A/N: In attempting to remain true to the dark, gritty and mature themes ever present within the Daredevil Universe, I have written the following prologue to reflect those very same themes. Over the course of the story that will develop and the scenes that will play out, such themes will continue. Some scenes will be much more gruesome than others.

This prologue, and/or the ensuing story that will develop, will contain racist, violent and sexist language/caricature.
Without further ado: Enjoy the story!

PROLOGUE

It was a cool, empty night. The occasional wind blew through the empty streets and darkened alleyways. The roads were barely lit; the street lamps did no good against the twilight. The people of Hell's Kitchen knew better than to skulk around outside at such an hour.

Keane Mikaela grabbed at the coffee cup on his dashboard. He had hoped another night would not be wasted on a lousy tip.. Four days in a row he had staked out the entire night in his weathered, old Toyota sedan and four days in a row he had driven back home with absolutely nothing to show for it. If this night produced nothing, he decided he would have a talk with Mahoney about the kind of assignments he could be better handling. He sipped on his drink and felt the warm liquid slide down his throat. It was refreshing, but did little to turn the tide of boredom.

There was a crackle from his radio set. He turned the knob, raising the volume slightly higher.

"…units, we have a two-one-one-sierra at Third Street. Units in vicinity, please respond."

Case of armed robbery? A commonplace crime. Sometimes, he felt there was no sense in even attempting to stomp out low-level crime; Hell's Kitchen was not well-to-do and nothing bred criminal intent more than being pushed to desperation.

"Unit 57 responding to four-niner-two at Third Street, over."

Keane snorted. There went Alden and Clancy, racing off in their death cruiser. It seemed loathsome to him that two men would drive off into the distance, not with the goal of upholding justice, but with their twisted interpretation of punishment. He shook his head, catching himself in his usual habit again. He had allowed the rumors to get to him and, despite Internal Affairs having cleared them barely a week ago, his suspicion of Unit 57 did not ease up. The reports they had filed suffered from the occasional clerical error, but this was less a corrupt practice, rather a common trait displayed by almost all field action reports filed by officers of the law. Still, their modus operandi involved dead bodies.

He shook his head again and peered through the seat window. There was no movement. No stray cats or wild dogs. Not even rats. It all seemed quiet. Too quiet.

Knock-Knock.

He was surprised by the sudden knocking on his cruiser window, his mind having wandered astray. He craned his head to the side and saw a familiar frown. Keane grinned as he unlocked the latch on the passenger side door. As the door opened, a bored voice drifted into the cruiser.

"Christ, Brett owes us big time. Fourth fucking time this week and absolutely fuck-all. Now I think he's just screwing with us." His partner hopped into the passenger seat, closed the door behind him and threw a pair of binoculars aside. "You expecting trouble?"

Keane gave his partner a confused look.

"Don't play dumb. I saw you reach for your gun."

He sighed. "That obvious, huh?"

"Can't fool these eyes," tutted Mickey Boyle, as he wagged his finger in the air.

Keane chuckled. His partner's usual line.

"We're a mess. Four shit days-"

"Nights, Mick."

"Yeah, nights, four straight nights of staring at empty streets, sealed-off warehouses, blind Asians crossing the road, and the occasional junkie spazzing over a trash can," said Mickey, his hand trailing over unshaven stubble. "Look at us, K. A few more years of this and we'll look like Hoffman." Mickey threw a horrified look at Keane, and they both shuddered in unison.

Keane grinned as he looked over at his partner. Mickey 'Mick' Boyle was the elder of the two, but only by a year. Still, his partner harped on the age difference, always trying to take the lead. Twenty years of friendship, from boyhood, to the academy, to finally getting transferred to the same department and Mick had always been the leader. Not that it bothered him - Mick always knew the right choice to make. Mick fiddled with his dirty brown undercut hair. As his friend grumbled, Keane turned to see his own reflection.

Bloodshot eyes surrounded by sunken bags of skin stared back at him. His scruffy hair was pitch black and a short, untidy beard crept along his jaw line. He looked over his coarse hands. They were dirty, with grime stuck beneath untended fingernails. He stretched his limbs as best as he could but still felt sore all over.

"How many hours have we been here?"

Mickey looked at Keane for a second before letting out a deep breath. "Too long."

"It's four in the morning," said Keane, as he finished his coffee. "Criminals get better sleep than us."

"They probably do. Fuck this. K, drive us outta here."

"My place or yours?"

"Yours. Your couch has got the best-"

Suddenly, their world exploded into life. The front and rear glass windows of the car shattered as the rattle of gunfire engulfed the alleyway. Shards of glass rained over the car interior. Keane, on instinct, drew his weapon, but with the attackers keeping up their onslaught of searing metal, he could barely keep his head down. Mickey quickly pushed open his door and in one smooth motion, leapt out onto the pavement. The familiar ak-tak-tak of his Glock-19 was barely audible amidst a barrage of automated machine gun fire. A second later, the attack began to slow down.

Thank you, Mick!

