Chapter 2 – Over There
There: Matt
Wait, what? Danny Rand? Why would Danny Rand bring him here? And how? Matt couldn't wrap his head around it. Then again, the way that Danny and Stick talked about the place where Danny grew up, K'un Lun, made it sound like it was in another dimension. But this was New York City, not some mythical city in Asia – or wherever it was. It didn't make any sense that Danny would bring him here.
Then Matt realized that not-Foggy was talking, responding to not-Karen's suggestion. "Could be. They say he and his company do a lot of work for the government that no one knows about."
"Not only the government," other-Matt observed.
"You're talking about Danny Rand, right?" Matt asked.
"Yes, Daniel Rand, the scientist. He runs Rand Enterprises," not-Foggy replied.
Oh. Right. They weren't talking about the Danny Rand that Matt knew.
"But how do we find out if he's behind . . . this?" Foggy waved a hand in Matt's direction.
"My brother-in-law works for Rand Enterprises," other-Matt said. "I'll ask him to set up a meeting."
"OK. Thanks."
"I should get going," other-Matt said. He took a couple of steps toward the door, then stopped. "Where are you going to stay tonight?" he asked Matt.
Not-Karen answered for him. "He can stay with us."
"Good," other-Matt said. "I don't know how I would explain him to Marci and the kids."
"You're married to Marci? Marci Stahl?" Matt asked, dumbfounded.
"Yep, going on seven years," other-Matt replied. "You know her?"
"Yes, but in my world, she's engaged to Fo –, uh, Franklin."
"Lucky man," other-Matt observed. He chuckled softly as he walked out the door.
Matt took a moment to absorb this information, wondering how other-Matt and other-Marci got together. When he heard other-Matt's footsteps fade away down the hall, Matt turned to not-Karen and said, "Thanks for the offer, but I can sleep here, on the couch."
"Believe me, man, you can't," not-Foggy told him. "I've spent plenty of miserable nights on that couch."
"All of them totally deserved," not-Karen added.
Not-Foggy opened his mouth as if to challenge her, but apparently thought better of it.
Matt grinned at their bickering. Underneath it, there was love in their voices. "OK, I accept. Thank you for your hospitality."
"Let's get out of here," not-Foggy said as he headed toward his office. A moment later, he returned, carrying a jacket, a hat, and a briefcase. "Ready to go."
"Wait a minute," not-Karen said, nodding in Matt's direction. "Do you have a hat and sunblock?" she asked him.
Matt's confusion must have shown in his face, because not-Foggy explained. "It's the ozone layer, you know."
Matt didn't know. "Um . . . ."
"You know, the ozone layer. It keeps out the UV rays that cause sunburns and . . . other stuff."
"Like coffee shortages?" Matt asked himself. Aloud, he said, "Yeah, I know what it is, but . . . ."
"It's kinda . . . going away," not-Foggy said. "That's not happening where you come from?"
"Yeah, it was. But a bunch of scientists figured out what was causing it and stopped it, or slowed it down, at least."
"Same here," not-Foggy said, "but no one listened to them, until it was too late."
"More like someone paid off people not to listen," not-Karen observed bitterly, emerging from her office with a wide-brimmed hat and a bottle in her hands. She held out the bottle and placed it in Matt's hand. "Sunblock."
Matt took the bottle from her and started applying the lotion.
"Don't forget your ears," not-Karen instructed him. "Franklin always forgets."
"And suffers because of it," not-Foggy added.
Finished with the sunblock, Matt exchanged the bottle for the hat and put it on.
"Looking good," not-Foggy told him. Matt smiled half-heartedly. "Ready to go?"
Matt pulled out his cane and unfolded it. "Ready when you are."
Not-Karen came up beside him. "Do you need me to, uh, lead you?"
Matt considered this. Probably a good idea. He didn't know the city – this city, that is. "If you don't mind. Have you ever been a sighted guide?"
"No. I've never actually met someone who is, uh, . . ." Her voice trailed off.
