Chapter 34:
[Matt Murdock POV]
[Fogwell's Gym, New York City]
From the sidelines, I observe Mickey's relentless assault on the punching bag. Her movements are swift precise, and echo with a familiar impatience – a quality that resonates with the younger version of myself. We've established a routine, meeting after work or school to train at this weathered gym. In these sessions, I impart to her the fundamentals I learned from Stick. Not everything, just enough to navigate the unforgiving streets of Hell's Kitchen. Memories of Stick flood my mind; a mentor who disappeared after I dared to use his teachings for personal revenge following my father's murder. I toss sparring gear towards Mickey, prompting her to join me in the ring. Without hesitation, she dons the gear, assuming a boxing stance with a hint of defiance in her eyes. "I'm ready when you are, old man," she declares. I respond with a smile, "Just keep your guard up, little girl." As our hands rise in preparation, we begin to circle each other. Mickey lunges forward, throwing the first punch. I gracefully evade, tagging her lightly on the padded helmet. Our sparring session unfolds a dance of dodges and strikes interspersed with conversation. Amidst the rhythmic exchange of blows, Mickey opens up about life at Saint Agnes' shelter. She speaks of Sister Maggie's tough yet compassionate demeanor and the enigmatic Sokovian woman who adds a touch of joy to the place. Her words weave into the cadence of our movements, creating a unique symphony in the gym.
Mickey, ever quick-witted, questions my apparent blindness as we continue our match. I chuckle, acknowledging the training that enables me to defend myself against potential threats. The mention of Stick brings a momentary silence, a chapter of my life I seldom revisit. Before I can delve into memories, Mickey lands an uppercut, signaling the end of the round with the beep of my phone's timer. As she unwraps her hand tape, she shifts the conversation to the harsh reality of the neighborhood surrounding the shelter. Violent gangs, particularly Drexel and his drug empire, cast a dark shadow over the community. Mickey's frustration spills out, accusing the police of turning a blind eye due to bribery. I caution her about making serious allegations without concrete proof. Mickey, shoulders drooping, expresses her frustration. I offer reassurance, a promise that things will improve with time. Yet, she challenges me with skepticism, questioning if the world has truly changed for the better since my youth. I reflect on her inquiry, admitting that progress is slow but happening. Mickey remains unconvinced, demanding tangible evidence before embracing optimism. A shrug conveys my understanding of her impatience – a sentiment I once harbored at her age.
[Spartan POV]
[10th Police Precinct, New York City]
During my patrol, I get an unexpected call from Misty Knight, asking me to meet her at the police precinct. [Rooftop.] Flipping through the air, I land in a crouch position right by the police detective. "Got your call. What's up?" Knight gets straight to the point, "Know anything about OSCORP's Eagle-Eye tech?" I bob my head, "Yeah, a crime/emergency alert system." In truth, it's a cookie-cutter version of EYPON. The woman points a thumb toward the control tower, "The whole system is down. Citywide." "How?" I ask, arms crossed. Knight sighs, scratching at her temple, "The central server to the system was sabotaged. Now the whole department is scrambling to get it back online. The problem is we don't know how to fix it. We didn't build the damn thing." The realization of last night's escapade against Ghost hits me.
I sigh, walking over to the tower and run a scan, "Definitely a problem. The input bands have been shifted. Software damage. Give me a minute." Popping open the holo-computer, I start to work to fix the damaged network. Suddenly, the tower beams back to life. "Back online," I say to Knight. The woman smiles, impressed. Maybe it was the spear of the moment, but it feels like something momentous just happened. Normally, I wouldn't ever trust a cop. Not even an arm-length partnership. But my gut tells me Misty Knight is one of the rare, honest, good cops on the force. The police's alert system flags a crime in progress. "Time to get back to work," I say, walking off.
[Mickey Toretto POV]
[New York City]
I walk the street of Hell's Kitchen on my way to the shelter. As I stride through the nearly deserted neighborhood, I can't help but feel worried for Matt. Capable or not, he's still a blind man at the end of the day. The two of us grew very close quickly, like siblings. Hell, the man is an older brother I never had. The thing about me is I'm fiercely protective of the people I care about, and Matt Murdock is the only person in my life who has earned that level of trust and loyalty from me. But tonight, I don't need to stress over the issue; Matt is doing an all-nighter at the office working on a big corruption scandal case. No point in going to the gym. Training alone is no fun.
Cold wind blows from the west. Hard enough, I can feel the icy chill through my jacket. No wonder the street is fairly empty tonight. Nobody wants to deal with the cold. Winter's a bitch this year. I quicken my walk. The faster I get to the shelter, the sooner I'm out of the cold. As I pass an alleyway, I inadvertently stumble onto a shakedown in progress. Acting fast, I jump behind a dumpster for cover. Four mean-looking tough guys are busy roughing up a man.
