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distinctlywhumpthing · 2 years ago

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In League — Dead Ringer, part III

Masterlist

Summary: (Continued from part II) The foreshadowed and promised caning. August is punished by Keats and loses any progress he might have made in making a friend. Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt. Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, degradation, manhandling, implied past noncon, burn mention, implied starvation, punishment (caning). Whumper pitting whumpees against each other and being a bully.

“It’s been a spell since I’ve seen you, Fionn,” Keats said, his back to August as he fingered Fionn’s bowtie. “I truly wondered if I’d gotten it right with this new one.” He circled Fionn, keeping an open hand pressed to his throat as he moved to stand behind him. A python holding its prey. “Isn’t he just perfect?” He leaned down, just shy of putting his chin on Fionn’s shoulder so their faces lined up as they regarded August.

Or, rather, as Keats did. Fionn started ahead unblinking, unseeing.

Their master must have been wise to his absence but rather than turn angry, he smirked and winked at August conspiratorially. “I think—” He pulled Fionn closer, forcing him to stand taller by the hand at his throat, and placed the end of the cane between Fionn’s feet. “He’s even better than the last.”

Fionn’s expression crumpled, something of a whimper escaping his lips. His hands at his sides were trembling fists.

Keats laughed, the movement shaking both of them for how close together they stood. His hand at the top of the cane between Fionn’s hips pulling him nearer still.

August averted his eyes, all too aware of Keats watching his every move, feasting on his reactions as encouragement.

“My, my, you have been missing me, haven’t you?” Keats continued, too loudly for it to be an honest exchange. All of this was just another game. “Poor wretched thing…”

How long had Fionn been up here alone? How long for him to be melting into the embrace as if it were salvation and not something wicked?

Some years ago, August had stumbled upon a tangle of limbs at Elmwood. A footman who’d always given him sour glances with one of the stablehands whom he wouldn’t have been able to pick out of the lot of them. He’d turned and run, abandoning whatever errand he’d been sent on and later refusing to return to complete it when he was discovered skulking in the servant’s hall. The footman had taken it on to make August’s life miserable, a display of influence and power, to dissuade him from becoming loose-lipped.

He didn’t realize that August was afraid to even admit to seeing the depravity, fearing any association with it. They’d all been warned about perversions at the workhouse. Had once watched a pair of boys whipped bloody on the racks before being dragged to prison for the crime.

With little to look forward to after the workhouse, the boys often occupied themselves ranking the various types of labour they might find themselves indentured to. Among the worst were mining for the stories of being buried alive; factory work that would cost fingers at a time; being shipped to America only to drown on the voyage; and digging sewers whilst knee-deep in shit.

It was a taunting game to assign these wretched fortunes, same as it was an indulgent fantasy to allow themselves to wonder at being chosen by a tradesman; a farmer who’d never had a son; or a shopkeeper in the city in need of an assistant. But after that day, they had been armed with the ultimate derision, born of their shock and fear: Handsomer boys could be bought by twisted men and damned to suffer Hell twofold.

So, August was more than relieved when Keats said, “None of that today, Fionn.” Though the promise in his admonishing tone made August’s stomach flip. Fionn shivered as he was released but remained standing at sharp attention. “I’m not sure if August has informed you, Fionn, but he made a mistake earlier today and we agreed that the natural course of punishment would be the cane—”

“Sir, I thought—” The slap surprised August, a flash of pain on his cheek that brought tears to his eyes.

“You will learn to hold your tongue and speak only when invited.”

He clenched his fists at his side.

“Where was I? We agreed the transgression was deserving of the cane. I’m sure you’ll agree, Fionn.”

“Yessir,” came his well-trained reply, face betraying no emotion.

August swallowed. He hadn’t imagined they’d formed any sort of understanding in such a short time, let alone some sort of alliance, but it still felt like something of a betrayal for Fionn to simply accept this course of events. Perhaps it was purely self-preservation, which August ought to imitate rather than resent.

Their master tapped the end of his cane on the floor. “On your knees now like a good boy.”

There was less shame in simply sinking to the floor. At the very least, he’d be able to hide his reddened face from—

Keats snapped his fingers and August found himself hanging by his bowtie and collar, the oaf holding him from behind. He scrambled to put his feet back under him and straighten, reflexively gasping in a breath as he did, though he wasn’t released.

“You are slow,” Keats observed, grabbing August’s chin in a bruising grip. He turned his head left and right, inspecting him with those beady eyes. “I hope you’ll wind up being worth all of this trouble.” He released August and stepped aside. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

Fionn was on his knees.

“What?” August should have expected the slap this time. Tears spilled down his cheeks but he did his best to ignore them. “He didn’t do anything. Sir, the…mistake was mine, the punishment should be as well.” Keats raised his hand and August cowered as much as he could with the lackey still gripping his collar.

Keats let his hand fall. He paced back and forth like he was having a constitutional through garden instead of threatening his kept boys, cane tapping along with his heels on the hardwood. “You were agreeable downstairs. You thanked me so graciously for sparing you from the cane.”

“Sir, please.” His voice notched higher, made thinner by the pressure on his throat. “I didn’t understand this to be what it meant. I never meant for—”

“You are astonishingly dull-witted.”

“Please, sir. I’ll gladly take the cane myself. He shouldn’t have to pay for my error.” Fionn hadn’t even spared him a momentary glance and August couldn’t blame him. There was little chance they’d find camaraderie after this.

“An admirable sentiment and certainly meaningful as we are learning that your shortcomings far outnumber your strengths.” August felt his cheeks burn, his blood boiling with hatred for this man who was so visibly sated by the suffering he could cause. “Perhaps next time you will employ more of your limited discernment to make a better choice.”

He seethed, holding tightly to his anger rather than dissolve into hot tears of defeat. He wanted to scream, to lunge at Keats and beat him with his own cane, but he couldn’t take a step – let alone hope to best two bigger men.

