Chapter 2
Author's Note: This chapter is darker and more violent than Chapter 1, specifically the part where Daredevil deals with a would-be rapist after stopping an attempted rape in progress.
Matt Murdock hesitated, but only for an instant, before opening the battered foot locker in his closet. He lifted the tray and set it aside, brushing his fingertips over the silky fabric of his father's boxing robe. It had become a ritual for him before he suited up as Daredevil, the protector of Hell's Kitchen. His father never wanted him to fight, but he thought Battlin' Jack might approve of what he was doing these days. He no longer fought street crime in the alleys of his neighborhood. Not since that terrible day – and night – when Claire Temple and a volunteer surgeon failed to save a 12-year-old girl who suffered a miscarriage after she was raped and impregnated by her stepfather. Now he had another mission: stopping the rapists and child molesters before they could victimize women and girls.
As a lawyer, Matt knew all too well that there would be no justice for the victims through the legal system. The archaic, discredited rule requiring corroboration of a rape victim's testimony had been revived, making successful prosecutions impossible in most cases. In the rare cases where a witness came forward to support the victim, both she (the witness was almost always a woman) and the victim were vilified and attacked for "ruining" a man's life. Victims soon learned it was futile to report the crimes against them, allowing the government to boast that sex crimes were virtually non-existent under their rule, while rapists and child molesters walked free. There was only one way to deliver justice for their victims: Daredevil's way.
Matt pulled on the suit of black armor he now wore as Daredevil. People still called his alter ego "Daredevil," but he no longer wore the red devil suit. It was too provocative. He shoved his billy clubs into their pockets and strapped a sheath with a knife on his right thigh. He still drew the line at killing, but the knife was necessary on these missions.
Holding his helmet in his hand, he climbed the stairs to the roof. There he took stock of his surroundings, listening for the all-too-familiar sounds of an attack in progress. He didn't have to wait long; these days, he never did. The criminals who victimized women and girls were emboldened, confident they wouldn't have to pay for their crimes.
Matt pulled on his helmet and sprinted across the roof toward the sound of a woman's screams, only a block away. He reached the roof above the alley where the attack was taking place and raced down the fire escape. Intent on his victim, the would-be rapist didn't even look up when Matt landed behind him. "Let her go," Matt ordered in a low, menacing voice.
The man finally looked up. "Get lost, asshole," he snapped.
That was all Matt needed. He grabbed the back of the man's shirt and pulled him to his feet. His pants dropped to the ground, hobbling him. The woman he was attacking didn't waste any time. She scrambled to her feet, pulling her tangled clothes around her, and ran. The would-be rapist started to pull up his pants but dropped them when Matt attacked, landing punches to the man's jaw and midsection before he could raise his hands to defend himself. He staggered, his movement limited by the pants around his ankles, then swung wildly at Matt but missed. Matt leaped and kicked the man squarely in the middle of his chest. His breath went out of him all at once, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping. Matt crouched over him, pounding his head until he lay still and bloody.
There was one more thing Matt needed to do, to complete his mission. Claire had carefully schooled him, teaching him the exact locations of certain nerves and other structures and how to make sure a rapist would never rape again. He pulled out his knife and got to work. He made the cuts as Claire had instructed him, and if he didn't make them with surgical precision, well, he wasn't going to lose any sleep over it.
His work done, Matt climbed to the roof, leaving the man in a pool of his own blood. He didn't bother waiting for the cops to show up. It wouldn't make any difference if they did. And if no one called an ambulance for the would-be rapist, he was OK with that. Grimly satisfied, he strode to the corner of the roof, alert for the sounds of another attack.
The next morning, Matt trudged wearily up the stairs of the brownstone where the offices of Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law, and Page Investigations were located. Before returning to his apartment the night before, he had stopped another rape in progress and the attempted kidnapping of a teenaged girl by a suspected human trafficker. A routine night for Daredevil.
Their investigator, Karen Page, was the first to greet him when he walked into the office.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey, yourself."
She studied him for a moment. He didn't look any more banged-up than usual, but she knew the signs. His face was a neutral mask, but his rounded shoulders told her something was going on with him. "You look tired," she observed. "Rough night?"
Matt shrugged. "The usual."
Karen didn't ask him to elaborate. She already knew what "the usual" was. The media reported on Daredevil in lurid detail. She and Matt's law partner, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, had an unspoken agreement not to talk about it with Matt, but both of them worried about the toll that dispensing vigilante justice was taking on their friend and partner. Now more than ever, he struggled to contain his rage, what he called the "devil" inside him. More often than not, he "let the devil out" on the rapists and child molesters he encountered as Daredevil. One of these days, Karen and Foggy feared, he would lose control and go too far.
