The presentation for the Stark Expo is streamed live from the Nebula Space Station, and our rainbow coalition crew of 14, hailing from all corners of the planet, show off some new developments and take audience questions from Tony, consultant-turned-moderator. Tony's more concerned about the conductors that help create the antimatter artificial gravity and how our human test trials for the effects of AG are going, but, overall, the discussion is diverse and vigorous. What I didn't expect was the award for Philanthropist of the Year—which comes with a very large monetary prize to be used towards continued philanthropic efforts. Man, if my lectures weren't lit before! I'm also excited to have the ability to award more scholarships to those who need them. It's moments like these when I'm reminded that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing.
A new rotation is coming up here, so I'm taking half of the crew home in the X-5 so the next group of 7 can replace them. In another three or so months, the other half that stayed behind get to go home and a new group of 7 joins the crew. Everyone gets a turn.
We blast music, take pictures and videos for the Nebula's official Twitter, Facebook and Instagram accounts, pack up the experiments that need to go back to Earth, program monitors for the experiments still in progress, and then I fly us home. I already miss my Nebula, but I'm pretty sure I'm the only one feeling this way—I might be singing a different tune if I was up there for three months.
I answer the congratulatory messages from my parents and my brother as soon as I'm back on Earth. We're scattered right now, so even a short group Skype is worth its weight in gold to me. I leave the X-5 in the Death Valley hangar, fly my personal jet back to my airfield in upstate New York and then catch a ride back to my Brooklyn loft in one of those sleek black Navigators (mainly so I can stretch out in the back and sleep). Once I'm home, I start playing catch up. Phone calls, article reviews, research proposals…
Foggy calls to congratulate me and I goad him into meeting me for a boozy lunch the following day—I can hear the weariness in his voice plain as day and I automatically feel for him. I mean…his best friend tried to kill him, and this is after he'd made the tough decision to take him out before he did too much damage…like I said before: ugly business.
When we meet up, however, he's all smiles. Some of it is bravado, I can tell, but he also seems genuinely relieved to be out and about among the living ("I swear I've been chained to my desk since last Tuesday!" he laments before downing the last of his Scotch). Our "working lunch" is mainly focused on how to best allocate the prize money I just won. I meet with my financial advisor tomorrow, but Foggy wants to look at some of the trust language before drafting an initial proposal.
Bzzzzzzz!
I absentmindedly pull out my phone and read the notification.
Charles
Congratulations on a brilliant presentation and a well-deserved award! Dinner later this week?
Awwww… and yes, I read his text in his accent.
"Who's got you grinnin' like a teenager over there?" Foggy asks through a mouthful of arugula.
"…just this guy I've been hangin' out with. Nothin' major."
"…As a lawyer, you know I can smell bullshit from a mile away, including yours…you know that, right?"
I have the sense to at least pretend I'm ashamed, but my smile still breaks through. I can't erase the fluttering I felt in my chest once I saw his name pop up on the screen. Plus, he suggested dinner! Hopefully this means I didn't put him off from the last time I saw him.
"Do I know this guy?"
The gears start turning. "Um, maybe! He's the manager of that Devil's Kitchen diner over on 57th and 10th?"
"I think I know who you're talkin' about—tall African guy?"
"That's him."
"Yeah, I eat at that diner every now and then. Seems like a nice guy—runs a tight ship; takes care of his patrons…"
"And he's a physicist," I nearly swoon, causing Foggy to roll his eyes with a snort.
"God, whatever happened to the old days where girls went for the quarterbacks and playboy millionaires? When brawns and money actually meant something? Nowadays, if you didn't graduate at the top of your class from some bloated think tank and make it out with at least 2 doctorates, they don't want you. What the hell is the world coming to?"
I chuck one of my French fries at him, which bounces off his water glass and lands smack dab in the middle of his salad. "Sure, tempt a man on a diet, why don't ya?" he grumbles half-heartedly.
"Sorry!" Not really.
I don't go into too much detail about our interactions, especially the first one where he may or may not have drugged me. I doubt that would endear him to Charles very much. But, by the end of it, I'm done trying to play it off: I really like this dude. To my surprise, Foggy doesn't give me a bunch of shit like I thought he would. He simply wishes me…"us" … well.
