"Three years he said that. 'Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.' It was a fine time for me. I was learning to fence, fight, anything anyone would teach me. And Roberts and I eventually became friends. And then it happened."

-The Princess Bride

"Murdock and Page, right? Marci was supposed to tell me when you got here. I'm Foggy Nelson."

The first time Matt hears that voice, it's in the lobby of Landman & Zack where the high ceilings make for chaotic airflow and the glass sends even the slightest sounds ricocheting like a game of sonic pinball. When Mr. Nelson puts his hand out for the shaking, Matt doesn't use awkward pause to get an idea for the stranger's physical build like he should. Instead, he's caught trying to figure out if he could discern the number of attackers in an ambush at this location, or if he'd have to count them as he dropped them, one-by-one, until there was no one left standing.

Nelson breaths, "Shit," too low to be more than an exhalation to the average person, and then says at regular volume, "I'm, uh- offering my hand. Do you shake hands?"

It's not the dumbest question he's ever been asked, but Matt isn't feeling generous enough to curb his reflexive grimace.

"I've been known to," he responds, and lets his cane hang from his wrist by the strap as he lifts his hand into the general vicinity of Mr. Nelson's. They shake. The motion jars Nelson's cuff, and from that, Matt gets a whiff of sweat and Tide detergent and heavy paper and laptop keys that haven't been cleaned in a while and a subtle edge of mold, probably something that grows in Nelson's closet. There's cologne, too, still clinging from a few days ago. It's high-end but not as expensive as the perfume wrapped in a cloud around Ms. Stahl, who stands forgotten and emitting adrenaline by the secretary's desk. She's angry, embarrassed. Caught out trying to go around Mr. Nelson's back, it appears.

"I'm Tully's lawyer," Nelson says as he releases Matt's hand to shake Karen's. "Marci, here, is on the team, too, but I think I'm the one you want to be talking to." His shoes— new, judging by the slight squeak in the sole, uncomfortable, by their reluctance to crease when bent— shift against the polished floor as he hefts the warmth of his weight to his left side. It's a relaxed posture, but not overly so. Professionalism without cockiness. Maybe they can do business.

Karen begins, "We're here on behalf of Mrs. Cardenas—"

"Yes! Yeah, I remember from our phone conversation." The air around Mr. Nelson's head shifts as his hair cuts through it, a few strands dislodged with nodding. "If you don't mind, could you guys come with me? I didn't work my ass off for a corner office to talk business in the lobby."

It's the kind of comment that makes Matt hate other lawyers, but Mr. Nelson delivers it with an odd edge of self-deprecation. There must be something in his expression, too, because Karen takes the distinctive breath that usually precedes laughing.

"Of course," Matt says. "Lead the way, Mr. Nelson."

Karen fixes her hand over Matt's in the crook of her arm and leads him after Nelson's ever-so-slightly squeaky footsteps. They pass a shuddering structure that cuts the airflow to ribbons— staircase— and stop near slide of elevator doors. There's a click as Nelson presses a button, then he undoes the front of his suit and pockets his hands, a gesture that strikes Matt for its casualty. Matt can hear the smooth sound of the pockets' lining against Nelson's hands, but he can't differentiate his heartbeat from the several dozen around them, not enough to get a read on the nature of Nelson's behavior. He breathes normally but not in their direction, so he's looking away, almost like he's upset. Interesting.

Finally, with a ding, the elevator in front of them opens. The three of them board. Nelson presses a button as soon as they enter, closing the doors before anyone else can get on.

In the close quarters of the elevator, Matt's world is technicolor.

He can sense the sharp slopes of Karen's figure next to him just by the sounds of her dress shifting, a supplement to her heat signature that's almost as good as touching her. She blinks, and he feels the flick of each lash and envisions the planes of her cheeks clearly as the dislodged air passes over them.

Nelson is clear for the first time, more a person now than a loose collection of sensations: about Matt's height, though heavier and less solid. Reflexively Matt considers the best way to take him out (grab the arm to take him off his footing, put a knee in the vulnerable flab of his stomach, plant the other hand on his forehead and throw him straight down) as he takes in the distribution of heat, settled mostly around Mr. Nelson's torso. He ate a plain bagel this morning, but hasn't had anything since except coffee— a lot of it, too, judging by the racket of his stomach. His heartbeat is a little quick but his adrenaline's low and there's heat gathered around the nondescript area of his face; he's not nervous, but guilty, maybe. Or it could be attraction, given the way he's shifted toward Karen, shoulders higher than they should hang naturally, abdominals shivering ever so slightly from pulling in his gut (an unconscious action, maybe a habit). He's not looking at Karen, though. He's looking at Matt. The breaths from his nose pass unobstructed over his mouth, so that means he's holding it tight, biting at the inside, maybe, given the little pinch inside his lower lip where the blood stops. He wants to say something that he's not supposed to say.

