Second chapter to be updated in light of S3.

Not much to say, except again my original AN for this chapter has been lost to the void!

Enjoy!


Devil's Maker

Iris was kept in the hospital another night and then released home. Matty insisted on her spending at least the first night in his apartment, just so he could have peace of mind. She wanted to argue, to tell him that if he was just going to go out and leave her there, he shouldn't even bother, but she didn't have the energy. And she didn't want Jo to worry. She wasn't sure if she could handle her roommate's….hovering.

Jo was nice enough, but Iris wasn't exactly used to friends. It had taken her awhile—and Owen's legendary persistence—to get her to even begin to open up to Owen. Jo's method was a lot less…subtle, and it was territory Iris was trying to figure out.

At least at Matty's, she could get some decent rest in. With their relationship being on…whatever terms it was, they were dancing around each other. They didn't speak much, but the sheer….protectiveness both Murdocks had for one another echoed their former, more innocent selves. And so it was a comfortable sort of silence, one she could rest in. One that she could finally use to get some sleep.

Or, at least that was what she thought.

"…it's from the deli down the street, Man. Real tasty. Chicken noodle. Chicken noodle."

Foggy's voice rang into the bedroom, where Matt had set up a recovery space for her, rousing her from her nap. The mention of soup made her stomach clench and gurgle. The pain meds made her nauseas, so she hadn't eaten a whole lot, but Foggy was selling it pretty well. She grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed and shuffled out into the living room.

Foggy and Karen were hovering in the entryway, Matty protectively angling himself, a barrier between them and her. She found it slightly endearing that he was trying to keep her sleep undisturbed. It rang of old times. Her brother turned at the sound of her.

"You shouldn't be up," Matty said.

"I heard soup was involved," she put a hand on his shoulder, her way of asking him to back off a few notches. "I'm finally working up an appetite."

"See?" Foggy said. "Even the sister wants our company."

"I'll get out some bowls," Iris started towards the kitchen. Her next step sent a stab up her side, and she hissed, grabbing at the fresh sutures. Traitor, she scolded her body.

"I'll get the bowls," Matt gave in anyway. "You sit down."

A compromise, one she could live with. She headed for the couch, snuggling under the comforter Matty was keeping there for his makeshift bed. Foggy and Karen filed in, Karen bearing two paper bags.

"Iris, please tell Matt we're not overcrowding you. You want nice, warm chicken noodle right?"

"Chicken noodle sounds nice," Iris managed.

"Perfect," Foggy smiled. "In which case, let's eat."

"Let's," Karen agreed.

Foggy and Karen took the armchairs, laying out the small takeout containers. "How are you feeling Iris?" Karen slid the other woman her container.

"In a drugged haze, so I guess I can't complain all that much," she shrugged, popping the lid off of her container. The scent wafted towards her, making her stomach snarl with anticipation. "Gonna be out of work for a week at least. No playing for about three. But, I'm doing okay. Matty makes a good nurse."

"Did you read up on the coverage of the explosion?" Karen asked. "They're calling the masked man the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen'."

Iris choked on her spoonful. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen," she repeated.

"Devil my shapely Irish ass," Foggy huffed. "Guy's a coward. What I wouldn't give to rip that corny mask off, and…"

"And what?" Karen asked.

"Punch him. In the face. With my…fisticuffs."

"I don't know, he seems pretty fisticuff-y," Karen held up her hands.

"Master fisticuffer," Iris nodded empathically.

"Please don't tell me I detect a hint of admiration for that terrorist," Foggy shook his head.

"Terrorist is a strong word, Foggy," Iris held up her hands, looking past Foggy towards the kitchen. Matty was clearly listening, a little too interested in searching through his cupboards and fridge.

"Exactly," Karen agreed. "The news is just all speculation. No one knows what he is."

"You're absolutely right," Foggy said. "Terrorists have causes. They claim responsibility. Al-Qaeda wanted the world to know just what kind of assholes they were. This guy? Not a peep. All terror without the 'ist.' You know that they call that? A nut-job."

Was this how the city saw Matty now? As an enemy? A terrorist? And had Fisk really managed to pin all of the destruction on The Mask. Or…the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

"He saved Patrick's son," Karen offered.

Matt brought over a tray, stacked with bowls, cups, and a pitcher of water. Foggy was the first to reach for one, hissing as the movement irritated his own wound.

"How's the side?" Iris asked sympathetically.

"Downgraded to agony."

"Alright, Matt, what do you think?" Karen dumped her soup into her bowl.

"I think Foggy will be pitching for the Met's by mid-season," Matty snorted, sitting on the couch at Iris's side.

"I'm being serious," Karen chuckled.

"So am I. Have you seen their bullpen?"

Foggy cut in. "You telling me some dickhead blowing up your own backyard doesn't piss you off?"

"What happened to Hell's Kitchen, to you, to Iris, to Elena, to all the people who got hurt. Yeah. It pisses me off," Iris noted just a hint of the Devil in his posture. "But this man. Whoever he is, whatever his motive, he shouldn't be tried and convicted in the press. We're lawyers, we know that's not how it's supposed to work."

"So, theoretically, if this guy got caught, needed counsel, Nelson and Murdock would defend him?"

Iris's spoon paused half-way to her mouth. Foggy offered a hasty, "Hell no."

"It would be his right," Matt shrugged.

"What about my right, to punch him in the melon?"

"Seriously putting money on the masked dude in a fight," Iris tried for humor, to shift the conversation. It didn't work. Foggy kept pressing the issue.

"They pulled a piece of glass out of my side, Man. Elena needed twelve stiches. Iris got stabbed."

"Technically, I was mugged. Wasn't really a result of…"

"You wouldn't have been at the hospital had Elena not gashed her head in an explosion. Which this guy set off. You really wanna Perry Mason him?"

"I wanna make sure the right people pay for what happened," Matt said, voice a little shuddery. Iris could tell how much Foggy's distain for "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen" was cutting Matty to the core.

"Whole things moot anyway," Foggy said. "After he shot those cops, police are probably looking to settle things the old fashioned way."

