Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Daredevil.
"Come on, another round! On me!" Foggy said, his grin widening. The trio sat at the booth, sticking out in their cheap suits and shiny shoes in the rickety bar that reeked of smoke and beer.
Karen and Matt eyed each other. "You did do pretty well in court today, Foggy…" Karen began with a sly smile.
Foggy scoffed dramatically as a new round came in. "Like hell I did 'pretty well'. I rocked it, Karen. Rocked it."
"Cheers to that." Matt raised his glass, and the three clanked their bottles together in a unified "Cheers!" They all took a swing of their drinks, and a large burp erupted from Foggy's mouth. Karen burst out laughing, her alcohol-induced giggle filling the musty bar.
As Foggy and Karen continued their drunken rants and conversations, Matt's ears drifted to the TV humming over the bar table.
"Just a month ago, police found five men beaten unconscious, two of whom were in critical condition. All five survived, and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is thought to be responsible for their unconscious state. The five men were suspects of a child trafficking ring, but just today they were ruled 'not guilty' due to a lack of necessary evidence. The factory where the alleged ring was located was found empty with no proof of unlawful activity…"
A bottle slammed against the bar. "We had'em," a gruff voice slurred. As the man took another drink, Matt heard a woman huff out a sigh next to him, her fingers tapping impatiently on her glass. "We had'em. If we had another week we could've arrested all those SOBs."
"You said that 2 drinks ago," the woman said, taking a sip from her glass.
"It doesn't change the fact that if that devil didn't screw up our investigation, the whole ring would've gotten a trial."
Matt straightened slightly, tilting his head to the side.
"We knew there'd been at least a dozen kids being held there to be trafficked to hotel rooms. Where are they now, huh? That devil went in guns blazin' and ended up compromising the whole friggin' investigation 'cause he heard one girl cryin'." The man downed his drink, slamming it down again and motioning for more. When a new one came, he stopped to stare into the bottle as if it were the bottom of the river, and he was going to jump from the bridge. The man took a deep breath before putting his lips to the glass, grumbling into the bottle, "I guess the others weren't cryin' loud 'nough."
I guess the others weren't cryin' loud 'nough.
Matt flinched, the words reverberating an awkward twitch through his body.
"You okay, Matt?" Karen asked. Matt looked up from the table, his eyes meeting the two's red faces, their drunken smiles nearly devoid of worry. Nearly, that is.
"Yeah," he said with a plastered smile. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Matt let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Hand trembling, he took another drink. Beer dripped onto the bench.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Focus on that, Matt thought. Focus on that sound.
But the voice echoed through the musty room, bouncing off the walls and finding its way back to him as if it were the only voice in the bar. Having neither the strength nor willpower to block the words, Matt let his mind repeat them over.
I guess the others weren't cryin' loud 'nough.
Because it was true. That night a month ago, the only cry he listened to was from that girl he left with Father Lantom. After fighting the men looking for her, he ran to the factory.
It was empty.
It reeked of bleach, it's smell overwhelming him. Matt remembered his senses being blinded, his nose and throat burning as he stumbled out of the factory, leaning on the wall as he dry heaved on the grass.
For the next three hours, Matt scoured the city. He would sit on a roof, sensing something vaguely familiar before chasing it down, only to find himself lost in another alley, running in frustrating circles.
For the month after, he'd find himself on the rooftops once again. As he ventured out of Hell's Kitchen, Matt went out at night in his sweats and black mask, vanishing through the shadows, listening to conversations and police chatter. At some point he turned to street criminals, cornering them and demanding information.
The city took ahold of his absence, some speculating that the devil was injured at night and died bleeding out in an abandoned building. Others thought that the police finally caught him, making a quiet arrest without the public's knowledge. Even Foggy hinted the question, asking what Matt's plans were for the night.
There was joy and sadness in his vanishing. Although at this moment in the bar, there seemed to be more joy.
"Look Lance, I get why you're angry, no matter how much I want to disagree," said the woman sitting next to the man at the bar. "If you hate this devil guy so much, you should be glad he's been gone for so long."
The man, Lance, grunted in agreement, staring blankly at the wall. "Cheers to that," he muttered under his breath, taking another sip from his bottle. "And let's pray he never comes back."
Matt sat frozen at the booth, his fingers tightly gripping the bottle, staring at the table as the pair stood up and walked past him. He was tempted to run out and explain to Lance why he couldn't get to all of the children. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream that he hasn't been able to sleep without getting nightmares, so he goes out for hours at a time searching for them only to come back to work empty-handed, drained, and helpless.
But of course, Matt couldn't, because he was vowed to a life of secrecy and invisibility. And a life of secrecy led to a life of lies, and a life of invisibility led to a life of misunderstandings.
And so Matt sat there like an idiot, glued to the bottle and his seat, staring at the wooden table as if his life depended on it. He was frozen there as if an invisible force was holding him down until Lance and the woman stepped out of the door. The force released him. Inhaling deeply, Matt slumped on the booth seat, the leather creaking under his weight.
"...Matt?... Matt!? Dude, are you okay?"
Matt flinched at Foggy's voice, snapping his eyes up to see the two slightly sober friends staring at him. "Yeah yeah, just gotta... gotta, uhm, get some fresh air. Be right back."
Walking to the exit, Matt could hear Karen staring worriedly at his back. "Is he alright?"
Foggy took a sip from his bottle. "Yeah, he's fine," he retorted, knowing Matt could hear every word and every drip of lies spoken.
Standing outside the bar under the dim lighting, Matt leaned against the wall, inhaling the smoke and emission filled air. It would seem useless in a few hours, but he went through the conversation in his head, along with all of the lies and presumptions that were made. He felt something boil in his heart, something other than anger. Frustration perhaps. Frustration at himself for not finding the children and at everyone else for not understanding what they shouldn't be able to understand.
He breathed in deeply once more, smelling the city, hearing the cries and laughs fill the streets. Matt forced his heart to slow, for his breathing to deepen. He reminded himself that this was his city, one that he had to protect and that it would be selfish to stop for any person's words.
A new passion invigorated him. Matt texted Foggy before slipping from the light into the shadows, running back to his apartment to put on his suit. He ran alone, knowing that he lived a life of secrecy and invisibility, lies and misunderstandings, for the sake of his city, and for the sake of the children.
But, in the long run, this ephemeral passion wouldn't last, and his thoughts alone wouldn't stop the worst from happening.
(A/N): Criticism is always welcome.
