Matt should be studying for the Bar exam. But he's decided to take the night off when he remembers there being a lot of chatter on the streets.
The voices that whisper. Through the vents. On the winds. His ears like radar, catching the utterances and hissings of the snakes in the underbelly.
They're nervous.
He's just not sure why.
—-
"You know—" Foggy says, slapping a newspaper down in front of him and thumping his finger against it, "I keep saying our world can't get weirder. Then it does."
Matt blinks. And waits. Foggy's one of the good ones. He doesn't forget that Matt can't see what's on the newspaper. He treats Matt like a normal human being. Ever since college he's been like that. He'll tell him.
"They found him." Foggy says, a large deep breath following.
"Found who?"
"That old war guy, you know, Captain America? They found him in the freaking ice somewhere wherever up in the arctic. They found his old plane and lo and behold he was still inside." Matt doesn't comment that bodies usually reside where they died when buried and frozen and lost in ice for decades. Minor detail.
Matt blows out surprised air, "geez." He feels the way Foggy moves through the room and opens his fridge. The crinkle of water bottles fills the room alongside the way Foggy's shoes slide gently on his floor.
"Are you wearing new cologne?" Matt asks, his nose wrinkling.
Foggy laughs, "Nah, new deodorant. Geez, did I put on that much?"
"Nah, just noticed the difference." Then Matt runs his fingers over the paper, although with the tiny print and the way they ink newspapers he knows it won't tell him anything, "they gonna have a big ceremony? I bet people in Brooklyn are losing their minds."
"Oh for sure, Wells was practically dancing when he was selling me the paper, you know his dad was an Irish immigrant, raised in Brooklyn, he said they're going to throw a parade to 'bring him home' bigger than Mardi Gras."
"I'll bet. Traffic's going to be a nightmare that day."
"I wonder when they'll have it?" Foggy wonders, "and where he'll be buried. That little church has that sign where he attended as a kid, wonder if they'll claim him."
"Figure the national cemetery—" Matt comments shrugging, "the Army's going to want him there."
"Ohhhh." Foggy huffs out, "that's true." He can sense the shift in air as Foggy's longer hair swings back and forth as he shakes his head, "Brooklyn's going to lose their shit."
"Brooklyn's always losing their shit."
"Ha." Foggy barks out. Then he's quiet and Matt's reminded that Foggy is a sentimentalist at heart, "It's sad though. He was alone all that time."
"He was dead, Foggy. He didn't care."
"Yeah, I know, but I mean…" Foggy's water bottle makes a sound as he drinks from it, "he died saving New York." There's a tone of awe, "both our families were around when he went down. If he hadn't sacrificed himself, we wouldn't be here. And he won't ever even know what he did. Who all he saved. How much he changed the world. Just kinda sad when you think about it. You know he was like… 26? Barely older than us."
That causes Matt to pause. Sure he knows who Captain America was. Sick kid from Brooklyn turned War Hero. Nose dive in the arctic to save America which helped save the world. He read some of the comics when he was young, watched some of the old cartoon reruns. He may have even had an action figure given to him from his dad. His dad was a big Cap Fan. He never stayed down, Matty. He always got back up. Even when he was sick he could take a punch. He had the spirit of New York in him.
Sometimes Matt had pictured Captain America as this larger than life middle aged tank of a man. Kind takes you out of the reality that this was a real guy. Cartoons and comics make him feel like… a fictional person.
"That's…" air escapes his teeth, "that is crazy. Died really young." And he can sense Foggy's nodding.
"Guess most guys died young in the war, weird to think if it had been us." Not only is Foggy a sentimentalist, but he's imaginative.
"I think I woulda been 4F'd."
Foggy's snort of laughter makes Matt at ease. Most people don't like to joke about his blindness. Foggy knows Matt's easy going. "True, but maybe if you grew up then, you would'na gotten blinded. Not too many toxic waste trucks driving around back in the old Hell's Kitchen days."
Matt tilts his head back and forth, a grin on his face, "touché." He laughs, "guess we woulda signed up together."
"Nah, screw you, I'm waiting to get drafted. Then I'm calling myself in as my lawyer."
Matt laughs out loud and Foggy joins him.
—-
He's not sure why his senses pick it up. He's not even close, maybe a couple blocks away.
But the sound makes his back go rigid. A grating rip followed by a thousand grains of sand shattering and sliding across a smooth surface. A thump.
He tunes out everything else.
Honing in on that one sound. Sweeping. Sounds of sand being shuffled. The thump of something heavy against something metal. He's moving, leaping across the closely situated rooftops and coming to a sliding halt on the roof across from the gym.
Fogwell's. His dad's old gym.
And that sound.
A sound he'd only heard one other time in his lifetime.
But he has to check it out to confirm.
Slowly he approaches from the backside and uses his ceiling access to slip inside the building. Then he silently makes his way down the hanging metal gangplanks until he gets to the office. He listens. No one is there. No heartbeat, no breathing.
So he lithely leaps to the floor and follows the smell of freshly ripped leather. A strange pungent smell that differentiates itself from the other pungent smells of a gym.