"More than likely," Matty agreed.

Iris's stomach curdled, and the soup didn't look so appetizing anymore. "Wow, you guys are really good at making things deeply depressing."

"Yeah, Matt. Yeesh. Stop bringing us down," Foggy cracked grin. "High note. Softball. When are we getting a company team together?"

"Don't you have three employees?" Iris snorted.

"Well at least two of them aren't blind," Matty quipped.

"I mean. Iris could play for us. She's a Murdock. It'll work."

"Right," Karen laughed. She looked at her watch, frowning. "Hey, guys. I actually have this…uh…thing to get to do. I'll…see you at the office?"

"Matty will be there," Iris answered for her brother. "I'll just be sleeping anyway. And now I'll have leftover chicken noodle if I get hungry."

"Great. I'll…see you then."

"We'll be there," Foggy agreed. "Ready to…high note and stuff."

"Yeah," was all Karen offered, flashing a weak smile at the group before slipping out the door.

"You're a smooth one," Iris noted.

"Do you know she carries mace on her keychain?" Foggy asked.

"That a problem?" Matty asked. "Iris carries a knife."

"You ever worry about her?" Foggy asked. "Worry like, there's something she's not telling us?"

Iris remembered the day Karen came to her studio, asking about what to do with what she knew on Union Allied. She hadn't heard much, hadn't asked, figuring Karen would say something to Iris if she felt the need. Had she actually decided to look into it?

"Everyone has secrets, Foggy," Matt said.

"I don't," Foggy argued. "I'd like some. Like you and Hottie Mc-Burner-Phone. I mean I assume she's hot. Is she? Iris, have you met her?"

"No," she said, a little too quickly.

"So she hasn't met the sister," Foggy mused. "But, is it getting serious? Should I dust off the tux I'll need to rent? Can I call walking with Iris down the aisle?"

"No, uh…it…didn't work out," Matty tried to hide his frown.

"Oh," Foggy frowned. "I'm sorry, Man."

"Me too."

"I'm, uh, getting a little tired," Iris stood up. She was reading Matt, and he was starting to get uncomfortable with all the lying he'd been having to do that night. She figured she'd thrown him a line, offer help. "Matty, can you put my soup in the fridge? I'll eat it when I wake up."

"Yeah. Of course," Matty took the save, scrambling to his feet.

"You get some beauty rest, Iris," Foggy winked, standing up and shrugging on his suit jacket. "Gotta maintain those Murdock good looks."

"Right. Thanks for the soup," Iris smiled.

"Anytime. And think about the company softball team," he winked. "It'd be nice to have one sighted Murdock."

"Have a good day, Foggy," Iris rolled her eyes, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she shuffled back to the bedroom. She heard a vague exchange going on between the two, but she was too tired to listen in. Matty appeared in the doorway after Foggy left, hovering for a moment before finally deciding on what he wanted to say.

"You and Foggy seemed to have buried the hatchet."

"Yep," she gave a vague shrug. "You know, when the person you care about most is out doing who-knows-what in the midst of a city getting blown to shit, it's easy to bond."

His expression pinched at the accusation, hands finding his hips. "We're not doing this right now."

"No. I guess we're not," Iris flopped down onto the bed. She stared at the patterns in his ceiling, focusing on a spot that looked vaguely like a rabbit.

"I'm…"

"If you say you're sorry, I will throw up on you."

He abandoned the half-assed apology, letting go an agitated sigh.

"Don't you have to go out?"

A long pause, Iris silently daring him to lie. "I do," he finally relented.

She made a vague gesture, telling him to go. He lingered for a moment, like he had more to say, but in the end he left. She turned away from the door, staring at the wall. She heard the trunk where he kept his gear scrape against the floorboards.

Finding Owsley, that was the next move in this crazy game he'd decided to play. She decided she didn't have the energy to worry anymore. The Russian, the explosions, the everything. Her new life, the one she'd been so hopeful for, was one big mess.

Messes seemed to find her so, so easily.

Matty's door slammed. The Devil was out, off to find his next target.

She sunk further into the mattress, shuddering. There was a time they wouldn't dare leave things like this. So…broken. They'd fought, as all siblings do, but they could never stand to hold a feud for more than a few hours at a time

They'd drifted so far apart.

And, it was hard when her present kept throwing the cause of that rift right back into her face.


St. Agnes Orphanage was a dismal place, but the sisters that ran it at least tried. Iris had made a few…well, she wouldn't call them friends, but at least she had a few girls to talk to and pass the after school hours away. Aldridge had extended her a scholarship, so her lessons continued and she found if she focused on her music or spending time with the other girls or her schoolwork, she only gave into the unbearable agony of her loss late at night when her roommate was asleep.

Matty, on the other hand, was pretty much in pain every waking hour. The heightened perception he'd told Iris about in secret had escalated to a terrifying level, leaving him unable to block out the city around him. He spent most of his time in his room, hands clutched uselessly over his hears and thrashing around on his bed. He heard, felt everything except her attempts to calm him, to reassure him. Some days were better than others. Sometimes, Iris would read to him and he would latch onto her voice only, and he'd come back for at least a few hours. But some days, she felt utterly useless.

It was on one of those bad days, the ones where Matty was totally lost to his own pain, that Iris's life was set on its new course.

"Iris," Sister Helen, one of the younger, gentler sisters poked her head into Matty's room. He'd been moved to a private one, once his thrashing had made it impossible for the other children to get some sleep. Iris was used to sisters poking their head in when she was with Matty, trying to coax her from her brother's side. To spend time with the other girls, practice oboe, do anything but sealed herself away in Matty's room.

"I'm not hungry, Sister," Iris lied, though her stomach was growling. And the fact that her sister hadn't said anything about lunch was probably a dead giveaway.

"I'm not here for that, my child," Sister Helen shook her head. "Sister Bethany has asked for you in her office."