Keats was smirking. “Yes, best not to fight and make things worse for poor, old Fionn.” At that, Fionn let his face fall, just for a moment. Keats turned to see what August was observing but Fionn had already fixed his expression, returning to emptiness. “I was planning to be merciful. Rather than strikes to equal the worth of the item you lost me, just one for each hour that you’ve been here, succeeding only to disappoint.”

August couldn’t help but be relieved. It had to be less than ten, maybe fewer than six. Things really had gone downhill rapidly. Fionn had told him it was fixed, which explained how it all turned on him. He felt even guiltier. Fionn had tried to help him. Perhaps if August apologized enough, when this was over, explained that he truly had never intended to pass off the punishment and—

“Unfortunately, I have no way of telling the time…” Keats raised his hands in a theatrical shrug, cane swinging, hooked over one of his open palms. “We’ll simply have to take the whole day. Twenty-four hours.” August struggled against the hand restraining him, struggled to stop himself from swinging and kicking out. Keats grinned. “Perfectly reasonable, don’t you think, Fionn?”

“Yessir,” he whispered, no different than before but now he looked so small and frail kneeling there, Keats looming over him. August squeezed his fist tighter, fingernails biting into the burn on his palm, pain radiating up his wrist.

Keats raised the cane. August wondered how Fionn managed to stop himself cowering or flinching. His obedience was frightening. Their master swung the cane up. August held his breath—

And Keats let the cane fall. “Can you count as high as twenty-four? Or shall poor Fionn have to take responsibility for that as well?”

August gaped at him. Fucking—

“Well?”

“Yes, sir,” August grit out. “I can count to twenty-four.”

Keats raised his eyebrows. “I hope for Fionn’s sake this isn’t more of your unfounded arrogance.” He turned his attention back to Fionn. “Jacket and waistcoat.”

Fionn removed the layers until he wore only his white shirt, buttoned up to the same fucking bowtie that was being used as a collar on August. He painstakingly folded each item before placing it beside him. Keats didn’t wait for any further sign once he had straightened again.

The cane whistled through the air and came down with a crack on the center of Fionn’s back.

“One.” August had almost forgotten to say anything. “Two—”

Keats wound up for every blow, putting his whole weight behind it. By the fourth, Fionn seemed unable to kneel upright and had sunk onto his heels, starting to bow forward. He was breathing through his teeth, tears streaming down his face, but he hadn’t made a sound.

Halfway, Fionn was doubled over, an even easier target with his back horizontal. His spine and shoulder blades caught the worst for how much they protruded. Keats delivered the blows even faster now that he didn’t have to pay so much attention to the angle.

When Keats landed a blow across the back of Fionn’s neck, the boy finally cried out. His scream cut off with the next and then he was breathlessly whimpering. Keats paused to wipe his brow with a handkerchief and spared August a grin that made him want to be sick.

“—Twenty-four.”

The air rang without the sounds of the beating. Keats was breathing heavily, more so than Fionn who hadn’t made a sound for some minutes and remained, still as death, curled on the floor.

Keats wiped his brow again, letting his handkerchief fall in a flutter to the ground when he finished with it. “You’ll still have plenty of time to think, to make sure this really sinks in.” He stepped closer to August, too close, so that he could feel his breath on his face as he spoke. “I’m sure you’re grateful for my merciful hand to guide you in bettering yourself.”

It was all he could do not to laugh out loud and spit in his face, but clearly a spoken answer was expected of him, judging by the oaf shaking him. “Thank you, sir.” There was nothing to be done about the bitterness that was evident in his tone.

His master chose to ignore it, straightening his jacket as he headed for the door. He paused in its frame, turning to look at August again, though he didn’t address him. “Fionn, be glad that you’ve no need for such corrections.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fionn croaked obediently, using his hands to push himself up just enough to bow his head at Keats.

August’s lip curled in distaste and Keats grinned, winking at him. He was glad Fionn couldn’t see the judgement he so poorly contained even knowing Keats had only elicited the response to get a rise out of him.

He didn’t breathe any easier when he was shoved away from the lackey’s grip. Nor when he and Fionn were locked back in alone. Even as the seconds stretched into minutes since their footsteps had disappeared, he still stood there rigidly, fingers balled into fists, seeing red. He thought of all the freedoms he’d enjoyed at Elmwood. His own time to walk into the village or on the meandering paths through the wood. The small shelf of books in the servants’ hall they could borrow from. Even at the workhouse, there’d been scraps of newspapers, empty cupboards and deserted corridors to hide away in, and his best friend. August really had found himself in Hell on earth.

It was Fionn that finally snapped him out of it. He whimpered, trying to unfold himself to replace the rest of his uniform.

August rushed to help him.

“Please,” Fionn whispered, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Please, don’t.”

Of course not. August was the last person he’d want to help him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, knowing it was no concession.

He retreated to the mattress Fionn had approved earlier, lying with his back turned to give the other boy what semblance of privacy he could. He stared ahead at the greying wood of the eaves and wondered how long it would take for him to match Fionn not only in looks but in spirit as well.

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake-deactivated20 @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning

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lit-works · 2 years ago

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Guilt By Association

I take off my ruby-lensed sunglasses and rub my eyes. It's funny how something i can't use anymore can make me tired. Almost pained. It feels so good to rest my head in my hands, and rub away the fatigue.

My office door bursts open, and i can feel the heat of a man's anger before he says a word. "Mister Murdock, this is a subpoena and injunction. A show-cause order. You'll have to explain why this drop-in center shouldn't be shut down for giving legal advice unlawfully."

That's a laugh. Every day people struggle to work up enough nerve to come in with their stories of high rent, filthy apartments, no hot water, and kids in trouble with the law, and I'm their only friend in a system that seems to profit off their suffering.

My hand closes around the subpoena paper. Ever since i was disbarred, the legal community has pursued me.

I can hear Karen at the door. I Can smell her perfume, and sense her confusion. "I tried to tell him you were busy, Matt." she says.

"No need to apologize, Miss Page. I would have served Mister Murdock sooner or later." the man pauses. He's grinning, as i crumple the subpoena in my fist. "If you have Miss Page read the subpoena for you, Mister Murdock, you'll see it's for next Monday. Until then--" he turns and pushes past Karen.

