I've had this floating around on my phone for ages and decided to share it with you. I should really finish one of my other works but, apparently, I have no self control when it comes to my writing.

This story is loosely based on Maya Lopez, also known as Echo and the first to wear the Ronin armor, from the Parts of a Hole arc. I've taken a few creative liberties to make it a bit more realistic and to make it fit better with the show's canon.

If I've made any mistakes regarding deaf culture or Native American culture, please let me know. My knowledge only extends as far as the Internet allows me.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not a thing. No copyright infringement intended.


Step forward, left, right, high kick, turn, step back.

Two short taps on the ground. Not fast enough, they say.

Step forward, left, right, high kick, turn, step back.

One long tap on the ground. Less jerky motions.

Step forward, left, right, high kick, turn, step back.

No more taps.

Maya drops her readied stance, the sword in her hand falling uselessly to her side. She pushes the few stray strands of dark hair away from her face and allows herself a slow breath. In a single smooth movement, one which she has done countless times before, she slides the blade into the sheath lying between her shoulder blades and turns to face the man who has been watching her the entire time. He is the one who taps his foot on the floor as she trains, the one who gave her opportunities no one else had, the one who had seen what she was capable of and helped her grow further.

He nods approvingly at her, but says nothing. It's not often that he does speak during her training. And he never smiles inside these walls. She vaguely remembers her father, the man who died when she was young and left her in the hands of the man who watches her, the man others refuse to call by name. Her father was almost always smiling. Except on the day he died. It's very rare for Fisk to smile, though he does so when he is proud of her. She remembers her first recital and how he had given her the small smile she has come to associate with him.

She turns away from him, facing one of the many mirrors that line the walls. They are there for her to watch herself, to make sure she is mimicking her task perfectly, though most people don't understand how the mirrors work to help Maya. Most people don't understand much of what Maya does or how she does it, regardless. She almost revels in their amazement. She has something they don't have, just as they have something she doesn't.

As she slowly takes off the body armor she wears and folds the pieces away into their trunk, she notices a man walk up to join Fisk. She's seen him around ever since she came back from studying abroad and has watched him in curiosity. After all, not many get so close to her adoptive father. He is younger than most of the people who associate with Fisk, though he carries himself haughtily as if he sees himself above the others, but capable enough.

Dark hair immaculately combed, a well-tailored suit, black horn-rimmed glasses, a nose that looks as though it's been broken a few times. But it's always his eyes that catch her interest. Their color reminds her of the old, crumpled dollar bills you find in your pocket after you've washed your jeans, but they are empty of all emotion most of the time. The mask of composure he wears is one of the best she's ever seen. She has seen people say his name – Wesley, apparently – but has yet to determine whether it's his first or last name.

She watches them in the mirror, reading their lips as they speak. It's easier to do so with Wesley than it is with Fisk. Though Fisk obviously enunciates his words carefully, he also does so slowly and just barely opens his mouth to speak, making it more difficult for her to piece together what he is saying. On the other hand, Wesley forms his words carefully and deliberately. She imagines his pronunciation is flawless. All thanks to expensive charter schools, she would guess.

"All assets have been procured and those involved have been informed that you are now overseeing all of their debts," Wesley says.

Fisk nods, "Thank you, Wesley."

"Madame Gao has, as expected, requested to speak with you in regards to the distribution of her product, despite having been assured that the Russians would be fully capable of handling it."

"Of course. Was she...satisfied with the location I proposed?"

This time, Wesley nods, "Yes. I could always say you are indisposed. None of the others have the privilege of speaking to you face to face."

"No. Madame Gao deserves our utmost respects."

"Understood," Wesley says, turning away to look towards Maya. "If I may, sir, why do you spend so much time with her?" – the word comes out with a curl of his lips, and Maya nearly misses it – "She offers no benefits to your endeavor and, if anything, she wastes your time."

Fisk gives him a hard look, "Maya is never a waste of time. She is...like a daughter to me, an indispensable ally, and an advantage to have should we need her at any time. You've seen some of her progress."

"Yes, and I've heard what she can do from the others," Wesley says, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "The few that do know her seem to call her 'the Echo', and I suppose I know why. She mimics what others do, but she's exactly that: a pale comparison to the original and never exactly right."

Anger boils in Maya's veins at his words. He doesn't know her. He doesn't know that everyone had once thought she was slow and that she had to prove them wrong. He doesn't know she had to scratch, and claw, and fight to be as good as she is now. He doesn't know how much more effort she has to put in than everyone else to keep the world from leaving her behind. In that moment, she resents his ignorance.

Pulling a small dagger, a little steel number about the length of her index finger and only twice as wide, from her trunk, she gets to her feet. She remembers the man she had dated a month and a half ago, specifically his accuracy. Her body goes through the motions as her mind remembers exactly how Lester moved. She lets the dagger fly, watching it carefully in order to measure how well she copied Lester's actions. It shoots through the air effortlessly, grazing Wesley's nose just enough to get a reaction from him, and embeds itself in the wall across from her.

Wesley's hand flies up to his nose, blood coming away on his fingertips when he draws them back. It is not a deep cut, barely the size of a needle prick, but it bleeds just enough for her to relish the action. There is a look of shock and indignation and disbelief on his face when he turns to her. Fisk barely smirks, the closest thing she has seen to a smile in this room, as though proud of her. She is satisfied, both with how well she was able to recreate Lester's accuracy and how she has managed to get the better of Wesley. A pointed look is all she gives him as she walks past him and out the door, noting that he looks a little taken aback as though surprised she had heard him. Maybe he had been whispering – she wouldn't know.