The smell leads him first to the punching bag. It hangs motionlessly and doesn't actually seem to be the source of the smell. Another scent lingers. Someone's soap or cologne— no, it's soap. It's not aromatic enough to be a cologne.
And there's no residual heat on the bag. No one's fists transferred energy here. He crouches, feeling the ground. He's surprised when he feels nothing but clean glazed concrete.
Then he starts to scour, feeling around and finding nothing, not even a grain until— Matt grins, a spare few grains must have skittered further and into a corner and gotten missed. He rubs them between his fingers and then decides to follow the scent of the soap. It leads out the back to the dumpster where the ripped leather smell returns.
He's lucky the dumpster is half full and he can lean over the edge, reaching down until his fingertips find it.
A ripped open punching bag.
There's a few reasons this fascinates him.
One, it takes years and years to wear down a punching bag. Especially a thick old leather one like this. He can feel the softness of its skin. And gyms, particularly Foggwells, were meticulous about keeping their bags oiled and in good shape. Stitched tight and repaired when necessary. They were expensive and replacing them was a pain. Equipment or a team of guys had to hang them up.
When they break or rip, they're usually taken down and repaired as best as possible. And this was just thrown away. But as his fingers inspect the tear, he understands that this was a catastrophic rip. Irreparable. Must have been some punch, or perhaps a faulty seam.
Mystery solved, he heads back to this corner on the rooftop to listen to the sounds of Hell's Kitchen.
—
The voices are back. The underworld scrambling and hissing and in general freaking out. Not all of it, just a portion. Matt hasn't learned the organization's name, but he knows they're old. Tied deeply along the roots of some government organization. A bad apple in a barrel of espionage and national security.
He keeps his ears wide open, trying to figure out why they're scrambling so he can use it against them. But they're slippery.
—-
"Whatever happened to that Captain America parade?" Matt asks one day as they're going over old cases that may appear on the exam, "never heard anything else."
Foggy's head shifts up, and Matt feels him shrug, "you know? That's a good point. I dunno, I haven't heard anything either." His head tips and Matt hears the tap tap tap of his pen, "how long does it take to prep a body?"
"Depends on the damage I guess." Matt answers. Tapping his foot along to the beat of Foggy's pen, "and probably the red tape is keeping things tied up." And then, as someone who knows what it's like to fear people knowing his gifts, a horrible thought enters his mind, "hopefully they're treating his body with respect…"
Foggy sucks in a sharp breath, "what?"
"You heard about Banner right? Guy who messed with the serum and then went on a rampage in Harlem?"
Foggy snorts and he can imagine the eye roll that accompanies it, "yeah, unsurprisingly I heard about it."
"Now they have—" the words feel gross coming out of his mouth, "the source. Probably a few scientists who want access before they bury him."
While Matt's a realist, Foggy has a deep seated faith in humanity, "what? No. They wouldn't do that. He's a human being, not a science experiment!"
"Just giving options for why we haven't heard anything. Could be nothing."
And Foggy's voice is sad when he responds, "can dead people get a lawyer?"
Matt's grin is sad, "probably not ones owned by the government."
"He's not a lab rat." Foggy says through gritted teeth, "they better be respecting him."
Matt doesn't respond. Because it's doubtful.
—-
Another day.
Another ripped punching bag.
A fresh one hung and the floor cleaned by the time Matt gets there.
—
"I asked Wells, says he hasn't heard anything either. He's worried it means they won't let them bury him in Brooklyn." Foggy shifts through the myriad of textbooks looking for the grand jury testimonies they're supposed to be going over that day, studying at Matt's apartment. "They're starting a petition."
"He didn't have a will?" Matt asks.
"Dunno, didn't learn that in history class."
Matt shakes his head and his fingers cease their run over the braille. "I don't even remember learning about him in history class."
"Really?" Foggy asks, sounding surprised, "my teacher loved him. Wouldn't shut up about world war 2. I know tons of useless facts about the guy."
"My history teacher was German." He lets out a chuckle, "maybe it's a sore subject."
Foggy throws a crumpled up piece of paper at him and he lets it knock him on the shoulder. "That's a horrible joke."
"Thank you," Matt jokes with the tip of his head like he's bowing, "thank you."
—
After the third bag is ripped and replaced, Matt is annoyed at whoever is going through Jones' supplies like that. Maybe whoever it was was using metal-knuckled gloves to feel big and strong, causing the bags to give in.
It doesn't really make sense, but he has no other explanation.
—-
The explosions reverberate through the whole city. Maybe their goal was
Lower Manhattan, but the damage was spreading northwest towards Hell's Kitchen and slowly creeping towards the rest of the boroughs.
Matt and Foggy are together when the first strike happens, and they spend the next few hours trying to help those in firing zones into basements or fallout shelters. He grits in frustration as he has to pretend to use his cane lest he be suspicious. But thankfully total chaos tends to distract people, and he doesn't get any questions for why he seems to know exactly where he's going.
