Chapter 2: The Myth of Sisyphus

Foggy

Later that day, a somewhat rested Matt came back to the office. Instead of sleeping, he apparently had spent his time at home figuring out how to persuade Foggy and Karen that the firm should take on Melvin Potter as a client. At first, they were not happy about the idea of representing the guy who made the devil suit for Poindexter, but Matt finally convinced them Potter was one of Fisk's victims, too, and he needed their help. Foggy decided he should be the one to visit Melvin in the federal lock-up; there was too great a risk he might recognize Matt.

When Foggy went to see Melvin, he soon learned that Melvin wasn't interested in legal help. He was only interested in protecting Betsy, his parole officer and girlfriend. If he had to stay in jail to prevent disclosure of their relationship, he would do the time. Eventually, Foggy gained Melvin's trust, after promising not to reveal Betsy's identity when negotiating with the AUSA. Fortunately, the AUSA didn't consider Melvin a target, and by that time the prosecutor was familiar with Fisk's methods. He'd already seen plenty of people who had caved in when Fisk threatened their loved ones. Foggy only needed a few minutes to persuade him Melvin had been acting under duress when he made the Daredevil suit for Poindexter, and the AUSA wasn't particularly interested in charging Melvin with assaulting a bunch of corrupt FBI agents who were working for Fisk. A few days later, they appeared before a judge, who dismissed the charges at the government's request.

Foggy met Melvin at the jail when he was released. He told Melvin there was no fee for his services, but Melvin could "do a favor for a friend of ours."

Matt

A week later, Daredevil showed up at Melvin's workshop.

"Hey, Melvin," Matt said when Melvin raised his head from his work. "I heard you were out."

"Yeah," Melvin replied, "your lawyer friend got me out."

"Betsy's OK?" Matt asked.

"Yeah. Still pissed off at you, though."

"Sorry about that."

Melvin shrugged. "No point in both of us getting popped." He fiddled with some kind of tool on his workbench – Matt didn't bother to identify it – before he continued. "So, my lawyer said he wanted me to do a favor for a friend. Guess that's you, huh?"

"Yeah," Matt replied. "I could use a new suit, if you're still willing."

"Sure." Melvin put the chisel down and started rummaging among the tools on the workbench, as if he was going to start working right away.

"Not the devil suit," Matt hastened to add. "Poindexter killed people when he was wearing it."

"What, then?"

"Something that looks like this," Matt said, gesturing at the ordinary black shirt and pants he was wearing, "but with protection."

Melvin was silent for several minutes. Matt could hear him muttering under his breath, thinking. Finally, he said, "You remember the suits I made for Mr. Fisk, with the armor in the lining?"

Matt nodded. "Yeah," he said, not sure what Melvin was getting at.

"I could do something like that, make an undershirt and leggings that you could wear under your shirt and pants."

Matt considered this for a minute. "That'll work," he said.

"But you'll need head protection, too," Melvin pointed out.

"Maybe you could put a lining in the mask," Matt suggested.

"Not as good as the helmet, but, yeah, I can do that," Melvin said.

"Thanks, Melvin," Matt said, holding his arms out as Melvin approached with a tape measure.

Weeks passed. Daily life in the makeshift office above Nelson's Meats fell into a routine of sorts. Officially, the firm was known as Nelson & Murdock. As a non-lawyer, Karen couldn't be a partner in the firm, but Matt and Foggy considered her a partner, anyway. She would work for the firm as their investigator while she was completing the requirements to be licensed by New York State as a private investigator. Then she could hang out her own shingle next to theirs.

A trickle of clients found them. Some were returning clients; apparently, Nelson & Murdock still had some goodwill left in the community. They had Theo to thank for some of their new clients. Matt had heard him talking up his brother's law firm to his own customers. Other new clients sought them out because of Foggy's run for DA.

Matt finally figured out what to tell the James family: he told them he was away because of an emergency and had been staying with a family member. It wasn't the whole truth – far from it – but it wasn't a lie, either. Technically. They accepted his apology for failing to keep in touch during his absence, and he went back to work on the case.

At night, the criminal element in Hell's Kitchen was keeping Daredevil busy – too busy. No matter what he did, he couldn't get ahead of them. Neither could the cops. He heard them talking about it, every night.