Sister Bethany was the elderly nun that ran St. Agnes, and although she had a kind reputation, the children always dreaded getting called into her office. Iris cast a look in Matty's direction, brushing his hair off his forehead. "I'll be right back, okay?" she whispered to him.

Iris stood from her chair, silently following the sister through the halls. She heard laughter from one of her acquaintance's rooms, and through the open door she saw a group of girls playing some sort of hand game. Mary-Sue, one of the youngest girls, gave Iris a toothy smile as she passed. The elder felt a strange sense of loss, missing out on whatever fun this one. But Matty need her, she had to look out for Matty. It was what Dad would have wanted.

There was something off when she got to Sister's Bethany's office. Iris was instantly tipped off when she saw Jennifer, her and Matty's social worker, seated on one of the chairs at the sister's desk.

"Iris," Jennifer stood up. "Come inside, we have something to discuss."

Iris was hesitant, lingering by Sister Helen's side. Sister Bethany reached into the jar of butterscotch she kept on her desk, holding it out, an offering to the little girl. "Would you like one?"

"Why is Jennifer here?" Iris demanded.

"It's good news," Sister Bethany assured, dropping the candy back in its place. "Jennifer has come to let you know that we have secured you a placement. We have someone willing to adopt you."

Iris's chest tightened a little. For so long, her only family had been her father and her brother. It was all she ever need, wanted. She didn't really think she'd be comfortable anywhere else. She'd never thought.

"I assure you, Dr. Manson is very excited to welcome you," Jennifer said. She was kind enough, sincere even, but Iris's breathing was already running away from her.

"Dr. Manson…" she wasn't sure if this were the same one she'd been met before, but if it were, the stern looks, the simple "promising" sent shivers down her spine. He'd pushed her as a teacher, invigorated her, but as family?

"Through Aldridge he heard about your father's passing," Jennifer explained. "He's always wanted a family, and he's been considering adopting a girl for some time."

"A girl? So, Matty…?"

Jennifer frowned, getting up out of her chair and leveling herself with

Iris. "It's a flawed system, I know. I've been doing this job for awhile, and it always pains me to see siblings separated. But Matthew…well, he has a…complicated road ahead of him."

"You're taking me away from him," Iris's voice cracked. She retreated back a step, swiping away Jennifer's reassuring hand. Tears leaked from the girl's eyes, her small frame trembling. "You can't. No. Sister, please let me stay. I can't leave Matty. Please, don't make me go."

"Iris," Sister Bethany's voice was apologetic. "It's a complicated thing, I know. But in the long run, I really do think this will be an excellent placement for you. We are exploring other options to help aide your brother. He is in a great deal of pain, you know that."

"Exactly why I have to stay," Iris insisted.

"Visitation can be arranged," Jennifer assured. "You'll still see your brother."

Iris had never felt so alone, so abandoned in her entire life. She looked at Jennifer, who'd always claimed she would be an "advocate" for their best interests. And yet here she was, willing to pass Iris off despite her protests.

Iris left the office, the world blurred through tears. Later that day, Sister Helen pulled her aside, probably on Sister Bethany's order, trying to reassure her. Iris wasn't reassured. And, despite her vehement protests, a few days later Dr. Manson arrived at St. Agnes to take her. Matty had been in too much pain to come out an see her off. She'd spent the entire night by his side, cleaving to him, crying.

And now, St. Agnes was disappearing in the rearview mirror of a stranger's car.

"Don't worry," Dr. Manson assured her, though she'd never found it reassuring at all. "Your past is over, Iris. We can focus on building you a future."


Iris heard the door opening, Matty's voice hissing orders. She blinked hazily awake, her side on fire and begging for another dose of meds. She groaned, turning over, as two sets of footsteps rattled through her ears.

"What a shithole," a gravely, aged voice snorted.

The unfamiliar sound sent Iris to her feet, shuffling for the doorway. An ancient man was standing in her brother's living room, sporting a pair of tinted glasses and a sour expression. The tilt of his head was familiar, the same thing Matty did when he was listening, observing the world around him.

"Do you have any idea what I pay in rent?" Matty was still in all black, but he'd taken off the mask itself.

The stranger scoffed, setting his glasses on the coffee table. "Expensive shithole. And who the hell is that?"

Iris tensed at the scrutiny, finding her voice regardless. "Who the hell are you?" she countered.

"Leave her out of this," Matty snapped.

"You're joking," the man snorted. "This is the sister, isn't it?"

"The sister is wondering who the crotchety geriatric thinks he is," Iris bit back.

"So being a little shit runs in the family, huh?"

"Stick, leave her alone," Matty warned again.

"You should do the same," this so-called Stick countered. "I thought we talked about this. Family, attachments," he sniffed the air, "the woman you had in here earlier. All distractions. Like furniture, apartments, and…whoa," he raised his hand, rubbing his fingers together. "Silk sheets." He said it with such distain, a scoff.

"Cotton feels like sandpaper on my skin," Matty argued.

"You'd be better off sleeping on real sandpaper than surrounding himself with this bullshit."

"Who exactly do you think you are, you Jurassic asshole?" Iris snapped.

"He's no one," there was the devil voice again. "This is my life, Stick. And I've made something of it. Without you. That's the part that really pisses you off, isn't it?"

"No, Matty, I'm proud of you, I really am. But this…surrounding yourself with soft stuff, this isn't life…it's death. Someday, those silk sheets are gonna crawl up behind you, wrap yourself around your throat, and choke you to death. You're a warrior."

"That's not all I am," Matty insisted.

"You're heir to the Spartans, baddest of the bad-asses," Stick kept pressing. "They knew what they had to do, and they did it."

"And what was that?"

"Cut it loose," Stick snapped. "All of it. Cut yourself free. From the women, the comforts, the fancy job."

"It's not all that fancy," Matty huffed.

Stick ignored the half-joke. "You have friends? People you care about besides the sister?"

"Two," Matty whispered.

"Cut 'em loose, for their sake. Break their hearts if you have to, but do it quick," he jabbed a finger at Iris too. "And you. You should get out now, go back to whatever the hell life the system put you in. You have any respect for your brother's true nature, you'll leave him to his path."