Matt sensed her confusion and finished the sentence for her. "Blind. It's OK, you can say the word. I know I'm blind." He gave her a smile that he hoped was reassuring.
"Oh, of, of course you do," she replied, stammering a bit. "You must think I'm an idiot."
"Not at all." Matt had met a lot of idiots. Not-Karen wasn't even close. He moved to stand next to her. "It works best if I hold on to your arm, like this." He found her upper arm, just above the elbow, and placed his hand there lightly. "OK?" he asked.
She nodded, then seemed to remember he couldn't see her. "Yes, OK. Sorry."
Matt pretended not to notice. "The hardest part for beginners is remembering you're seeing for two people," he told her.
"I promise I won't forget," not-Karen declared. "I won't let you run into anything."
"I'm sure you won't." Matt smiled again. It seemed to work better, this time.
"Then let's go!" not-Foggy exclaimed.
They rode down in an elevator, another amenity the offices of Nelson & Murdock lacked. Stepping out of the air-conditioned building felt as if they were walking into an oven. Other-Matt had said something about "climate change," but this was far worse than anything Matt could have imagined. The sun felt stronger, too, beating down on his hat. Not-Foggy and not-Karen didn't seem to notice, so he kept his mouth shut.
As Matt walked along the sidewalk next to not-Karen, the disorienting feeling of "the-same-but-not-the same" returned. He was in New York City; he was sure of that. This city had the same energy, buzzing all around him. The fast-walking pedestrians were the same, too, pushing past them without acknowledging – or even seeming to notice – the blind man.
Their voices were the voices of New Yorkers; that much was the same. So were the sounds of the city: people arguing, the subway rumbling under the street, horns blaring, the swish of tires on pavement; the sound of car engines turning over; rap music drifting down from an open window, neon signs buzzing, the rush of water running through pipes. But something was missing. Matt finally figured out what it was: the hum of electric and hybrid cars. There weren't any.
The smells were familiar, too: the sweat of the people walking past them, women's perfumes, street vendors' food, rotting garbage, dog droppings. But there was another odor, something he couldn't identify, something . . . chemical. Even the air felt different. He could sense its movement, but it wasn't moving the same way it moved in Hell's Kitchen.
He reminded himself he wasn't in Hell's Kitchen. Sure, the address of not-Foggy and not-Karen's law office was in Hell's Kitchen, but this wasn't his Hell's Kitchen. Hadn't other-Matt said people didn't call it Hell's Kitchen anymore? The air was moving as if it was being blocked by tall buildings, taller than those in the Hell's Kitchen he knew. When he focused on the structures around him, he could sense their mass and their height. And these buildings didn't give out the odors of mold, mildew, rust, dry rot, and crumbling brick that said "old building." Perhaps someone in this world had carried out Wilson Fisk's plan to gentrify Hell's Kitchen.
When they reached the corner and waited to cross the street, not-Karen tucked her hair behind her ears. It was then that Matt finally figured out what was missing about her; it was the sound of her hair brushing her shoulders. She must wear her hair short. He wondered what else was different about her, that he hadn't noticed.
Not-Foggy interrupted his train of thought with a question. "Do you like Indian food, Matt?" he asked.
Matt nodded. "Yeah, sure." He only hoped Indian cuisine was the same here.
"Good. Delhi Palace it is."
After crossing the street, they turned to the left, apparently heading toward the restaurant. The aroma of spices announced its location when they were a block away.
Matt sighed with relief when they finally reached the air-conditioned restaurant and went inside. The hostess (apparently sari-clad, from the rustling of fabric) led them to a table. When they were seated, she handed menus to not-Karen and not-Foggy and told Matt, "I'll be right back with a menu for you." When she returned with his menu, Matt opened it and began to read. Then he stopped. What the – ? The raised dots formed letters like those in braille, but the words and letters made no sense. They were gibberish. Frowning, he closed the menu and set it down on the table in front of him.
Not-Foggy was the first to notice. "Is there a problem?" he asked.
"I can't read this," Matt told him. "It's not in braille."
"What's braille?" Karen asked.