"Holy shit!" Foggy is shouting, running towards him waving his phone. "He's alive!I"
Matt, wiping sweat from his brow, feels the air buff against him as Foggy slides to a stop, sweat and adrenaline rolling off him in waves. The buzzing of the phone's mechanics whir back and forth as Foggy waves it again, "Captain America is alive! That's why they haven't buried him!"
Matt grabs Foggy's shaking arm, "What the hell are you talking about Foggy."
"They're showing news coverage! The aliens are attacking Stark Tower! Iron Man and Thor, and Hulk and some other people are fighting and Captain America! Shield and all!"
"It's not just a guy wearing his outfit?" Matt asks, ever the skeptic.
Foggy pauses, and disappointment curls off him at not having thought about it. "You know, now that you mention it… the suit is different than his World War 2 one… maybe now that they got the shield back, they're just having some other guy dress up as him."
"Kinda creepy, knowing they just found his body and looted his personality. You're saying he's using the shield?"
"Yeah, pretty good with it."
And Matt thinks about himself and the Hulk and the fact that just less than a year ago an alien/god person was fighting a robot in New Mexico. "Maybe it really is him."
Foggy's heart rate picks up in excitement, "man, what if it is?"
An explosion a block over cuts their conversation short.
—
Hell's Kitchen barely escapes. Building after building burnt to a crisp or knocked down by the wild mechanical things Matt could feel gliding through the air and crushing anything in its path.
The shelters left standing are at capacity and people are sleeping in the streets for weeks after. They do what they can, but it's not much.
—
It's by chance that he's close enough to hear the bag start to rip.
The sound makes his sense fire and instead of waiting to hear the sand, he runs, finding himself behind Foggwell's in seconds. He utilizes his senses to lead him in the building using the back hallways until he reaches the entrance to the main gym. Whoever it is is sweeping.
Matt pushes the door open so slowly that the old hinges stay quiet.
His senses sweep the building and he knows they're alone.
Matt stalks forward, quieting his breathing and rounding the corner. He hides behind a pillar and throws out any ability he has to get a read on the person.
The person's heart beats like thunder. Low and deep and constant. Like a storm approaching that you can't avoid. Matt's brow furrows as he notices that he can barely clock the person's breathing.
The sweeping is a soft sound, then they're walking out the back doors to the dumpster. Matt uses the absence to slink back, climbing up high and getting to a perch that hides him in the shadows.
When the man, it's definitely a man, walks back in, Matt listens. No music, no sounds really. Just the barely audible sound of the broom being replaced to the closet and then the guy walking towards the lockers.
He's only in there for a second before he comes back and walks up the steps to the offices. Matt hears the jangle of keys dropped off into the mailbox slot and then the man is descending the steps and out the front door that locks behind him.
The keys means Matt has to reevaluate what he knows.
Old Man Jones must have a deal with this guy.
And there had been nothing on his knuckles. Just tape.
Matt needs more time to study this guy. Figure him out.
—
"I'm just saying, if we fail the exam, we can blame it on PTSD from the Battle of New York." Foggy says with an air of teasing.
Matt shakes his head and then winces, forgetting the hard crick he'd gotten in it after his late night brawl with some idiot trying to terrorize his girlfriend.
"Yeah." He manages out, "us and the rest of New York."
"You heard about the cleanup?"
Matt lifts his head, the tips of his fingers sore from reading so fast and so much, "what?"
"The rumors are, some team or group is cleaning up at night when the construction crews go home. It's at random, can't figure out where they'll strike next, but whoever is doing it, is helping the crews work faster by moving chunks of concrete or debris so the trucks can move freely and not have to wait for the cranes, and just doing things in general to help."
Sometimes Matt is so buried under the scum of Hell's Kitchen he forgets that there is still good in New York. "That's really awesome." He responds, "love hearing that people are trying to do the right thing."
"Wish we knew who they were." Foggy says, rubbing his fingers together and making the air around them shimmer back and forth, "I love good Samaritan's."
"Mhmm…" Matt says, already distracted, his fingers resting back on the page.
—-
He thinks back to which days he found the bags in the dumpsters and heads to the gym early. He waves to Old Man Jones who waves back. There's a few patrons. They're new, and they avoid him like he has the plague. It's to be expected. He walks with the cane, and people get nervous around the cane.
He plants himself at the small weights station, knowing that people will believe he's capable of that at least without question.
An hour passes and he hears Old Man Jones call that the gym is closing.
"You mind if I stay a bit longer?" Matt calls back, "Been awhile."
He can hear the hesitation, "Oh, the gym has a previous engagement."
He grins, "engagement? You holding weddings now?"
The Old Man laughs, "no, just someone who likes to work out in private. But he won't mind coming back another day. Batlin' Jack's boy is here. You take precedence."
Matt waves his hand, "I mean, if he doesn't mind we can both work out." He gestures at his eyes, "think his privacy is all set."
He feels the shrug, "I'll ask 'im, let you know."
Not 15 minutes later he hears the door open and barely audible steps up to the office.
Wondered if you mind if someone else works out while you're here?
Oh—
The voice is a low rumble, soft and warm.
That's okay, I'll come back another night. Thanks tho.
