Early morning runs were becoming something of a tradition for the Law Offices of Nelson and Murdock.
Matt Murdock jogged around the Central Park Reservoir at what was, for him, an easy pace. The run itself was a luxury: a chance to get in a simple outdoor workout, during the day, without his 'Clark Kent getup' as his Guide so often described it. It was one of the few times he allowed himself to be seen in public free of his cane and sunglasses, and he reveled in one of the rare activities where he was able to just 'be himself' without donning the costume that came with his vigilante alter ego. If he were alone, Matt knew, he probably would be running much faster...
...but the pace, like the activity itself, wasn't just for him.
Foggy Nelson, as had become his new 'normal', felt like he was dying. Matt, true to his word, was doing everything he could to help Foggy prepare for the one thing he now wanted more than anything else in the world: to fight the 'good fight' alongside his Sentinel and best friend when the man went out at night as the vigilante known as "Daredevil". And he had quickly made huge strides in close-quarters self-defense and learning to use his psychokinetic gift as a long-range weapon. Even in the short amount of time since his dormant Guardian gene had 'flipped', giving him his very own God-given superpower, Foggy thought he was doing pretty good with it. Which meant that there was only one obstacle truly standing in his way.
And that particular obstacle just might be the death of him.
The two men stopped when Matt heard the tell-tale signs that his Guide's heart was just straining past its previous limits. "Okay, Foggy," he said, "I think you're good for the day."
Foggy doubled over, resting his hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. "I know I asked for this...but running sucks."
"You won't feel like that when you're running away from someone that's trying to kill you," Matt countered.
Foggy looked up at his best friend, his voice clearly showing his annoyance. "You know, the fact that this is so easy for you isn't doing anything to make me feel any better."
Matt reached over to give Foggy a reassuring pat on the back. "It'll get easier. I promise."
"I just wish I knew when," Foggy groaned, standing up and stretching his arms across his chest to keep his muscles warm and moving.
"This is the part that takes time, Foggy. Time, patience and persistence," Matt insisted. "I've been training since I was a kid. And don't forget, you've already taken a minute off your time this week. That's really good."
"It is?" asked Foggy, willing to take any encouragement that was coming his way.
Matt nodded. "C'mon," he beckoned his friend, "I'll buy you a bottle of water..."
#
Two figures watched the Central Park Reservoir from a distance. Each one had a commanding presence; a demeanor that gave the impression of immense power kept under rigid control. When they spoke, people listened.
But at the same time, these two figures also had a gentleness to them. Once you got past the imposing first impressions, you wanted to pour your hearts out to them; let them wrap their strong, loving arms around you and hope with all your might that they never let go.
They kept a watchful eye on the hustle and bustle of the city as it moved before them...but their attention never left the two men who were heading away from the park to begin their days in earnest. The dark-haired, olive-skinned one turned to his fair-haired friend. "Is there some reason why we are keeping such a distance?" he asked.
"These men see far more than others," his friend explained. "They may even have the ability to see us."
The eyes of the dark-haired man went wide. "The one they call devil? He can see us?"
"He is no devil," the fair-haired one stressed. "He is a Sentinel. And the other is his Guide."
The dark-haired one drew in a sharp, gasping breath. "They've been blessed?"
"They have," the fair-haired one replied with a nod.
"So is that why we are here?" the dark-haired one asked. "Are we going to make contact..."
"Not yet," his friend insisted. "We are here to watch over these watchmen. They need to be protected until the remnant is assembled to watch over them."
The dark-haired one let his gaze wander away from their charges to look up at the sky. He licked his lips, tasting the air around him as it weighed heavily on his being. "Do you feel it, my captain?"
The 'captain' nodded. "The day is coming soon, my friend. They must be ready for it. As must we."
#
Elizabeth Mary Margaret O'Halloran, 'Emma' to her friends, was whistling as the unlocked the door to the Holy Cross parish administrative offices. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the day was brimming with the promise of great blessings to come. The smells of espresso, cream and sugar wafted up to her nose from the downstairs conference room, and she yawned before she could stop herself. I guess I haven't had enough coffee yet, thought Emma. Maybe I can talk Father Lantom into making me one of those famous lattes. That would really be a great start to my day!
The secretary sat down with a sigh, grateful for the comfort of her office chair after her long commute. The creak of the door got her attention while she was changing from her sneakers into her heels, and she looked up to see Father Lantom joining her. "Oh...good morning, Father!" Emma greeted him cheerfully. "Another early morning meeting?"
"Good morning, Emma!" Father Lantom greeted his trusty, middle-aged, but loving and loyal right-hand woman. "Thank goodness for that espresso machine, huh?"
"I wouldn't know," Emma admitted. "I haven't been able to work that infernal machine since the chamber of commerce donated it." Her eyes lit up, trying to make her next statement sound like she had just come up with the request even though it had been consuming her thoughts for the past few minutes. "Say, would you happen to have a minute to..."