Oh, shit. Braille apparently didn't exist here. "It's how I read. It uses raised dots, like this," he said, gesturing toward the menu, "but it's different. It has a different alphabet . . . or something," he concluded uncertainly.
"Well, that sucks," not-Foggy observed. "But no worries." He opened his menu and proceeded to read it aloud. At least most of the dishes sounded familiar.
During a lull in the conversation during dinner, Matt's thoughts drifted back to that afternoon and something other-Matt and not-Karen had said. He tore off a piece of naan, dipped it in raita, and chewed and swallowed before he turned to not-Karen and said, "This afternoon, you and Matt, the other Matt, that is, were talking about the government and what they might do if they found out about me. What did you mean by that?"
Before not-Karen could answer, not-Foggy asked, "You could hear that?"
Matt nodded.
"But how?"
"I'm very good at listening," Matt told him. "I do a lot of it."
"Yeah, I guess so," not-Foggy said thoughtfully.
"About your question," not-Karen said, "I can explain. The political party in power right now is what Franklin and I call – " She lowered her voice. "The 'Paranoid Party.' They see anyone who's different in any way as a threat. You're about as different as it gets."
"I see what you mean, I guess," Matt said doubtfully. "But d'you really think they'd believe a blind lawyer was the leading edge of an invasion from another universe?"
"Count on it," not-Foggy assured him. "There are people in the government that think like that. Aren't there people like that where you come from?"
Matt frowned. He had hoped that, at least, was different here. "Yes – unfortunately," he replied.
"We need to be careful," not-Karen said. "If they find out about you, you'll never make it back to where you come from. All we can do is keep it secret and hope that Dr. Rand can find a way to send you back."
"Got it," Matt said. He tore off another piece of naan and dipped it in the sauce of his chicken tikka masala, but the spicy dish seemed to have lost its flavor.
At the end of their meal, they lingered over cups of tea (apparently, the coffee shortage was worse than Matt thought). Not-Karen set her cup down and seemed to think for a moment before asking, "So, there's a Karen and a Franklin where you come from?" Matt nodded. "What're they like?"
"They're – " Matt began. Then he stopped. He didn't know what to say. As he considered his answer, the reality of his situation started to sink in. He was stuck in this parallel universe. He didn't know how to get back to Foggy and Karen, or if there was even a way to get back. He might never see his best friends again. Finally, he stammered, "They're . . . they're . . the, the best."
Not-Karen seemed to sense his distress. "I'm sure they are," she said simply. There were no more questions about Foggy and Karen.
It was only a few blocks from the restaurant to their apartment, not-Karen told him. So they walked. When they were about halfway there, the ear-splitting blast of a siren assaulted Matt's hearing. He stopped abruptly, let go of Karen's arm, and covered both ears with his hands. Two more blasts followed. His ears were still ringing when he lowered his hands and asked, "What was that?"
"High tide warning," not-Foggy told him matter-of-factly. "You don't have those, where you're from?"
Matt shook his head. Not-Karen apparently picked up on his confusion and explained, "The low-lying streets near the river sometimes flood at high tide."
"Yeah, it really sucks for the folks who paid the big bucks for river views," not-Foggy quipped.
"I guess so," Matt agreed thoughtfully. So this was what other-Matt meant by "climate change." It must be worse here. Back in his Hell's Kitchen, the streets weren't flooding. Not yet.
In the middle of the third block, they entered a new-smelling building. The elevator that lifted them to the 16th floor (announced by an automated voice) was fast and almost silent, even to Matt's ears. Not-Karen led him to the end of the hall, where not-Foggy opened the door, saying, "Welcome to our humble abode."
Not so humble, actually. Matt followed not-Foggy and not-Karen into a spacious apartment, by New York standards. First on the right was the kitchen, identified by the hum of a refrigerator. Past the kitchen was a large L-shaped open space, apparently the living-dining area. An opening in the wall at the far end of the entry hall led to the rest of the apartment. Not-Karen led Matt into the living room and stopped in front of a couch. "The couch is right in front of you," she said. "How – ?"