White-hot rage bubbled inside Iris, boiling her blood. This. This was the man who had twisted her brother to what he was. Who'd brought out the devil and made sure it stayed. Taken her sweet, sweet Matty and warped him.

"I'll make my own choices," Iris spat. "And Matty will too. So you can go shove off."

"You really don't want to piss me off, Princess. You keep yourself and your expensive perfume out of your brother's business. I trained him well enough to fight his own battles," Stick warned. He shifted his focus. "Matty, relationships are a luxury men like you and me can't afford."

"Is that why you left?" Matty's voice wavered a little on that question. Nothing from Stick, just silent shifting. "Huh? To protect me?"

"I had my reasons," Stick shrugged. Iris wanted to rip his arms off.

"I was a kid."

"You still are. Boo-hoo. Stick left me. I think I'll bury my sorrows beneath the legs of a supermodel."

"Don't push it, Stick," Matty hissed.

"Or what?" the old man challenged, unafraid of what provoking Matty might unleash. Unafraid, because Matty was a monster of this man's making. "I'm trying to teach you how to stay alive. You're worse than your old man." Iris and Matty both tensed at that. Iris found her nails digging into her palms. "Born to loose Battlin' Jack. At least your daddy got paid when he hit the floor."

Iris's fist was flying before she knew what she was doing. Then, pain exploded from her hand. She yelped, Stick's calloused, leathery grip nearly crushing hers. "I told you not to piss me off."

"Let her go, Stick," Matty warned.

"Or what?" Stick dared, tightening his grip. Iris hissed, chewing her lip to distract from the pain.

"Let her go," Matty repeated.

Stick said nothing, only twisted Iris's wrist. She screamed, and Matty lost it. He grabbed Stick by the collar, but without hesitation, the older man had Matty on the floor, arm pinned behind his back.

There was a moment before Matty flipped himself out of the hold, all flying fists and rage. His shout echoed through the apartment. Iris cradled her wrist, the throb pulsing up her arm but gradually fizzling off. Matty stood there in a fight stance, chest heaving.

"Took you twenty years to learn how to get out of that one," Stick almost sounded impressed.

"Yeah. I learned a lot since you've been gone."

"Like what?"

"You're a dick."

Stick laughed. "That's true. Wrist is fine, Princess. Ice it if it hurts, or take one of the those pain pills you've been taking for that side, but it's not sprained or broken." Iris shuddered at his level of perception. Stick didn't flinch. "Matty, you got any beer?"

Matty let go, the rage expelling itself like he was simply pushing out a breath. It was always eerie how easily he could switch like that. "In the fridge."

"I'll bet that it's the German piss, isn't it?" Stick helped himself.

"Want to tell me why you're here?" Matty sat down on one of his arm chairs. Iris took the other one. "Or is the suspense supposed to kill me?"

"It's the war, Matty," Stick popped the cap off his bottle. "The never ending war."

"With who? You never got around to that part?"

A solider, that was what this guy was treating her brother like. A perfect protégée, that was what Manson had tried to make her. Here they were, two people who'd been innocent, molded into something different, wrecked in the process. Iris hated Stick, a burning, acidic hate, for being responsible for the way things were now.

At least, now that there was someone to blame she felt a bit better.

"The Japanese, mostly," Stick sat down.

"Look, I don't want you tearing up Hell's kitchen looking for the Yakuza," Matty warned. As if the city were his. As if he were the only one that could protect it.

"Yakuza?" Stick scoffed. "You don't know what's going on in your own backyard. The guy that was yappin' with the old man you slapped around, he's pretty high up. He goes by a lot of names, using Nobu this time around."

"So, Nobu," Matty's voice was calm, detached, "you want him so bad, why'd you let him get away back in the garage?"

"I don't want him. I want what's on the ship he's meeting at the docks tonight."

"Right, Owsley was talking about that."

Iris shifted at the name Owsley. Fisk's money-man. A lead Matty had been chasing.

"What's Nobu bringing in? Drugs or something?" Matty asked.

"A weapon," Stick said. "They call it black sky, bringing of shadows."

Iris shivered at the name. "What kind of weapon?"

"The kind you don't want in world, Princess," Stick muttered.

Matty held up a hand, probably for her. Telling her to back off. "Just say it," he said.

"Say what?" Stick demanded.

"You need my help."

Another scoff. Iris ground her teeth. "I want you to help yourself, Kid. Nobu and his guys are in tight with Fisk. You hurt them, you hurt baldy."

"You know about Fisk?" Matty blurted.

"I know a lot of shit," Strick shrugged, holding up his bottle. "This beer, for example, sucks."

"All this talk about cutting friends loose," Matty said. "And now you need one."

"I don't need a friend," Stick snapped, "I need a solider. Committed. Not a bleeding-heart idealist holding on to half-measures."

"You are an unbelievable pile of shit," Iris growled. "Matty's not your solider, Dick. Where the hell do you get off?"

"Princess, this is the kind of shit you could never hope to understand. You stay in Delusion-Land where you belong and let the adults talk."

"Stick, you don't know anything about her. Or anything about what I'm doing here."

The old man leaned forward. "Kid, in a war, people die. If it's not you, it's the guy next to you." A beat, everyone in the room silently seething. "How many men have you killed protecting this city?"

Matty was silent, Iris dreading his answer. Stick huffed, tossing hands up. "Still afraid to cross that line, huh? Well, someday it's gonna come down to you and the other guy. If it's not Fisk, somebody else. What are you going to do then?"

The question winded Iris. The very question she asked herself when Matty's devil side kept her up all night. Kill or be killed, what would he choose? And when, not if, would that day come. What would Matty be after, and could she live with whatever that meant for him.

"A Russian asshole asked me that recently," Matt said. "Right before he died."

"You the one who put him the ground?"

"No."

"Half measures, Matty," Stick shook his head. "Listen to Princess's heartbeat whenever we talk about killing. This ends two ways. She buries you like she buried your daddy, or you cross the line, do what needs to be done, and you lose her forever. How the hell long do you think you can toe this line?"