Matt absorbs all of this in about a second, and says immediately, "Is something bothering you, Mr. Nelson?"

Nelson sighs, "Yeah," and presses another button on the elevator panel. The world lurches to a stop around them with a twang of cables from above and a grind of gears from below.

Next to Matt, Karen tenses. Her adrenaline spikes. "He stopped the elevator," she says quietly. Matt nods. It's a testament to how shaken up she's been that she thinks they're in for any danger from Nelson. He may be a stranger, but even if Matt were as mild-mannered as he acts, he and Karen could take Nelson easily.

"Sorry about this," says Nelson, and his steady heartbeat attests to that. "This isn't professional, and I really don't mean to go all Bond villain on you—"

"If you're trying to intimidate us…" Karen says, with the sort of tone that doesn't indicate a planned end for that thought. Her fingers are tight over Matt's.

Nelson's hands spread outward at waist-level, a slow, placating motion with his palms diagonal to the floor. "No, no. Nothing like that. Listen. Ms. Page, Mr. Murdock." He makes a formal motion at each of them respectively, then breathes a breath heavy with resignation. "When you called, I told you I'd review my firm's dealings with our client, and I did that. If I'm being totally honest, after everything you told me, I was…" he pauses, turns away briefly with a brush of hair. "I was kind of hoping to find something this asshole could get pinned with. I knew Tully was shady, but—" a scoff. "At the end of the day, there's nothing I can tell you. I reviewed all of our dealings with him, and the contracts for the renters and the repairmen. I revisited the precedent for cases like this. The fact of the matter is, it's all legal. Fishy as hell, but above-board, and if you try to come at us on this, we'll crush you."

Faintly Matt senses Nelson's face crease into a grimace. Next to him, Karen is still; he gives her arm a light squeeze as he considers all of this.

"You're going through a lot of effort to rephrase what your associate just told us, Mr. Nelson," he says, finally, taking care to keep his voice level. He appreciates the spirit of Nelson's little speech, but ultimately, he's just telling them to back off.

With a small groan, Nelson pockets his hands again. He's got six pennies in there, and no lint. "Yeah, I guess I am."

Karen's posture loosens next to him. She's decided that she likes this Nelson character; there's a softness to her tone when she says, "So why are we having this conversation?"

"Because I'm rooting for you guys," Nelson says. "Alright? You're doing what I always wanted to do in college, you know: standing up for the little guy, making a difference. But the real world isn't like that, so here I am, telling you that the law's the law and there isn't a loophole big enough to keep this asshole from kicking nice little old ladies out of their houses." He runs a hand over his face; his palms are moist. "But I'm rooting for you, okay?"

Matt could be disbarred for this, but he thinks his grasp on Nelson's character is solid enough that the gamble isn't too risky. "So you'll let us know, if one of those loopholes widens."

Nelson tenses, but not so much that he hadn't expected a response like that. He was practically fishing for it. "I could lose my job."

"Ms. Cardenas could lose her livelihood," Karen says, strong but wavery with emotion. Matt feels a rush of endorphins that someone less aware of their body might call their heart swelling.

The same happens to Nelson, endorphins and a little flutter of the heart and a hot spike behind his face. "Yeah," he says, a sharp breath. "You're right. I'll keep you guys in mind. If I find anything… this asshole goes to court."

A smile cuts across Matt's mouth without him entirely meaning it to. "Ms. Cardenas will be grateful." He shifts his cane and offers a hand to shake, continuing to smile at the breath of self-conscious laughter that punches out of Nelson's mouth as their hands meet. He hangs on for maybe a second too long, noting the alignment of Nelson's bones (nearly perfect: never been in a fight) before they finally let go.

Nelson's heart still flutters a bit, but he makes no outward indication of this, just shakes Karen's hand, then reaches to press a button. Karen holds Matt's hand tightly when the elevator jerks, though he'd already braced for the movement.

"Like I said," Nelson says at a social volume as the doors open back up on the first floor, "there's nothing we can do at the time. If you ever want to make a legitimate claim, you have my number."

The light, pricey scent of Stahl's perfume lingers a few yards away. Matt schools his expression for her benefit, regarding Nelson with casual disdain. "You'll be hearing from us, Mr. Nelson," he says.

"Yeah," Karen says, and it's too aggressive but Matt can't begrudge her enthusiasm. "Come on, Matt, let's go."

As Karen leads Matt away, heat flares in Nelson's left cheek, a muscle strained to keep him from smiling.

At that moment, Matt commits Foggy Nelson to memory: his frank language and his unassuming gestures and his will to do the right thing. He hopes they have a chance to do business again. There are far too few good people left in Hell's Kitchen.