Matt didn't need to hear the rest of the question. "Just put my hand on the back," he explained, "and I can do the rest." As instructed, not-Karen placed his hand on the back of the couch. He ran his hand across the back and down to the arm, then pretended to find the seat before he sat down.
Not-Karen took a seat in an armchair, facing him. Not-Foggy remained standing. "I don't know about you, but I could use a drink." Matt nodded. So did not-Karen. "What're you drinking, Matt?" he asked.
"Scotch."
"You got it." Not-Foggy turned and went over to a cabinet against the far wall. A door slid open, and bottles clinked. "Neat or on the rocks?"
"Neat," Matt replied.
Liquid sloshed into a glass. Then not-Foggy's footsteps approached. He held out the glass. Matt held out his hand but didn't take the glass, even though he knew where it was. Not-Foggy took the hint and placed the glass in his hand. "Thanks," Matt said.
Not-Foggy poured drinks for himself and not-Karen, then took a seat at the far end of the couch. They drank in silence. Then not-Foggy observed, "Hell of a day."
"You got that right," Matt agreed.
Not-Foggy took one last sip of his drink – a gin martini, from the smell – and dove right in, asking Matt the usual questions about himself and his blindness. Not-Karen chimed in from time to time with questions of her own, sounding tentative, as if she wasn't sure she should be asking.
For the most part, Matt gave his stock answers, but he sensed not-Karen still felt uncomfortable. Finally, he turned toward her and said, "Forgive me for being blunt, but you don't need to dance around me or worry about saying the wrong thing. I've been blind for twenty years. I promise you, there's nothing you can say that I haven't heard before. Besides, I'm a practicing lawyer like you. That means I have a pretty thick skin. And, for the record, you're not an idiot. I know an idiot when I meet one. So you can ask me anything."
She seemed to take a moment to process this. "Oh, um, OK," she stammered. She was very still for another moment, then said, "I guess . . . I was thinking, I mean, I can't imagine what it must have been like, losing your sight like that, at such a young age."
Matt took a sip of his Scotch before answering her. "It was scary at first, I'm not gonna lie. But if I had to lose my sight, I think it's better that it happened when I was a kid."
"You think?" not-Foggy asked, sounding surprised.
"Yeah," Matt confirmed. "Kids are resilient, better at adapting. Once I got past the scary part and, well, accepted what happened to me, I had to learn how to live with it, without sight. I always liked learning new things, so – " He waved a hand.
Not-Karen nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense," she said. "I guess."
Not-Foggy got to his feet. "Time for a refill," he said, then turned toward Matt. "Matt?"
Matt shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm good." One Scotch was enough. He needed to keep a clear head.
When not-Foggy returned with fresh drinks for himself and not-Karen, Matt jumped in and asked them to tell him about themselves. He needed to know more about these two people who seemed like Foggy and Karen in many ways, but weren't them. Like most people, not-Foggy and not-Karen were happy to talk about themselves. And, as he'd told not-Foggy earlier, he was a good listener.
Not-Foggy's story was a lot like Foggy's – until it wasn't. Like Foggy, he grew up in Hell's Kitchen, part of a large extended family. His father owned a hardware store. As the older son, not-Foggy was expected to go into the family business and take over the store one day. Not-Foggy had other ideas. He had been working in the hardware store on weekends and during the summers since he was fourteen. That was not how he wanted to spend the rest of his life.
While he was in high school, the family applauded his prizes and awards for academic achievement, but that changed when he announced he was going to college. His father insisted he didn't need a college education, he needed to learn the business. Not-Foggy was determined. He used a computer at the public library to apply to colleges and for financial aid. When he received his acceptance from CUNY, he packed a duffel and left home and his family, for good. It took him six years, working nights and going to class during the day, sharing crappy apartments with an assortment of annoying roommates, but he graduated with honors. By that time, he knew he wanted to be a lawyer. Columbia Law not only accepted him, they gave him a full scholarship. He and not-Karen met in their first-year Torts class and, as he told Matt, "the rest was history."