"Shut up," Iris barked, the truth terrifying her from the mouth of a near stranger.

"Your choice," Stick sounded triumphant, a small smirk on his face.

"Do you want my help or not?" Matty hissed.

"Ride with me tonight," Stick set down his beer. "Help me destroy Black Sky, keep it off the streets, and I promise you this. Wilson Fisk will know the taste of fear the day he faces you, cause he'll know you kicked the guy he's afraid of right in the nuts."

"You're not doing this, are you?" Iris asked her brother, disliking every part of this deal. He ignored her.

"One rule," Matty uttered. "No killing."

Fisk sighed, holding up a hand. "I swear, I won't kill anybody."

"Matty…" Iris said weakly.

"The line's not as fine as he says, Iris," Matty stood, grabbing his mask. "I'll show him that."

"Damn naïve kids," Stick muttered.

"Lead the way," was all Matty said.

And Iris was alone. Alone again, left once again to face her inner struggles by herself. At least she was used to dealing with it that way. She'd learned early on in life that she couldn't rely on others, not for comfort. Everyone leaves eventually, nothing was constant or forever.

No matter how desperately she wanted to be wrong about that.

She went to the kitchen, throwing the soup Foggy had brought into the microwave. She could only stomach a few bites, enough to be able to next dose of meds, and then slipped into the shower. There, over the roar of the water, he old memories chased her.


"Again."

Iris shuddered at the word, squeezing her eyes shut to bite back the tears stinging them. She lowered her instrument, mouth tingling and numb. Her tongue felt fat, swollen. Her fingers were stiff and shaky. Four hours. That's how long she'd been practicing this piece, one she was certain was far above her experience level. But Dr. Manson had insisted. Told her that she needed to compensate for her "unfortunate start" in life. She needed to make up for it, to reach her full potential. She should be much further at twelve years old, he said, if she wanted to make the Philharmonic.

"I said again, Iris," Dr. Manson repeated.

Four months of this. Four months of too late nights, constant lessons. School, homework, particle, food, more practice, bed. And she'd seen Matty only once, a weekend visit she'd had to put in extra practice hours to "earn."

Her tired, hazy eyes looked at the clock, blinking 11:45. "Sir," Iris muttered weakly, trying to keep her voice from breaking. "My mouth…At least let me shower, I'll come back to it, I promise…"

"Have you played measures fourteen to eighteen seven times in a row without mistakes?"

"No, Sir," Iris could only manage a whisper. She'd gotten as close to six, thirty minutes ago, but one missed sixteenth note had unraveled the whole thing. She hadn't been able to make it past four times since then. Her body was becoming progressively more useless, begging for rest but unable to accomplish the task that would get it there.

"Then again," Dr. Manson repeated.

Iris took a shuddery breath, raising her instrument back to her lips—her tingly, tingly lips—and praying. She got through two more repetitions before a hideous squeak came from her oboe. She lowered it, bursting into tears. Of frustration, of exhaustion. Of fear, anger. Of sadness. "I'm….I'm sorry…." she stammered.

Dr. Manson's fast didn't shift even a fraction. "Again."

"Sir, I…."

"Again."

Iris couldn't do it. Her steadily flowing tears turned into sobbing, outright shaking on her practice chair. Dr. Manson stood there, arms crossed. Unmoving, unflinching. "Again."

"I can't," she begged, thick snot bubbling in her nose. She choked, trying and failing to keep breathing through her nose.

"Iris," he said her name with an unsettling sharpness. It shook her to her core. "Calm down and go again."

"I'm so tired, Sir. I…"

The music stand clattered away from her, kicked away by Manson. Sheet music everywhere, whispering to the floor. Iris quaked in her chair. "Clean it up," Manson snapped. He stomped past her, the door to their practice room clattering shut.

Blubbering, she got to her knees, scooping up the music in her hands. She didn't have the strength to get back up. All she could do was sit there with the piece clung to her chest, quaking. He came back into the room, holding a small black case in his hand. Iris recognized her clarinet anywhere. The one her dad had gotten for her. She choked on another sob, missing her father with a vicious ache.

Christmas morning, tearing the paper off the beautiful instrument. "Hope you like it, Sweetie."

Manson fell into his own posture chair, quietly assembling her clarinet. "Again," he said simply.

"Dr. Manson," Iris whispered.

Manson secured the reed, inspecting the instrument. "Really a piece of junk," he said calmly. In one swift motion, he brought it over her knee. Iris yelped when the instrument fractured, a part of her breaking with it.

"Again," Manson repeated, calm as ever.

Iris balled her fists on the floor, taking a shuddering breath. She slammed the music back on the stand, gathering her instrument and blinking away her tears.

The next seven times she played her trouble spot, they were perfect.

She put her instrument away calmly, not saying a word until she got to her room. When she heard Manson's door slam, she thrust herself onto her bed, wanting the tears to flow again. But they couldn't. Wouldn't. The broken clarinet had broken something inside of her, or started to, and she didn't think she could stand to be broken any further.

She wanted out. She wanted back nights waiting up late for her father, Matty at her side. Being held, assured, safe.

It was another hour, her laying there flat on her back, staring at the fan on her ceiling. The clock had struck 12:45 before she moved, drifting like a ghost to her dresser. Shoving clothes into a duffle bag, like she was outside her own body.

The furthest place she could get to on foot, the only place she could think to go, was St. Agnes. It was dark inside, all the children sound asleep, and Iris crept her way into the chapel, staring up a the paintings of Christ's miracles that decorated the walls. Her favorite had always been the Feeding of the Five Thousand, and she often stared at it when evening prayers when too long, finding herself lost in the story.

Christ had nothing, and yet he'd taken that nothing and made a miracle of it, fed people. Her father had always told him that if they really tried, if they set their mind to it, that she and Matty would be able to do the same. That dream seemed so far away now.