One morning, Matt trudged wearily into the office. He dropped his briefcase and cane on his desk and fell into his chair. Karen seemed to pick up on his mood and appeared with coffee a minute later.

"You look like you could use this," she said, handing him a cup.

"I can," he said. "Thanks." He sipped the hot brew gratefully.

"Rough night?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Seems like they all are, lately," she observed.

"You got that right." He drank more coffee and set the mug down on the table. "You remember Sisyphus, in the myth?"

Karen nodded. "Sure. He pissed off the gods, big time, and was condemned to push a huge rock up a hill, and when it reached the top, it rolled back down, every time, for eternity."

"That's what it feels like out there," Matt said. "I get one drug dealer off the street, and two more show up. And they have plenty of customers." He rubbed his face. "I can't get on top of it."

"Foggy said you think it's because Fisk is out of the picture."

"I do. He controlled the street crime in Hell's Kitchen, only let his own people operate there. It was part of his plan to change the Kitchen, to gentrify it. With Fisk out of the way, it's wide open." He frowned. "Hell, Turk Barrett even came back from Harlem. I ran into him a couple nights ago."

"That has nothing to do with Fisk being gone," Foggy told them, as he walked into Matt's office. "He got sideways with Luke, and it got too hot for him uptown."

"Maybe the others can help," Karen suggested.

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Others?" he asked.

"You know, the others, from, um, Midland Circle," Karen explained.

He didn't think so. He'd let them think he was dead, just like he did with Foggy and Karen. And he hadn't even contacted them after he came back. By now, they probably knew he had survived. The return of "the real Daredevil" had been reported in the media, after Poindexter was exposed as an imposter. And there was coverage of Father Lantom's funeral, too. He doubted Jessica, Luke, and Danny would want to help him. He wouldn't, in their place. Hell's Kitchen wasn't their problem, anyway. And being with them would just remind him of a time in his life that he'd rather forget.

"No," he said flatly, hoping that would put an end to the discussion. Apparently Foggy and Karen got the message. Foggy changed the subject, asking for their opinions about the settlement offer he'd just received in one of their new cases.

A little before three o'clock the next morning, Matt was standing at the corner of his apartment building's roof. It had been a busy night, but now it seemed as if things had settled down. He was considering whether to call it a night when he heard something. It was faint, at the outer limits of his amplified hearing. A woman's scream, followed by another, deeper voice, angry. A man. He took off in the direction of the voices, leaping to the roof of the building next door, hoping he could get there in time. Whatever was happening, it was bad. And it was blocks away.

By the time he arrived at the rooftop above the location, it was all over. The man with the angry voice was lying on the ground, unconscious. The woman was cowering next to a dumpster, sobbing. Someone else had handled it. Not the cops. If it was them, they would still be here. He heard sirens approaching; the cops were on their way. For an instant, Matt thought he sensed something – no, someone – on the roof of the building next door. He was moving away, fast. Then he was gone – if he had ever been there at all. Matt crouched on the roof, trying to keep out of sight as he listened to the woman tell one of the cops what happened. When the conversation was over, he stood up and jogged across the roof, away from the scene. Time to call it a night.

Foggy and Karen were already in the office when Matt arrived in the morning. He got a cup of coffee and joined them in Karen's office. He drank coffee and listened to Foggy tell Karen a long, complicated story about ditching school with Brett Mahoney when they were in seventh grade. Matt had heard it before. It wasn't any funnier the second time around. But he waited for Foggy to finish before he spoke up.

"Have you guys heard anything about someone going out at night and doing, uh, what I do?"

"No," Foggy replied.

Karen shook her head. "Me neither. Why?"

"Last night, I heard a woman being assaulted," Matt explained, "but when I got there, someone else had already taken out the guy who attacked her. The victim told the cops he just appeared out of nowhere. He took out the guy so fast, she said he was down before she even knew what was happening."

"Probably a wanna-be," Karen suggested.

"Or maybe it was Frank Castle," Foggy said.

Matt shook his head. "It wasn't Castle. No dead bodies."

"Frank isn't even in the city," Karen said coldly.

Matt turned toward her and raised his eyebrows. "And you know this, because – ?"

"A lot happened while you were hiding out in that church basement, Matt," Karen replied.

Matt started to protest that he wasn't "hiding out," but thought better of it. To be honest, he was hiding out. "So I've been told," he said mildly.

"If not Castle, who?" Foggy asked.

