Chapter 1 – Not in Kansas Anymore

Here: Foggy

Foggy Nelson and Karen Page stared at the spot in the reception area of their office where their partner, Matt Murdock, had been standing seconds earlier, after returning from court. There was a faint shimmer in the air where he had been, then . . . nothing. Karen found her voice first. "What the hell just happened?"

Foggy frowned. "Damned if I know."

A look of dread crossed Karen's face. "Oh, shit." She rushed to the window and looked out, then shook her head. "Nope, everything looks normal." She left her place at the window and took a seat on the couch. "What could it be? People don't just disappear."

"Um, they kinda do, sometimes," Foggy pointed out. He flopped down on the couch next to her.

"But not like this," Karen said. She pressed her lips together, thinking. "Matt had his phone with him, right?"

Foggy nodded. "He should have. He would've taken it with him to court."

Karen went to her desk and retrieved her phone. She tapped it several times. When the call was answered, it wasn't Matt. An electronic voice told her the call could not be completed at this time and suggested she try again later. "Damn," she swore, letting the phone fall from her hand to the desk top.

Foggy pushed himself to his feet and began pacing back and forth in front of the couch. After the third circuit, he stopped and turned toward Karen. "Did you see or hear anything when Matt . . . disappeared?"

She thought for a moment before answering. "Not really. But there was . . . something . . . in the air . . . it kind of looked like a mirage, and then he was . . . gone."

Foggy rested his chin on his hands and closed his eyes, trying to remember. Then he opened his eyes and said, "Yeah, I think I saw something like that, too. And I felt something, too, a tingling, like a mild electric shock."

"I didn't feel that," Karen told him, "but you were closer than I was."

"Yeah." Foggy dropped his hands and fell back against the couch cushions.

"Now what?" Karen asked.

"Hell if I know. But I don't have a good feeling about this."

There: Matt

Matt's senses suddenly felt . . . fuzzy. He shook his head to clear it. He was standing in the office's reception area, but something wasn't right. For one thing, where were Foggy and Karen? They had been standing right there. Then he heard a woman's voice, apparently talking on the phone, "Good afternoon, Law Offices of Nelson and Page, how may I help you?" He didn't recognize the woman's voice or anything about her. And since when was Karen a lawyer?

The woman punched a button on the phone. Karen's voice answered, "Yes."

"Jim McElroy on line 2," the woman told her.

"Got it," Karen replied.

The woman sitting behind the reception desk still hadn't noticed him. The place seemed like the office of Nelson & Murdock, but it was . . . different. The floor was carpeted, unlike the scuffed and scarred hardwood floor at Nelson & Murdock. There was a faint "new paint" smell that was definitely missing at Nelson & Murdock, where the walls hadn't been painted in living memory. There was more furniture here, and it probably was nicer (whatever that meant) than the secondhand couch and chairs in the reception room at Nelson & Murdock. Then there was the receptionist. Nelson & Murdock didn't have a receptionist; they couldn't afford one. "You're not in Kansas anymore," he muttered under his breath, too softly for anyone to hear him. He gripped his cane tightly and was about to speak when the woman noticed him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't hear you come in. Do you have an appointment? I didn't see anything on the calendar."

"Um, no," Matt replied. "I, uh, I seem to be lost."

"Well, we'll get you back on track, Mr. – ?"

"Murdock. Matthew Murdock."

The door to his right opened, and a man stepped into the reception area: Foggy, but not Foggy. The differences were subtle but undeniable. He gave off the scent of hair gel and an expensive cologne. There was an irregularity in his heartbeat that Matt had never heard in Foggy's. He strode into the room with a swagger; definitely not Foggy. "Matt Murdock!" he exclaimed. "What brings you – ?" The words died on his lips as he stopped short. Matt sensed his confusion, along with the adrenaline that coursed through his blood vessels at the sight of the stranger in his office.

"You're not Matt Murdock," not-Foggy declared. His voice wasn't Foggy's voice, either; it was deeper and louder, with intense undertones Matt never heard in Foggy's voice outside the courtroom. "I'm Franklin Nelson, by the way, one of the partners in this establishment." He waved a hand expansively, taking in the whole office. "Who are you, really?"