Karen's heart ached for Matt as she watched him make his way slowly to his office. Underneath her heartache was anger, the constantly simmering anger at the system that had driven him to such extreme violence. She shook her head. Giving into her rage wouldn't help anyone. They had to work to do, if they were going to win this fight.
Matt took a seat behind his desk and opened his laptop to prepare for a deposition that afternoon. Nelson & Murdock was still a working law firm, but they no longer handled criminal cases. The criminal justice system had always been flawed, but now it made a mockery of the word "justice." When they weren't targeting doctors and the women they helped, prosecutors brought trumped-up charges against members of the resistance – those who didn't simply disappear. Rapists and child molesters weren't the only ones who skated under the new system. Politically-connected bosses ran their criminal enterprises with impunity. They, along with the underlings that carried out their orders, were effectively immune from prosecution.
Criminal trials now had only the pretense of due process. It was all for show. Defense attorneys were mere window-dressing, there to give the appearance of fairness but without the ability to provide a meaningful defense. Foggy and Matt refused to participate in the sham. Instead, their practice now dealt with civil matters: personal injury cases, small business disputes, and landlord-tenant issues – small cases, important only to the parties involved. This was intentional, to avoid attracting unwanted attention.
The firm's real work was secret. Foggy and Matt had educated themselves in the intricacies of corporation law and now spent their time setting up untraceable (they hoped) shell companies to funnel money to the resistance. The same shell companies leased the spaces, mostly in vacant office buildings, where volunteer medical professionals worked to save women's lives.
There were other firms doing the same work, other shell companies, other locations. Foggy, Matt, and Karen knew nothing about any of the others, and the others knew nothing about them. That way, no one could compromise the entire movement. Inevitably, members of the resistance would be arrested and interrogated. Everyone broke eventually and talked. Compartmentalization allowed the movement to survive, despite the periodic roundups.
There were other factions of the resistance, too: those who set off bombs, sabotaged infrastructure, and assassinated government officials. Matt understood their desire to lash out violently. He shared it. But violence wasn't the smart move. The scattered attacks had no chance of bringing down the ruling junta, and there was too great a risk of harming and killing innocents. That would only play into the government's hands, and the violence was costing them public support, something they could ill afford to lose. They would need it when the time came to act. So Matt gritted his teeth, and Daredevil kept his distance from the violent factions.
When Foggy got back from court at mid-morning, Karen stepped out of her office to greet him. "How'd it go?" she asked.
"Fuckin' waste of time," Foggy told her. He hated discovery disputes. They were always a waste of time unless an issue of privilege was involved.
"But – ?"
Karen didn't have to finish her question. Foggy knew what she was asking. "Yeah, we drew Meyer, and he granted the motion." He chuckled. "I thought he was gonna rip Belski a new one when he started spouting his bullshit about 'trade secrets.'"
"Good. So we're getting the records?"
"Yeah, but don't hold your breath."
"Got it."
Matt hadn't come out of his office to join in their conversation. Karen jerked her head in the direction of his office and gave Foggy a worried look. Foggy responded with a little nod, letting her know he got the message. He dropped his briefcase in the reception room and went straight to Matt's office.
"Hey," he said, pulling up a chair and taking a seat.
Matt raised his head. "Hey."
"You talk to Claire this morning?"
Matt nodded. "Yeah."
"How's Eve?"
"Basically what you'd expect, according to Claire."
"So, not good," Foggy said.
"Not good," Matt agreed. "You on call this afternoon?"
"No, I am." Karen spoke up from the doorway, where she'd been listening to the two lawyers' conversation.
Time to change the subject. "Don't you want to hear how I kicked Belski's ass in court just now?" Foggy asked.
Matt shrugged indifferently, then started his screen reader.
Foggy and Karen exchanged knowing looks. Matt was in one of his black moods. It might be just a bad mood. Or it might be something else. Matt had struggled with depression for as long as Foggy had known him. Foggy didn't think that was it, this time; he hadn't seen any of the usual warning signs. More likely, Eve's case was getting to him. And they all felt discouraged at times, when their efforts seemed futile, their fight unwinnable. Still, Foggy needed to do what he could to keep Matt from spiraling down.
"Something bothering you, buddy?" he asked.
"I'm fine," Matt snapped.
Foggy had heard that one many times before – too many. He shook his head. "No, I don't think that you are."
Matt frowned and stopped his screen reader. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, holding out his hands.
"Talk to me, man. Just talk to me."
Matt fiddled with something on his laptop – Foggy wasn't sure what. He was starting to think Matt wasn't going to say anything and was about to get up and leave when Matt finally spoke. "What're we doing, Fog?"
Foggy knew what his friend was asking, but he pretended he didn't. "What d'you mean, what're we doing? You know what we're doing."