Noticing his radio-set was riddled with bullet holes, Keane pushed open the driver seat door and jumped out. He rolled towards a nearby metal trash can before peering over the top. Bullets ricocheted off concrete and metal mere meters away. Pieces of mortar and dust flew in every direction. It was hard to see with so much debris filling his vision. Still, from the flashes of light coming from his attackers' guns, he guessed there were no more than three men a good distance away. Mickey had them sticking behind cover and firing wild bursts, but Keane knew this wouldn't last for long.

"Mick!" shouted Keane, as he fired a few shots off. He could barely make out Mickey through the opening between his sedan's side doors.

"I'm good!"

Outnumbered pistols against Uzis was a bad match-up. He pulled out his cell phone, fired a few more rounds, and dialed 911. Just as he did so, there was a brief pause in the gunfire. This was his chance to call for backup. "Detective Keane-" He couldn't finish what he had to say though, as a man backflipped from a metal fire escape right above him. Keane rolled towards his sedan just in time. He turned his pistol towards this new attacker, but the man simply kicked the weapon out of his grasp. The attacker, a slim man with East Asian features and dragon tattoos spread over his neck, grabbed at Keane so quickly he had no time to react. His attacker threw him backwards into a nearby wall. Pain coursed through his body as his mind registered the full impact of crashing into hard concrete.

Keane grit his teeth as he summoned his strength, pushing his feet against the cold pavement and plowing straight into his attacker's midsection. The Chinese man was taken aback, and both tumbled into the driver seat of the Toyota sedan. The tight interior of the car kept the two squeezed together. They fumbled, both barely able to punch and kick as their limbs jammed into every part of the car. With his only free hand, Keane banged his attacker's head into the steering wheel over and over again, but did little damage. The attacker roared in anger and responded by biting deep into Keane's hand. Keane yelped in pain. His attacker snarled his defiance before charging his tattooed forehead into Keane's. Keane's head shot backwards and pain engulfed his senses. Dazed, his grip on his attacker loosened. The Chinese man quickly took this chance to struggle free from the car. He turned and grabbed Keane by the legs, pulling the detective into the alley. Keane's face crashed into the hard ground.

As his head lay against the cold, hard ground, Keane struggled to find the strength to raise himself. His vision fluttered. His head throbbed. Blood trickled down his broken nose. His face hurt. Badly. The rest of his body was no better. The fight was over. He had lost. He cursed himself.

Strong, sweaty hands gripped his collar and he felt his body pulled across the rough road. Keane could hear Mick thrashing about close by, two angry voices swearing over the noise he made. It seemed Mick had been caught as well. The two detectives were pulled away from their car and dragged deeper into the alleyway. Soon, their captors pulled them through a half-open warehouse shutter and left them at the center of an empty room. Keane looked on as the metal shutter closed and two men came to stand before it. He craned his head left and right. Men of a variety of ethnicities, armed with an assortment of submachine guns, lined the warehouse walls. He glanced toward his friend, who lay quiet. "Mick, you good?"

Mick shook his head, a shaking hand grasping tightly onto a bloodied shoulder. "You got word off?"

"Barely got through before one of them jumped me," said Keane. The two friends exchanged worried looks. Help would come too late. They had to save themselves. "What do you think… triads?"

"This far north? I don't know... thought it was Jackie's boys. But he doesn't have two quarters to rub together, let alone pay for all those uzis and mp5s. Plus he's a hardcore racist." Mick spoke slowly, his voice cracking occasionally from the pain. "See any holes?"

Keane shrugged. There didn't seem to be a way out. Not yet, anyway. The men around them did not seem ready to make any move either. They were waiting for someone and sure enough, a door to the far side opened and there emerged a familiar face. Jackie 'The Kinslayer' Fubler strutted towards them with his face contorted into an ugly smile.

"Detectives! What a pleasant surprise."

"Jackie? Finally could afford plastic surgery, huh. Congrats on the new set of balls. One thing though, you forgot about fixing that fuck-ugly face of yours." Mick said scathingly.

A few of Jackie's men rushed past him and held the two detectives down. Jackie pulled a cigar from his purple satin coat and took a long deep whiff. His smile stretched horrendously. He tutted as he lit the cigar. "Fancy talk, coming from a man bleeding on me nice floor."

Keane immediately spit on the floor. "Damn, I got my spit on it."

Jackie pulled a long breath with the cigar and nodded to his men. They immediately stomped on the two detectives, with particular attention to their heads. "You know, I was with me ma, having a wee cup of coffee, celebrating her birthday and what do I hear from the boys? Two detectives skulking 'round my establishments."

"It's a free country. Deal with it." Keane received another blow to his head for his remark.

"You know what I think? I think cac like you are nothing but trouble. Trouble for a goody-two-shoes Irishman like me." Jackie waved one of his men towards him, who passed along a 12-gauge shotgun. "Meet Aingeal. She helps me time to time with troublemakers like you."

"How much do you pay her to keep looking at that fat, ugly face of -Arguggh!" Mick's head was pressed firmly into the floor. Keane glanced up at the man holding him down, but before he could even quip anything smart, the man stomped on his face as well.