I think it's Foggy's "blessing" that has me making an impromptu trip to Hell's Kitchen later that evening. I just have the urge to see his kind smile and hear him cast magic with that intoxicating voice of his…that man can talk about what he had for breakfast and make it sound like a tale for the ages. He reminds me of my Dad in that regard—both have very distinct voices. Speaking of intoxicating though…I'm not drunk, but that might explain the split decision to drop by: a little liquid courage. It's dark by the time I reach 57th, but I'm only a block away from the restaurant. I'm fairly certain I can make it there without any trouble.
"Hey there."
"Hello."
"You're a brave little thing, walkin' out here all alone…ain't ya?"
Just keep walking. "Guess so." Almost there.
Next thing I know, two linebacker-sized guys pop out of the alley like Jack-In-The-Box clowns, blocking the entire sidewalk. Stay calm…
"Listen, I don't want any trouble," I address the two giants impeding my way out. "I'm just trying to catch my Uber riiiiiiight over there." I point to a red Audi parked just up the way.
Luckily for me, the guy to my left's eyes follow the direction of my finger.
I bolt, barely skirting past him. The wind leaves my body in a sharp grunt as my shoulder clips his side. The man who initially got my attention is not havin' it…unfortunately, he's much faster than his counterparts.
My cry for help is silenced by his meaty hand as he grabs my arm and twists it to the point of a guaranteed shoulder dislocation if I make one wrong move. Don't panic. Don't panic. As me marches me into the alley, I see two more men lurking in the darkness. No side doors into either of the buildings, but the alley's divided by a chain link fence covered with tarp. Dumpster right beside it. Okay, there's a couple of options…
"If you're gonna rob me, get it over with," I manage to snarl through the guy's fingers. I would bite 'em, but the path to the fence isn't clear yet…
"I don't want your money, sweetheart. I want information. Give it to me…and your death will be quick and clean." Well, shit. That accent sure came out of nowhere! Russian? No, not quite…maybe Eastern European? "The more you lie, the more fun we get to have…Where's your lawyer?"
I can't help it. My eyebrows furrow. "Wait… One: which lawyer are you talking about and two: are you asking just to make small talk or is that the information you want?"
"Old Country" guy snickers to himself…then…SMACK! My vision is swimming after he swiftly backhands me—a combination of being hit right in the eye (motherfucker just had to wear a ring!) and losing my glasses. The linebackers yank me back up to a standing position, which makes my head spin even more.
"Wow…I thought for sure these would break…" He huffs his hot breath on my lenses and buffs them against his button-up shirt. "There," he pushes my glasses up my nose and tucks my hair behind the arms of the frames, "no worse for wear."
"Thank you," I sniff.
"You're welcome. And, for the record, I was asking for information about Matthew Murdock's whereabouts, specifically."
Oh. At least that's cleared up.
"I don't know where he is." Truth. Cut and dry. Which is rewarded with a punch to my ribs. My breath is immediately stolen from me and I fight the urge to hurl; to sob; to crumple into myself from the pain. Last I heard, Murdock hadn't pissed off any Eastern Europeans. Are they looking for Daredevil? Who else knows about his secret identity? Left over faction of the Kingpin's guys?
"Old Country" tilts my chin up to look me square in the (non-swelling) eye. "I can see the wheels turning in your pretty little head…but my patience is wearing thin." He whips out a pistol and shoves the barrel into my shoulder socket. Uh-oh… He definitely means business. "If you—"
Whoosh.
The movement out of the corner of my eye whips past so quickly I swear I imagined it.
"What the hell was that?"
We all freeze, straining our ears trying to hear it again…kind of comical that they were beating the shit out of me a few minutes prior and now we're all on the same page, tuned into the same thing. Save for the normal sounds of the city, all is quiet.
"I don't—"
Whoosh! "Aaagh!"
Where'd the guy to my left go?!
A flash of black and silver. Then, all hell breaks loose.