"Who's in here?" a familiar, stern voice made Iris's arms with goose bumps. The little girl let out a squeak, shuddering when she saw a middle-aged sister walked towards her. A flashlight passed over the little girl's face and Sister Maggie's expression softened just a fraction. "Iris."

Iris stared wide-eye at the woman, quaking a little. The sister sat down, on the same pew but a considerable distance from the child. "How in heaven's name did you get here?"

"I walked."

Iris knew the reputation Dr. Manson had here. All sisters members were dazzled by the charming musician, the humanitarian with a sizable inheritance and a generous heart. They were quick to remind Iris how grateful she should be. All the members at her new church with Dr. Manson seemed equally as charmed, always whispering to Manson when they thought she couldn't hear. "Oh the poor thing," she'd heard countless times. "A criminal for a father. Dr. Manson, you're a saint."

"Sister, I…..I miss my family," Iris blubbered the only truth she felt comfortable uttering. "Is….is Matty here? I…."

"Matthew hasn't been here for several months, not since your last visit. We located someone who is known for work with special children."

Manson had never told her that.

The news played at her frayed nerves, and she burst into tears. Her sobs filled the chapel.

"Oh, Iris," Sister Maggie whispered, kneeling down at to be level with the child. She took her thumbs, gently swiping away Iris's tears. "Come with me."

Iris followed Sister Maggie to the infirmary, where Iris climbed onto one of the beds, leaving the room and coming back with a steaming mug of tea in hand. She sat at the girl's bedside while Iris cried, taking only small sips of the drink. The nun said nothing, only held the girl's hand. Her thumb gently rubbing back and forth in slow, soothing circles. A calm presence while Iris cried herself to sleep.

Iris woke up to Dr. Manson's voice, speaking with Sister Maggie. "Thank you for calling, Sister. I don't know how she managed to get out."

"It's alright. What matters is she is safe."

Iris tensed, knowing how furious he must be. What may happen as soon as the sister was out of sight. She pretended to still be asleep, but that only worked for a few more seconds. She felt his strong hands on her shoulder. "Iris, wake up."

She sat up slowly, reluctantly. He was holding out a hand expectantly, wanting her to take it. She hesitantly did, looking over her shoulder at the sister as she was led outside. Dr. Manson said nothing on the way home, only held her hand as they walked back to his apartment. He sat her at the table, still silent as he rummaged around in the cupboards. Moments later, he set a mug of hot-chocolate in front of her.

She blinked slowly at it.

"Drink," he offered, with none of the harshness of earlier. Iris picked up the cup and drank. He reached out a hand, stroking her hair. She froze at the touch, going rigid. But he just smiled.

"Iris, my girl, I know I am hard on you. But it's only because there is so much you're capable of. I only want you to succeed. To have every opportunity life has to offer. You are my world now. Please, do know that."

He tucked her in that night, whispering, "I love you," before closing the door. It was one of the only few times he'd ever said it to her.


The pain meds dulled the world, making Matty's silk sheets a thing of glory. Stick was probably being such an asshole about them because he was jealous of how amazing these suckers felt. Especially when wrapped up in one of Matty's incredibly soft towels.

The city crawled around her, sirens squealing and dogs barking. Matty's neighbors fighting. All ten-fold for him. And Stick had taken that, molded it into a weapon. A soldier, that's what Stick had called him. But that's not what Matty was. Not really. And she didn't think he was an idealist, either. Just obsessively determined, a man overwhelmed by the world. And, so he was response was to…try and fix it all himself.

The nausea that usually always kicked in with a dose of oxi rolled through her, forcing her to peel herself off the bed. She stumbled for the bathroom, thankfully making it in time to puke in her brother's toilet and not in his floor. She sat there on cold tile, watching the water droplets slide down the walls of the still-wet shower.

She rested her chin on her knees, hating the familiarity of this very position. Of hiding from the world, hoping to disappear.


A thirteen-year-old Iris shivered, hovering over the toilet bowl. Her mouth burned with leftover bile, the sour taste almost enough to bring up more. She spat, pulling the flusher and scooting back, her knees huddled to her chest. Her back found the bathroom wall, cold and solid. The fabric of her new dress crinkled against her ski. She tried to hold onto the sensations, to not lose herself to the panic shuddering through her.

The sheet music for her solo was swimming in her mind, the short thirty-second blurb on endless repeat in her head. She'd acted so perfectly happy when her conductor offered her the opportunity, just as Manson would expect from her, but the truth of the matter was the impending judgment from Manson was a little too much for her to handle. She hated the long speeches, analyzing every aspect of her playing, the hours of practice if her performance wasn't satisfactory.

She picked herself up off the bathroom floor, venturing back into the band room where the rest of the youth orchestra was gathered, laughing and carrying on. Maybe some showed appropriate levels of nervousness. But they were all so unburdened. A middle school band concert was a middle school band concert. Not being put on display for judgment.

Iris bit back the resentment, sitting down with her "friends." Other girls in the orchestra Manson picked out for her. Because, of course, even her school orchestra couldn't be hers. Nothing could.

The concert was fairly standard up until Iris's solo. She played clarinet in this orchestra—she saved her primary instrument for countless the audition-only ensembles Manson had her doing—and, even though she was first chair, it was easy for her coast through her herd. Allowed all her energy to go into worrying about what came in the middle of the concert.

The time came, and Iris shakily got to her feet, ready to begin. The world went out of focus, the sound of her heartbeat in her ears louder than anything else. The sheet music swam before her mind's eye, rippling and blurry. The notes fell away before her eyes as she played them, falling into oblivion. At the end of the moving passage, she saw a trouble spot, her world splintering into panic in front of her. The mental image of the piece fizzled and died. She grabbed onto the first thing her memory grasped, jumping the whole orchestra three measures. The younger musicians fell apart around her, the ensemble descending into chaos for about three seconds before the error corrected and the flow was regained.

But the damage was done. Before she sat down, she caught a glimpse of Manson's stony face. Her stomach went cold, knowing what her night was going to look like. Iris spent the rest of the concert combatting the urge to curl under her posture chair and try to disappear.