Once they reach the sidewalk, Karen pulls Matt closer and breathes in the shape of smiling. "That went a lot better than I thought it would," she says.

Matt pats her hand. "Don't get your hopes up too much, Karen. We still haven't made any formal progress on the case." Karen makes a small, disappointed noise, and Matt turns to her with a tame smile. "But I think we have someone in our corner."

"God, that's so great after all of this," Karen sighs. "Was starting to feel like you were the only person in this whole city I could trust."

Matt doesn't know how that makes him feel, but it makes him feel too much.

"Listen, Karen." He drops his arm from hers, staying in stride without missing a step as he begins to tap his cane. "You go on. I'm gonna stop by the precinct, then I'll meet you at the office."

Karen seems hesitant to leave him by himself, but he reminds her that he's used to getting around on his own, so she agrees with an warm-faced nod. She leaves Matt on the sidewalk, and he waits for the cab she hails to turn the corner before he heads back the way they came. He stops at a bench about half a block down and sits.

A hiss leaves him without his permission. He has to steady his breathing to keep from wilting; fatigue threads through every limb, ready to pounce the moment he lets his guard down. The feeling is easy enough to ignore on his feet, secondary to more immediate functions like walking and staying upright, but when he pauses, it threatens to overtake him. A place just below his lowest floating rib throbs with sudden sharpness— a Russian sucker-punched him there. He presses his hand to it and grimaces.

Then he draws a deep breath, centers himself, and envisions the pain leaving his body as he exhales. He has things to do.

Landman & Zack sounds like an anthill. Matt hated it the first time he went there, to interview for an internship he got but didn't accept, and he hates it now, even from hundreds of feet out. Beyond its air vents and featureless glass-scape, there are countless footsteps: a marathon of clacking heels and crinkling leather shoes, swishing slacks and skirts straining as hosed legs zip underneath them, blazers and jackets that flutter at the hems when the air hits them just right. It's no more movement than he's used to hearing outside— less, in fact— but it's different when it's boxed in. The noise unifies, not into a rhythm but into a wall of sound without depth or meaning. It's not too much to handle, but it's annoying.

He has to sort through it in layers. First, the ambiance of the building's shape: the walls and the floors and furniture and the noises those things make as they break the airflow or shift or settle. Then, the object noises: papers rustling, generators buzzing, toilets flushing, machines humming, copiers shuffling through reams of paper. Finally, he makes it to the human sounds: voices. Hundreds of them, and he's looking for one in particular.

"What the hell, Foggy?" Stahl is pissed— Matt wasn't listening for her, but she cuts right through with her familiar inflection and crisp tone. Someone— Nelson? —shushes her, and she drops her volume. "Are you trying to get fired? Tully's your client, you can't just go around knocking elbows with these justice crusader types, not when they're sniffing around, making accusations—"

"They're not wrong!" Straining, Matt thinks he can hear the backwards roll of Nelson's chair, and his hands slapping against his desk. "He's a slumlord, Marci!"

"Diversified businessman," Stahl corrects, knee-jerk, like they've had this exact conversation before.

"Does it really make you feel better to think that? Jesus." A whumph and the creak of wheels signal that Nelson has fallen backwards into his chair. "I don't know. I don't know if I can keep him as a client."

"Foggy." Stahl's voice is hushed. Matt can't hear anything that indicates her movements, but he imagines her sitting down on Nelson's desk. "Look, I know you're nothing if not a bleeding heart, and that's cute and everything. It really is. But this is the real world, and at the end of the day, Tully hasn't done anything illegal. They don't have anything to bring against him in court."

A sigh reverberates oddly from Nelson, maybe against hands pushed to his face. "I know," he groans, and Matt imagines him leaning against the desk, imagines his crisp suit rumpled and his joints hung loose with exhaustion. He imagines this because he's felt it before: the helplessness that comes with being limited by legal boundaries. He wonders what it would be like to actually stay within those boundaries, to feel the inadequacy of the law indefinitely, without a black mask and a sharp right hook to break him out of it.

It would probably feel a lot like Nelson sounds, forlorn and sighing as he says, "I'm going home."

Matt feels bad for the guy.

Though he was hoping to overhear information on Tully, this sketch of Nelson's character isn't useless. He didn't have a lot of hope to move the tenancy case forward, but maybe with Nelson's help, justice is possible. It would be nice to win one in the courtroom, for a change.

Maybe he doesn't need the mask every time he wants to make a difference, he thinks, and chuckles at the idea even as he strains against his bruised body to stand. Maybe, against all odds, things are looking up in Hell's Kitchen.

The city explodes six hours later.

x+x

Matt meant to give himself a day off.

He really did.