"I'm sorry," Karen says quietly, "he just--"

"It's okay. It's just not the best way to end the day."

"There's actually one more person to see you--a Miss Whitby from Staten island." I sigh, eager to get back to my apartment, change into costume, and start my patrol.

"Send her in."

A woman enters the room quickly. She's old, but powerful. Her voice cuts through the hot, afternoon air. "Mister Murdock, I've come to you because, well, I've read of your work with the homeless, and drug addicts, and all. Well, I'm afraid I've got a legal problem too."

"Have a seat and tell me about it."

"There's an abandoned factory, right near the Elmwood Nature Preserve on Staten island. They tore most of the factory down, but then trucks were pulling in there all of a sudden at all hours, day and night. It was about three weeks ago when i noticed the first dead animals."

"Animals?"

"Yes," she says bitterly. "Birds, fish, and even a raccoon. My husband and I are ornithologists. We started finding a lot of dead birds- -Vircos, Swills, even an Egret. All lying on the ground as if something just knocked them out if the sky."

"I'm not sure I'm following you."

The woman leans close to my desk, "They're dumping something at the old factory. Something that's killing the birds somehow, but we haven't been able to get any proof, any evidence to take to the authorities." she pauses, and i can sense that, look at me now, a blind lawyer--not even a lawyer anymore--her confidence in me isn't very high. "We were hoping that maybe...we thought you might help."

"I don't know," i say. "It's a bit different than what i normally--"

I hear Karen listening at the door again, judging me.

This woman is no shrinking violet, and i doubt very much that she's given to wild imaginings.

It is possible that someone is using the factory as a quick dump-site. A good chunk of the land would be poisoned if something toxic were leaching down into the water table beneath the nature preserve. Also, looking into this would keep my mind off the subpoena on my desk. "I'll do what i can. At least we can find where these trucks are coming from, and if there's anything harmful in them."

She leans across the desk and closes her hand around mine. "Oh, thank you, Mister Murdock. You're the first person who's cared enough to even try to help."

I smile, tired but eager to be out of here, prowling West Broadway, where problems have simpler, more direct solutions.

Ms. Whitby leaves, guided out the front door by Karen, who returns with a satisfied smile on her face. "That was noble of you."

"Let's go," i say. "If there's no one else waiting."

"There's no one--"

I walk past her, and i know she senses my eagerness. I walk ahead, hearing the front door bolt click into place behind me. The street outside fills my enhanced senses with a wild, swirling collage of impressions, smells almost overpowering in their intensity.

I sense despair in the shuffling bodies, and hunger. But there's also laughter and joy. The city teams with life, and legal or not, i know that my work here is more than important. It's essential.

"Matt...wait." karen takes my arm and holds me tight, denying the distance that both of us have felt lately. When I'm in costume, standing before her ready to patrol the city streets, she almost turns away.

"I'm glad you're helping that woman." she says. I nod.

"Are you...working tonight?" i smile. Such a strange expression for the work I'm doing.

"Yes. The neighborhood has been a bit active lately. I think everybody's hoping I'll take a vacation."

"So do I." Karen says flatly.

I put my arms around her. "Maybe next year." i say, laughing.

The subway ride uptown is its usual cacophonous assault on my senses. The screeching roar of the train. The press of the bodies. But I'm already preparing for night to come.

My apartment is just off Broadway, and as I climb out of the subway, i sense the sun about to sink below the palisades. I hurry up the stairs and Karen follows. I take the steps two and three at a time, open the apartment door and run to my closet.

"Don't let me hold you back." Karen says.

"Sorry," i say pulling off my suit, and taking out my costume. "I guess I'm feeling a bit itchy tonight." i pull on my skin-tight crimson armored outfit, smoothing it out against my well-conditioned muscles, i pull on the horned mask, and grab my club.

I then leap to the bar that dangles from my loft-like ceiling. I swing back and forth, loosening up the muscles, kicking my legs out, and swing around the bar. I let go and spin in the air before landing perfectly on my feet, barely realizing i hold my billy club out in front of me.

"It's a part of you, isn't it? The Devil." Karen says drily. I lower the club and attach it to the side of my costume.

"Perhaps...perhaps it is." i reply. Then i turn and run for the back window of my loft.

It’s almost night now, the sky is dark, almost purplish blue. I lope along the rooftops, taking care to keep out sight of anyone catching a faint breeze off the Hudson. Once i pass a small boy, sucking on a turquoise- colored ice pop, that gives his lips and tongue an alien color.

“Hi, Daredevil.”

“Hi, kid.” I say. At least he’s not scared of me.

It grows darker, but the city’s heat lingers as i leap from building to building.

Even as i leap down from the rooftop, using the fire escape to swing down to the courtyard, i can sense where they all are…who they are.

There are three heavy-duty torpedoes, real thugs. They’re working over some young guy, their shark-skin suits rustling as they punch him. Nice odds, nice bunch of fellows.

I flip off to the left, well away from the happy trio. My landing is perfect.

“Where is he?” one of the thugs barks at the kid. “Where?!”

“I…I” the boy stammers.

“Daredevil!” one of the thugs calls out. But i sense no fear from these tough cookies.

“Is this a private party,” i ask, “Or can i get a little action?”

One of them–the biggest–starts coming towards me, and though Karen would disapprove, I’m going to enjoy the next few moments.

Three to one. Not bad odds. But when two of them pull out snub-nose revolvers, things look less rosy.

My club is up and ready. I throw my club at the most distant target and, turning away, i hear a gun clatter to the ground.

Then i charge the two men nearest me, even as one of them begins blasting away at me. I feel the bullets pass by, nearly digging into my shoulder. Another inch, and i’d have a nasty wound. I perform a few twists and turns, recovering my billy club in the process, and leap up, ready to finish with the three of them as quickly as possible.

They’re big and tough, but slow–like dinosaurs. My club must look like a blur to them as i easily smash the guns out of their hands and knock them to the ground. I have enough time to give the third and biggest thug a swift uppercut, which sends him sprawling backwards. I walk over to the boy they were working over and help him up.