Manson was, as always, perfectly pleasant with the parents of Iris's orchestra friends. He laughed and talked with them for a half-hour, always with a hand on Iris's shoulder. A firm grip, telling her silently they'd address her error later.

"Do you know what you did wrong?" was the first thing he asked when they got home, slamming the door behind them. Iris tensed, gathering all the emotions bubbling inside her into a tight ball and burying them deep inside. Getting emotional never worked. Appealing to him never worked. The only option was to comply until it was over.

"I lost focus, Sir," was all she could say. "I wasn't counting properly and paying enough attention to my conductor."

"Let's see how your focus is after two hours in the practice room. Get your clarinet. I want to hear that solo done properly."

She silently took the two hours without complaint, Manson silently watching her and offering correction when he saw fit. "Good, Iris," he said, her heart soaring with the prospect of a break. "You may go to bed now."

"Thank you, Sir," Iris faintly whispered, heading to her bathroom. She turned the shower on, the sound filling her bathroom. It covered the noise she made when she wretched her guts out. Her sobs as she huddled under the heated water, praying with her whole heart for a way out.


After about five minutes of sitting in just a towel, the cold kicked in and Iris decided she'd had enough of sitting around alone. Feeling sorry, feeling pissed. Feeling and not acting.

That was the old her, the one she'd sworn she buried with Manson.

She'd told Stick she made her own choices. It was time to prove it.

She flipped through her phone, looking for the contact she'd added but never had the courage to call. She sucked in a deep breath and dialed, her heart pounding the whole time it rang.

"Hello?" Owen's voice, it's familiarity, sent a surge of relief through her.

"Hey," Iris said, scolding herself for how breathless she sounded. "It's me."

"Iris," he said. "You called."

A small smile found its way to her face, "That I did."

"Is everything okay?"

"Um…" Iris's throat tightened. "No. No, everything sucks, actually. And I don't know how to make it not suck."

"Where are you?"

"My brother's apartment," Iris said.

A pause, long and uneasy. Then, "Do you want me to come over?"

"Are you kidding? This isn't my place. Kind of rude, don't you think?"

"Does he have to know?"

"He'll know. Trust me."

"Do you care if he finds out?"

A humorless laugh squeaked out, "No."

"I'll be there in ten."

She stared at the phone long after the line went dead, trying to process what she'd done and easy it was to do it. Things back then had been so natural, but then she'd never been able to admit the truth. She knew he suspected to some degree, it was hard to hide everything after so many vulnerable nights together, but even on him she'd never fully unburdened herself on him.

She wondered if the dynamic would be so easy if he did, or if he wouldn't be able to keep pretending everything was okay.


"You're holding back," a younger Owen teased, easily dodging Iris's left hook. He went to tag her, but she counterpunched. Her fist connected with his face, sending him back a step.

"Bullshit," she snorted.

He laughed, holding his hands in surrender and leaning against the ropes. "So, you do have some of that Battlin' Jack fire in you, huh?"

Iris vaguely shrugged, slipping off her gloves.

"Not up for another round?"

"We have a quiz on augmented sixth chords tomorrow," Iris went to the ropes, reaching out of the ring and pulling up her book bag. "We probably should study. If I fail another one of these things, Manson's going to get suspicious about all this 'studying' and why it's not paying off."

"Getting a C is not failing. Especially not in music theory."

"You're also not Dr. Manson's daughter," she said, supremely proud when none of the bitterness inside reached her voice.

"Get out the textbook," Owen let out an overdramatic groan, flopping out onto his back. Iris rolled her eyes, sitting cross-legged at his side. They were in a debate about a German versus a French chord, when Iris's cell cut through the ring, playing Dr. Manson's ringtone. Her words closed in her throat, the panic that usually rose up whenever he called her swelling to a tidal wave.

She was supposed to come home early that night. They were having members of the Philharmonic over for dinner.

"Shit, shit, shit," she hissed, scrambling for her book bag. She took a deep breath before answering. "Hello, Sir. Owen and I were just…."

"And just where the hell are you?" the snarl was hushed, a near-whisper. He was in the bedroom, away from everyone so he could let his rage fly.

"I'm studying for my music theory quiz tomorrow. I…"

"I had better see you at home in thirty minutes, Iris."

"Yes, Sir," he voice was small, barely a squeak.

The line went dead, her heart in her throat. She practically leapt out of the ring. "Iris, wait…"

"I gotta hit the showers. Manson wants me home."

He caught her arm. "Are you good? You're…"

"I'm fine," she snapped, wrenching her hand free and darting towards the locker rooms. She leaned against the lockers, shivering and trying to calm her breathing. She knew Owen would be out there, ready to ask her what was wrong. She couldn't face that, not when she knew she was just getting close enough to him to tell him.

She slipped out of the backdoor, avoiding him.


Owen was there in exactly ten, just as he said, showing up at Matty's door in a Doctor Who t-shirt and holding a bottle of strawberry bubbly in his hand. She was in lounge pants and an oversized shirt, her hair still wet from her shower. "You know I can't drink on these meds."

"Non-alcoholic," he assured.

Iris stood aside, "Come in and get that in some glasses."

"Your brother got any flutes?"

"He's a pretty bare-essentials kind of guy."

"Where is he?"

"Doing something stupid."

"Are you two…fighting?"

"No," she said, then thought about it. "Maybe. I don't know. It's complicated. He's complicated."

"You know what's not complicated?" Owen shrugged, holding up the bottle.

"Big fan of uncomplicated," she agreed, going to the kitchen. She got out two mismatched glasses, watching the drink fizzle as he poured. "To uncomplicated," he toasted, raising his glass.

"To uncomplicated." She sighed, tossing back a sip. The taste was perfect, even without the bite of alcohol, but it couldn't erase a thing. Not even Owen could. Especially with who he worked for, with what he knew about Matty. She set down her glass. "Unfortunately, complicated seems to be all my life is right now."

"A lot of that going around," Owen whispered.

"Owen, what do you know about a man named Nobu?"

He froze, "Is that who your brother is going after?"