Like Karen, not-Karen came from a small town in Vermont, where her parents owned a restaurant that catered to skiers in the winter and vacationers in the summer. After the local ski area closed ("No snow," not-Karen explained laconically), they closed the restaurant and retired to Arizona. Her younger brother, Kevin, moved to Burlington, where he worked as a chef in a series of trendy restaurants.
After deferring college for a year while the family struggled to keep the restaurant afloat, Karen enrolled at Georgetown. She had dreamed of becoming an investigative reporter, but during her undergraduate years, she decided she could do more good as a lawyer. Instead of applying to Columbia's Journalism School, she applied to the Law School and was accepted. She planned to be an environmental lawyer, but after she met not-Foggy, she embraced his dream of opening a practice in Hell's Kitchen and never looked back.
Sitting on the comfortable (and not blood-stained) couch, sipping not-Foggy's good Scotch (much better than what he usually drank), and listening to not-Karen tell her story, Matt couldn't escape the feeling of wrongness that had persisted ever since his arrival. It wasn't simply the awareness of being somewhere . . . different, a place where he wasn't meant to be. The wrongness was physical, too. He felt it in his bones and his blood and with every breath he took. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling. Then he realized where it was coming from. This Hell's Kitchen, this apartment, this Foggy and this Karen, they weren't what was wrong. They belonged here. He didn't. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was what was wrong. That wrongness wasn't going away anytime soon. The only way to fix this was to get back to where he belonged.
Matt's head shake was only a small jerk, but not-Foggy noticed. "You OK, man?"
Matt gave him what he hoped was a reassuring half-smile. "Yeah," he replied, "just trying to wrap my mind around . . . everything." He tried, and failed, to smother a yawn. Not-Foggy noticed that, too.
"Long day, huh?"
"Yeah. You could say that."
"We should probably call it a night," not-Foggy said, "busy day tomorrow."
Matt unfolded his cane and made his way down the hall to the back bedroom. Not-Karen made up the pull-out couch and left towels and a toothbrush for him. He felt a little prick of jealousy as she and not-Foggy retired to the bedroom at the other end of the hall. Then he reminded himself that not-Karen wasn't "his" Karen. Who was he kidding? She wasn't "his" in either world. In the other bedroom, not-Foggy and not-Karen were talking about him. He decided not to listen in.
Later that night – or maybe it was early morning – Matt lay awake, thinking. The sofa bed was comfortable enough, but after the day's events, he was too anxious to sleep. The sounds of the city intruded, but they seemed muffled. He wasn't used to being at this height. He made himself focus, to block them. If he heard a cry for help, there was nothing he could do about it. Not here.
His thoughts turned to not-Foggy and not-Karen. It wasn't right to think of them that way, he decided. Despite the differences, they were Foggy and Karen – in this universe, at least. They weren't "not-Foggy" and "not-Karen." They were "other-Foggy" and "other-Karen." And they reminded him of the "real" Foggy and Karen, which only made him miss them more. Wondering if this world's Danny Rand would find a way back to them, he finally fell asleep.
In the morning (coffeeless, again), Matt gratefully accepted other-Foggy's invitation to accompany them to his and other-Karen's office. It beat sitting around an unfamiliar apartment, waiting for a meeting that might never happen. And maybe he could even make himself useful. He was still a lawyer, after all, even if this world didn't recognize his law license.
Matt discovered his mistake when they arrived at the office. Everything they used to do their legal work was inaccessible to him. He tried to hide his frustration, but other-Foggy noticed. "What's the problem?" he asked. Then he answered his own question. "What d'you need, buddy?"
Matt shook his head. "It's OK, I mean, you shouldn't – "
Other-Foggy cut him off. "Just tell me what you need," he said firmly.
Matt explained about screen readers. He didn't bother to mention braille displays; in this world's version of braille, they would be useless to him.