“Thanks…” he sputters.

Then the thugs turn and start running, and i chase them. Two steps for every one of theirs. This is too easy. They’re so slow, They’re–

Then i smell it. Slight, almost lost in the stench of the city. Smoke. I hear, fainter still, a scream. How many blocks away? Six? Seven? If i can pick it up from this far away, it’s gotta be big.

I look at the thugs, running away.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” i say, turning to the boy. Then i start climbing hand-over-hand up a nearby fire escape to the roof. As i move the screams grow louder.

The scream. With every step i take, it seems louder, more shrill, even as people pass look at me, staring in wonder--

"Where's the fire, man?"

Faster, i tell myself, gulping air, and darting into traffic. A car comes barreling towards me, but i leap-frog over a nearby cab, and fly into the air.

The scream still grows, and finally, i can sense where it's coming from. The dark warehouse ahead is sending thin plumes of smoke out into the humid summer night air. I know the fire department will be here in four or five minutes. Plenty of time to save the nearby buildings, but not enough time to save whoever is screaming.

I sense that the ground-level opening has a thick metal door. But there's also a rickety fire escape leading up to the top where the screams are coming from.

I jump up to grab the fire escape and with practised skill, my hands close around the metal bar. I swing around, throwing my body up and finally onto the ladder. Ignoring the rattling and odd creaking sound the rusty fire escape makes, i clamber for the rungs.

In the distance i can hear the wail of the fire engines. I can feel the late-night swirl of traffic on the streets that sprawl below me.

Above all, i hear the voice, just ahead now, the yelling has become more frantic--"Help me, please, please, help me!"

I reach the top of the building, and find the large window next to the fire escape is locked. I try to pry it open, but it won't budge.

"Help me," the voice behind the smoky glass pleads. I hurl my body into the window, shattering the glass.

I curl up and roll into the room, trying to sense any shards of glass. I land on my shoulder, and quickly spring to my feet before reaching a sliver of glass sticking up at a nasty angle.

The flames are everywhere--a smoky gasoline fire that could only be the work of arsonists. I detect where the voice is coming from. A loudspeaker sits on the floor (surrounded, no doubt, by nasty asbestos). I sense a light blinking on the cabinet.

The voice, so pitiful in its fear, changes.

"Well done, Daredevil. Now let's see if you can get out of this inferno in time. Your days as the West Side Vigilante, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, are over. And, should you get away, perhaps you'd like to try your luck again tomorrow at Coney Island. I'll be there in person. Waiting for you."

The light goes off, and the speaker explodes. Suddenly, a heavy beam crashes down toward me, a flaming spire ready to pin me to the floor.

I move slowly at first, my senses dulled by the smoke and confused by the fire, but i manage to move just in time. The flaming beam crashes through the floor just behind me, causing the building to shutter at is smashes down.

Got to move. Just got to get out of this oven--quickly! The stairs are masked by a wall of fire, so i back towards the fire escape, stumbling, my lungs burning, begging for fresh air.

Thankful, I reach the fire escape. There's noise from below, people milling about, talking, while firefighters hurry to train their hoses on the building. In minutes, this building will be gone. The only thing they can do at this point is try to save the other buildings.

I inch down, slowly, weakly, concentrating on every step i take. Like a frail, ancient man, i crawl downward. No fancy spins in the air now, I'll just be lucky to get on the ground. I reach the last rung of the ladder and lower myself to the ground.

There is a sudden flash in front of my face. Then another. A TV crew and other reporters are here. I hear a reporter quietly say, "As reported by an unnamed source, Daredevil was indeed inside the building. According to the source, he was seen entering the building earlier this evening. Now it is in flames. We'll try to..."

The camera is on me now, catching my masked face as I struggle to breathe.

Then, through the smoky cotton filter of my mind, it all fits together. I've just been framed. The voice in the warehouse. I know I've heard that voice before. If this town weren't down on me before, it sure will be now.

I have to get away quickly. Before the reporters ask more questions, before the police arrive, and before i collapse on the ground.

I rush away, pushing back people who grab at me and my mask, and hurry back to the dark alleys and rooftops that give me safety. All the while, I wonder, who's doing this to me? More importantly, why?

I have no idea what time it is when i return to the apartment. My muscles ache and all i can think about is collapsing in bed, leaving my costume on.

I awaken sometime the next day to the clatter of garbage truck hydraulics and cans being tossed cavalierly on the sidewalk. The apartment is empty, i guess that it's nearly noon.

It's not the first time I've missed the morning. I smell coffee in the kitchen, made fresh hours ago. After a quick shower, where i discover a few scrapes and bruises i didn't know i had, i get dressed. I toss my spare costume into my attache case--it may be a while before i get back to the apartment.

By the time i make it to the drop-in center, Karen is already having lunch. To my surprise, Foggy Nelson is with her.

"Nice to see you up at last." Karen says.

"Hi, Matt," Foggy adds, his voice tentative. Once we were best friends--partners. But Foggy made it clear which side he stood on concerning my current legal status.

"Good to see you, Foggy." i say, walking over to my desk.

"Matt, Foggy says that subpoena--" I hold up my hand.

"I don't want any lectures about the injunction. Not today. Not--"

"Matt," Foggy says, "This is something you can't ignore. They'll drag you into court, cite you for contempt--"

I stand up. "Don't quote the law to me, Foggy. The law is one thing. This," i snap, picking up the crumpled subpoena from where it sat the day before. "Is harassment, and here's where it belongs." i toss it into the corner, and it bounces to the floor next to the trash can.

I sense Foggy turn to Karen. They're closer now. Closer than ever before. They both think I'm out of control.

"I tried, Karen," he says, and walks out of the door with Karen following. She returns, exasperated.

"That was clever. Why don't you just alienate anyone who's ever tried to help you?"

"I suppose you'd like me to just give up? Walk right out of here, too? Spend years trying to clear my name--"

She walks over to the small laptop on her desk. "You'd better listen to this. It was on the news this morning."

"Why? What is...?"