The goon throwing the punches at the defenseless man cracks a smile. A sinister smile, downright gleeful. People driven by life circumstances into a life of crime have a tight-lip grimace about them that is disturbing and sad. This guy's grin is different. It's a smile of sadism. A predator who thrives on inflicting pain onto the weak. He pulls out a gun and jams it onto the poor man's forehead, resting his finger on the trigger. I reach into my bag to grab my phone to call 9-11 but stop when a rod-like object flies over my head toward goon with the gun, streaking him in the temple and knocking him out cold.
My eyes gape when I see it's Daredevil crouched on a fire escape. He leaps off the fire escape, lands in front of the gang, then stands at his full height, hands up in a boxing stance. The biggest guy in the gang stalks toward the masked vigilante. "I'm going to bash your face in, devil freak," he threatens. "Take your best shot," Daredevil growls. The large man swings his fist. Daredevil traps the goon's attacking arm and pummels him repeatedly with a barrage of closed-fisted punches. Seeing the display of brutality Daredevil is capable of, the gang takes a step back, fearful. "Who else wants to take a shot?" the red-clad masked vigilante barks. "Come on! We outnumber him!" one yells but has no confidence in his voice. "Fuck that noise. I don't want to end up in a body cast!" a guy in the back shouts, making a run for it. As one starts to flee, the others follow.
"You can come out from behind the dumpster. It's safe now," Daredevil says over his shoulder. I jerk in surprise, 'He knew I was here the entire time?' Daredevil strolls over to the man the gang is beating on. "Is he alright?" I ask, walking over to the two. Daredevil shakes his head, "They beat him pretty badly. Need to get him to a hospital ASAP." Without being told, I pull out my phone, calling 9-11. Surprisingly, the ambulance arrived quickly. I wave them down and usher them to follow me toward the injured man who needs help. Daredevil is long gone by the time I return with the paramedic.
[Matt Murdock POV]
[Murdock's Apartment, New York City]
In the confines of my apartment, the ambient sounds of the city infiltrate every corner, disrupting the tranquility I seek for meditation. The room, though modest, is my sanctuary—a space where I attempt to find solace amidst the chaos of my dual life. Cross-legged on the floor, I close my eyes, attempting to shut out the visual stimuli that normally dominate my senses. The worn wooden floor beneath me is cool, grounding me as I focus on finding the calm within. My hands rest gently on my knees, fingers forming a deliberate connection with my breath. However, the urban symphony outside my window seems relentless, a cacophony of car horns, distant sirens, and the indistinct murmur of the city's ceaseless activity. The discordant melody of the metropolis infiltrates my consciousness, making it challenging to establish the mental stillness I so desperately crave. Despite the honing of my senses through years of training, the sensory onslaught is unyielding. Each external disturbance becomes a ripple in the pond of my concentration, threatening to disrupt the delicate equilibrium.
Navigating the internal landscape of my thoughts, the sounds of the city become a metaphor for the chaos that exists within me. Despite the external turmoil, I seek a center—a still point in the storm where I can momentarily escape the demands of my dual identity. In this solitary moment, within the confines of my apartment, I attempt to find balance. The noise becomes a challenge, a metaphorical adversary that I confront with every controlled breath. Exasperation seeps through my controlled facade as I release a frustrated sigh, acknowledging the futility of attempting any meaningful meditation tonight. The persistent urban chorus refuses to grant me a moment of respite. With a slow exhale, I abandon the meditative posture, unfolding my legs and allowing the tension to dissipate from my muscles. I run a hand through my hair, the frustration evident in the subtle tightening of my jaw. The dim glow of the city outside casts a muted illumination on my features, revealing the weariness that often lingers beneath the surface. Resigned, I rise from the floor and move towards the window, the distant city lights flickering like stars in a chaotic cosmos. The sounds of the city, now fully embraced, serve as a reminder of the responsibilities that await me beyond the confines of my apartment.
My attention shifts from the window to the wardrobe standing stoically in the corner of the room. It houses the unmistakable red Daredevil suit—a symbol of the responsibilities and challenges I willingly shoulder. The juxtaposition of the serene, dimly lit apartment and the ominous presence of the costume creates a palpable tension, reflecting the dual nature of my existence. Approaching the wardrobe, I can almost feel the weight of the suit even before I lay a hand on it. The fabric, infused with memories of countless battles and struggles, seems to resonate with a silent call to action. The red hues of the suit stand out in stark contrast to the muted tones of the room, embodying the uncompromising stance I take in the face of injustice. As my fingers graze the cool surface of the wardrobe, I'm reminded of the choices I've made and the sacrifices that come with being Daredevil. The city outside, with its ceaseless noise, now seems to echo the internal conflict that simmers within me—the struggle between the desire for a moment of peace and the unyielding duty that compels me to don the crimson mantle.