"Yeah."

"Shit," Owen whispered. "Ballsy, taking the Japanese by himself."

"He's not exactly by himself. The guy who trained him showed up. They're after something called a Black Sky."

"Nobu's got his hands on Black Sky?"

"Apparently. The guy kept talking about a never-ending war."

"Shit. Was your brother trained by The Chaste?"

"The Chaste?"

Owen threw back another gulp. "That's a whole lot of complicated, Iris."

"Big freakin surprise," she spat.

"Iris," Owen's voice was light, gentle. "I missed you like hell. And when you came back…I'm glad you're here. And, if there's anything I can do…"

"Just," Iris gave a weak shrug. "Be here, I guess. Like all those days, when we were kids. Young and dumb. And we just…existed with each other."

"I can do that," he said. He settled onto the couch. His scent spreading all over Matty's sheets probably. She didn't really care all that much. Iris lifted her feet, sitting them on his lap, staring at the wall.

They were like that for another hour, before the meds finally rocked Iris to sleep. She swore she felt Owen drape the comforter over her. She relaxed into the blanket, riding exhaustion into oblivion.


When she woke up, Owen was gone. And someone else was standing over her, tinted lenses boring into her very soul.

"Who the hell did you have in here?" Stick accused.

"None of your damn business," she spat, sitting up. A little too quickly. Her side pulled, but she ignored it. She looked around, noticing her brother's absence. "Where the hell is Matty?"

"On his way back," he said. "And don't worry about him smelling your little boyfriend. He's going to be too pissed at me to even realize."

"What the hell did you do?"

Stick shrugged. "What needed to be done."

The upper door to Matty's apartment burst open, slamming behind him. He paused at the top of the stairs, sensing Stick, and made a slow descent. The tension was palpable. Matty walked by the chair where stick was seated, tossing two short sticks at the older man's feet.

Matt ripped off his mask. "You promised me you weren't going to kill anyone."

Stick shrugged, no apologies. "Yep."

"Then what the hell was that back there?"

"The mission."

Matty unhooked his wrist guards, the rip of tearing Velcro. "Is this what your war has come to? Killing children?"

"What?" Iris's voice was tight.

"That thing in the container wasn't a child," Stick said.

"I could hear his heartbeat," Matt finally turned in Stick's direction. "It was fast and light. He hadn't even hit puberty."

"You're emotional," Stick said.

"No shit."

"If you'd focused beyond your crybaby feelings, you would've sensed what that kid really was."

"He was just a kid."

"You're blind as you ever were."

"Well, maybe you should have stayed and finished training me yourself."

"I needed a solider. You wanted a father."

"Screw off, asshole," Iris spat.

"Princess, I've tolerated you enough this evening. Don't try my patience anymore." Stick got to his feet. "You take care of yourself, Matt."

Matty stepped in front of him. "I'm not going to let you kill that kid."

Stick shrugged. "Oh, he's already dead. Caught up with the van while you were dicking around with Nobu's men. Put an arrow in that thing's heart."

That broke Matty. Fists started flying, the two blind vigilantes going at each other with a ferocity Iris was quite fully able to process. The struggle shattered the end table first. "Can't even tag an old man," Stick taunted, but Matty kept fighting. Like a rabid animal, all rage and fists. The devil and his maker.

Stick tossed Matty over the coffee table, right into his couch.

Iris screamed is name, tripping over the wreckage.

"You get out of the way," Stick warned her. "Get up, Matty."

A small moan and a little wiggle. "I said get up." Stick grabbed Iris by the back of the shirt, throwing her aside like a rag doll. Matty growled, trying to struggle to his feet. Stick kicked his former student, forcing him to the ground. "Get up."

One of the short sticks was rolling in Matty's direction, and he caught it, coming alive and seizing the advantage. He was merciless against his old mentor, keeping him down. The only hit Stick managed to get in was a brief choke hold, which Iris was sure might be Matty's end, but the younger flipped them both off the stairwell, crushing Stick beneath his weight.

Careful of them Murdock boys. They got the Devil in 'em.

Panting, Matty got to his feet. Stick tried to make a counter move, but Matty was an unstoppable force. He finished Stick with a roundhouse, then tossed the old man's bag at his chest. "Get out of my city," the Devil of Hell's Kitchen hissed.

"Maybe there's hope for you yet." Stick only laughed, struggling to his feet. He found his glasses, displaced in the struggle, and put them back on his face. "Nice catching up. You can keep the sticks. You're gonna need 'em. Think about what I said, Princess."

The door closed me behind him, reverberating through the apartment.

"Matty…" she began, but he ignored her.

He began digging through the wreckage of the fight, in what she guessed was an attempt to somewhat clean up the disaster. If he smelled Owen's lingering presence, he said nothing. Iris only heaved a long-drawn and sigh and knelt down to help him.

They stayed like that for just a few minutes, sorting through smashed furniture and broken glass and whatever the hell else the fight unearthed. Matty suddenly stopped moving, going straight as he picked up something small and faded. Iris squinted in the fading light, seeing her brother hold a small braded paper bracelet. "Matty…?" she asked, and again her words fell on deaf ears as he found the couch, fingering the tiny faded thing in his hands.

"I made this, for Stick. The day he left. He kept it…"

She noticed Matty's chin tremble, tears threatening to fall. "Oh, Matty," she whispered. She sat down by his side, glued to his side like old times. He blew out a shuddering breath. "He really was an asshole."

"So was Dr. Manson."

They stayed like that for what was left of the night. At one point, Iris dragged the comforter back to the couch to keep them both warm. But, he told her about Stick and she told him about Manson. And for the first time in awhile, the nagging about the mask and all the complications….it didn't matter.

They needed each other and they were there. Despite all odds, they'd found each other again.

Brokenness seemed to be the only way to fix them.


Exploring these old chapters was fun, though I really only touched the scenes with Sister Maggie in them. I'm planning to do a full clean-up of the chapters, to fix some awkward editing issues, but for now, just keep enjoying!

-Moonlit