"This city cannot--must not--become a breeding ground for vigilante groups of any stripe, costumed or not--"

Alex Wriley, a young, rich candidate for mayor. Running on a platform that includes shipping every costumed crime-fighter to Lower Slobovia or the Negative Zone. And he's doing real well with the voters, real well.

"--streets to be safe, under the protection of a properly trained and armed law enforcement department."

"Doesn't he know we work with them, for Chris'sake?! What's--"

"Wait," Karen says, "It gets worse."

His speech over, Wriley takes questions from the reporters.

"Mister Wriley, what about last night's reports that the Daredevil was seen fleeing a burning building? There are rumors of an extortion racket to get special protection."

I almost feel Wriley gloating.

"Precisely my point. Is Daredevil working for the side of the law and order, or is he just another freelance thug? Hands open to the highest bidder? I think my campaign will find the truth!" Karen clicks off the video.

"That lousy--"

"Matt, you're going to have to be careful. This Wriley is after you. He's got money. He's powerful."

I start to explain to Karen about the trap--but hold my tongue. There'll be time for talking later, when i know what's really going on.

"Right," i say, "Now, how about a trip to Staten island? Can Martin hold down the fort?"

Martin, my all-purpose file clerk, secretary, and hot-shot investigator is dealing with a crowd of people out front.

"Sure, he'll moan and groan, but love it."

"You can drive," i say smiling. "I could use another forty winks."

The ride is quiet, almost serene, and I'm glad when we reach the Nature Preserve.

"So peaceful," i say, stepping out of the car. "Hardly a breeze. I can pick up gull sounds from the shore. Smells pretty nice, too."

Karen takes my hand. "The factory is over here, over that hill."

I turn, straining to pick up anything unusual.

"Seems empty. Shall we go closer?" i ask.

"Sure, let's drive..."

"No." i give her hand a squeeze. "Let's walk. There's a path ahead. Some kind of opening."

"Yes, but--"

"I don't want to announce our arrival." I pull her along, leaving behind the gently wooded area of the nature preserve, following a makeshift trail up a scruffy hill.

"God," Karen says. "What a mess!"

I can make out the rough outline of the buildings, some gutted, some intact, a few completely gone, leaving only empty, gaping foundations.

"Must be an ugly sight." i say. Then i smell it. Something foul, noxious. It seems to scar my nostrils and burn as it enters my lungs. "There's something wrong here."

Then i hear the sound if a truck entering the property from a distance.

"Someone's coming." Karen says.

Above the roar of the truck, i sense three people, their heartbeats, the rhythm of their breathing. One of them is, yes, familiar. It's quite clear, in fact, that i met him last night--and he got away from me. That won't happen again.

"Can you see where they're headed?" i ask Karen.

"To one of the buildings, one that looks fairly intact."

"Then that's where we're headed."

Karen grabs my arm. "Matt, shouldn't we call the police and let--"

"Let them what? We're trespassing as it is, Karen. The only evidence we've got is a little old lady and my radioactive nostrils. If you want to help change the situation, then we have to see what's going on."

She nods, and i sense her trust, her faith in me, lapsing. Just another battle I'll have to fight to win back her confidence--her love.

The back of the building abuts the river. I hear the water moving back and forth, splashing onto the sharp rocks.

"Do you hear anything?" karen asks.

"Yeah, lots. There are voices, machinery, and--"

"There's a window, Matt. Hoist me up?"

"My pleasure." i reach down and pick up Karen, quickly raising her to look inside.

"A bit higher."

"I can't fly, Karen."

"That's good. I can...oh, Matt! This is terrible. This is..."

"What's the big piece of machinery, Karen? It's growing louder."

"It's digging into the ground, and there are stacks of barrels ready to be rolled into the hole. Matt, she was right, she--"

I turn, picking up the faintest footfall coming around the corner of the building. I lower Karen and try to get ready.

"Matt, what the--"

But behind me there's another sound, and i find myself between two thugs.

I might be out if costume, but I'm not about to let that slow me down. With a speed that startled the two goons, i send my hands out, using precision moves that are made possible only by boxer's reflexes.

Perfect shot--if smashing another humans jaw could ever be described that way.

Lately, i winder whether Karen is right, thinking that i like the violence...need it.

I catch the goon at my left on the chin, and he flies backward, cartoon-style. With time to spare, i cuff the other on the side of the face. Not hard enough to knock him out, but with plenty of force to send him tumbling to the ground.

Now, to just find out who these lovelies work for.

The air is suddenly filled with a high-pitch siren.

"What is it?" Karen asks.

Then i sense the two guards scrambling to their feet, running away.

"I've got to catch up to them." i say.

Karen holds me back, trying to keep me from the danger she now fears i live for.

I pull away, turn and begin running.

The sandy ground offers little support for my feet, especially when I'm wearing my clod-hopper city shoes. If only there were time to change into my costume.

The truck is already moving down the road and the two guys who attacked me climb onto the back as it pulls away. I run as fast as i can, ignoring the growing oxygen debt in my body, until it seems as if a successful leap might send me onto the back of the truck.

Despite the inelegance of my leap, I'm amazed to find that my hands close around the back panel of the truck. With one kick, i climb over.

"Hi, boys. Mind if i catch a ride?" the two thugs seem disturbed by my appearance.

"What's with the glasses--are you blind?"

"Why, are you making faces at me?" I reply.

I hear them separate, slowly moving towards the front of the truck, then they come at me. I crouch, ready to dispose of them quickly, when the truck suddenly barrels over a curb. Sending me crashing into the side wall.

Then they're on me, eager to take advantage of their lucky break. One of them closes his hand firmly around my windpipe, while the other digs into his back pocket for something.

No time for fooling around.

The truck lurched to the left--the driver doesn't seem concerned about what he's driving over. His two accomplices are jostled by the bump, and i move quickly to grab both of them, placing them in simple but effective headlocks. I squeeze just enough to let them know i might be stronger than they imagine.

"Ow." one of them yelps over the truck's engine.

"Where's this heap headed?" I yell. "Come on, guys, let's make this easy."