Maya's world is silent. It has been as long as she can remember.

She remembers Fisk's first personal assistant, the one he had before he got into his current business endeavors – whatever they may be, as he won't tell her what all they entail. His name had been Oswald Silkworth. He had known about Maya being deaf, had gone through the trouble of learning sign language even though he didn't have to, and had treated her like more of a person than anyone ever had, with the exception of Fisk and her father. But he had disappeared one day and it was only the day after when she learned Fisk had fired him for 'carelessness' in regards to what they only ever call 'the incident'. It wasn't long after that she was put into self defense classes.

The day Maya had come back to find that Wesley had filled Silkworth's position had been a sour one. He had come in with his curt professionalism, his duplicitous smiles, and his clever charm that thinly hid how much he looked down his nose at everyone else. She hadn't liked him on principle alone. He reminded her too much of the teachers who had spoken down to her as a child, as though she couldn't understand them unless they spoke far too slowly. Little had they known that she actually couldn't read their lips when they did so, and so had appeared even slower than they had believed her to be.

Her room in Fisk's apartment was relatively spacious, custom built to accommodate her disability. There was a light above the doorway that was hooked to a doorbell outside her door, as Fisk wanted to give her privacy. She's been looking for a decent apartment to call her own, a surprisingly difficult task since the apparent alien attack on New York while she was away. Part of her knows that Fisk likes to have her there. So she stays for the time being.

Her eyes wander over the familiar room, her mind blank in her weariness. A desk by the window is covered in sheet music for her piano in the sitting room. There is a television beside it, several videos of martial artists, classical pianists, Olympic-level gymnasts, and famous dancers filled the shelves beneath it. A queen-sized bed sits directly across from the door.

Pulling the hairband out of her hair, Maya kicks the door closed behind her and begins to strip off the tank top and yoga pants she's wearing. Her bathroom is connected to her room, the door to it in the far wall of her walk-in closet. Though Fisk is not the most expressive of adoptive parents, he has always made sure she has everything she could ever need. She turns on the cold water in the shower, not wanting to take a hot shower after training.

She steps into the spray, letting the water run over her skin and wash away her tension. She closes her eyes and breathes in the lemon scent of her soap that fills the bathroom. Sound may be unattainable for her, which does have its downsides from time to time, but she relishes her other senses. She turns off the water and reaches for her towel. The amount of clothing she has is a bit ridiculous, even by her standards. Rows of brand name shirts, blouses, jeans, pants, skirts, and dresses hang neatly from their coat hangers. She doesn't bother to spend time picking out something clean to wear anymore. It's always a roulette game of whatever she happens to pull out of her closet.

Her hair is still damp as she steps out of her bedroom and walks towards her piano. It had been a Christmas present from Fisk when she was ten, though it was sort of a present for himself, as he always listens to her play when he can. The floor resonates with footsteps approaching her, too light and sauntering to be Fisk's, and she glances over her shoulder to see Wesley. The bleeding from his cut has stopped and she frowns at the sight.

Turning away from him, she continues walking towards her piano. She almost reaches it when his hand suddenly clasps her arm tightly. Maya does not like to be touched, it brings back the discomfort and memories of the incident that she constantly pushes to the back of her mind, and she likes Wesley touching her even less. Within seconds, she's got his wrist in her grip and is twisting his arm around his back to push him against the nearest wall. She can read his lips from the angle at which his face is pressed against the wall. His calm, composed demeanor is gone.

"Alright," he says, his pupils blown wide. "What I did was uncalled for. Would you please let go of me?"

She lets his arm go immediately, turning and tromping back towards her piano. He pulls himself away from the wall as she takes seat at the bench. It's obvious that he's trying to find the most diplomatic way to say something without angering either her or Fisk, though he might find difficulty in doing so as his very demeanor, his arrogance clear in his very body language, bothers her. She glances up once more when she realizes he is trying to speak to her.

"-appreciate it if you wouldn't ignore me."

She raises her eyebrows at him. Does he not know she is deaf? It had always seemed to her that he simply didn't care. Rolling her eyes, she begins to sign at him, regardless of the fact that she doubts he'll know what she's trying to say.

I can't ignore you if I can't actually hear you to begin with.

The disapproving expression falls from his face, his features impassive except for the dawning realization in his money-colored eyes. He opens and shuts his mouth as though searching for words he can't quite reach.

"You're deaf," he says.

Eloquent, she thinks with a smirk.

She gives him her best how-did-you-know expression and claps at him in the most mocking manner she can imitate. He looks almost offended at her actions and takes a few steps closer.

"I wasn't aware of your disability."

Maya's jaw clenches and it takes all of her self-control not to storm back to her bedroom in fury. She hates when people say 'disabled' or 'deaf' in the way that Wesley says it, as though they're almost toxic words. But walking off would let him win, let him know he got to her, and she refuses to do so. Especially not to the smug bastard before her. She plays a few chords on the piano that she knows don't go together in the hopes that he might leave.

Still, Wesley continues, "I assume you read lips. If I had known, I would have-"

She doesn't give him time to finish, instead focusing on playing her piano. Pressing the keys down harder than she would under normal circumstances, she clunks out a simple version of Ray Charles' Hit the Road, Jack, something she had picked up from watching one of her videos. Wesley's jaw snaps shut and his lips press into a thin line. It doesn't take long for him to walk briskly out of the apartment.

Maya keeps playing long after he's gone, with the hopes that the music carries that far, just to prove her point.