He's—
And he hears the way old Man Jones shifts in his chair, the hinges squeaking,
His name is Matt. He's blind. Not sure your reasoning for staying private, but he can't see ya. But if you wanna come back, that's fine too.
He keeps his face away from the offices, but he has his cane is perfectly visible from the windows.
Oh. Okay.
He hears the same steady footsteps descend and head to the locker room.
Matt moves a bit, making it look like he's active, but he's really just feeling, sensing the room.
When the man exits, he's at the punching bag, wondering if the man will ask him to move.
He doesn't. He keeps a distance from him and goes to the padded corner, getting on the floor and starting on some push-ups. Matt still hasn't gotten close enough to gauge his size. His heart rate barely elevates as he passes 50 push-ups. Not even at 100. So… the guy is healthy. Very healthy.
There's a part of him that feels foolish. Why is a guy who is a complete and total stranger such an interest to him?
Causing a bag to break? His dad would say with a grin, That's when you know you got it, kiddo. Being the one who finally beats that leather into submission? Human tenacity triumphing over industrial strength manufactured crap? His dad would be shaking his head, us Murdocks, we got the devil in us. We're bag breakers, Matty. Don't you ever forget it.
That sound. He'd only heard it once before. His dad had done it just shortly after he'd gone blind. A hard won victory after a grueling session at the bag. It was old, the bag was ready to go, but the gym hadn't replaced it yet, they'd been strapped for cash at the moment. It had been covered in duct tape and every Tom, Dick, and Harry had been going at it, hoping to be the one to cause it to spill its guts.
But none had. It had been hanging in there.
Until his dad.
45 minutes at the punching bag, pure adrenaline and force radiating out from his dad. His heart rate had been scarily high, breathing a ragged sound of exhaustion, but still he'd fought. He'd kept at it. Until the tape gave way and his dad hit the weakest point of the leather with his bloody knuckles.
The satisfying rip and splatter of the sandbags, excess sand and rags spilling on the floor, the sound of success.
People had clapped, men at the gym had congratulated him and his dad had grinned the whole way home. Didn't complain a lick when Matt had forced his hands into the freezer to help the swelling.
We're bag breakers, Matty—-
This guy had broken no less than three bags. In just a few weeks time. Not for show. Not for an audience or recognition.
Quiet. And alone.
He's an unknown and Matt hates unknowns.
So he plans.
—
"Where the hell are you going?" Foggy asks, and Matt can sense the way he's tapping at his watch, "We take the Bar in less than three weeks!"
"I gotta go do this thing." He says evasively, grabbing his cane, "I'll be back in a few hours."
He can hear Foggy start to protest but he's already leaving.
—-
After the last patron leaves, he moves an unweighted bar onto the ground, sort of hidden behind a pillar. He needs a way to make contact.
After a while the man arrives and Jones asks if he's okay with Matt being there again. The man must agree because he goes to the locker room again.
Matt stays away from the punching bag this time, staying at the weights and working out until the guy exits. He hears the tape unwind as he wraps his hands.
He waits expectantly, anticipating the man to wail on the bag. But instead he doesn't. The air shifts and moves as he lightly fights against it, obviously working through some sort of rhythm or routine. But there's no way he's breaking bags like that.
So Matt makes his first move. He sets the weights back in place, leaving his cane resting against the bench, and he starts to walk towards the old water fountain.
He knows this won't feel pleasant, but he goes for it, letting the tip of his foot catch on the bar, and letting out a surprised sound as he falls forward, not catching himself as he slams, sprawling against the hard ground.
The air leaves his lungs and he gasps, chest and knees aching from the impact. He'll heal tonight, but man that smarts.
"Are you okay?"
Matt flinches back, caught off guard by the contact of a hand on his shoulder.
The man's arm yanks back as if burned, "sorry, I shouldn't have touched you, sorry—"
"What—" and Matt finds himself speechless. The man had been across the gym, maybe 50 ft away, and he'd covered that in half a second. "You—" he can't seem to speak, had he misjudged the distance?
"Sorry," the man repeats, "are you alright?" He can feel the man looking around, "oh—" he can hear annoyance appear in the man's voice, "some jackass left a bar on the ground, that's what you tripped over. I'm sorry."
Four apologies in a minute. Must be some sort of record.
"That's alright," Matt says with a huff, rolling over and making a show of rubbing at his wrists, "used to stumbling. Sorry to cause a scene."
The man's shoulders seem to move up and down softly, "no scene. Just me."
"And you are?"
A millisecond of a pause, "Grant."
"Grant." That's a lie. He can hear it in the way the man's heart beats a touch faster, "nice to meet you, I'm Matt." He extends his hand and a solid hand meets his, shaking his firmly. And Matt finally takes a read on him. The way the man breathes, shimmering the air tells Matt the guy is freaking massive. The way this guys' body practically oozes life and vitality almost overwhelming his senses. Matt sits up, pulling his legs in front of him and shifting his neck back and forth.
"You work out here often?"
He feels the man nod, then freeze. And Matt wants to grin, people are so used to nonverbal communication. "Yeah." The man finally says, "yeah, once a week or so. Blow off some steam."