A small window leading to the cabin opens, and a pudgy face with pinholes for eyes looks back at me.

Then, suddenly, the entire floor of the truck flips upwards, like some kind of garbage truck. That's what it is, hauling toxic waste and dumping it where no one can see. No, no one would ever know about it until it's too late.

The three of us start sliding backwards. I let go of the thugs, but not in time to grab on and stop my fall out of the truck. I land on my feet, while the two henchmen tumble awkwardly in the sand. When they stand up, i grab them by their collars.

"I hate to get unfriendly again. Now, tell me where that truck is going."

They look at each other, then one of them begins jabbering away. "It's heading--" but he doesn't finish his sentence. He screams and the other one joins on, both of them reaching for the backs of their heads, before crumpling into the sand.

I kneel, trying to sense their heartbeats, their breathing, but get nothing.

Karen runs over to me, "Are they...?"

"Dead."

"But how? You didn't do anything?"

I feel behind one of the men's necks, find a small protrusion, and pull it out.

"Here it is." i say, handing the small device to Karen. "Radio operated, I guess. Guaranteed to keep people in line. Nasty, very nasty."

"But who'd use such a device?"

"Someone big, powerful, and unless I'm wrong, new to this town."

"Well, I've got the license plate number, we'll call the police and--"

I put my hand in Karen's shoulder. "You'll call the police. Later. After you've taken me to Brooklyn."

The car must be halfway across the Verazono Bridge, I figure. I can feel the engines rumbling with the streams of traffic.

"I don't like it," I say, "Not a bit." I sit in the back of the car, having exchanged my suit for my red costume while Karen drives. My mask is in my lap, and my club is sitting next to me.

"In the building last night," I say, trying to defend myself. "Someone wanted me to go to Coney Island. If it's a trap, it's best that i spring it. If someone wants me at Coney Island, I'll be glad to oblige, but only on my terms, and I'm not about to announce my arrival."

"But what about that dump?" Karen asks.

"It will take a while for the police to track down that license plate. In the meantime, that mayoral candidate Wriley is having a field day trashing my reputation. Maybe i can get to the bottom of it all at the amusement park."

"Or just make it worse, Matt."

"I'll call tonight. Late," I say, ignoring her comment. "I may not come home for a while. Not until i find out what's happening."

Karen drives on in silence, out to the Belt parkway. The open window brings the smells of Brooklyn by the ocean to my nostrils. The salty-sweet smell of the Atlantic and the tang of freshly caught fish reaches me.

Then i hear the whirling, frenetic sounds of Coney Island--the clatter of the roller coaster as it starts to climb its wood-strut hill, the carousel's calliope keeping time for its horses, and the nearby ocean, with kids and women squealing as each wave crashes in.

Its late afternoon. I'll have to stay out of sight till dusk--not a difficult task in the seedy back streets and alleys of the now-depressed area.

"Stop here," I say, picking up a clear image of rows of buildings and streets all quiet now. "Thanks for the ride."

I open the door and Karen reaches back to touch my shoulder, trying to close the emotional gap between us.

"Matt...be careful, please."

I wait, but her 'I love you' doesnt come.

"Yeah, as careful as I can be." I reply. Then I'm gone, and the long night begins.

There are a lot of places to scare people here, places where a good natured thrill could give way to horrible disaster.

The wonder wheel is a monstrous Ferris wheel overlooking the ocean, and with its room-sized cabins, it holds a lot of people. It could be a horrible thing if something caused a cabin to slip loose, crashing to the ground.

But, there could be something more dramatic. The Hurricane coaster is primed for a tragedy. Once the most ferocious coaster in the world, it's now old and dangerous enough without anyone helping it along.

Boy, is it easy to picture the coaster careening off its tracks. Its passengers screaming. This tine though, it would be in earnest.

It is dark. My favorite time, a time when my advantage becomes unstoppable.

I feel the night and the cool salty breeze off the ocean, and the shadows that keep me out of sight. In minutes, I can begin moving, climbing to the top of the decrepit buildings. Leaping from one to the other, crouching, listening, waiting. To meet whomever is out to destroy my reputation.

Already, I hear the sound of growing voices, some screaming from the beach, all sandy and burnt red, others spilling out of the subway for some fun among the rides, arcades and...and for others, other pleasures.

The night belongs to them. And to me.

The Hurricane coaster. A legend. Nearly everyone who's spent time in NY knows of this old coaster. It was once the highest, fastest coaster in the world, with parts of its run hurling cars at nearly 90 mph. Fortunately for me, it is located away from the more tame amusements of Coney Island. Its foundation is shrouded in darkness. The only lights being at the top of the entrance.

I crawl around the bottom, hearing the coaster's whine and the riders' screams echo around the massive structure.

It feels all wrong. I can't put my finger on it. Sure, its old, decrepit, and needs to be torn down, but there's something else.

Then i hear it. The gentle, almost imperceptible groan. Almost as if the whole structure was shifting--just a little--with every ride made around the coaster.

In maybe three or four places, the lattice of wood and metal is loose. But how loose?

I pick up something else then. At first, i think it's just some kind of sonic echo discharged as the coaster's car roar around, but it's moving too quickly, too purposefully. Someone is climbing around on the structure itself. If I'm right it may be too late already.

Of course it would be here, one of Brooklyn's landmarks. The Hurricane coaster. Even as i hear the sound of the cars beginning their climb up the hill, i sense someone else climbing the dark lattice of beams and girders, scrambling to the top, to an old siding that holds used, beaten coaster cars.

I even know who it is. From the nervous breathing, the wiry body, and the arsenal dangling from him, I can tell it's the Boomerang --Fred Myers, the self-advertised "Killer who keeps coming back". He's a mad-man for hire, who doesn't care who he kills as long as someone meets his price.

I hear the happy squeals of people on the coaster. They don't know it, but they're just pawns in a strange game. Even I am a pawn, until I find out who's waging this war on me.

I creep up behind him, climbing hand over hand from one beam to another, then grabbing at the grease-filled track and clambering up behind the unsuspecting killer.