My assailants are now scattered around the alley, firing at will. The quiet of the night is now shattered by the deafening pops of semi-automatic gunfire. The muzzle flashes illuminate the alley like strobe lights, revealing disjointed glimpses of the chaos. Yelling. Bodies hitting the brick walls and asphalt with sickening thuds. I dive behind the dumpster seconds before a bullet ricochets off something unidentifiable and makes its home right where I'd been standing a second ago. The volley of bullets is striking closer and closer—I can't take cover here for much longer!
For a moment, the pandemonium shifts away from my hiding space. A moment's all I need.
I grit my teeth against the excruciating pain in my side as I scramble over the chain link fence like a damn alley cat. My landing is rough, but my quick recovery is fueled by pure adrenaline. The pain is taking a backseat to the need to get the hell away from here before I get shot or more of the goon squad comes after me—
Whoosh!
The silent impact of the figure landing from what must've been a 30-foot leap stops me cold. Tall. Pitch black. Decidedly male. Pointed ears…?
I stumble backwards in my haste to get away, tripping over my feet and completely losing my balance. Fuck! This is gonna hurt!
Except it doesn't. In fact, the only contact I make with the ground is with my eyes. My face is mere inches from the asphalt. Before I can fully process that the only thing keeping me from face-planting is this figure's grip on the back of my jacket, I'm in his arms. A quick glance in the direction I ran from confirms what I simultaneously hoped for and dreaded: silence. No yelling. No movement. What did he…how…?
Another mighty leap has us soaring above the alley and flying over the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. Not technically flying, but man, this dude can jump! He's going so high and running so fast that I have no choice but to squeeze my eyes shut and hold on for dear life to keep my wits about me. I'm expecting each landing to rattle my bones and aggravate my ribs, but it seems like his feet only ghost the ground before he's up again…
I hear what sounds like knives being unsheathed and crack my eyes open. The wind's not whipping through my ears like before.
We're on a wall. A brick wall. A very high brick wall.
"Shit!" I freak, clenching my legs around his waist. He tenses—goddammit, I'm gonna make us fall! Calm the hell down and keep still!
And then he's moving again, scaling the brick wall using his…claws. Yes. Claws that cut through the brick wall like it's butter. I can see the occasional glint of moonlight reflecting off them as he climbs, motions strong, sure and languid. Like a cat or something. We hang precariously above a window ledge (probably more precarious for him since he's holding onto the wall with one hand/paw and lowering me into the building with the other. Goddamn, he's strong!
I retreat a little further into what must be an abandoned warehouse or storage space, judging by the stacks of pallets scattered around. "Claws" effortlessly swings in through the open window, landing without a single sound. I take two spontaneous steps back as he just…stands there…blending in perfectly with the shadows. My heart is pounding out of my chest at the visual. I should run. I should grab the nearest 2x4 and start swinging.
He took out those men. He saved your life.
Two steps into the moonlight reveal…something absolutely, impossibly extraordinary.
I know "enhanced human" gear when I see it, but this…
The suit is black with flashes of silver—including the "eyes" and a neckpiece that looks like animal teeth. The material is nothing I've ever seen before. I'm reaching forward to touch it before I can stop myself. Some type of mesh…electromagnetic, maybe? I can feel the energy buzzing against my palm. I also feel…familiarity. Like I've worked with it before…or possibly the raw form of it?
"This is incredible."
Who made this? What made this? Are his enhanced abilities a byproduct of the suit or is the suit a conduit for underlying powers? I squeeze his bicep, spellbound by the wave of energy that pulses through my fingertips…the muscle beneath flexes slightly—
I'm squeezing the arm of a masked stranger on the top floor of an abandoned building where no one can hear me scream.
"I'm sorry," I withdraw my hand as if I'd been burned.
Silence.
His hand, sans claws, drifts toward my face. My blood freezes.
What if the savior is actually the assassin?
What if he brought me here to finish the job, no witnesses?
I recoil, but his palm is already cupping my cheek. Who am I kidding? This dude could walk me down—forget running. Tears begin to well in my eyes at the utter hopelessness of the situation.
"Please…ow!"
The stranger slowly lowers his hand…and then brushes right past me. The throb in my eye and cheek returns with a vengeance. With the adrenaline ebbing again after that brief fight-or-flight spike, my ribs are 10 times worse. I collapse against a nearby support beam; I can't even sit down. Every breath is a struggle again. Briefly, I wonder if I have an orbital fracture…more than likely not. I can still see through that eye.