"Will I be blowing ye lads into paste? No, no, no... that sure wouldn't do. I wanna know how you got to know about my warehouses." Immediately, the two detectives were raised to their knees.

Keane grit his teeth. The two of them had had no idea who owned the warehouses they had been keeping watch on. They had never suspected Jackie, a low-level criminal more used to doing the dirt than running a chain of warehouses, to be in charge. They had never suspected the kind of firepower they had just faced moments earlier. Had Mahoney screwed them over?

"I ain't bout ta get to askin' much. Tell me how you got to know." Jackie's finger hovered menacingly over the trigger.

Mick looked at Keane and smiled. "Fine... first, tell me, what gives with them chinks and paki's? What, good ol' Irish blood ain't good enough anym- Argh!" Mick reeled on the floor in pain. Jackie had used the butt of his shotgun to pummel Mick's face. Blood oozed from Mick's broken nose.

"I'm gettin' real tired. Cut his finger off." One of the men pulled out a long knife and walked over to Mick. Horrified, Keane struggled against his captor's grasp. Jackie guffawed over Mick's screaming.

Keane's gut wrenched in disgust. "You sick fuck! I'll fucking kill you for this!"

Jackie took the cut-off finger and tossed it lazily on Keane's face. "He got nine more. Now, tell me how the fuck you know!"

"Fuck you!" Keane spit blood on Jackie's coat.

"You fucking shite." The Irishman roared in anger and grabbed Keane's head with one free hand. The other held the cigar as he drew another puff. "You know how much this cost? You know how much I had ta pay for this here coat?" His large arm held tightly onto Keane's head. His free hand pulled the cigar away. "Hold his jaw down." Jackie pressed the cigar upon Keane's lips and the young detective screamed in agony, as the ember's searing heat burned the soft lip. His mouth barely opened though, as Jackie's lackeys kept his jaw locked in place.

"Pull it open!" roared Jackie. As they forced Keane's mouth wide open, Jackie stuffed the cigar inside. A gloved hand pressed over Keane's mouth, forcing it shut. The still-lit cigar seemed to burn everything in his mouth - his tongue, his gums, and the back of his throat. "Swallow it, you bloody langer."

Keane's eyes watered, as the cigar disintegrated slowly in his mouth. His consciousness faded slowly from the pain. Jackie removed his hand and Keane immediately vomited out the vile substance. They released his body, letting him retch on the floor. His world dimmed, darkness encroached, but a hard slap across his face woke him. They pulled him back on his knees.

"I'm not done with ya. Tell me how you know."

Keane did not have the strength to answer. His mind was blank, overloaded from the immense pain he could still feel.

Jackie tutted. He cocked the 12-gauge shotgun and pointed it straight at Mick. "Tell me, now."

"Don't..." Mick could barely speak. There was a pool of blood collecting around him now. Keane himself was nowhere better. His mouth was agape and his body swung side to side.

"Give me a name."

Keane hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between the weapon and his long-time friend, barely moving and covered in his own blood. He thought of all the times Mick had saved him before, and all the times Keane had returned the favor. He thought of the academy and the precinct. He thought of the last time he'd had a good meal with his family. He thought of Jane.

His bloody lips mouthed a barely-audible reply. Jackie leaned close, putting his face right above Keane's. With all the strength he could muster, the detective whispered, "Fuck you."

Jackie pulled his head away, lit another cigar and put it in his mouth. Keane stared straight into Jackie's eyes as the Irishman pulled the trigger and blew away what was left of his partner and friend. Blood spurted in every direction, drops of it and bits of skin landing on Keane.

"I'm gonna make this night last forever. You'll be begging me to end your life." Jackie sneered, as he pulled another puff from his cigar. The world seemed to wilt away, Keane's brain shutting off his surroundings. There was so much pain. He closed his eyes.

"Oh Righteous Father, forgive me for my sins, for they are great and plenty."

Glass shattered far away and Jackie shouted in panic,"What the fuck?" There was a commotion around him. Suddenly, a litany of gunfire and screaming enveloped what little he could still hear. Jackie was shouting. His voice was strained. "Get the lights back on! Shoot the fucking ninja!" Then, the gunfire and screaming died down. Keane could hear Jackie though, grunting and groaning. A strong, sturdy metal hit the floor just a few feet from him. He caught the smell of gunpowder. There was a thud. Jackie was quiet now. The whole world seemed quiet, his own throbbing heart and shallow breathing the only sounds he could hear. Keane thought of Jane. He wished he could have seen her again.

Footfalls in the distance.

Keane uttered another prayer. He felt himself fade away.

Thank you to everyone who has read the story that I've written, and most of all, thank you to everyone who participated in improving the story!

Shout-outs to KarateKicker, Esther-Channah and ThisVioletOfMine for beta-reading my first story. I hope to improve the style/pace of my writing as I expand on the story. Do read and review! Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, and if you believe there is an overwhelming glare in terms of Daredevil universe material, please pm me straight away so I may correct it. I am a fan of the DD comics and intend to be as accurate as I can be. The story is meant to be read as a sort-of in-universe alternative; you can imagine the events happening between episodes of the DD tv series.