Contrary to what Claire believes, he has to catch his breath every once in a while. He doesn't want to send himself into shock or pass out mid-leap between buildings; those kinds of things are hardly conducive to doing his job.

So, stumbling out of the sewers with semi-automatics rattling behind him and a snatch of Russian lullaby caught in his head, he decides that tomorrow is as good a time as any. He'll power through these last few hours before dawn with meditation and stretching, then let himself sleep a whole solid six when he gets home from work.

He feels, like a needle swinging North, that Leeland Owlsley will be his last big step toward exposing Fisk. He needs to be ready. He owes that to Hell's Kitchen.

It's the longest day of his life, trying to keep his mind in the present at work. Every time he runs his fingers over a new line, the words are obliterated by the sense memory of Vladimir's heaving torso, the pulpy muscles underneath, and he has to start over. He loses count of the times Karen asks if he's okay.

"I'm fine," he tells her at least once an hour, until finally at seven she says,

"Go home, Matt."

He knows she'll be there until nine, but he also knows better than to argue with that tone. On his way out, he stops by her desk and lets his hand hover tentatively toward her arm before giving it a squeeze.

"Be good, Karen."

"Might wanna do that, yourself."

He smiles, and doesn't take it to heart.

As soon as he's through his front door, he leaves a trail of clothes to the bedroom and just barely gets his glasses off before easing between the sheets. His eyes flutter, blissfully, at the slide of silk against his skin. The tension spills out of him, and he goes star-fished against the mattress with a gentle gasp. It's a guilty feeling. He'll never get any rest if he thinks about that, though, so he closes his eyes against it and strives for an empty mind. No Fisk, no bombs, no Vladimir screaming in his fiery mind's eye. Just six hours, then his alarm will go off. He'll wake up and head straight to stake out Owlsley's place, question him first thing if he's able. He just has to do this, has to make himself sleep. A few more moments and he'll be out. It'll be okay.

He drifts off with his knuckles twitching against the imagined feeling of broken bone.

Two and a half hours later, he flinches awake to a distant shriek. He lies immobile, eyes blown wide against the unchanging dark, trying figure out if it was real.

"Help!"

He's up and gathering his gear off the floor without a thought for his health.

x+x

Someone screams.

Foggy's heart leaps into his throat and his briefcase hits the sidewalk. He stops to clutch at his chest, trying not to gasp like a complete baby. Since he heard about the bombings last night, he's been jumpy; he knew Hell's Kitchen was a mess after the Invasion, but masked men blowing up half the neighborhood? That's too much for his weak desk-jockey's heart, thanks.

"Help!"

Okay, shit, that's definitely someone calling for help. He turns toward the sound, one foot shifted out, unsure if he should—

"Help!"

He breaks off at a run, briefcase forgotten. Despite the late hour there are quite a few people left on the streets, but he seems to be the only one who cares that someone is screaming. Head ratcheting about as he looks for the trouble, he barely sees the drunk in time— he sidesteps, but checks the drunk with one shoulder and stumbles into a wall.

"Watch it!" the drunk snaps, to which Foggy sputters,

"—you!"

You watch it, was the full implication, but he shakes his head and gets his footing back, trying to focus. He's not sure which way he's going anymore, or what he plans to do when he gets there, but—

"He-elp!"

This time other people turn to look, but Foggy is already sprinting into the alley the cry seemed to come from. The few people who looked up turn away, diffusion of responsibility if he's ever seen it.

"Oh, so it's- it's my problem now?" Foggy huffs as he runs. "I'm probably- the least qualified person for this situation-" He fumbles for his phone, ready to dial 911 if it comes to that. He cuts behind buildings, turning back to scan the corners as he runs, but doesn't see anything suspicious. The alley spits him out on the other side of the block, facing the charred-out remains of a strip mall never repaired after the Invasion.

A clatter arises from behind the debris. Foggy draws a breath, trying not to think about how winded he is, and rounds the buildings.

"Hey," he calls out, "are you oka—?"

Foggy stops.

"Shit," he says.

It's not okay.

"That's enough," snarls the thug with the hostage under his arm (fuck) as he shifts his gun (shit) to point it at Foggy (fucking shit). "Another sound, I shoot you and this fat man."

The hostage, who Foggy recognizes with a gasp as one of the IT guys from L & Z, clutches at the thug's arm around his throat and struggles to put his feet flat on the ground. "You won't— if you haven't shot me yet, you're not gonna—"

The thug spits out a nasty laugh. Brown blood cakes half his face; his eyes are snapped wide like something in a cage. "Maybe so," he says, and is that a Russian accent? That's a Russian accent, Foggy thinks. Not that those kinds of things matter when there's a gun on him.

"I don't need you with leg," the Russian growls, "and I don't need fat man at all."