"Tough job?"
Another pause, and this time Matt feels an absolutely crushing wave of grief emanate from the man. He has to steady himself and not react.
"Yeah." Grant says, his voice a touch rougher, "you could say that."
"Well, Fogwells is a good place to help with that."
The man offers a hand and then he pauses. Then Matt feels great amusement as he senses the man mock hits his own forehead for doing something nonverbal again. The man re-offers his hand and clears his throat, "can I help you up?"
"Sure." Matt extends his hand, as if he isn't aware of where the man's hand is. The firm grip returns and he's hauled up. "Thanks."
"O' Course."
The way those words sound makes his mind itch, "you from Hell's Kitchen?"
Another pause. "No."
"What brings you to Fogwells?"
The man sucks in a deep breath and even though Matt can't see it, he feels the way the man thumbs towards the offices, "family friend of Jones."
The answer confuses him. If he was a family friend of Jones… Matt's sure he would have gotten to know him. He's been coming to Fogwells since he was in diapers. And he's never seen the guy around. By his voice.. he can't be that much older than Matt. "Oh really?" Matt questions, "you know him well?"
"I uh," the man hesitates, "I knew one of his family members, while back. We were good friends."
Matt's pretty sure Jones hasn't had family that's been alive in a while. Maybe he means one of Jones' step kids. "Well, glad to have you in the family." Matt gestures to the gym, "I basically grew up here."
"Oh really?" The man seems to relax now that he's not the subject of the discussion, "you like to box?"
"Yeah, I do. You?"
"I've grown to appreciate it." The man says evasively, "good way to train."
"Train?" Matt latches onto the word, "what are you training for, a match?"
"No." The man says quickly. "Just want to stay in shape."
Another lie, but well hidden. When people lie, they usually release a fear hormone, the worry of being caught. But this guy gives off nothing. Just the slightest uptick in his heart.
"Well," Matt says with a grin, "that's great, if you ever need a sparring partner, you let me know."
"Oh—" the man says, "I don't think—"
Matt lets his grin falter, "I know. I get it." He gestures self-deprecatingly towards his face, "no one wants to hurt the blind guy."
Genuine surprise radiates off the guy, "what? No, that's not it! I—" then his voice stops, like he was catching himself from saying too much. "I just don't think it's a good idea."
Matt presses, "because I'm blind? You think I'm not capable?"
"No." The man says in a very sure tone, "I promise that's not it—"
"Then what is it?"
He can tell that the man does have a reason. One he's unwilling to share. And something starts to click in Matt's mind. Maybe this guy's enhanced. Like him. It would explain the broken bags…
When he doesn't speak, Matt lifts his hands in a surrender gesture, "it's fine. I'm the one barging in on your private work out sessions anyways. Thanks for helping me up." Then Matt walks away, back towards his cane, where he pretends to search for it and then uses that to get back to the water fountain. The man hasn't moved.
When Matt goes back to the weights, the man unwraps his hands and leaves without a word. Matt waits till he's halfway down the block to follow him.
The man's heartbeat is unique enough to follow, until he realizes he's getting on the subway.
"Shit—" Matt curses, walking quicker, swinging the cane back and forth. But the doors hiss close before he can manage to get inside. The slow drum of a heartbeat fading away.
—-
The man doesn't show up the next week. Jones waves goodbye after waiting a few minutes.
Matt curses his luck and beats at the bag.
—
When he doesn't show up two weeks in a row, Matt catches Jones. "Hey, you seen Grant around?"
He can hear Jones yawn, "Grant who?"
Okay, that's to be expected if the guy gave a false name. "The guy who rents out the gym in private, I worked out with him a few weeks ago."
"Oh, is Grant his name?" The man's shoulders move the air up and down, "never gave a name."
There's a twist. "He said he knew a family member of yours. Was good friends."
That makes Jones pay attention, "he did? I didn't know that. The kid never said."
Kid. Interesting choice of words. "How old is he?"
"Dunno, didn't ask. Looks around your age, maybe a bit older."
"Okay, thanks." Matt walks out of the gym and he throws out his senses, letting them reach far and wide, trying to get anything. But there's nothing. Just the normal sounds of the city.
—-
He and Foggy lay on the ground of his apartment. They'd just gotten home from the exam, exhausted and anxious about whether they'd done enough to pass.
Only time will tell.
—-
It's absolutely pissing rain from the sky. Which is probably why he's able to hear the sound.
A deep sound like the ground is rumbling. He tunes out the rain, and because it's a deluge, there's very little else to tune out. And there it is. Like someone is dragging something heavy on the concrete. His watch reads 2:11a.m.
Matt's not even sure why the hell he's out here at this time. But crime doesn't stop because of the rain. And more people are likely to get mugged in these weather conditions. Less passerbyers to stop it from happening.
Plus their results are supposed to come in in the next week or so and he can't even pretend he's not nervous.
He makes his way, leading him closer to where Hell's Kitchen meets Manhattan proper. His perch on the rooftop overlooks an intersection. He can sense the chaos that still is this area. Two of the higher old historical buildings had been crashed through by one of those flying things and now the concrete and bricks and all. Their debris were still filling the streets.