Matt shrugged. "No idea." He paused for a beat, then added, "I don't like it, someone running around the Kitchen, taking out criminals."

"Really, Matt?" Foggy asked.

"What?"

"Do you even hear yourself? 'Running around the Kitchen, taking out criminals' – I think we know someone who does that."

"C'mon, Fog, that's different. You know it."

"No," Foggy declared, "it's not."

Matt stood up, his hands on his hips, and turned toward Foggy. "I don't kill people." He pointed at Foggy. "You know that. This new man, we don't know who he is, what his agenda is. People could get killed."

Foggy didn't answer him for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and said, "OK. Point taken. So what're you gonna do about it?"

"Find him." Matt strode out of the office.

Lee Owlsley

There was a knock at his office door. Lee put down his newspaper, the Late City Edition of the Bulletin, and said, "Enter." He looked up to see Martin Broadus, his Chief Operating Officer and right-hand man, entering the office.

"Well?" he asked.

Broadus hesitated a moment before answering, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Then he said, "We need to make bail . . . for two more."

"God damn it, Martin!" Lee exploded. Then he stopped himself. It wasn't Martin's fault. He was only the messenger. No, that wasn't true. He was much more than a messenger. He was as close as one man could be to indispensable, the man who got things done on both sides of the business. Now in his mid-forties, he was starting to go gray, but he was still as fit as the twenty-something who went to work for Lee at Silver & Brent's Chicago office, the day after he received his MBA from the University of Chicago Business School. Lee had recruited him himself and never regretted it. Martin had proved his worth, many times over. It had been worth every penny Lee paid Martin to persuade him to move to New York and join the new firm.

"Sorry," Lee said wearily, waving a hand. "Get it done."

"You got it, boss," Martin replied. Instead of turning to leave, he continued, "But we gotta stop the bleeding. That's ten of our guys taken off the streets in the last week. And it's not only Daredevil that's the problem. There's a new guy who's started showing up and taking out our people, too."

Martin was right. Daredevil was becoming more than an annoyance. He was putting a real crimp in their operations. And now there was someone else, maybe an independent, maybe working with Daredevil. He wasn't sure. But they had to be stopped. "What do you suggest?" Lee asked.

"Put some more muscle on the streets," Martin said. "They can protect our dealers and distributors and deal with Daredevil and this new guy, whoever he is."

"Do it," Lee ordered.

"And there's one more thing," Martin began.

"'One more thing'?" Lee echoed him sarcastically.

"Sorry about that," Martin said. "But our people, the ones we've already gotten out on bail, are reporting that Daredevil is asking them to name names, specifically, yours. Some of them have gotten beat up pretty bad, but they've all kept their mouths shut, so far."

"Good. That has to continue. Make sure they know there will be consequences, severe consequences, for anyone who gives up my name."

Martin nodded and left.

Matt

Finding the new vigilante turned out to be harder than Matt anticipated. Over the next ten days, the same thing kept happening. Matt rushed to the scene of a crime in progress, only to find the unknown vigilante had been there first. Most of the victims gave Daredevil credit for saving them, but Matt heard several of the criminals tell the cops it wasn't Daredevil. Among the criminal element, at least, word was getting around that there was a new vigilante on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. The only good thing about it, from Matt's perspective, was that he wasn't finding dead bodies. Whoever he was, the new guy wasn't killing people.

But people were dying. It felt like the streets of the Kitchen were awash in heroin, and overdoses were on the rise. If what Matt was hearing was accurate, most of the heroin on the market carried the "owl" logo. At night, Matt concentrated on the dealers, trying to find out who was behind the flood of heroin. During the day, both he and Karen were working on it. They came up empty. Either no one knew where it was coming from, or those who knew weren't telling. Then, shortly after the new vigilante's appearance, Matt noticed something else new: the dealers selling the "owl" brand of heroin had backup. Now he had to deal with both the dealers and the thugs who were protecting them.