"OK," other-Foggy said, with a quick nod of his head. "Sit tight." He left Matt in the conference room and returned a few minutes later with something the size and shape of a laptop computer. "My old computer," he explained. "Let's see what I can find." He opened it. Keys clicked. After a few minutes, he exclaimed, "Bingo!" It turned out he'd found not only screen reading software but a whole suite of accessibility features.
Other-Foggy reached into his pocket and took out a wallet. When Matt realized what he was doing, he reached out and put a hand on other-Foggy's arm. "I can't let you do this," he said, "let me pay for it."
"You can't," other-Foggy said, "your money is literally no good here."
He was right. Damn. Matt sighed, then said, "Thank you." He felt a pang. This was something Foggy, his Foggy, would do.
When the purchase and download were complete, other-Foggy left Matt to familiarize himself with the laptop and its new features. It was surprisingly similar to what he was already familiar with – except the features that used the braille-that-wasn't-braille. He'd have to learn it if he was stuck here for any length of time. His heart sank.
###
The phone call they were all waiting for finally came at mid-afternoon: Dr. Rand would see them at his office at 4 p.m.
They took a cab across town to an office tower on Madison Avenue in the 40s. The guard at the desk in the lobby verified their appointment with "Dr. Rand" and directed them to the express elevator that took them to his office on the 48th floor. Rand himself was there to meet them when they stepped out of the elevator. He was about Matt's size, but slender and less muscular than the Danny Rand that Matt knew. A pungent odor accompanied him. Probably some chemical he was working with in his lab. His heart sped up slightly when he spotted his visitors.
"Daniel Rand," he said, extending his hand. He spoke in a low, measured voice. Definitely not the Danny Rand that Matt knew.
Other-Foggy shook it. "Franklin Nelson," he said, then introduced other-Karen and Matt.
Matt held out his hand. "Matt Murdock."
Rand shook his hand and said, "Matthew Murdock. A pleasure to meet you." He said Matt's name meaningfully, as if it held some special significance. Matt couldn't imagine what that might be. And Rand didn't seem surprised that one of his visitors was a blind man. Matt gave a mental shrug. Maybe other-Matt or his brother-in-law had told him.
They followed Rand into a large conference room. Rand took a seat at the head of the table. Other-Karen guided Matt to a seat at Rand's right, then took a seat next to other-Foggy across from him.
As they agreed in the cab, other-Foggy spoke first. "As you may have been told, we believe Mr. Murdock here – " He gestured across the table at Matt. "Has been brought here from, uh, from a, a parallel universe. I know that probably sounds crazy – "
Rand interrupted him. "Not at all. Please proceed."
"It may sound crazy," other-Foggy continued, "but there seems to be no other possible explanation. We've been told you may be able to help us, specifically, Mr. Murdock."
"Help you how?" Rand asked.
Matt answered him. "By explaining how I got here. And how I can get back to my own universe."
"The first question is easy to answer," Rand replied smugly. "I brought you here."
"You!" other-Karen exclaimed. "To what end?"
"I can explain," Rand assured her. "I have been studying the structure of our universe, and others, for more than ten years. About six years ago, I detected a number of weak points in the fabric of our universe, along the interface with Mr. Murdock's universe. I call them 'nodes.' These nodes give me access to the other universe, but only to observe. Or so I thought, until a month ago. I was observing one of the inhabitants of the other universe. He approached the node, and . . . something happened. There was a . . . a pulse of energy. He disappeared from his office, where he had been working, and reappeared in my laboratory."
"What happened to him?" Matt demanded.
"Why, nothing," Rand replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He is alive and well. If I may proceed . . . ."
"Go on," other-Foggy said.
"I had no intention of bringing him here, but here he was. I attempted to recreate the energy surge that preceded his arrival and succeeded in bringing over two additional individuals."
Matt surged out of his chair, forgetting to act blind, and grabbed Rand by the lapels of his jacket – a lab coat, apparently. "You did what?" he roared.
"I am a scientist," Rand explained calmly. "I needed to replicate my results."
Matt let go of Rand's jacket and sank back into his chair. "Unbelievable," he muttered. He rose to his feet and walked to the far end of the room, remembering to trail his hand along the wall. He stood there with his back to the others, clenching and unclenching his fists and cursing under his breath.