The sound is closer, and he has to descend to find it.
The sound is more distinct now. Concrete being moved, dragged somewhere. He hears it slide muffled over a manhole cover and keep moving. Then it stops for a minute or two. Then continues. There's fabric. Matt's not sure why. He can hear it rustling under the concrete.
The routine repeats itself but not evenly. Not consistently. Drag, drag, pause, pause, drag, pause.
He furrows his brow and moves towards the noise, keeping to the darkness and thankful for the rain that mutes the sounds. He finally turns a corner and crouches, listening.
A pile of rubble. Dragged into a burned out hull of a store is the first thing that catches against the senses he throws out. An oddly orderly pile of rubble—
—Good Samaritan's—
Matt perks up, maybe he's about to encounter the team of people helping clean the city.
So he switches to listen for heartbeats.
And only finds one.
One that makes him stand straight and rigid.
Low, deep, steady. Beating like a drum.
He's moving, sliding up behind one of the bigger pieces of rubble as the man is dragging—- now that he's closer he can sense what the man is doing. A huge piece of fabric is loaded with massive chunks of concrete, and the man is dragging the multiple tons of weight towards the storefront. Another heart enters Matt's field of hearing and the man immediately drops to the ground, waiting until the young man walking, staring at his phone, passes and turns a corner. Then the man is up again and pulling his load into the store front.
Matt patiently listens as the man lifts each chunk, setting it carefully onto his already large pile and then repeats the process. More chunks of concrete, metal debris, pieces of stoplights and jagged metal of supports. All carefully arranged in the empty storefront for a crew to come collect. Matt has to keep shifting back as the man works with a speed that screams enhanced. And everytime Matt hears a heartbeat approach, the man drops. So he's strong and he has good hearing.
It grows more interesting by the second.
The rain starts to lessen and Matt moves back, making sure he can't be seen as the dawn starts to work its way towards them. His foot crunches a piece of unseen gravel and the man pauses, looking his direction. Thankfully he's hidden behind a half crumpled news stand, but as the man starts towards his direction, he runs.
—-
When he gets home he starts scouring whether reports he can find. Cursing the ones that don't have an audio option. BUt eventually, after. A few hours, he starts to get a general framing of where the Good Samaritan has worked. And another hour or two later Matt sits back with a huff, his mental map of the city revealing something interesting.
The man has been working to clear certain paths. Ignoring the main downtown where the businesses and corporations are, and clearing the streets and alleyways that lead to hospitals, schools, and churches. And usually in the poorest areas.
And the mystery of this man grows, like a seed sprouting and taking root in the back of Matt's mind.
—
Foggy's up state for a few days visiting distant family while they wait for results and it gives Matt the freedom to scour the City.
And it does no good. He can't seem to track him.
Until the man finds him.
—
Matt's beating off three guys, dodging and rolling in the bank as they try to rob it and kill him at the same time. The lights are flashing, but the alarm sound had been cut before hand, so no alarm had been sent out to the police.
Matt hears the click of a trigger and moves, knowing that hesitation means pain and possibly death. The bullet cracks into the old marble behind him. He snatches something off a desk, a pen and hurls it at the man. It strikes him in the eye, causing him to howl and drop the gun in pain. It goes off again, sending a bullet through a glass window. Matt prays there's no one outside.
He's just managed to toss one guy into a counter so hard he knocks out when he hears the doors shatter.
It's a millisecond of confusion until the man he had sensed to his left is flying out the shattered doors and skittering into the street. Then Matt's scrambling, jumping up as a fist comes his way. "Whoa—" he gasps out and he leans back, his legs carrying all his weight as he's angled parallel to the floor.
Hands quicker than Matt's ever experienced reach for him again and he leaps, flipping himself backwards out of reach. The last conscious goon is grabbing bags and trying to escape. And Matt only has a half a second to process the heavy metal phone box being ripped off the wall and thrown, slamming into the man and making him drop where he stands.
It's silent for a second and the man's massive form turns slowly towards him.
And the heartbeat registers.
Grant.
"Give up." The man's voice says, "or I'll make you—"
Matt stands down, straightening and lowering his hands, "I wasn't robbing the place, I was fighting them."
"Convenient answer."
Matt grits his teeth, "you see that guy?" He points to the knocked out one lying beneath the teller counter, "you think I did that to a partner for fun?"
"Where do I know your voice from?"
Dread fills him, he has his black mask on, but being recognized is his worst fear. Puts so many people in danger.
So he fights fire with fire.
"You ripped that phone from the wall like it was a post it note." The man turns to absolute stone. "You're enhanced aren't you?"
The man doesn't answer that question, "call the police."
"Don't have a phone on me." A lie, but he's trying to figure out this guy.
The man makes an irritated noise in his throat. Matt can hear the man's cellphone in his pocket, but he doesn't pull it out, walking instead towards the teller's office and yanking at the landline there. Matt hears the familiar beep beep beep of 911 being dialed.
Then the man leaves it ringing and walks out the door.
