Author's Note: Please note, this story follows the events of House of M by a couple of weeks but predates the events in Daredevil: The Murdock Papers. For those unfamiliar with those events, M-Day is a day in Marvel history where the majority of the earth's mutants lost their powers.
I don't own any of these characters. They are copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel. I'm not making anything by writing this. I hope you enjoy!
I hate America, Silver Sablinova thought to herself as she ducked through the door in the side of her company's private jet and stood at the top of the telescopic stairs. The smell of pollution was thick on the humid summer air, and she wrinkled her nose as the wind blew her thick mane of dazzling white hair behind her. Sharp eyes scanned the runway, trying to see past the few reporters who had discovered the time and place of their arrival. Her face softened as she noticed a few in the crowd waving excitedly, wearing traditional Symkarian clothing. It was sometimes hard for her to cope with the fact that many of her homeland's citizens had fled to American soil in search for a "simpler" life. The few she'd known personally had found the exact opposite upon their arrival.
Still, she could understand the attraction of the legend and had perhaps been fooled herself in her younger years. In time, she'd learned that despite everything the "land of the free" offered, simplicity was not on the menu. Not in New York City, anyway, which was where she currently found herself stationed. For the next two weeks, this city would be her home. Or, perhaps more appropriately, her office for, make no mistake, this trip was purely business. Silver Sablinova, or Silver Sable as she was more commonly known, was typically in the bounty hunter business, though her company, Silver Sable International, offered a wide variety of services to those with pocketbooks large enough to inquire.
Her business in New York, however, was completely voluntary. To charge would have been counterintuitive as she would have been billing the State of Symkaria for services rendered when the purpose of Silver Sable International, her life's work, was to bring funds into her country. Her home.
The United Nations had called a special two-week session to discuss the ramifications of what had been deemed "M-Day" in the American media and what should be done on a global scale to handle the new status quo and the problems it seemed to be causing. Symkaria's inclusion had seemed questionable, considering the almost total absence of mutants in her population even before M-Day, but, as a relatively new member of the international organization, she could understand why King Steffan was willing to send his ambassador to represent his wishes, even if the actual outcome didn't seem to have much effect on his people. Politics, she understood, consisted of posing and posturing and many other things she had no stomach for.
Silver was content to do her part by overseeing security and acting as the personal bodyguard for the ambassador himself, a Mr. Yuriy Nazim. He was a strange man, Sable reflected, very quiet with piercing eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses that sat low on his thin nose. He was bald and, despite his seemingly advanced age, the neatly cut hair on the sides of his face and his curled moustache and goatee were all a youthful-looking light brown. Still, he was always polite and courteous, kept conversation to a minimum, and was compulsively punctual. Needless to say, he was one of the very few politicians Silver didn't fancy shooting herself. This was a welcome change as it made her job as his bodyguard much more palatable.
After the third visual scan of the crowd, Sable was just about to turn her head into the plane and give clearance for the ambassador to exit the plane when something caught her eye. Once she saw him, she wondered how she had missed him at all. It was a large African-American male, standing head and shoulders above everyone else around him, bald, and, like herself, he was wearing sunglasses. These things in and of themselves were not worrisome. Two things set off alarms: the large tattoo or marking over one eye and the fact that, unlike the noisy crowd around him, he stood motionless and silent, and there was the look of determination etched onto his face.
Silver stared at him, double-checking her initial reaction, and she knew he was staring right back. Chill bumps rose on her skin beneath her skin-tight silver uniform, custom designed out of the highly-expensive unstable molecules and an advanced form of Kevlar, so that it protects and breathes, and so that there was absolutely no chaffing. She hated chaffing.
She squinted behind her large sunglasses, counting another beat, giving the large man a final chance to back down and turn away, and then she made a decision. "Move," she barked in the dialect spoken widely throughout Symkaria. She pushed Ambassador Nazim, who was busily straightening his tie, back into the plane with her forearm and slapped the control button as she, too, ducked inside. The door slid shut and she heard the clanking of the stairs being drawn back into the plane's underbelly.