Matt reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted his New York state ID card and bar card and handed them to not-Foggy, who looked at them and handed them back. "So what?" not-Foggy asked. "They say you're Matt Murdock, but they're obviously fakes. They don't look like any state ID or bar card I've ever seen."

What the hell? Of course they were real. Before Matt could say anything, not-Foggy went on, "Besides, I know the real Matt Murdock. He's an Assistant DA. I was just in court with him earlier today. And he's definitely not blind." He turned his head to the left and shouted, "Karen! Come out here!"

A knot formed in Matt's stomach. Keeping his voice light, he said, "As I told your receptionist, I seem to be lost. Can you tell me where I am?"

"The Law Offices of Nelson & Page," not-Foggy told him, then recited an address – the address of Nelson & Murdock.

Footsteps approached, a woman's footsteps. Not-Foggy introduced her as "Karen Page, my partner, in law and in life."

"What's goin' on, Franklin?" she asked. It was Karen's voice – but not Karen's voice; hers was pitched lower, with sultry undertones. Her scent was subtly different, too: floral and musk instead of lavender and citrus. Her heartbeat was lighter, faster, as if she was not burdened with Karen's painful history. And there was something else, too, something that was missing, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

Matt turned toward her and answered. "As I was telling your, uh, your partner here, I seem to be lost."

"I'm sure we can help with that," not-Karen told him. "Where were you going?"

That was the problem. He was where he was supposed to be – except he wasn't. Before Matt could answer her, not-Foggy said, "That's not why I wanted you out here. This . . . gentleman here . . . he thinks he's Matt Murdock."

"Oh," not-Karen said. She turned to face him and seemed to be studying him. "You know, he does look like him – a lot. They could be identical twins."

"Well, they say everyone has a twin somewhere," Matt quipped.

Not-Foggy was not amused. "I know Matt Murdock," he declared. "If he had a twin brother – a blind twin brother – I'd know about it. Besides, if they were twin brothers, they wouldn't have the same name."

Matt couldn't argue with that.

Not-Karen took hold of not-Foggy's arm and propelled him to the far corner of the room, where they spoke in whispers. Matt took a seat on the couch and listened in.

"Should we call the cops?" not-Foggy asked.

"I don't know," not-Karen replied doubtfully. "He doesn't seem dangerous, just confused. Maybe the mental health squad?"

"Probably the best bet," not-Foggy said. "I mean, the guy thinks he's someone he's not."

"Wait a minute," not-Karen said. "I have an idea." She left the corner and crossed the room to where Matt was standing and addressed him. "Can I ask you some questions?"

Matt nodded. "Sure."

"What year is it?"

"2021."

"And today's date?"

"August 30."

"Where are we?"

"New York City." (He hoped).

"More specifically."

"Your law office."

"OK. Who is President?"

"Joe Biden."

"Who?"

"Joe Biden, former Senator, Vice President in the Obama Administration, elected President in 2020. Ring any bells?"

Silence. Apparently that was the wrong answer. He imagined not-Foggy and not-Karen exchanging looks. Then not-Foggy took up the role of interrogator. "Where did you go to law school?"

That was an easy one. "Columbia."

Not-Foggy shook his head. "Wrong. I happen to know Matt Murdock went to law school at Harvard. We need to call the head-shrinkers."

"Is there anyone you can call," not-Karen asked, "someone who can vouch for you, tell us who you really are?"

Matt's mind raced. If he didn't do something to convince these people, whoever they were, that he wasn't crazy, he was going to end up in a psych ward – or worse. The only people who could help him were the real Foggy and Karen. He folded his cane and shoved it in his pocket. Then he pulled out his phone and, in a low voice, ordered it to "call Foggy." He didn't hear the usual sounds of a call going through. Instead, the phone's artificial voice announced, "No network."

Two heads turned toward him. "What's that?" not-Karen demanded.

"What? My phone?" Matt asked.

"Yes."

