The thing calling himself Matt Murdock stirred. His body was broken; bones pierced his skin and organs felt out of place. He couldn't find any trace of Elektra. It wasn't that she was dead - she seemed to be gone entirely. A horrid cracking, grating noise filled the air as his broken bones forced themselves back together; everything that wasn't immediately life threatening could wait until he was home. He discarded his mask and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Contrary son of a bitch" wasn't going to explain this. He might be able to get away with telling Claire that he just got really lucky. Guardian angels or something. He could have gotten away with telling Foggy that before Foggy had found him bleeding out on the floor. He would never not be grateful for Foggy's help even though he would have healed fine on his own (blood loss is different: broken bones are shrill, rough-hewn; blood loss is quiet, soft. It's dangerous and the slow fade scares him). No more secrets. No more lies. Maybe they could heal.
He shook his head to clear it. If he couldn't find a way out of here he'd die of dehydration before explaining this to his friends became an issue. Maybe explaining to Jessica, Luke, and Danny first would be easier? He forced thoughts of his friends out of his mind and focused. An image formed slowly. The concrete beneath his boots was cracked and pitted from the collapse but structurally sound. The rubble around him unfolded itself in a maze of brick, metal, and glass. From his left, a current of air snaked its way in from the city above, eddying around him. He turned until the draft was in front of him and shifted his focus from the room at large to what am I stepping on don't step on bodies mind the cracks don't walk into anything keep draft on left side of face breathe watch the ground breathe
It was slow going. Bruises and open wounds flared unpredictably, blurring his picture of his surroundings. He had to stop more times than he cared to admit to catch his breath and let the picture come back into focus. Each time it slipped it came back a little fuzzier. His right foot caught a body (somebody's shoulder) and he stumbled, hitting his knee hard against a bit of twisted metal. Cursing the metal, his lack of attention, Elektra, and the world in general, he forced himself to keep going. The conversations awaiting him on the surface weren't a pleasant thought but dying of dehydration was a worse fate. Briefly he entertained the idea of leaving Hell's Kitchen and starting somewhere else.
left foot right foot left foot just gotta shit shit where's the draft He tugged his gloves off and pawed at the air. It felt like it looked ridiculous but it worked. He found the draft further to his left than he thought. When had he lost track of it? no no don't think about that just keep following it The draft was stronger, the air fresher. He was getting closer. Maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe the draft was slipping in through a tiny crack in a wall of concrete. Matt laughed at the thought, an ugly, almost hysteric sound that twisted and scraped around him. They'd find his body down there when the city finally cleared the rubble. Blind lawyer Matthew Murdock dressed as Daredevil - no wonder the two had disappeared at the same time.
Maybe he did have some sort of guardian angel. His mental image fizzled briefly into nothingness as the rubble gave way to what felt like an opening just big enough to get through. He fell back against a larger chunk of wall and focused on that opening. It was bigger than he originally thought. Ditching the rest of the armor was so tempting. He was sweaty and felt close to overheating but was stumbling around in his underwear a good idea? of course not matthew don't do that that's just stupid He wished someone else's voice would join his. His skull was oddly quiet without Stick berating him for every mistake and without his dad encouraging him to get up, keep going. He pushed himself off the chunk of wall and stumbled, legs not quite keeping up with the momentum of his upper body.right left right left fucking what was that right left breathe hands out don't wanna find the wall with my face Foggy's voice ricochetd carelessly across his monologue. "You're just a guy right? A really, really good looking guy." How many lies ago had that been?
The wall with the opening came sooner than expected and he nearly did end up falling onto it face first. A bit of undignified flailing landed him on his ass instead. Disoriented, he remained on the ground as the room shifted too quickly. clumsy clumsy get back up get out Getting up was harder without anything he could use as support but he made it to his feet. He swayed drunkenly, then lurched out the opening (much bigger than he thought; not a crack in the wall but the result of two massive pieces of the building half supporting each other). The cold night air bit at his lungs and stabbed clarity into the mental picture of his surroundings. Everyone was gone, that much he knew. The police had probably barricaded the area and declared it a crime scene. Was he tampering with evidence? He couldn't remember if any of his classes had ever touched on what to do when you yourself could be considered evidence. Especially what to do if everyone thought you were dead.
In the strange way exhaustion warped his perception of time, his trek back to his apartment simultaneously took forever and ended before he thought it should. He'd genuinely debated just walking back home via the sidewalks but couldn't come up with an explanation that wouldn't raise more questions. Bondage party? What's a good Catholic boy like Matt Murdock doing at a bondage party? Father Lantom would hear about that one. Costume party nowhere near the month of October? Okay sure. People did weird things. What about the blood, bruises, and scrapes? Underground fight club? Weren't those things illegal? come on matty you should know this
So he skulked down back alleys where he could and reluctantly dragged himself up fire escapes and across rooftops where he couldn't. Through some far-fetched miracle he managed the journey without falling from anything higher than five feet off the ground.
Finally his surroundings took on a familiar hue, the scuffing of boots on rooftop telling him that he was home. The stairs were nearly impossible; he was half-tempted to just fall down the rest of them and lay at the bottom in a useless heap of pain and armor, but he wanted to get the suit off. It was damaged and grated against his skin. He wanted to take a shower and then sleep until his body had knitted itself back together. As he discarded the suit, it dawned on him that he had no idea what day it was or if either of his phones were charged. It also dawned on him that he didn't care.