Father Lantom knew exactly what his assistant was doing, both with the question and with the timing of said question. "Sure." He moved toward the door, then stopped when he remembered that the only coffee that in close proximity was the pricey Brazilian blend that Matt Murdock had just brought him. "I just remembered," he declared, "the espresso canister is empty. Would you mind getting a couple of bricks from the basement pantry?"
"Of course," Emma agreed with a smile. "I'll be right back." She got up from her desk and joined her boss in their regular dance-around-each-other move that was the only way two people could maneuver within the tiny space. Emma turned away from the sanctuary, her heels clicking on the old tile floor as she walked the few feet to the closest staircase. She bounded down the staircase exuberantly, looking forward to having her very first latte out of the church's espresso machine...
And it was then that Emma heard it. Sounds coming from the room that she was heading toward. Is it whimpering? she thought. Maybe a squirrel or a racoon that got in from that broken window in the kitchen... Emma tilted her head back toward the pantry when the sound got louder. And she finally recognized it for what it was.
Crying.
A little girl.
Crying.
Whoever it is, Emma thought, she sounds like she's in a lot of pain. She took her shoes off and set them in the hallway, not wanting to startle - or worse, spook - whoever she was about to discover.
Emma stood in front of the pantry door, opening it just a crack to let light into the dark space. She gasped at what she saw: the back of a girl with long, dark, stringly hair, sitting on the floor in the middle of the pantry. How did she get in here? The girl looked like the was clutching...no, cradling...something in its arms, rocking it back and forth like she was soothing an infant to try and get it to go back to sleep. But she's not in a rocking chair, thought Emma, and she's not cooing, or shushing a baby. She's crying. No, she's not crying. She's *grieving*.
The girl started to wail, and the sound chilled Emma to the very core of her being. And that chill brought a terrifying thought to the front of Emma's mind. What if...what if none of this is real? This church has been around for a hundred years, what if...what if this is a ghost? Oh God...what if it...what if it sees me?
Emma turned and ran back up the stairs, leaving her shoes behind. She burst so quietly and so suddenly into Father Lantom's office that the priest's own heart felt like it nearly jumped two inches from the shock. "Lord have mercy," the priest exclaimed, trying to catch his breath and slow his rapidly beating heart, "Emma, what in the world has gotten into..." He stopped chastising the woman when she saw the obvious terror on her rapidly paling face. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
"Th-th-th-there's..." Emma stammered, finding it difficult to calm her own heart and find her voice. "D-d-d-d-down in the pantry, th-th-th-there's..."
Father Lantom sighed patiently and picked up his phone's handset. "I'll call an exterminator..."
Emma pulled the handset from Father Lantom's hand and slammed the phone down with force that convinced the priest of how truly terrified his secretary was. "It's not a mouse," she insisted through clenched teeth, desperate to be believed. "It's a ghost."
#
"I'm very disappointed in you, Emma," Father Lantom insisted as he descended down the stairs. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, there is no such thing..."
"Yes, yes, I know...there's no such thing as ghosts," Emma whispered, finishing the first comment that would have been the start of a long-standing debate under any other set of circumstances. "But if there's no such thing as ghosts, then what in God's name is that?!"
Father Lantom closed his mouth and forced himself to listen for whatever Emma thought she was hearing...and it was then that he heard it, too. "Is that crying?"
"Yes, yes!" Emma exclaimed, too scared to keep her voice anything above a harsh whisper. "That's what I heard...in the pantry..."
Father Lantom's eyes went wide when he realized that his assistant wasn't just 'hearing things'. He crept over to the pantry door...almost tripping over his assistant's shoes in the process. When Father Lantom glared at the younger woman, she mouthed a silent apology, so he quickly forgave her and returned his attention to the more pressing matter at hand. He slowly pushed at the door, letting light flood the room. The girl was still where Emma had left her; still seated away from the door, still rocking an unseen package...still deeply enmeshed in her grief. He entered the room one cautious step at a time, not wanting to spook the young girl in front of him. "Miss?" he said quietly.
The girl looked up at him with sad, pleading eyes poking out of a face that was far too gaunt. It was then that Father Lantom discovered that there wasn't just one girl on the floor of that pantry. There were two: one girl who was alive...
and one who wasn't.
#
A/N: I realize that in the comics, Father Lantom is supposedly based out of Saint Patrick's Cathedral (at least according to the Marvel Wiki). That is wildly unrealistic. Saint Patrick's is in the main part of midtown, not Hell's Kitchen. It would also be nearly impossible to do anything covertly there-since Saint Patrick's is, essentially, the church headquarters for the Archidiocese of the City of New York - one of the biggest Catholic churches in the country. So I took liberties with the identity of Father Lantom's parish. Holy Cross, according the website of the New York Archdiocese, is one of the few real parishes in Hell's Kitchen...and is being merged with another parish as of August 2015. So in my crazy little Twilight zone, *that* will be Father Lantom's HQ. :-)