"Just a regular iPhone, with some added features that enable me to use it," Matt replied, gesturing toward his eyes by way of explanation. He held the phone out to her.

"What's an iPhone?" not-Foggy asked, snatching the phone from his hand.

What the fuck? In what alternate reality did people not know what an iPhone was? Oh. Shit. That must be it. He turned toward the receptionist, who had been a silent witness to the conversation thus far, and asked her, "Excuse me, ma'am – sorry, I don't know your name – "

"Maureen," she replied in a pleasant alto voice, "but everyone calls me 'Moe'."

"Did you happen to see me arrive?"

She shook her head. "No, I was on the phone, and when I finished the call, you were just . . . here," she said uncertainly.

"Did you hear anything when I arrived?"

"I don't think so," she said hesitantly. She seemed to think for a moment, then added, "I definitely don't remember hearing you come in. But I should have. I usually hear the door open, even when I'm on the phone."

"What're you getting at?" not-Foggy demanded.

"I think I know what's going on," Matt said, but he couldn't just blurt it out. They'd definitely think he was crazy if he did. No, they had to get there on their own. He could think of only one way to accomplish that. "If I could talk to the, uh, the other Matt Murdock, I think I can explain."

Silence, again. Then not-Karen shrugged. "What can it hurt?" she asked. "Go ahead, give him a call."

Matt listened as not-Foggy placed a call to Matt Murdock, the Assistant DA, and persuaded him to come to the office and meet with them, without mentioning that there was another Matt Murdock sitting on their reception room couch. Matt had to give the guy credit; he was every bit as persuasive as the real Foggy.

When he ended the call, not-Foggy turned to Maureen and said, "He's on his way. You can call it a day."

"OK," the receptionist said doubtfully.

"And keep this to yourself."

"Of course. See you tomorrow. Have a good evening." She picked up her handbag and a hat and left.

When she was gone, not-Foggy turned to Matt and asked, "Can I get you a cup of coffee while we wait?"

Before Matt could answer, not-Karen said, "We're out."

"Oh. Sorry," not-Foggy said. "It's the coffee shortage, you know."

"No problem." Matt nodded, but he didn't know. A coffee shortage? What the – ? That settled it. He wasn't staying any place where there was a coffee shortage. But how was he going to get back where he belonged? Was there even a way to get back?

Here: Foggy

"Hey, Nelson." Brett Mahoney's voice came through the speaker on Foggy's phone. "What's up?"

That was the question, wasn't it? Foggy didn't have an answer. Finally, he replied, "I was, uh, just wondering if you've had any reports of, um, unusual events recently."

"You're gonna have to be more specific," Brett told him impatiently. "This is New York City. Unusual events happen all the time."

He wasn't wrong. Foggy glanced at Karen, who gave a small nod. "It's Matt. He, uh, disappeared."

"Again?" Now Brett sounded really irritated.

"It's not like . . . before," Foggy explained. "We were all here in the office – Karen and Matt and me. And then Matt . . . wasn't. He just . . . vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Vanished," Karen confirmed. "There was a . . . a shimmer in the air, like a mirage, and then he was . . . gone."

"Like Scotty beamed him up?" Brett asked.

"Not funny, Brett," Foggy chided him.

"Sorry."

"But, yeah, it was kinda like that," Foggy admitted.

"Damn," Brett swore under his breath. "Why does this weird shit always happen to you?"

"Just lucky, I guess," Foggy quipped.

Karen glared at him, then said, "I tried calling him, but the call didn't go through. It said, 'unable to complete the call'."

"So maybe he had his phone turned off," Brett suggested.

"Could be," Foggy said. "He was just coming back from court. He could've turned it off in the courtroom and forgot to turn it back on."

Karen shook her head. "I don't think so. If the phone was turned off, the call would've gone to voicemail, right?"

"Yeah," Brett agreed.

"This was like . . . I don't know, like the phone wasn't connected to the network, or . . . or something," Karen said.

"But where could Matt be, where his phone wouldn't work?" Foggy asked.

"No idea," Brett replied. He paused for a beat, then asked, "He hasn't had another run-in with that ninja cult, has he?"