"Take us up, pilot," she said. "Now. We're landing somewhere else."
"What?" the ambassador said, obviously startled by the sudden change in plans. "What are you talking about? We've already landed!
The pilot looked back and forth, as if trying to decide which of his superiors he should obey. Silver pulled the sunglasses from her face and shot him a wicked scowl. "Take this plane up or I'll shoot you myself," she said. To emphasize the point, she snapped the holster strapped across her chest open and pulled the silver-plated pistol free.
The pilot wisely turned and began flipping switches and speaking into his headset, preparing for lift-off. Silver didn't replace the weapon. The weight was comforting in her hand. She moved over to one of the small windows on the jet, trying to spot her suspicious-looking man. She maneuvered her sight up and down, being sure to keep herself out of direct line-of-sight, until she finally caught him. While she watched, she saw him raise his large arms over his head. Her jaw dropped as the man's palms began to glow. Mutant! she thought. "Brace yourselves!" she cried.
She ducked from the window, covering the back of her head with her hands, finger still on her trigger. Three words echoed in her mind as the plane rocked violently as some unseen force slammed into it, sending the plane and all of its occupants reeling.
I hate America.
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A few hundred feet away, behind a large wall of glass, a tall, broad-shouldered man hidden under a brown fedora and large black sunglasses stood with his hands in the pockets of his thin jacket. Oblivious to the stares of the multitudes around him fanning themselves and striving to rid themselves of any unnecessary clothing, the man showed no signs of discomfort. He simply stared, emotionless and unaffected, through the glass.
A bright flash of energy reflected on his sunglasses, and the plane he'd been staring at rocked under the impact of the blast. The crowd gathered around the private jet ducked as in unison and scattered chaotically. Only one man remained: the man responsible for the attack. The silent man watched as the attacker raised his hands once again and buffeted the side of the plane once again. This time, the vessel tipped over. Huge dents and scratches raked the side of the once silver plane. An explosion rocked the jet further, and the glass shook in front of the tall man. Behind him, the airport was filled with a collective gasp and then shrieks of terror and confusion.
The man under the hat raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Though the sound was largely lost in the chaos, the gesture did not go unseen by his entourage, who had remained seated in their various positions in the rows of seats in the waiting area. They all stood in unison and, when the man in the fedora passed them, followed him in a group that, under careful scrutiny, could be discerned to be designed to look casual and unspectacular.
"Is it accomplished?" the man nearest the leader said in Russian.
"It is done," the hulking man replied, his voice deep and gravelly, almost a growl. "The ambassador is dead."
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"You have to do something. I know you could if you wanted to. You are the only hope for people like me, the people who are still trying to earn an honest living here in Hell's Kitchen!"
"I'm sorry," Matt Murdock replied. "But I don't think you quite understand me. You seem to have me confused with someone else. Despite what you might have read in the tabloids, I am not Daredevil."
"Pfffssshhh," the angry shop owner exclaimed. The smell of sprayed saliva filled the room and it carried with it garlic, onions, tomatoes and a breath mint, chewed recently, no doubt right before the man had entered his office.
Murdock shifted his head, holding his breath while the scent had time to fade. There was a loud scrape and then a crash as the disgruntled citizen knocked the chair he'd been standing behind, rubbing his hands on the fabric backing, to the floor. Matt didn't flinch. It happened a lot. Especially lately. That's why he'd replaced the leather chair with the inexpensive one that sat there now. Or used to.
"I come here for help, and I get silly excuses and pointless lies," the man exclaimed through his Italian accent. "I tell you, the Russians are up to something! Every day there are more and more of them and already they have threatened three businesses on my street! It is only a matter of time before they come knocking at my door, and what do I tell them, eh? That I barely have enough money to pay the bills and feed my family?"
"You swore to be the new Kingpin, and to keep these criminals out of Hell's Kitchen. That is why I moved my business here seven months ago."
The man's footsteps echoed on the floor as he shuffled for the door. He didn't want to leave. He hadn't wanted to come in the first place, but he was telling the truth when he said he was desperate. And he was still waiting on the answer he wanted to hear.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fratelli," Matt Murdock replied, his voice as cool as ice. "I wish I could help you."