Suddenly, a beam gives way and I tumble toward the ground. I quickly grab at a nearby beam and save my skin, but boomerang turns and looks into the darkness.

"Daredevil?! Daredevil, of course. You're early, my friend, too early. But, I'll try to accommodate you as best I can." His weird laugh echoes strangely through the structure.

I regain my balance, ready to leap up and grab at him but my senses pick up his movements, sliding a boomerang off his belt. Before i know it, he has tossed it my way.

"Enjoy this, Daredevil, I picked it out specially for you."

The rang comes right at me.

Just what is Boomerang about to flip my way? Some explosives, a flying buzzsaw, or something even more deadly?

I keep still, letting the path of the rang become clear to my radar sense. Above me, Boomerang cackles, picturing my demise.

I wait, checking the graceful arc of the rang. Then I move, swinging to a nearby beam, as the rang cuts through the space I formerly occupied. I throw myself upward, swinging like a monkey-turned-gymnast, because I know Boomerang wont wait another moment before getting another rang off at me. I'm too fast for him though, flying up to his perch with an almost graceful ease. Only the club in my hands indicates that this isn't just an entertaining physical exhibition.

"Don't move, Fred. Don't even think about another toy."

Click-clack. The cars of the coaster are almost at the peak. Has he done anything yet? Is there something I'm missing?

He laughs. "No, I wouldn't dream of doing anything." But then he moves. He meant it to be quick and startling, but he telegraphed it to my brain with every nervous tremor of his body.

A rang in his hands now, smooth, shiny, and razor sharp.

I swing my club at his hand.

My club smashes down at his hand, and Boomerang lets out a yelp as a rang goes flattering and spiralling to the bottom of the coaster.

"Don't try that again, friend. I'd hate to see you have an accident up here."

I sense Boomerang turn in the direction of the coaster cars, now at the top of the ride, about to begin their trip down. His heartbeat begins to race.

Has he done anything? Have I stopped him in time?

Then, as if answering my question, he dives to his left, stepping onto a criss-cross of beams, digging a boomerang out of his belt. I leap for him, but not before he gets the rang up and ready to be thrown.

I grab his arms, and squeeze him as hard as i can. The coaster is on its way down the hill now, all it's riders wearing mock-terrified grins and ready to scream.

"No!" Boomerang bellows, still holding onto the rang. "It's explosive...it will destroy us all!" then it slips from his hands and i dive to catch it.

I catch the rang, wondering with an almost absurd fatalism when the thing will go off.

I look for a safe place to toss it.

The roller coaster comes right at me while i toss the rang into the air. It explodes with a concussive roar that hurls me backwards. The riders scream as they fly down the hill.

I sense that another page has been written in the myth of Daredevil-turned-rogue.

The roar of the plunging coaster continues--the screech of the wheels, and the truly scared screams make it impossible for me to locate Boomerang. Then i sense him on the beach, running west towards the Jetty--probably to a waiting boat.

I saved the people on the roller coaster, but they'll never know that. All they saw was me standing there, a mad bomber.

Boomerang is just a hired gun. I have to catch him, to find out who is really behind this. I start climbing down to the ground, as the night air once again rings with silence.

I quickly work my way down to the beach, crawling through the dark understructure of the Hurricane coaster, leaving all the mayhem behind. I leap over a fence, and land on the boardwalk. I hurry to the beach, hoping i still have time to catch the Boomerang.

The sand offers me little bit poor footing--it seems the harder I dig into it, the more it gives away. I move down to the water's edge, hoping the wet, surf-pounded sand will make for better traction.

I hear him running just ahead. I also sense the jetty and something moored in the water.

Suddenly, Boomerang stops, and pulls a rang from his side. He sends it flying at me. His throw is sloppy. Old Fred is more interested in getting his body out of there than hitting mine. I wait until the rang's trajectory is clear to me, then dive to the left, hearing it pass over me. It circles the spot where I was just standing, spraying the air with some form of gas. Probably deadly stuff, I think, leaping to my feet. I'm gaining on Boomerang now, when he's only a few feet ahead, i bring him down with a flying tackle and waste no time on niceties.

"Who're you working for, Boomerang?" I bellow as i beat him. "Tell me!"

"I...I..." he blubbers. I clamp his cheeks between my fingers and squeeze.

"Tell me, Myers, or so help me--"

It's an interesting thing about mercenaries and "Guns For Hire": they're only loyal as long as they're paid, or until they start feeling pain. In fact, most of them ive met can't stomach pain.

"...Kingpin." he finally mumbles.

Kingpin, alias of Wilson Fisk. He's one of Alex Wriley's biggest mayoral campaign supporters, and the city's most respected criminal. He's covered his tracks well. But, although there is no love lost between He and I, I haven't the slightest as to why he's trying to trap and ruin me.

"What's the gig, Fred? Why all this effort to mess up my life?"

"I don't know!" he cries.

I give his face a fist. "Ow! I told you, I don't know! He just said he'd like your name trashed before-"

"Before what?!"

"Before his new theater opens."

Yes, now I remember. The new Fisk Grand Theater, a state-of-the-art luxury venue on 48th street, able to stage gargantuan performances there with almost any special effect required. Tomorrow night it opens, and Kingpin will be there.

"But you still haven't--"

"Daredevil!" voices from behind me shout. Official voices-police. "Daredevil stand up, please, and put your hands in the air. We have some questions about what happened tonight with the coaster."

Great. Now the police are on my back.

"Please do it now!"

"Okay," I say loudly. "I'm getting up." I get off Boomerang slowly. "See. I'm--"

Then Boomerang scrambles away and rubs down the beach. I turn to follow him but i hear "Freeze, Daredevil!" they obviously can't make out Boomerang.

But if i let myself be taken in, I may find myself locked up for Arson, Extortion, numerous assaults, and who knows what else. I roll quickly to the side, spinning, careening over the sand, a dark red blur to the officers' eyes. I hear a gunshot, and I leap again hoping it's as dark on the beach as I imagine.

I hear more shots. But I'm running now. I hear them trying to follow, their heavy feet digging into the sand.