Karen and Foggy exchanged worried looks. "Damn," Foggy swore under his breath.

"You think that could be it?" Karen asked.

Foggy thought for a moment, going over everything he knew about the night Midland Circle fell. Then he shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "I don't think any of them got out. And there haven't been any traces of them since . . . since Midland Circle."

"You sure about that?" Brett asked.

"As sure as I can be," Foggy told him. He didn't want to say anything else, couldn't say anything else. He trusted Brett, but the detective wasn't part of the cover-up Foggy had orchestrated after the fall of Midland Circle. The number of people who knew what really happened that night had to be kept to the absolute minimum, to keep the cover-up intact.

"OK." Brett sounded doubtful, but he didn't pursue it. Instead, he said, "You need to check Murdock's apartment, see if there's anything there that might tell us what happened."

"Did you not hear me?" Foggy demanded. "Matt disappeared from the office, right in front of us, not from his apartment. And what, exactly, are we supposed to be looking for in his apartment, anyway? A transporter?"

"Weren't you the one who said that wasn't funny?"

"I did, and it isn't."

"This isn't helping, guys," Karen told the two men.

"She's right," Brett said. "Just check the apartment. You might find something. And try not to worry too much. The guy's like a cat, he's got at least nine lives."

"Yeah, but how many of them has he already used up?" Foggy muttered.

Karen and Brett both ignored him. "And you'll let us know," Karen asked Brett, "if you find out anything . . . anything that could explain what happened, or where Matt is?"

"You got it," Brett assured her, and ended the call.

When the phone went silent, Karen and Foggy looked at each other. Finally, Karen shrugged. "You heard the man. Let's go to Matt's."

There: Matt

Twenty minutes later by Matt's watch, a man approached the office. His breathing and heartbeat reflected his agitation; he was annoyed, maybe even angry. He pushed the door open and strode in. Without waiting for not-Foggy or not-Karen to speak, he demanded, "What was so important that I had to drop everything – " His voice cut off mid-sentence; he had spotted Matt. "Is this some kind of a joke?" he barked.

"No joke," not-Foggy assured him.

"Who is the guy who . . . Jesus Christ, he looks just like me!"

"Really?" Matt asked innocently. "I hadn't noticed."

Three heads whipped around in his direction. No one said anything.

"Blind joke," Matt finally said. "Sorry, it's a bad habit of mine. Not funny, huh?"

Not-Karen found her voice first. "Um, yes, I mean, no, I, uh, I don't know," she stammered.

"You joke about it?" not-Foggy asked.

Matt shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure, why not? Beats the hell out of the alternative."

Before not-Foggy could respond to that, other-Matt demanded, "So who the hell are you?"

Matt stood up and extended his hand. "Matt Murdock."

Other-Matt ignored Matt's offered hand. "Really? C'mon, Nelson, April Fool's Day was months ago."

Matt raised his voice. "As Mr. Nelson told you, this is no joke. Or if there is a joke, it's on me, not you." He waved a hand toward the couch. "Please, take a seat. I think we can figure out what's goin' on if we, ah, compare notes."

Other-Matt's heart rate ticked up a bit. This time, it didn't feel like anger, more like curiosity about the blind man who, apparently, looked exactly like him. He shrugged and sat down at one end of the couch. Matt took a seat at the far end. Not-Foggy and not-Karen pulled up chairs and sat facing them.

Matt turned slightly to face other-Matt. He took a deep breath and said, "I'll start." He steepled his hands in front of his face, then continued, "My full name is Matthew Michael Murdock." The other man's quick intake of breath told Matt he recognized the name; it was his name, too. "I was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen. My birthday is October 21st. My father, Jonathan Murdock, was a boxer, known as 'Battlin' Jack' Murdock. He raised me by himself. My mother Margaret suffered from post-partum depression and left us when I was an infant. My father told me she died, but I found out a few years ago that she was still alive. She had become a nun."

"Jesus," not-Karen breathed. "She just . . . abandoned you?"

