AN: I don't feel one bit bad for any pain and/or misery forthcoming.
Well...maybe just a little bit, because Foggy and Karen won't be very happy and Matt does kinda look like like an abandoned puppy.
Foggy is not pleased. They're mostly cleaned up by the time he arrives, but he's not happy, and he's even less happy that they didn't call him.
There isn't much Matt can do about that except to apologise and point out that all he could do was help clean up, because calling the police was out of the question anyway, so...
He ends up cheating by looking as sad and sorry as he possibly can, resulting in Foggy sighing and complaining but ultimately letting it drop. Mostly.
The perfume smell lingers horribly for the better part of the day, and it's still there-faint, but there-when they lock up for the night. Karen and Foggy go to Josie's, and he knows they know why he declines their invitation. He also knows they're not thrilled, but there's nothing he can do about that.
The pawn shop is a seedy little place that smells like death and despair. It's been here since the dawn of time, and has probably been cleaned exactly once since its inception. The only person here is an equally grimy man seated behind the counter, who must not be looking at him because his heart is steady.
"We're closed."
He noticed. Locked doors tend to mean 'closed'. That doesn't mean he cares.
"We need to talk."
"Step off, man."
Well, he tried to be nice.
The man has time to let out one high-pitched squeal before he's dragged over the counter and flung into a glass case.
"Who's Solo."
"I don't know nobody by that name."
A wooden bookshelf is the next victim. It splinters and the man groans when Matt hauls him up by his collar.
"I dunno, man, I swear!"
Ding-ding.
He drops the man in the rubble. Man, middle-aged, carrying a cane.
What luck.
"I understand you've been looking for me, Mister Devil." He can't place that accent. "Well. Here I am."
"Solo."
The man laughs and steps forward, the heavy cane making a hideously final clunking noise as he moves.
"Some call me that. My name, though, is Whisper.*"
Alarm bells go off in his head. People like this only ever share their names if they mean to kill you right after.
He doesn't sound like a big man, and as far as Matt can tell his only weapon is the cane. (Is that bone? Mostly it just smells like metal and wood.)
"You've been quite the problem for me, Mister Devil." Whisper continues. "Terrorizing my men and interrupting my...acquisitions. Tsk, tsk."
"Is that what you're calling them? Acquisitions?" He can't keep the disbelief from his voice. "You're sick."
"We all have to make money."
There is nothing he can say to that. Really, the only acceptable reply is a punch to the face.
He doesn't even get that-Whisper's fast, brings the cane up and knocks his hand aside without so much as flinching. Huh. Lucky block.
"I wouldn't do that."
"No, you just kidnap little kids off the street."
"Such an ugly turn of phrase-"
This time the bastard's not fast enough to block him and Matt feels the oh-so-satisfying crunch of bones breaking. The satisfaction is brief-Whisper's quick to recover and quick to retaliate, swinging the cane and getting a lucky shot to the knife wound on his ribs. That thing's heavy and definitely metal, with sharp bits on the front that do actually feel like teeth.
Whisper's friend is emboldened by that and Matt barely dodges the chair thrown at him. It doesn't hit Whisper, unfortunately-he's just as quick to dodge and the chair crashes into the floor a few feet away. He grabs the friend and flings him into Whisper.
He's not braced for Whisper to throw the man off and fly at him, flailing wildly with the cane. The blows are relentless and he ends up on his back, choking on a couple of broken ribs.
Then there's gunfire.
Whisper freezes and Matt knows he should take advantage of this to grab the cane and clock him over the head with it, but he can't even move without coughing. Getting home is going to be fun.
Whisper flees and he tries to force himself up-get UP, go get him-but that particular task is a little bit beyond his capabilities.
He's not sure if he hopes the gunshots were the police or the criminal element.
The door swings open.
"Go look for him-Jesus."
Oh, great. Of all the people that could have turned up...he's done something. He's done something to deserve this. Was there a mugging he failed to stop? A kidnapping? Is this punishment for not calling Foggy this morning?
"Mademoiselle?"
"You two go look for the old man." Old man? He suffered this sort of assault from an old man?
Well...Stick.
Stick doesn't count.
Stick.
...Yeah.
"Hey. Don't be dead, you're useless to me if you die on the floor." He's so sorry to fail her. Really. "Come on...don't make me take that ugly mask off."
If she tries it, he'll break her fingers. He'll summon the energy for that if it kills him.
She pokes him with an umbrella and he supposes he should say something.
"What are you doing here."
It may have come out a little garbled, but he's pretty sure she got the idea.
"Monitoring a shipment of mine. It's such a nice night, I thought I'd pop by for a surprise inspection. There was a commotion-stop moving."
She presses the tip of the umbrella against his shoulder-yeah, that's a bruise, that's going to be interesting to explain-and he tries to smack it off. The umbrella digs a little deeper.
"Who was that?"
"Crazy old man."
"You're a terrible liar." She kneels down. "Guess that means you're not one of the lawyers...you should probably go to the hospital."
"I'm good."
"All right, then." That was easy. She stands up and he hears a smirk in her voice when she says, "On your feet."
Oh. He sees where this is going. She'll just have to be disappointed, he's fine, never been better, see? He's up. Never mind that he feels about to fall down...
Thud.**
*Mr. Whisper is a nod to Batman: Gothic. Mine's not some weird nigh-immortal priest or whatever, though. Just a creep.
**No, she didn't catch him. He's a bloody mess, she's not touching that. So now he's got another bruise from faceplanting on the floor.