"Ehhh," Mr. Fratelli exclaimed as he slammed the door shut behind him.
Matt winced. "I really do," he said.
He turned his head, focusing on the man's angry footsteps until he heard them pass through the outer door and rush down the hall.
"Did you hear that?" he said in his normal voice.
Heels with built-in shock absorbers dropped onto the concrete balcony through the open French doors behind his desk. The warm, exotic smell of Natalia Romanova filled his office and he silently inhaled deeply, feasting on the marvelous odor--certainly a welcome replacement from that of his previous guest's.
"You are no fun, Matthew," the woman replied as she approached him from behind. "Just once I wish you'd at least pretend to be surprised."
There was a playfulness in her otherwise smoky voice, hinted with a Russian accent she chose to cling to, despite the years of training and experience she'd had at hiding it, and Matt allowed himself a quick smile before he spun his chair around to face her.
"If you want me to act surprised," he replied, "then I suggest you stop clomping around on the roof like a Clydesdale."
Natalia sniffed a half-laugh, knowing that his words couldn't have been further from the truth but taking the challenge, nevertheless. If she must be quieter, then she would be quieter.
"It is good to see you again so soon, Matthew," she said. "I must admit I was surprised to receive your call."
"It's good to see you, too, Natasha, and I'm sorry to have bothered you. As you just heard, the problem I described to you on the phone has only continued to worsen. It seems the Russian mafia is following in the steps of the Yakuza, Owl's gang, and every other two-bit hood with a gun and a dream. They've got their eyes on New York City, and they're starting with Hell's Kitchen."
"The new Kingpin's turf."
There was a sarcasm in Natasha's words that made her disapproval obvious. Matt chose to ignore it.
"It is true," she added after a beat. "I have heard whispers of a hostile takeover, but, to be honest, Matt, it didn't seem like anything you couldn't handle on your own. Why call me?"
She looked at the handsome man, his red-hair standing out in shocking contrast to his tanned face, sunglasses, and dazzlingly white dress shirt, pressed and starched to perfection. She shifted her weight, placing her hand on her hip, defined seductively, she knew, in her skin-tight black costume. She was about to object to his ignoring her when she noticed him turn his head ever so slightly towards the door.
She stepped back quickly, disappearing into what little shadow could be found in the corner of Matt's office. Her legs tightened, ready to pounce at the open balcony at a moment's notice. Matt's hand rose, and Natasha relaxed, but only a little.
The doorknob turned and she recognized the disheveled profile through the shaded window in Matt's door and a thin grin spread onto her full lips.
"Boy, Matt," Foggy Nelson laughed as he pushed his way into the office, "I never get tired of you sending'em out storming like…"
Foggy froze in the entrance, still holding the door open, while his brain registered the sights before him. One sight, in particular, had him entranced. It was a few seconds before he spoke again, and Natasha couldn't help but think that her costume accomplished all that it was designed for, including distraction. She could have shot him fifteen times before he could even remember to pull his jaw back up from the floor.
"N-Natasha!" he said. "It's always a p-pleasant surprise to see you."
"Likewise, Mr. Nelson," she cooed as she stepped forward, purposefully moving close to the back of Matt's chair. She raised her eyebrow as she looked him over. "And aren't you looking dapper today?"
Foggy brought his fingers through his hair, and it fell just as unruly as it had been before. He looked down at himself and his crooked tie and his shirt largely untucked from his wrinkly brown trousers, and he threw up his hands.
"A man does what he can," he said, smiling. After a brief silence, Foggy started fidgeting. "Well, I-I guess I'll leave you two alone." He slapped his thigh and then raised his hand in a wave. "See ya!" He pointed to Natasha. "Don't be a stranger, now!"
"Goodbye, Foggy," she said, her grin widening at his discomfort.
"Goodbye," he said as he pulled the door shut behind him until it clicked softly.
"I'm sorry," Matt said. "I would have stopped him at the door, but you just made his week."