He emerges from the shadows like black ink spilling onto paper, making my breath hitch. Goddamn, that hurt…! In his hands is a small black box. Inconspicuous at first glance, but of course there's more than meets the eye: about a dozen expandable compartments packed with…medical supplies. He unscrews the lid off a small glass jar filled with this blue goop, and the soothing smell of herbs permeates the air. I watch, transfixed, as he dips a cotton ball in and…starts tending to my eye. I only feel the initial pain from contact…then, nothing. Some sort of numbing agent? Whatever it is, the relief is instant. While I'm trying to discern potential ingredients from the odor, he's reaching for the hem of my shirt.
I shrink a little…then drop my hands. Relax. It's just basic first aid. He's only trying to help you. His free hand is raised in the universal "I come in peace" gesture, proving that I really am that transparent.
"Please…" I steel myself for the inevitable agony coming my way. "Just hurry, okay?" God, I don't even wanna look!
The first jolt of pain makes me flinch…then, I feel the gentle crackle of electricity against my skin. His hand rocks back and forth as he kneads –almost as if he is trying to evenly distribute the pain and swelling? Whatever he's doing, it's working! Once he's satisfied, he presses what looks like a nicotine or birth control patch to the affected area—it smells like the blue goop.
"So you're the new Man Without Fear."
His head slowly rises, silver "cat eyes" glinting almost curiously.
"He said someone was taking over for him, but he never mentioned who."
Silence.
"Do I know you?"
More silence.
"It's cool if I do; obviously, you're not the only enhanced human I've met."
Nada.
It's times like these where I question my reality.
No, really.
I'm having a staring contest with…Cat-Man. How is this real?
"Well…In any case: thank you. Thanks for taking over for him, too. I'll feel a lot safer going through these parts now."
Cat Man inclines his head a tad, looking…dare I say it…lost? Perhaps tired…
"You're not hurt, are you?" I kick myself for my singular focus. He was the one in the alley fighting off 5 guys with bullets flying everywhere. A quick scan reveals absolutely nothing-neither a hole nor a scratch. How is that even possible?!
Honk Honk!
I tear my gaze away from the masterpiece of a suit and slowly push away from the support beam. Huh. I can feel tenderness in my ribs, but it's not nearly as painful as that initial hit. I can even breathe a little easier!
Down below, a cab is waiting just by the entrance of the building. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume it's for me…? I whirl around, "How did you—"
Silence. And emptiness.
Hoooooonk!
Shit.
I hobble down the stairwell and out into the cool night air.
"Are you Dolly?" the driver, an older, no-nonsense woman, calls out.
"Yeah!"
"C'mon in, hon, before we get carjacked!"
As soon as I close the car door, I let out a short string of expletives before wailing: "My purse is gone!" how the fuck did I lose my purse but keep my glasses? More importantly, how am I gonna pay this lady?!
"It's taken care of. Now, I was told to take you to Brooklyn, but do you need me to stop at a hospital or somethin'?"
"Wh—no. No, I should be fine."
I get home safely, but I don't sleep (obviously). Instead, I pace the floors of my loft or stare blankly at the holographic computer screens in my lab, thoughts flying around in my head at hundreds of miles per hour and crashing into each other. There's no way I can work like this. I need to focus. I just need a day to get my shit straight.
After a half hour of cancelling and rescheduling obligations, I force myself to settle down into an uneasy rest. Sleep welcomes me one minute and eludes me 10 minutes later, but I finally manage to stay asleep for a good 2 hours before my eyes pop open yet again, assaulted by the morning's first rays of sunlight. Maybe I should just knock myself out and get it over with.
A pop of red on the balcony outside my room has me blinking in disbelief once my eyes finally focus. Is that…?
I sprint outside into the brisk breeze, my flannel robe whipping around my ankles. Sure enough, my purse is sitting on the patio table. A rummage through assures me that everything's still there: wallet, credit card, ID, cash, phone. My lab badge was left at home and my key card that grants access to my building was in my pocket, so no need to worry about those…
Clink!
And a jar of blue goop.
…Okay. Time to get to the bottom of this.