"No, hey, maybe you do need me!" Foggy tosses his hands up, phone clutched in one so hard he thinks he might break it. "You're in charge here, man. You're the boss. You have a plan, right? You've got that guy, and he looks kind of like a hostage, so— You want something, guys with guns and hostages usually want something. So just- just let me call whoever it is you want something from, and I'll let them know about it, okay? You get what you want, nobody has to get shot. You shoot somebody, it's over for you, man. Let me help you. Let me help you."

The Russian barks a laugh, then kneecaps the hostage.

"Jesus!" Foggy yelps, but he's drowned out by the screaming.

The hostage dangles, shrieking, good leg kicking. God, that's a lot of blood.

"Okay, okay, I get it, I get it!" Foggy tries not to stagger back. He'll be shot if he looks like he's running. "You know what you need, you don't need me to tell you—"

"Zatknis," the Russian snarls, and aims at Foggy.

"Please—!"

The gunshot cracks off the buildings at the same moment the masked man lands feet-first on the Russian's shoulders.

Foggy stumbles backwards, convinced for a moment that the startled seize of his gut is a bullet wound. The masked man grabs the fallen hostage by the scruff of the shirt and slings him in Foggy's direction— "Help him!" - then rides the momentum into a flip that puts his heel square in the Russian's back.

Numb, Foggy falls to his knees next to the hostage. His hands hover, shaking, over the mess of the knee, and he darts a helpless look into the kid's wideblown eyes. It's probably bad that he isn't yelling anymore.

"Buddy, hey, everything's gonna be fine— it's Evan, right? Evan from IT?"

Evan nods, excessively, eyes skipping about as if knocked loose. "S'my fuckin' knee," he wheezes.

"Man, I, uh—" Foggy blinks at all the blood, Jesus, is it supposed to bleed like that? "—I don't know if I have the kind of first-aid for this—"

"Call an ambulance!" the masked man yells, then barley ducks a fist to the face. The Russian fires at him, misses, and yelps when the masked man kicks the gun out of his hand.

Foggy watches, feeling at once weightless and like lead, then dazedly picks his phone up off the ground. He doesn't remember dropping it. He manages to mis-dial twice before getting a connection.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

"Yeah, a man's been shot— shit! Shit, he's had enough, you're gonna kill him!"

The masked man's head jerks up. The rest of him is motionless, crouched taut over the Russian's limp body with one first around the collar and one arched mid-strike above his head. He hangs there, gargoyle-like, then shakes his head once and lets the Russian puddle to the ground.

"Sir," the operator is saying, "are you there? Can you tell me where you are?"

"Uh, yeah," Foggy says, turning back to Evan from IT, who's definitely in shock now, "I'm here, uh-" He looks back up, but the man in the mask is gone.

The Russian lies still on the asphalt. Thin breaths whistle in and out of him.

Foggy swallows hard, draws a long, deep breath, and tries to form complete sentences as he talks to the 911 operator.

x+x

The corner of the roof across the street doesn't offer much cover, but Matt tucks himself up there, anyway. He clenches his raw fists to keep his hands from shaking.

He doesn't think he would have killed that man if Nelson hadn't stopped him, but.

But.

He angles his head against the breeze and listens as the sirens pick up on the other side of the city. The sounds are too immediate, just the wrong side of intense. Stick would laugh if he could see Matt now, white-knuckling the edge of control just because he lost a few hours of beauty sleep. Or maybe he'd like it. That's the spirit, Matty, he'd say as Matt threw the final punch, crushed the Russian's face in. Stick always thought Matt should be a killer.

Fuck Stick.

Matt presses his back against the inside lip of the roof to anchor himself and narrows down which sirens are headed this direction: one ambulance, two police cars. He grimaces. Two cars and no guarantee any of the cops will be clean. He'll need to follow them back to the hospital if he wants to keep them from executing this straggling Russian, and even if he can't do that, he needs to figure out what the Russian's business was with an IT guy from one of Hell's Kitchen's more underhand law firms. There's nothing special about him aside from his connection to Landman & Zack; he smells of Altoids and toner and his girlfriend's overbearing perfume, and has none of the hallmark rough knuckles or trained muscles of a fighter.

How someone like that gets himself dragged into an alley at gunpoint by one of the last surviving members of the Russian mob, Matt has no idea. Maybe he was just the unlucky hostage of a cornered criminal, but Matt can't make assumptions like that when his city is in turmoil underneath him.

While he waits for the sirens to arrive, he tunes in on Nelson across the street. Nelson's heartbeat has calmed, but only just, still a bass note that almost drowns out the small words of nonsense comfort he rattles off to the hostage. The hostage, himself, teeters on the edge of shock. Adrenaline and blood and urine come off him every time the breeze picks up, foul but not at all like the smell of death. He'll be fine.