Oh no. He's not letting him get away this time. "Who are you?"
The guy doesn't stop and Matt has to jog to keep up with his massive strides, "I'm not going to leave you alone until you answer. Are you enhanced, and if so, how?" That question causes the man to pause, his stride lilts as he changes directions and continues to ignore Matt. "You're the one cleaning up the streets aren't you?"
That makes the man turn, "why fight in a mask that blocks your vision?"
The question makes Matt pause, "you know why."
And then the man fully stops, He feels the way the night air shifts as the man turns to study him. And it must click because Matt feels the way the guy lifts his hand and waves it slowly in front of Matt's face.
"The gym." The man says finally, "you were the guy at the gym."
Matt nods, and in a move that surprises himself, he pulls off his mask.
"You're blind?" The man asks, and he can sense the way he turns to study the bank, "how?"
"Enhanced. Like you."
Suspicion emanates from the guy. And he turns back around, "then you should know how to be more careful." The words are careful, calculated.
That makes Matt bristle, "I was doing fine! I had them on the ropes."
The words make the man's heart rate elevate, tension radiating off his massive frame. "Bullets flying out of windows is not having them on the ropes." The man comments.
Matt growls, "that wasn't my fault, idiot dropped his gun."
And maybe Jones said he wasn't too much older than Matt, but he sounds practically 80 when he responds, "well, be more conscientious next time."
Matt feels his mouth drop down in disbelief as the guy strides away.
Three things make his mind reel.
One, this guy doesn't seem to care at all that Matt's enhanced and fighting while blind. Or he doesn't believe him… he's not sure which one is more likely.
Second, the guy is obviously wary to answer questions about himself, but he's obviously very capable. Why hasn't Matt heard of an enhanced like him around the city before?
Three, why is he so anxious to leave?
He runs after him, "seriously, who the hell are you?" He snaps, "you can't just go around giving orders—" again something about the phrase makes the man's heart rate go up, "and I've lived here all my life and I've never come across another enhanced."
"Why does it matter?" The man asks in exasperation. "You wanna tell me your tragic backstory and we can commiserate?" The guy huffs and keeps walking.
"Tragic?" The word slips out of Matt's mouth, yeah maybe his life story sucked but he'd never thought of the word tragic. "What happened to you?"
And the man reacts like he's annoyed at himself for speaking, Matt can hear the way he brushes his hair back angrily, "nothin', just go home."
Matt stops, letting distance grow between them, all while tracking the guy's heartbeat. After a few minutes he follows. Running parallel and keeping a mental track of subway stops just in case the guy gets on one. But he walks and walks. Miles of city streets till he crosses over into Brooklyn. Matt follows him until he hears the buzz of an apartment building entrance door and keys jangling.
He nestles in an empty flat across the way and closes his eyes, curling up in a corner to rest and wait.
When morning dawns, he listens as the guy leaves, barely any sun out.
Matt waits a few minutes and scours the building and the rooftop for the man's distinctive heartbeat. But he's officially flown the coop. So Matt uses his charm and the very obvious fact that he's blind to get into the apartment building. Then, using the mental map he'd garnered last night, climbs four floors until he's in a hallway with 6 doors. He eliminates the right side, the guy's window had been facing the river. After listening, there's only one apartment empty this early on a Sunday.
Matt very carefully lets himself in using a few skills his father had taught him many years ago, and then he's inside.
And it's empty.
Well. Not empty, just sparse. A bed, one chair, a refrigerator that sounds older than Matt. A smooth laptop rests on the tiny dining room table. Something strange stands next to it, his fingers feel the rough wool. Military dress uniform. He can tell by the medals and the feel of the fabric.
So he's enhanced military. The Abomination runs briefly through his mind, but no… Foggy had said that guy was relatively small before he transformed. And he wasn't enhanced when he wasn't the Abomination. Pretty sure that guy's in jail now, too.
Using his sense he searches. The soap he had smelled all those weeks ago resides in a little dish in the bathroom. One toothbrush, one hair brush and a small bottle of hair gel.
He goes back to the laptop, careful not to touch and leave a fingerprint smudge. There's a folder beside it, and his fingers brush against it. He tries to feel what the barely raised ink might say, but it's like it's old. The ink is deteriorated.
Somehow he feels left with more questions than answers.
The sun starts to really shine in, and he takes his cue, leaving everything just so.
—
A knock on his door makes his head pop up from where he'd been dozing on the bed. Barely sleeping at all last night was taking its toll.
He fumbles to the doorway, grabbing his cane for appearances and his hand stopping just before he grabs the handle.
And the voice follows very quickly after Matt's register of the heartbeat.
"I know you're behind this door. And if you don't open it, I will open it for you."
Matt's really not afraid of much. Stick had beat that out of him a decade ago, but the thinly veiled threat is enough to make him shiver.
He opens the door and the man's annoyance buffets him back a step, "it's not so fun when someone else barges into your house is it?"
Matt winces, "uh—"
"You don't think I couldn't smell you in my home? Touching my stuff? What do you want from me?"
And Matt gives up all pretense. "I don't know."