The decision lingers in the air, unspoken but undeniably present. I open the wardrobe, revealing the iconic suit neatly hung, waiting for the next chapter of the night to unfold. In the quietude of my apartment, the Daredevil suit symbolizes more than just fabric and armor. It embodies a commitment to justice, a silent promise to protect the vulnerable. As I prepare to step into the role that awaits me beyond the walls of my sanctuary, the city's symphony, once an impediment, becomes a battle hymn, and I brace myself for the night that lies ahead.
[New York City]
Leaving the confines of my apartment, I step into the bustling energy of New York City, the sounds and sights of the urban landscape now taking on a different significance. The night air carries a cool, crisp edge, and the distant glow of city lights guides my way as I set out on patrol. The streets below are alive with the pulse of the city, each step resonating with purpose. The city's heartbeat, once a hindrance to my meditation, now becomes a rhythmic companion, urging me forward. I navigate through the labyrinth of alleys and avenues, my senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the atmosphere, the telltale signs of trouble. As I move through the shadows, the city, with its towering structures and hidden corners, becomes a canvas for both crime and redemption. The night unfolds with a blend of anticipation and familiarity. From the rooftop vantage points, I survey the city below. The echoes of conversations, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional sirens weave together.
Every alley holds the potential for confrontation, every rooftop a perch for observation. The city, with its complex interplay of shadows and lights, becomes a stage where I play my part in the ongoing drama of Hell's Kitchen. Within that moment a familiar voice catches my ear. Turk Barrett, Hell's Kitchen's notorious lowlife and informant, makes his presence known. His voice, a blend of street-smart swagger and self-preservation, stands out against the backdrop of the city's nightlife. Turning my focus towards the source of the voice, I hone my senses, instinctively navigating towards the familiar cadence. Turk Barrett, always on the periphery of the criminal underworld, seems to revel in the chaotic dance of Hell's Kitchen. His presence often signifies a shift in the delicate balance of the neighborhood, and tonight is no exception.
I creep up on the small-time criminal who is in the final throes of a back alley deal. The ambient sounds of the city cloak my movements, allowing me to inch closer without betraying my presence. Turk, oblivious to my approach, wraps up the transaction, the exchange of goods and hushed words completing the illicit transaction. The man pockets the gains from the deal. As Turk begins his exit, I seize the opportune moment, using the element of surprise to my advantage. With practiced precision, I pitch the baton, aiming for the goon who just completed the deal. The baton cuts through the shadows with a barely audible whirr, its trajectory honed by years of training. In an instant, it connects with a satisfying thud, striking the unsuspecting goon squarely and rendering him unconscious. The pistol, still warm from the transaction, slips from his grasp and clatters to the ground. The alleyway is momentarily engulfed in a tense silence as Turk halts in his tracks, registering the unexpected turn of events. Without missing a beat, I emerge from the shadows, the Daredevil suit now fully visible. My focus shifts from the fallen goon to Turk, the unspoken acknowledgment between us signaling that our paths have crossed once again. Turk, wide-eyed and caught off guard, stammers for words.
Turk attempts to flee the scene, and I'm quick to react and retrieve a grapple line. With a practiced flick of the wrist, the line shoots through the air. The line wraps around Turk's legs. In an instant, I tug on the grapple line, cinching it tight and binding his limbs together. Turk, caught off balance, stumbles, and crashes to the ground. Approaching Turk with measured steps, I stand over him, the Daredevil suit an imposing silhouette. Turk, prone on the ground, meets my gaze with frustration. The alley is steeped in a charged silence as I assertively approach Turk, his attempts at escape foiled. I grab him by the jacket, the material bunching in my gloved fist, and pull him into a seated position. "Let's talk, Turk," I declare, my voice carrying the weight of authority.
The alley, once a stage for illicit deals, becomes a temporary arena for a different kind of transaction—one where information and accountability take precedence. Turk, bound by the grapple line and held firmly in my grip, understands the futility of resistance. His bravado, often a shield against the dangers of Hell's Kitchen, begins to crack instantly.