"Please tell me you've sent them back," other-Foggy said.
"Well, um, there's a problem with that," Rand admitted, sounding embarrassed. "I tried to send them back by simply reversing the process, but it didn't work."
"What do you mean, 'it didn't work'?" other-Karen demanded.
"Nothing happened."
"So they're still here?" she asked.
"Yes."
Matt walked back from the far end of the room, but he didn't resume his seat. Instead, he stood next to Rand, looming over him. "God damn it, Rand, do you even hear yourself?" he demanded. "This is not a fucking science experiment. You're talking about people, human beings, not lab rats. You've, you've . . . disappeared them. They have lives. They have families and friends who are frantic, not knowing what happened to them. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I do," Rand said quietly. "And I'm doing everything I can to find a way to send them back." He stood up and walked back and forth, gesturing with both hands, as he launched into a rambling discussion of polarities and energy fields and electromagnetic pulses and quantum something-or-other. None of it made sense to Matt. He only hoped it made sense to Rand. "I assure you," he concluded, "I will find a way. But it will take time."
"How much time?" other-Foggy demanded.
Rand hung his head. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
There seemed to be nothing else to say. Matt started to leave, along with other-Foggy and other-Karen, but then Rand said, "Mr. Murdock, could I have a word, in private?"
Matt stopped and turned to face him. "Uh, OK, sure."
"We'll be just outside," other-Karen told him.
"Thanks."
On the thick carpeting, the sound of their footsteps faded quickly. As soon as the two lawyers left the room, Rand closed the door and gestured toward a chair. "Take a seat, please."
Wondering what this was all about, Matt complied. Rand resumed his place at the head of the table before he said, "Your being here, it's not an accident. I brought you here for a reason."
The expression on Matt's face must have given away his confusion, because Rand quickly continued. "We have a problem, and we need your help. Yours and Daredevil's."
What the hell? "I don't know what you're – " Matt began, but Rand cut him off.
"Don't worry, your secret is safe. Who am I going to tell, in your world?"
He had a point, but Matt still didn't like it. And there was another problem. "What about the others, the ones you brought here?"
"What about them?"
"They can't know that I'm here," Matt explained. "When we go back – if we go back – they might figure out who I am, with Matt Murdock being here at the same time Daredevil was missing."
"All right. Point taken," Rand said. "As I was saying, we need your help. There are no superheroes in this world – no Daredevil, no Avengers. Tony Stark didn't make it out of Afghanistan. On the plus side, we haven't been attacked by aliens, either."
"You mentioned a problem. So what's the problem?" Matt asked.
"Wilson Fisk."
Matt groaned. Not Fisk. Not again. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered. Then he raised his voice and asked, "Fisk? Really?"
"You've already brought him down twice," Rand pointed out.
"Yeah, in my world. I don't know this world, I don't know this Fisk. Seems to me you have a better chance of taking him down yourself. After all, you're the Immortal – " He only got that far before Rand interrupted him.
"The Immortal Iron Fist?" Rand shook his head. "Not here. As I said, there are no superheroes in this world. The plane crash, K'un Lun, the dragon, the Iron Fist, none of that happened here. My parents never went on that Asian trip. They planned to go but canceled when I came down with a bad case of the flu. So, no, there's no Iron Fist to take on Fisk. None of the other Defenders, either. Only you."
Matt frowned. "So what is it you think I can do?"
"Nothing you haven't done before. I've observed your Fisk, I know how he operates. His playbook here is essentially the same. Besides, you're stuck here until I can figure out how to send you back. You might as well make yourself useful."
Matt sighed resignedly and waved a hand. "So tell me."
"Here, unlike in your world, Fisk has succeeded in consolidating his power over the crime bosses in the city. With their help, he won a seat on the City Council, but he's only one of 51 council members. The smart money says he has his eyes on the Borough Presidency, maybe even the Mayor's office. We need to stop him before he makes his move."