"I'm not so sure that I do. Not anymore."
Foggy sat very still and waited. He was prepared to wait as long as it took. The silence stretched into minutes, measured by the tapping of Karen's fingernails on the door frame. Two full minutes passed before Matt shifted uncomfortably in his chair, signaling he had decided to speak. "You know what I mean," he said. "Nothing we do makes any difference. Nothing's changing. If anything, it's getting worse."
"Tell that to Eve," Foggy responded, "and all of the other women who are alive today."
Matt shook his head. "That's not the point."
"You mean those women's lives aren't important?" Karen demanded angrily.
Startled, Matt turned toward her. "No, of course not. But nothing's gonna change as long as the fascists and the Bible-thumpers are in power." He frowned, then added bitterly, "And it's not like we can vote them out at the next election."
Karen nodded. Elections were still held, but their outcomes were never in doubt. The combination of gerrymandering and "election law reform" ensured the unholy alliance of fascists and "religious" fanatics would stay in power, no matter how people voted.
"We just need to give it time," Foggy said. "The coalition's not gonna last. We're already hearing reports of infighting."
"You think?" Karen asked.
"Yeah, I do. The fascists don't give a shit about the whole 'keep 'em barefoot and pregnant' thing. They want women out there, in the workforce."
"But paid less than men," Karen pointed out.
"That, too." Foggy nodded grimly, then continued, "The fascists used the Bible-thumpers to help them seize power. That's all they care about. Some of the Bible-thumpers are starting to figure that out. It's not gonna be pretty when they do. And don't forget, the extremists are in the minority. Most people don't support what they're doing. People just didn't realize what was really going on, until it was too late."
"Some of us did," Karen muttered.
"We know. You don't need to remind us," Foggy told her irritably. But Karen was right. When five radicals in judicial robes trampled on American women's reproductive rights, she didn't waste any time. She knew that was only the beginning. She knew what she had to do, if she didn't want to risk bleeding out from a miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy. She found a surgeon who was willing to perform tubal ligations, no questions asked. She acted in time, but many other women didn't. The procedure was now illegal except in a few, rare cases. But Karen, at least, was safe – or as safe as she could be. Foggy was thankful for that. He only wished it hadn't taken so long for Karen to convince him and Matt to let go of their "male privilege," as she called it, and see what was really happening.
"So what," Matt asked, "we're just supposed to wait – for what?"
"What they're doing, it isn't sustainable," Foggy said. "The sanctions are already beginning to bite. The economy's gonna crater. Things are gonna get worse, much worse. When people are hungry and desperate and angry, that's the time to act. Not before."
"And how many more women and girls have to die before that happens?" Matt demanded.
"Too many," Karen conceded. "I don't like it any more than you do, but Foggy's right. That's what it's gonna take to bring down those sons of bitches."
"You got a better idea?" Foggy asked. Matt's silence, and the stubborn set of his jaw, were all the answer he needed. He paused, pretending to wait for Matt to answer, then continued. "I, for one, want to be here when that happens."
Matt turned his head toward Foggy, looking puzzled at the sudden change of subject.
"What that means, my friend, is that we've worn out our welcome at our, uh, other place of business. Time to find somewhere new."
"You heard from your guy?" Karen asked. Foggy had an informant in the NYPD, whose name was never mentioned.
Foggy nodded. "Yeah, he said the black shirts have been sniffing around that block." This was bad news. The "black shirts," vicious extremists recruited from militia and paramilitary groups, operated outside the law to enforce the government's edicts.
If the makeshift clinic was on the black shirts' radar, Matt didn't like their chances. Too many people running clinics like theirs had just . . . vanished, along with their patients, after the black shirts found them. They couldn't stay in one place for too long, not if they wanted to stay one step ahead of the enforcers. Making sure they didn't was Matt's job. "Damn," he swore."I should've known we were pushing our luck, staying there."
"My guy's not sure if it's our, uh, activities or something else that's attracting their attention," Foggy pointed out.
"Doesn't matter," Karen said. "We need to move." She turned to Matt. "How long until we can get into that new place you found?"
"Two days, maybe three, tops," Matt replied.
"Good. I'll tell Claire to get ready to move, when I see her this afternoon." Karen spun around and headed back to her own office.
Foggy took a close look at Matt, who had opened a file on his computer and was concentrating on the screen reader's sped-up electronic voice. Matt paused the screen reader and waved a hand at him. "Go," he growled. "If we're gonna get out of there in time, I need to get to work."
Matt didn't have to tell him twice. The threat of discovery by the black shirts was real – he'd heard the fear in his informant's voice. The longer they stayed, the greater the danger – to all of them.