Turk immediately begins to spill the information he's gathered. His words tumble out in a rapid stream, a mix of half-truths and unfiltered insights into the criminal underbelly of Hell's Kitchen. Turk's voice once laced with defiance, now carries an undertone of desperation. He recounts shady dealings, planned heists, and the movements of various criminal factions in the city. The information, though often clouded by Turk's self-interest, unveils a mosaic of challenges that lie ahead. I listen intently, my senses attuned to the nuances of his narrative.
Turk's hurried revelations reach a pivotal point as he discloses the crucial information—the location of Drexel's main distribution hub for his illicit drug operations. The city's ambient sounds seem to hush for a moment as if acknowledging the significance of the intel. At this moment, the dual identity of Matt Murdock and Daredevil converges. The lawyer within me acknowledges the legal implications of this newfound knowledge, while the vigilante recognizes the opportunity to dismantle a significant criminal enterprise. I prepare to take the next steps, navigating the thin line between legality and vigilantism in the pursuit of bringing Drexel down.
[Apartment Complex, New York City]
[Rooftop.] Perched on a rooftop overlooking a dilapidated building. It stands as a haunting remnant of a once-thriving public housing project, now worn down by neglect and time. The scene before me bears the scars of an abandoned community. The flickering lights of nearby buildings cast an eerie glow. Wasting no time, I swiftly infiltrate the apartment complex via the rooftop entrance, navigating the urban landscape with fluidity. The ambient sounds of the city become a distant echo as I focus on the task at hand. Reaching the rooftop entrance, I assess the situation below. With a calculated leap, I descend to the rooftop, my movements masked by the cover of darkness. Navigating the hallways with caution, I make my way towards the heart of the apartment complex.
[Inside.] Reaching the edge of the hallway, I come to a halt, my heightened senses alerting me to the presence of multiple armed goons just around the corner. The faint sounds of their movements and hushed whispers reach my ears. I can almost visualize the scene unfolding beyond my line of sight. The distinct metallic clicks and clunks of firearms being readied reverberate in the air. The weight of their weapons and the tension in their movements are etched into my perception. Once the armed goons turn the corner, their senses focused on the assumed safety of the hallway, I seize the opportunity to strike, using the elements of surprise, speed, and power. In a fraction of a second, I close the distance, the element of surprise working in my favor. The city's ambient sounds become a distant hum as the symphony of the night transforms into a dynamic overture of action. With precision, I incapacitate the leading goon with a swift strike, a controlled, forceful blow that leaves him disoriented and defenseless. The element of surprise ripples through the group, disrupting their coordinated movements. Registering my presence, the goons' initial advantage crumbles. The dimly lit hallway becomes a battleground, each movement a calculated response to the threat they now face. The city's heartbeat, now accompanied by the sporadic clashes and grunts, underscores the intensity of the confrontation. Caught off guard, the goons struggle to regain their composure, but the fluidity of my movements and the expertise in my combat style gives me the upper hand.
[Office.] With the armed goons incapacitated and the immediate threat neutralized, I press forward, my senses guiding me toward the culmination of this mission. Prowling swiftly through the dimly lit hallway, I reach the door to Drexel's office—the epicenter of the criminal operations within the apartment complex. With a controlled burst of energy, I kick open the door, the hinges groaning in protest. The office, a juxtaposition of opulence and malevolence, comes into view. Drexel, seated at a lavish desk adorned with the trappings of ill-gotten wealth, looks up with a mixture of surprise and disdain. The room, bathed in the dim glow of city lights, seems to hold its breath as I step forward, the weight of the night bearing down on this pivotal moment.
Drexel's facade of intimidation gives way to desperation. With a barked command, he yells for his two bodyguards, flanking him to attack me. The bodyguards, driven by a mix of loyalty and self-preservation, spring into action. Engaging the bodyguards, I manage to take them down without breaking a sweat, combining a series of maneuvers and strikes. Drexel watches in disbelief as his enforcers are incapacitated in front of him. Drexel resorts to desperate measures in a last-ditch attempt to salvage something from the wreckage of his criminal enterprise. In a bid to buy his way out of the impending downfall, Drexel moves towards a safe, showcasing a large stack of money. "Okay," he stammers, desperation evident in his voice, "We'll split the take." The temptation of wealth, the currency of the criminal world, laid bare in an attempt to secure his own survival. I reject Drexel's proposal by shaking my head. As Drexel's desperate attempt at negotiation fails, he opts for an escape. With a sudden burst of movement, he makes a dash for the window. In a daring maneuver, he leaps onto the fire escape of the neighboring building. Without hesitation, I dive out of the window in pursuit of Drexel. The city's skyline stretches below as I free-fall through the night air. In the midst of the descent, my reflexes kick in, and with precision, I deploy a spare baton equipped with a grapple line. The grapple line shoots out a thin but sturdy wire that envelopes Drexel.