"Yeah, man, you're a real trooper," Nelson says to the hostage, then, quieter, "you're sure there's nothing else I should do?"

911 must still be on the line. If he wanted to, Matt could hear the other side of the conversation, but it's not important.

"Sure, sure, I hear you," Nelson says into the phone. "I got it."

There's a quality of sincerity to Nelson's voice, even now in the midst of panic, that Matt is partial to. He hadn't expected to hear it again so soon, much less find it trying to diffuse a hostage situation. It was an admirable effort, if a stupid one. If Matt had been a second slower, that would have been the end of Foggy Nelson. He wonders what would have happened to Elena Cardenas's tenancy case, if he hadn't arrived in time.

He decides not to think about it.

The ambulance arrives first. Matt gets to his feet and crouches just out of sight, with his ear angled over the edge of the roof. Everything goes according to procedure as the paramedics leap to action, calling to each other and asking Nelson for specifics. Nelson thanks the 911 operator before he hangs up.

"Yeah, I think he's in shock? You guys would know better than me, you're the professionals, but I put my coat on him and I elevated his leg, so I thought maybe that might-?"

The first police car pulls up, then, and feeds two officers into the commotion. Matt doesn't recognize either of them. The chatter coming from their turned-down radio doesn't reveal anything amiss, but he narrows in on them anyway, cataloging details that he can use to identify them later if he needs to.

One of the officers goes immediately to Foggy, clipboard in hand, and peppers him with questions. The other jogs over to the Russian and rolls him over to face his reedy gasps into the concrete. Even at such a distance, Matt can hear the cuffs click on a size too tight. He smirks into his chest.

"You're saying the Devil beat this man?" the first officer asks Nelson.

"You guys really call him that?" Nelson scoffs despite still trembling. "Isn't that playing into his hands a little bit?"

"Mr. Nelson, please. You say you saw a vigilante in a mask incapacitate this man."

"Yeah, I did. He was fast, too. Real—" he gulps. "Really fast."

"Get a good look at him?"

"No— I mean, nothing everybody else hasn't seen in the news. White guy in a black outfit. Mask," Nelson mimes the mask with a sweep from his forehead to his nose. "How-? How do you think he sees through that thing?"

The officer grunts. "We'll ask him for you after we book him for battery, homicide, and terrorism."

Matt tries not to grind his teeth.

Down below, the paramedics are getting the IT guy's gurney into the ambulance.

"Evan, hey, you'll be fine," Nelson calls after him, waving. "You'll be okay!"

Matt cocks his head. That connection could be useful. He doubts Nelson is involved beyond happenstance— the man's too honest to be mixed up in all this— but he'll have to ask him what he knows, if he can catch him alone. Maybe the kind of guy who's willing to fudge the law for helpless old ladies will be the kind of guy to help the Devil, if Matt can convince him the cause is good.

Finally the second police car turns the corner. It skids into park, and the driver hops out to meet the other officers. When they put their heads together, Matt barely hears them exchange a quick,

"You got the orders?"

"We'll handle it."

before the officer is jogging toward the Russian. Frowning, Matt leans forward into the flex of his calves. He listens rigidly as the Russian is shoved, stumbling, into the back of the second police car.

That confirms it. Matt's little slip of control should have sent the Russian to the hospital.

These cops are gonna send him to the morgue.

The moment the police car shifts gear, Matt moves. He leaps from the rooftop to an adjacent fire escape and rushes up it, then off the top, onto another roof. He clears several blocks this way, around stairs and between stories and through fluttering laundry that he flips out of his way as he runs. The world breaks down into mere obstacles between him and the police car's groaning axle. He clears a gap between apartment roofs but takes the landing too hard, nearly losing the sound of the car as he stumbles to get back on his feet. Heedlessly he runs forward, head whipping back and forth—

Two shots, a strangled "Please!" and another shot.

"Shit," Matt snarls. He vaults himself over the edge of the roof and scales down the side of the building, but it's too late.

"Shots fired! Shots fired!" the cop shouts into his com, standing, gun in hand, over the dead Russian. "Suspect went for officer's weapon, struggle ensued—"

The cop's jaw breaks under Matt's first two knuckles. To his side, the flick of a gun lifting— he slings his left foot into the air, the bullet sings between his spinning limbs, and his right heel sends the gun flying. He ducks the cop's fist and slams his knuckles into the nose, then the flat of his hand into the chest, sending the cop tumbling over the hood of the car. A kick lands on the back of Matt's knee. He yelps— would've broken his leg if he hadn't sensed it coming, but it still sends him stumbling. A fist swings at his kidney, but Matt catches it under his arm and reaches back for the cop's hair with his other hand, then throws the cop over his shoulder. The body strikes the concrete and Matt drives his boot into the head. Knockout. The other cop is up, but Matt spins and puts him down with a right hook that would've made his dad cry.

