some mornings while applying makeup in the bathroom mirror, has never been a girl who wanted too much.
Except for coffee. There is no such thing as too much coffee. And journalism. Because Karen Page knows herself to be a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist.
She graduated at the top of her class at Columbia with a double major in journalism and sociology with a minor is East Asian studies. After four years of intellectual rigor on the upper west side, Karen bounced into the midtown offices of the New York Chronicle, offices replete with spectacular floor-to-ceiling views of the city and marble-tiled bathrooms, with the kind of naiveté and enthusiasm only newborn babes could have. She was going to write her way to equality and justice one article at a time. That is until she was let go one year into her internship. Apparently, tackling political corruption and law enforcement scandal just wasn't the Chronicle's "style."
That was just fine by Karen Page: her memoirs would need these ups and downs anyway. She packed her bags and headed west to Hell's Kitchen to the New York Daily Bulletin whose offices are replete with hardly any views of anything and linoleum-tiled bathrooms, with slightly less naiveté but just as much enthusiasm. In a city full of people who all think they are going to go places someday, Karen Page refused not to be one of them.
Working as a P.I. on the side didn't happen as serendipitously to Karen as she likes to think that it did. After all, every starving New Yorker needs to be moonlighting as something and she just as easily could have been a bartender or waitress. But, hey, she made good money digging up dirt on other people and Karen Page definitely needed the money.
"Page Investigations, what can I do for ya?" Karen's entire P.I. outfit consists of one nondescript cellphone and a supposedly military-grade laptop that could survive a drop from at least three stories up. Just as the shrill female voice on the other end of the line starts spewing venom about her cheating husband, Karen's office phone rings.
"Ma'am, I-I understand just how frustrated you must be but please could just give me one second," she hits pause on the cellphone call and picks up her office phone from its cradle.
"Karen" She recognizes the voice instantly: Matt Murdock. Fuck, she mentally groans, should have checked caller ID before she picked up. Sloppy, Karen, sloppy.
"Matt! It is great to hear from you. How are you doing?" Her voice is dripping with feigned sweetness, "It's been a while since we last talked." Actually, it has been exactly two years and thirty seven days. She remembers because she ended their mildly infuriating and convoluted relationship on her birthday as a gift to herself. He, the genius Columbia law student, proved to be too…straight-laced, conventional, annoyingly pedantic about religion for sophomore Karen.
"I've been great, Karen. I, uh, actually read one of your articles in the Bulletin recently. I'm glad you're doing really well." There is a brief pause and some rustling of papers from Matt's end of the line. "I was wondering if you'd like to get coffee sometime this week."
Coffee? Matt Murdock? This week?
When she doesn't respond immediately to request, Matt is quick to add: "Strictly business. I've, we've, I mean Nelson & Murdock is representing a client who might benefit from your," there is a slight pause, "expertise."
"You want me to do a piece on one of your clients?" She's heard of Nelson & Murdock, a small – what do they call it – boutique law firm helmed by two of Hell's Kitchen's finest defense attorneys, one of which just happens to be her college ex.
"Ah, we're actually in need of your other expertise."
Karen now understands fully, "Jessica Jones not within Nelson & Murdock's price range?"
Matt stammers helplessly on the other end of the line, much to Karen's amusement. "No, no, uh, of course not. Foggy and I thought it'd be good to catch up with an old friend. For old time's sake."
"Sure. Whatever you say, Matt. Tomorrow. 3pm. 43rd and 11th." She practically slams the receiver back into its cradle before he has any chance to protest. Goddamn Matt Murdock.
With a long exasperated sigh, she unpauses the call on her cellphone and surrenders one ear to yet another shrieking, scorned, and she hopes, rich wife. "Now, you said your husband is cheating on you?"