Matt nodded. "Basically, yes," he said quietly. Then he picked up his narrative. "I haven't always been blind, in case you were wondering. I lost my sight in an accident when I was nine years old. I was walking home from school one afternoon when I saw an old man crossing the street, right in front of an oncoming truck. I ran into the street and pushed the man out of the way. It overturned and spilled its cargo of toxic chemicals. Some of them got in my eyes and blinded me." That was all they needed to know; he wasn't going to tell them what else the chemicals did to him.

"Oh, my God," not-Karen whispered.

"Holy shit!" not-Foggy exclaimed. "You were a hero."

Other-Matt said nothing, but his heart beat faster. Matt could almost feel his gaze. He remembered . . . something.

Matt shook his head. "No, not a hero," he told not-Foggy. "I just did what anyone would've done."

"Must've been rough," other-Matt observed.

"I made it through. And my dad, he helped me. A lot."

"Sounds like a good man."

"He was."

"He's . . . he's, uh, deceased?"

Matt nodded. "He was . . . he died about a year after my accident. The sisters at St. Agnes Orphanage took me in, and I stayed there until I left to go to college."

"Oh, no, how awful," Karen murmured. "You were just a kid."

Matt frowned, hearing the pity in her voice. He didn't want it. "It's OK," he said.

"You went to Columbia?" not-Foggy asked.

"Yes, undergrad and law school. Then I went into practice with my law school roommate after we passed the bar."

"What's your firm's name?" not-Foggy asked.

"You wouldn't know it," Matt told him. Then he turned to face other-Matt and waved his hand. "Your turn."

Other-Matt shifted in his seat, then began. "My full name is Matthew Michael Murdock, too. Like you, I was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen, but we don't call it that anymore. My birthday is October 21st, same as yours. My parents are Jonathan and Margaret, both alive and living in Florida – or what's left of it." Matt raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Climate change, you know," other-Matt explained. Then he continued, "My dad was a boxer when he was a young man, but he quit the fight game when he married my mom. He always claimed she refused to marry him unless he quit, but she denied it." He chuckled fondly. "Anyway, he got a job as a truck driver, and my mom worked as a teacher's aide at the Clinton parish school."

"You're Catholic?" Matt asked.

"On Christmas and Easter," other-Matt replied dryly. "But I did go to Catholic school, the school where my mom worked."

"So did I," Matt thought.

Other-Matt covered his face with his hands. He didn't speak for what felt like several minutes. His heart rate increased. He was starting to put things together. Or so Matt hoped. But the other man had to get there on his own. Then other-Matt raised his head and said, "The kids from St. Agnes went to school there, too. But I don't remember you from school. Did they send you to a special school, or something?"

Matt shook his head. "No. I went to school there, too. But not with you."

Other-Matt's confusion was palpable, but Matt didn't explain. After a moment, other-Matt went on with his story. "I went to law school at Harvard and joined the DA's office right out of law school. I always knew I wanted to be a prosecutor, to get justice for the victims." He stifled a gasp.

"Oh, my God," he muttered. "Your accident, I remember it. But it didn't happen the way you said."

"No, it wouldn't have," Matt said. He waved his hand. "Go on."

"I was walking home from school, like you, but I was a block away when I saw the truck bearing down on the old man. I yelled to him and ran toward him, but I was too far away to get there in time. The truck hit him and kept going. The old man died. The cops caught the driver, but he got off with a light sentence." He sat silently for a moment, then added, "You know, I think that's when I knew I was going to be a prosecutor. I couldn't get justice for that old man, but I could for other people like him."

He turned to Matt and pointed at him. "You weren't there. No one saved that old man," he said, his disbelief evident in his voice.

"I did," Matt said firmly, gesturing toward his eyes as if to prove what he was saying. "But you couldn't. Why not?"

Other-Matt considered this for a minute. "I remember – I think. If it's the day I'm thinking of, I was late leaving school. I stayed after class to ask the teacher a question about the homework assignment. I remember thinking my mom was gonna be worried if I didn't get home on time."

"Your teacher, she was Sister Ellen, right?"

"What the – ? How can you possibly know that?"