The man scoffs, "everybody wants something from me."
"Everybody wants something… from you?"
That causes the man to pause, the annoyance is brittle as it waves off him.
He starts to turn, but Matt's not finished now that they've started. "Wait—" He reaches out, and the guy flinches back, Matt pulls his hand back and they stand there in an awkward limbo. "How'd you find me?"
The guy's back is to Matt. "Not too many fake blind guys named Matt in Hell's Kitchen that box."
"Ah.." Matt responds, then his mind catches up, "wait fake?"
"I didn't mention anything about you being a liar. Just wanted to find where you lived to tell you to leave me alone."
Matt bristles, "a liar! I'm not lying!"
"You're not blind."
Matt feels his eyes narrow, "I am blind."
And the guy swings at him, his massive frame barreling towards him, fist raised and Matt knows if it makes contact he's going down for the count. It's more reflexes than anything that make him move, yanking himself back and out of the way.
The man doesn't try again, just straightens. The soap smell spreads as he shakes his head, "yeah, sure, "enhanced"." Matt can feel the air quotes and the sarcasm in his tone, "just admit you can see. Why the rouse?"
"It's not a rouse!" Matt insists, "it's… I—" Matt looks around, "can you come in so I'm not having this very private conversation in a public hallway?"
The man must be curious because he comes inside. Matt leads him down the little hallway until it opens into the space. The flashing billboards that Matt tunes out makes the man pause. The man is grimacing, like he's in pain.
"My sighted visitors complain about that a lot." Matt says pointedly.
"Must make rent cheap."
Matt turns, halfway to the fridge, "you tight on money?"
Only people who know money struggles comment on cheap rent.
A long sigh that sounds disproportionately sad to the words he says, "used to be." Then the man is turning his back to the window, "why did you pretend to trip that day in the gym?"
Matt grits his teeth. Couldn't he have chosen different words? Ugh. He sighs, "I was curious about you." The man doesn't ask why. Which is curious. "And I did pretend, but I am blind."
"You dodged my punch. You saw it coming."
"Correction, I felt it coming."
And he's grateful that the man has stopped labeling him a liar. "Explain."
"I told you. I'm enhanced. Toxic waste in my eyes from an accident when I was a kid. Went blind. Some crazy old guy trained me how to maximize my other senses."
Again the man doesn't call him a liar. "And now you stop bank robberies?"
Matt lets his annoyance out, "among other things. Someone has to fight to keep this city alive." The words are harsh, even though he knows this guy is working towards that too. In his weird secretive street cleaning initiative.
"So you really can't see my face?"
What a strange question. Matt shakes his head slowly, "no… I can sense your presence, hear your heart, feel your movements. But no, I can't see your face."
The man oozes relief, "then why the curiosity?"
"You kept breaking bags. Got curious how someone could do that over and over. You said you're enhanced?"
"Yeah." That one word carries with it the weight of the world.
"You didn't ask to be enhanced?" Just a guess, since he sounds so down about it.
There's a long pause, then the guy's voice is a deep rumble of chuckle that has absolutely no humor in it, "you know, funnily enough I did sign up for this. Just… more than I expected."
"You in the same trials as Hulk or Abomination?"
The man's shaking his head, "no."
He says no more and Matt's sure he won't get an answer, so he changes the subject, "why are you spending your nights cleaning up the streets?"
The confusion is clear as the man stares at him, "how'd you—"
Matt grins, "you and me are cleaning up the streets two different ways. Saw you moving rubble that one really rainy night."
"Rain's easier to work in." The man says as if he's focused somewhere else, "don't have to hide as much."
"Why do you have to hide?"
There's a pause and the guy seems like he's trying to think of a good reason, then he settles on one, "same as the reason you wear a mask to hide your face. Enhanced, remember?"
"What, you don't want to join the avengers? Get a stupid name and a big flashy costume?"
The man snorts and then falls quiet. After a few seconds the guy turns back towards the windows, and his voice is quiet, "you really we're just curious about me breaking the punching bags?"
"Fogwell's is home. I grew up in that gym. I was worried you were misusing property, but also yeah, breaking bags is a big accomplishment. Didn't know you were enhanced."
"I bring my own." The man responds, "I bought a stash of them. Don't use Jones'."
"You bought a stash of punching bags?"
"Easier than repairing them at the rate I go through 'em."
That's a sentence that should sound like a brag. But the guy's not bragging. He sounds annoyed at himself.
"Why not pick a different hobby?"
A wave of grief rolls off of the guy, making Matt's throat dry.
"It's just familiar."
"How 'bout we spar." Matt offers, "you and me in the ring next time."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
Matt grins, "why? Cuz I'm blind?"
He feels the way the man glares at him, "if I hit you… it would hurt."
Somehow Matt knows the guy is underselling himself, but honestly he's up for the challenge. "You'd have to land a punch first. Which is unlikely."
And something about that challenge makes the man stand taller, radiate mirth, "oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Next Tuesday. 8:30."
Matt reaches out his hand for a shake and a solid hand clasps his, shaking its excitement rolling off the guy for the first time since he met him.
—