The smile on Natasha's face stiffened. That wasn't the real reason he'd allowed Foggy to interrupt them and they both knew it. He would answer her question. Sooner or later.
"What do you know?" she said coolly. "He just made mine, too. I'll be waiting for you at sundown."
Matt listened as her footsteps again headed for the door. He heard her heart leap with adrenaline as she prepared mentally and physically to scale the wall.
"Don't be late," she added, and with a whoosh she was gone.
Matt shook his head. How many other women could scale a building in broad daylight without being spotted, much less a building under constant scrutiny by nickel and dime reporters looking to get rich by spotting a certain red costume anywhere near Matt Murdock's office? The answer, he knew, was limited to three or four, and that made his friend, the Black Widow, a very, very special woman.
Besides the assassin, he thought, I doubt I'll ever meet a woman like that again.
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"I'll kill him!" Silver Sable exclaimed. She spat a string of expletives with no regard to language or vulgarity as her jet rocked again. This time, the plane tumbled sideways. She cringed when she heard the wing slam into the concrete, seeing only the bottom line of the bill she'd signed to purchase the custom-built craft. The extra cost, she thought, seemed to have paid off, though. Any other craft would have been falling apart under the beating her plane was taking.
An explosion sent her reeling across the floor. "The engine!" she yelled. "Don't worry, we're safe!" The engines, too, had been custom-designed, keeping the majority of the fuel supply safely under the armored underbelly. She pulled herself up, trying to steady herself on the steep pitch of the plane's floor, and re-holstered her gun.
She recalled the pause between blasts. Assuming he had to wait those few seconds for his power to "recharge," she knew she had a few left to act. "Stay here!" she yelled to the ambassador. With a grunt, she blew the hair from her face and rushed for the door. She buried her right hand deep into a handhold specially designed into the door and punched a quick sequence of buttons on the pad next to the door. As soon as she'd finished the sequence, she clutched the door with her left hand as well. Her legs pumped beneath her and she tightened her biceps, bracing herself for what was coming. "1… 2… 3…" she counted aloud. She shut her eyes tight, and was yanked with explosive force from the plane as powerful air jets built into the door fired simultaneously, launching the door and it's "passenger" into the air.
In midair, she released the door, turning her body back. She pulled her gun from her holster and held it tightly in her right hand and pulled a weighted chai, a moon-shaped weighted blade of her own design, from a strap on her leg and held it in her left-hand.
Her powerful legs shook under the impact of her landing and she ran forward several paces to keep herself from pitching forward with the powerful inertia. The door landed a few feet in front of her and skidded to a stop amongst loud screeching and a rain of sparks.
The attacker's eyebrows showed his surprise at her sudden escape, and she knew already that she would win this fight. He raised his fists to blast her. By the time they started glowing, he had a chai jutting from his thigh and a fresh bullet hole in his shoulder.
Silver's own eyebrow raised in surprise when the large man didn't fall but merely stumbled backwards, knocked off-balance by the power of the gunshot. Silver ran, again taking advantage of the pause she'd bought herself. With a loud yell, she launched herself into the air, landing a powerful kick on her victim's neck. Huge hands wrapped themselves around her thigh and sent her flying over his shoulder.
She hit the ground hard on her shoulder, but rolled a few revelations and then landed on one knee. Two chais whistled through the air, landing with soft "chucks" as they sank deep into flesh and muscle. She'd aimed carefully this time, and her attacker fell to his knees with a loud shout of pain, clutching his thigh. He wouldn't walk again for weeks, if ever. She didn't care.
She picked her pistol up from the ground where it had fallen when she'd been tossed and buried it into the man's forehead. She could hear his skin burn as the hot barrel touched skin. "You move, you die," she said through clenched teeth.
The man was silent. Angered, Sable drew back the pistol and cracked it across his skull, sending him to the concrete unconscious.
"Unconscionable bastard," she spat. She re-holstered her gun, fastening the snap that covered it. "You're buying me a new jet." She landed a swift kick to his midsection and then headed towards the approaching crowd of emergency and security personnel.