"She was my teacher, too," Matt told him. "I wanted to ask her a question about the homework that day, but she rushed out of the classroom as soon as the bell rang. If I'd gotten to ask my question, I would've been too late to save that old man, too."

"Holy shit," other-Matt breathed. He pushed himself up off the couch and started pacing back and forth between the couch and the door, muttering under his breath, so softly that even Matt couldn't make out the words.

"C'mon, man," Matt silently implored him. "You're almost there."

When the moment came, Matt knew. Other-Matt stopped his pacing, halfway between the couch and the door. His heart rate picked up. His breathing changed. He turned to face Matt and asked, "You're not from here, are you?"

Bingo. "No, I'm not," Matt replied quietly.

"Holy shit," not-Karen breathed.

At the same time, not-Foggy demanded, "What d'you mean, 'not from here'? He said he was from Hell's Kitchen." He turned on Matt. "Or were you lying about that?"

"Not lying," Matt told him.

"Jesus, Nelson, keep up, will you?" other-Matt said. "He's from Hell's Kitchen, but not this Hell's Kitchen."

It took not-Foggy a moment to process this. Then he said, "Oh." He thought some more, then added, "But that's crazy."

"No shit, Sherlock," other-Matt told him. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense."

"He's right," not-Karen said.

"But what do we now?" not-Foggy asked.

Seemingly acting by tacit agreement, the three lawyers retreated to an office that opened off the reception area. Another whispered conversation ensued. Matt listened in again.

"We've gotta report this," not-Foggy declared.

"You mean to the government?" other-Matt asked. "What d'you think they'll do to him – and us – if we do?"

"Or if we don't?" not-Foggy added.

"No," not-Karen declared firmly. "He's a person, he has a life. You know what they'll do to him. He doesn't deserve that."

Matt had heard enough. He made his way across the room, bumping into a chair just for show, and found the doorway to the office. He stood there, gripping his cane in front of him. "If you guys are deciding my fate," he said, "I have to be part of that."

Three heads turned in his direction. "For the record," he went on, "I didn't come here voluntarily. I was just standing in my office, minding my own business, talking to, uh, Franklin and Karen – "

That was as far as he got. "Wait!" not-Foggy interrupted. "There's another me? And another Karen?"

"Of course there are," other-Matt told him irritably. Then he waved a hand at Matt. "Go on."

"As I was saying, I was there, in my office, and then I was . . . here. Everything was fuzzy for a few seconds, but then things seemed normal. Until I realized that they weren't, that is."

"So someone did this to you?" not-Karen asked.

"I think so."

"Who would do something like that?"

Matt shook his head."I don't know." He thought for a moment, frowning. "I mean, our firm has ruffled some feathers with some of our cases. But there's no one who could do – this." He waved a hand. "It's not like I've pissed off some mad scientist or . . . or something. We're talking about Hell's Kitchen, for crissake."

"You're sure about that?" other-Matt asked.

"Positive," Matt affirmed. Even Daredevil hadn't pissed off anyone who could do something like this. Not as far as he knew, anyway. And these people were never going to know about Daredevil. Or the aliens who'd attacked New York, a few years back. They'd really think he was crazy then. Unless, of course, the same thing had happened here. "Look, all I want is to go back to where I came from. I really don't want to be stuck in a world with a coffee shortage," he quipped.

"Me neither," not-Foggy said. "Can you take me with you?"

"This is all very amusing," not-Karen commented, "but the only way we get him back to his own world is by figuring out how he got here."

"True," Matt agreed. Then something occurred to him. "Could someone on this side have brought me here?" he asked.

The other three fell silent, apparently considering the possibility. Then not-Karen gave a one-word answer: "Rand."


Author's notes: The title is from the poem of the same title by Robert Frost.

Matt's birthday appears on his New York State ID card in Daredevil: Dark Nights #1.

The alternate or parallel universe in this story is loosely based on the alternate universe in "Fringe." In this parallel universe, some things are the same, and some things are different. The characters can meet and interact with their counterparts from the other universe. Sorry, Walter Bishop does not appear in this story.