Sirens drift towards the alleyway.

"What do you know!?" Matt snarls, grabbing the lapels of the cop he left lucid. Or, damn it— not lucid enough. The cop's head lolls, eyelids pushing tears down his cheeks as he blinks unevenly. "Hey!" Matt shakes him. "Who told you to do this? Fisk? You know where he is?"

He knows that it's useless, but he doesn't relent to that until the sirens reach a screeching point and he feels headlights wash hot over his body. For a moment he stands, fingers trembling against the collar locked in his fists, teeth clenched. Then one of the cars grinds into park, and Matt throws the cop to the ground. He darts off between buildings, gasping against the strain of his overwrought body, but he doesn't slow. He can't.

A Russian gangster died on his watch tonight. Fine. Bastard probably had it coming. But Matt won't get an innocent lawyer's blood on his hands. Hell's Kitchen hardly has any to spare.

When he makes it back to the street where he left Nelson, the other police are still there— if they're even police at all— gathering evidence and asking questions.

"Look, I've told you everything," Nelson says to a cop, and then, "Shit!"

Matt leaps from behind and puts the cop out with a kick to the head. He cuts past Nelson and immediately takes a fist to the jaw from the other cop, cheek sliced open on her wedding ring. He punches her in the arm, snatching the gun from her hand when her fingers go loose. He lobs the gun away. She grabs his shoulder with her other hand and slings her knee at his crotch, but he arches back, hooks a hand under her leg and throws her to the ground. She goes down hard but fighting. He comes down with a knee in her back, and gets her into a solid headlock— painful but not suffocating— just as he hears the scrape of metal on concrete behind him.

"Don't! Don't move!"

This is obviously the first time Nelson has held a gun. He stands there, legs bowed like one of the cowboys from the spaghetti westerns faded in Matt's memory, and aims for Matt's head even though his finger shakes on the trigger.

"You- you put her down and stand up with your hands up!"

Matt doesn't turn around.

"You're not going to shoot me."

Nelson's heartbeat goes haywire. "Listen, I'm not going to say that I don't screw around, because I screw around all the time! But I'm not screwing around on this! I'll shoot you, man!"

"You won't," Matt says evenly. "This officer is on the bankroll of a very bad man." The cop's heart jumps at that, and Matt smirks. "I'm not going to hurt her any more, as long as she tells me what I need to know. She's one of the bad guys. I'm not."

"Really!?" Nelson's voice goes pitchy. "Blow up half the goddamn city and you're not the bad guy? Jesus. No—!" he flinches as Matt begins to stand, following his head with the gun, but the muscles of his trigger finger are loose. "No, you stay down! Hey! I'm talking to you, man, I'm not kidding, I'll shoot you!"

Nelson wouldn't shoot the actual devil if he were standing there, and they both know it. For a moment, Matt is unnerved to feel such regard for someone so unlike him.

"You're not going to shoot me," Matt says again. Then there's a groan from behind Nelson, and Matt stiffens. Nelson may not shoot him, but that first cop will. Matt was distracted, but now he hears the cop's heartbeat leveling into wakefulness, his adrenaline coming back online. Fuck.

He should cut his losses and leave now. There's nothing he can do, but— damn it, he doesn't know what these cops will do to Nelson, especially now that Matt's gone and implicated them. Stupid, stupid. He won't have time to get any information out of the cop struggling in his headlock, so he tightens his elbow around her neck, idly crushing the consciousness out of her as he considers his options.

"Shit, shit!" Nelson pulls the gun back then repositions it, like that does something. "Stop! Don't do it, man, don't kill her—"

"I'm not killing her." Matt lets her slither out of his arms, gasping and fluttery eyed but still alive. Her heartbeat descends towards unconsciousness. "Listen to me. These offers are dirty. I don't even know if they're actually police, and I don't know what they'll do to you—"

"Can it!"

Shit, the cop is up. He aims his gun at Matt, hardly off the ground yet but intent on shooting to kill. He shouts, "Down on your knees, hands on your head!" Then, to Nelson, "You got him! Good job, kid, you got this asshole."

A muscle twitches in Nelson's face, either a smile or a grimace. Matt can't tell.

"Come on, down on your knees, hands on your head! Do it, do it!"

This time Matt does it. He pushes a low growl through his teeth as the officer rushes over to him, and lets himself be cuffed. On his knees, he has to breathe with deliberation; his pants aren't thick and he can feel every individual fleck of concrete like needles against his knees, skinned hallway to hell after the spill he took on the roof earlier. His cheek stings where the ring cut it.

"That's some real good work, friend," the cop says to Nelson, dusting off his hands as he steps away from Matt. "You're gonna be a hero. Whole city's gonna know your name. Here, hand me that gun before you hurt somebody."