Rand wasn't wrong. But how to stop Fisk? He would be much harder to take down in this world. When Matt asked the question out loud, Rand had an answer. "We think the way to get to Fisk is though his wife."
"Vanessa?" Matt asked in disbelief. The Vanessa he knew was fully invested in Fisk's criminal enterprises.
Rand nodded. "By all accounts, when she married Fisk, she was totally on board with his criminal activities. But now, apparently, she has soured on the whole 'married to the mob' thing," he explained. "When Fisk decided to run for City Council, she reportedly got him to promise to go legitimate, but he hasn't. And it doesn't look like he's going to."
"No, he wouldn't," Matt observed.
"And there's one other thing. There are rumors that the marriage is in trouble. Supposedly, she's having an affair with Fisk's right-hand man, James Wesley."
So Wesley was still alive in this universe. That was not good. Despite his flowery way of speaking, the man was smart – and ruthless. At least other-Karen didn't carry the burden of having killed him.
"There are also indications that Vanessa has turned Wesley against Fisk. If he flips, Fisk is done. Between them, he and Vanessa know everything there is to know about Fisk's empire."
"That's assuming you can keep them alive," Matt pointed out, painfully aware of the fate of Jasper Evans and Ray Nadeem.
"True," Rand admitted somberly. "But I have access to resources that you didn't have on your side. I'm confident I can keep them safe. The real challenge is how to get to them. Fisk's men are watching them closely, 24/7. That's where you come in."
Matt raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"Fisk and his people don't know about you, don't know about Daredevil," Rand explained. "They won't see you as a threat."
Matt frowned. It stung, being viewed as a harmless blind man, but Rand was right. Might as well take advantage of it. "OK," he said, "go on."
"You can get close to Vanessa, seduce her."
"What?" Matt exclaimed. "Didn't you just say Vanessa was having an affair with Wesley?"
"I didn't mean literally seduce her," Rand replied. "Unless you want to, of course. It doesn't matter to me, either way." He waved his hand indifferently. "You just need to charm her, win her over, get her to believe there's a way out for her. I've seen you in action. You can do it."
Matt's skin crawled at the thought of Rand watching him, observing him. How long had he been watching? What had he seen? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. Instead, he asked, "Assuming I agree to this, what's the approach?"
Rand had an answer ready. "In this world, as in yours, Vanessa owns an art gallery. It's part front, part legitimate business. At the moment, she is showing a collection of tactile art. You will go to the gallery as an employee of Rand Enterprises, sent to select some pieces that will appeal to the, uh, visually impaired visitors to our offices."
"Tactile art? Is that really a thing?" Matt asked.
"Oh, yes," Rand assured him. "Of course, you will need more than one visit to the gallery to select the artworks. This should give you ample opportunity to gain her trust."
Matt considered this. "And then what?"
"When the time is right, you make your move."
Matt didn't like the sound of that. If this Fisk was anything like the Fisk he knew, the odds were not in his favor. He kept his doubts to himself. Instead, he said, "I can't do this on my own." He had learned this the hard way.
"Of course not," Rand replied airily. "I can provide all the resources you need."
"I'm sure you can, but that's not what I meant," Matt said. "Franklin and Karen need to be a part of this. The other Matt Murdock, too. If they agree, that is."
"You sure about that? I mean, you hardly know them."
"I know their counterparts. Some things don't change, even across universes," Matt said firmly.
"They'll need to know about – " Rand began.
Matt cut him off. "No. They can't know. You said it yourself, there's no Daredevil here. What d'you think would happen if people – specifically, people in your government – found out about me, about my abilities? Can you guarantee what they'd do?"
Rand shook his head. "No."
"They might never let me go back. I'm not gonna risk that. I can't risk it."
Rand let out his breath, all at once. "All right. We'll do it your way."
Author's Note: Yes, Danny Rand is very different in the parallel universe. He needs to be, in this story.
For purposes of this story, readers can assume Alt-Daniel Rand has observed the major events depicted in the Marvel Netflix TV series and at least some of the Marvel movies.