It was the end of a long week. Matt crouched on a rooftop above West 49th Street, near 11th Avenue. The drug dealers were out in force tonight. As usual. But things were quiet, for the moment. He got out of his crouch and sat with his back to the low parapet wall, his legs extended out in front of him. He let his senses scan the city below him, but his mind was on other things. Specifically, Karen. After she trusted him with her secrets, he hoped they might eventually pick up where they left off, before he fucked up so spectacularly. He didn't know if that was even possible. Karen had given him no sign she was interested in being anything more than a friend and business partner. Her heartbeat sometimes sped up when he was around, but even his senses couldn't tell him what was in her heart or in her mind. He knew one thing for sure: she hadn't forgiven him for letting her and Foggy think he was dead. Her dig about hiding in a church basement was proof of that. Days later, it still stung. Get real, Murdock, he told himself. He had no business even thinking of a future with Karen. Not now. It was too soon. She needed time to heal. So did he.

Then there was Elektra. The mere thought of her name brought a stab of pain to his chest. It was familiar, now. He welcomed it. He deserved it. His bad decisions had brought them to that cavern underneath Midland Circle. He had no doubt she would have escaped, if he had not been there. But he was there, a reminder of who she was and what the Hand had tried to take from her. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he relived their final moments together, the moments that showed him "what living feels like." Then she was ripped from his arms. He now understood why she did what she did. It was because he had, finally, reached her. She no longer wanted to live as what the Hand had created, any more than he wanted to live as Matt Murdock after her death.

Angry voices floated up to him from the street below. A drug deal, apparently going bad. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and headed toward the voices.

"You ain't rippin' me off, asshole," one of them was yelling. Probably the dealer. "This is the real shit. You want it, you gotta pay."

"Go fuck yourself," the customer replied.

Matt jumped down to the lid of a dumpster, behind the dealer. The customer took off, apparently having seen him.

"God damn junkie," the dealer muttered as he pulled out a handgun and raised it. Matt launched himself at the dealer, knocking him to the pavement. The gun discharged, the bullet lodging harmlessly in the asphalt. Matt knelt on the dealer's back and twisted his right arm behind his back, almost to the breaking point.

"Who's your supplier?" Matt demanded in a low growl.

"Fuck you."

"Wrong answer," Matt informed him, jerking the man's arm upward. "Try again."

The dealer howled in pain, then gasped out, "Do I look like a guy who hangs around with the bosses?"

"Don't know," Matt replied. "Give me a name."

"I don't have one!" the dealer insisted. "I get a text telling me where to pick up the shit. Then I get another text telling me where to drop the cash. I never see no one."

"Give me your phone," Matt ordered. The dealer handed it over. Matt examined it quickly. Probably a burner, and the texts probably came from another burner. He stuck it in his pocket anyway. He'd have Karen or Foggy take a look in the morning. Then he spun the dealer around and knocked him out with two quick blows to the head. The dealer's limp form had just hit the ground when he heard heavy footsteps approaching from both directions. He counted four heartbeats. Shit. The dealer's backup had arrived. A little too late for the dealer, but not too late to cause a shitload of trouble for Matt.

One of the approaching men pulled out a semi-automatic and fired until the clip was empty. Matt leaped and twisted to dodge the bullets. While the gunman was reloading, Matt came in close and took him down with a leaping kick to the chest, followed by an uppercut to the jaw. He picked up the gun, pulled it apart, and threw the pieces away. They clattered across the pavement.

When a second man came at him, Matt sidestepped out of his path, then got him in a chokehold from behind. Before Matt could incapacitate him, a third man, armed with a knife, came up behind him and began slashing. Melvin's armor underneath his shirt stopped the blade, but Matt lost his hold on the second man, who turned and began punching him in the face as the third man continued to slash at him ineffectually. The fourth man was approaching, about to join in the attack, when another figure appeared behind him. The newcomer was so fast and silent that only Matt knew he was coming. A blade ripped through the air, and the fourth man went down. The two men attacking Matt saw the newcomer and froze for an instant. That was enough to allow Matt to break away and counter-attack. The newcomer moved in, almost too fast for Matt to detect, and pulled one of Matt's attackers off of him. Matt focused on the other man, trading punches with him until Matt landed a blow to the right side of his head that sent him to the ground. When he turned his attention to the remaining attacker, he, too, was lying on the pavement.

Matt stood with his hands on his knees, panting to catch his breath. The newcomer was several feet away, not even breathing hard. Matt focused on him, then straightened up in shock. The person who had come to his aid was a woman. He couldn't pick up a heartbeat. Then he got a faint whiff of her scent. Adrenaline jolted him. His heart pounded. His throat tightened. He could hardly breathe, much less speak. Finally, he forced out a single word, in a strangled croak. "Elektra?"