Nelson doesn't so much hand the gun over as let it tumble away as his grip gives out. "I'm, uh, not really into heroes," he says faintly. "The well-known ones tend to destroy New York."

Matt can't help the breath of a laugh that bursts out of him.

"That's too bad," says the cop. Then he turns toward Nelson, and the muscles in his shoulder tighten, and that's the moment Matt realizes like ice in the pit of his stomach that Nelson is about to be shot.

Nelson realizes it a half a second later. He gasps, "What—" and Matt moves. He jumps backwards through his cuffs and springs off his feet into a kick, heel arcing over his head and into the cop's shoulder. When the cop staggers backwards, Matt throws his cuffed hands over the cop's neck and slings him to the ground with the chain, then starts hitting him, hands clasped together like a club, striking again and again without intention beyond keeping him down.

This time, Nelson doesn't stop him.

It's the snap of a bone fracturing completely— maxilla, probably— that jerks Matt out of it. He lurches to his feet. Staggers backwards. A breeze whips, cold, across his blood-wet fists. He gulps hard a few times, then crouches again to get the keys to the cuffs. Once he undoes his own wrists, he drags the cop over to a wall and cuffs him on a pipe, then goes and does the same to the one he left unconscious earlier. By the time he faces Nelson, his breathing is tempered again.

"You're a lawyer, right?"

Air whistles around in Nelson's gaping mouth. He closes his jaw, swallows, and says, "Huh?"

"You're a lawyer. You have connections. You can make sure the right attorneys prosecute these officers."

Nelson makes a nondescript motion, like a shrug he can't commit to, palms up at his sides. "I—? Yes? I mean, yeah, I can, uh. What. What? What the fuck?"

"These people," Matt points at each of them for emphasis, because Nelson is seeming a little vacant, "are dirty cops on the payroll of Wilson Fisk. That Russian that almost shot you, they- the other officers- executed him in an alleyway five blocks from here. Fisk has the whole city wrapped around his finger, and—"

"Whoa, man! Slow down, what—" Nelson raises his hands for Matt to stop, so he does, allowing a moment for things to process.

Nelson takes a few deep breaths, then says, "Okay, look. I'm? I'm freaking out right now. I'm enough of an adult to admit that, so— shit, okay, let me establish a few things. First of all, you're a terrorist! You're a terrorist, and I guess you kept me from getting shot twice tonight, which was very cool of you. I appreciate not being shot. It's great. But," he gestures expansively at Matt, "terrorist! You are a terrorist giving me a bunch of sourceless information about things I've never heard of! Obviously you're onto something about these cops, because I did absolutely almost get shot. Again. Fuck," he gasps, and wipes a hand over his mouth. He gasps unevenly, long and rattling against his hand, and Matt steps reflexively toward him.

"Nope!" Nelson throws a hand up, telling him to stop. "Nope, you stay the hell over there. Listen, you want me to get these cops nailed to the wall? I'll nail them like they nailed up Jesus, alright, because I don't appreciate being shot at by people who are supposed to protect and serve. But that's it! You and your conspiracy theory and your bombs can just back away! In fact, I'm—" Nelson shudders in a breath, having not taken one the whole time he spoke. "I'm calling Brett."

Matt cocks his head. "Mahoney?"

Nelson pauses mid-dial. If Matt had to guess, he'd say Nelson is squinting. "You know Brett Mahoney?"

"I know he's a good cop."

"Good, then you know he'll arrest you if he gets the chance, and he won't shoot you like these guys. He'll let you live long enough to get dragged through a very public trial and pay for what you did to this city, right where the mass media can see you. You'd hate that, wouldn't you, guy wearing a mask."

Like it has every time he's had to suffer being accused of the bombing, Matt's stomach clenches and his fists lock up. "I didn't bomb anyone. It was Fisk—"

"Hey Brett!" Nelson says into the phone, voice cast high by artificial enthusiasm. "No. Wow, that's not nice. No, no, listen to me, Brett— I'm calling at this hour 'cause I'm standing here looking at the man in the mask. Yeah, Devil of Hell's Kitchen, whatever you wanna call him. He's right here."

That's Matt's cue to go. He hesitates for a moment, shifting his weight between his feet, but then Nelson starts to describe him — "Yeah, like five-foot-eleven, maybe, and he has a nasty cut on his right cheek," —and he turns away with a muttered curse. He free jumps onto the closest roof— "Oh, wow, and he moves like a spider monkey," Nelson says— and makes a run for it, until Nelson's voice is distant enough to lose if he doesn't listen for it.

He's halfway back home when he realizes that he forgot to ask about the IT guy.

Well.

He'll just have to meet Nelson again, won't he.