Boomerang is gone. Perhaps to his boat, perhaps to some dark hole beneath the boardwalk.

But I'm free, too. On my own. An outlaw. A wanted man.

It's time for Kingpin and I to have another one of our little talks, I think.

"I'm a fugitive now," I think. "Not much different from thousands of other drifting outsiders. Drifting–and dangerous."

The night offers me a perfect shroud. Anyone that sees me climbing rooftops or crawling through alleyways at 3AM, will probably think twice about calling the police. And by then, I'll be gone.

I move steadily away from Coney Island, away from the sounds of the police sirens and investigation into the tragedy. Within an hour, they'll be searching for me. So I know I've got to remain free, to confront Kingpin.

One more night, that's all I'll need. At least I hope that's all I'll need.

Morning arrives, and I sense the light–the growing heat signaling another hot day of late summer. I hear children pouring out of the high-rise apartments, savoring the freedom that the endless summer of youth brings, hearing their voices swirling around me, making me remember my own childhood.

It was late afternoon. I had spent the day with my best friend, a quiet, strong-willed kid named Eddie. I spent the day shooting baskets–he was always much better than me–and biking around his neighborhood, talking about girls, "Twilight Zone" episodes, and other weighty topics.

But I forgot to watch the clock that day, letting the hours slip by. Finally, Eddie's mother, getting dinner ready, suggested my mother may be calling me.

Like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, I popped up in my chair, not wanting to get grounded for missing another dinner with my dad.

The only way to get home in time was a shortcut through Hempstead Park, passing the playing fields and swings, and into the narrow trails that passed through the woods. It was fast, direct, and forbidden. Bad things had happened there, some I knew about, like the kid at school who had his bike stolen. Other things parents talked quietly to themselves about.

I biked as hard as I could that day, into the park, seeing ten minutes disappear from my traveling time.

At first I was surrounded by people. A men's softball game, with overgrown kids, a bunch of mom's with their toddlers at the swings. But when I cut into the woods, climbing the trail towards my neighborhood, I found myself alone.

I heard voices ahead, in plenty of time to turn back. But I kept on biking, figuring I'd just pedal past whoever it was, with no problem.

Then I could see them, maybe eight big kids standing around smoking cigarettes. They looked at me with an eagerness that chilled my whole body. One kid reached out and grabbed my handlebars, stopping my bike so abruptly that I nearly flipped qnd went flying over the front of it.

"Take a wrong turn, punk?" The one holding the bike said.

"Nice bike!" Said another, and then I was lifted off and tossed to the side, while one of them climbed onto my bike seat.

"Get off!" I yelled. "That's my bike, so get away you big, fat, smelly–"

They stopped and looked at me. Then one came real close.

"Hey, I know who you are. Your the Murdock kid." He gave me a push. "A real wussy."

"Yeah." Said another. They pushed me again, only this time someone crouched behind me and I tumbled backwards while they collapsed in laughter. Over and over I stood up to defend myself while they laughed hysterically, pushing me back down into the dirt. I saw my bike being rammed into trees and wheels being bent.

"Beg for it." One of them said, holding out my bent frame of a bike. I stood there, my face a blotchy mess, my pants torn, alone and afraid.

"C'mon," one of them finally said. "Give him his bike and let him get the hell out of here."

I took my bike, now suddenly not the same beloved thing that it was just a while ago. I got back onto the trail as the gang of teens watched me go.

It was a dark place, that fear, that loneliness, a dark place that I've never forgotten. I've ached to pay those bullies back since that day.

Now, my body racked with the aches and pains from the night, I feel alone again.

My radar sense tells me there is a phone ahead–open and exposed. Maybe there is someone I need to talk to–if she'll believe me, trust me.

I go to the phone and dial the number.

She's there…

"Karen–" I start, surprised at how tired my own voice sounds.

"Matt, where are you?"

"Beautiful downtown Brooklyn. I need you to–"

"The papers have photos of the hurricane coaster all torn apart, Matt. They're saying you–"

"Karen, c'mon. You know better than to believe that."

"The owner says he was threatened, that if he didn't make the payoffs, he'd lose the coaster. The police have asked that you surrender peacefully. Matt–"

I hear it in her voice. She's going to ask me to turn myself in. That's nice, neat, and safe, except that Id likely find myselt locked up in Ryker's while whoever wanted me out of the West side could move in for the kill.

"Karen, listen, that's not the answer. This is a part of a plan, and I need your help." I sense hesitation. 'Please Karen,' I think, 'Dont give up on me now.'

"What is it, Matt? What do you need?"

"Atta girl! Boomerang was at the coaster–with the explosives."

"Myers?! What on earth for?"

"He was working for Kingpin, though I have no idea why. Tonight that new Fisk theater is scheduled to open, right? Kingpin's legitimate showcase, funded, of course, by his assorted rackets. I'm going to confront him there, and get him to talk."

"Oh, Matt, I don't know. Everyone will be there. All the mayoral candidates, the press–"

"I don't have a lot of time. Here's what I need you to do. Get a look at the plans for the theater. I need a back entrance I can sneak into. Find out where Fisk will be seated. I'm sure it will be in a box seat of some kind. Find out where, okay?"

I hear another pause. "Yeah…I'll see what I can do."

"Great, and just make sure you don't give much credence to anything you're reading about me."

"Sure."

She's holding something back, something that got some reason she doesn't wanna tell me.

"Karen, is something wrong?"

"No, Matt, just be careful."

Right, careful, of everyone.

I sense the rumpled man turn down 17th Street, a bag of groceries in his hand, shuffling along, whistling. Unaware that I am about to call in my debts. I swing down from a nearby rooftop, and land close to him.

"Daredevil!" He says with genuine awe. "I thought–" but I close my hand tightly over his mouth and pull him into a nearby alley.

"Talk quietly, Turk." And feeling his head nod slightly, I release him.

"I thought you was gone, high-tailed it out of the city. Jeez you should hear peeps be saying about you."

"Yeah, I can imagine." It's odd that at a time like this, I seek out Turk Barret, a petty good, nickel-and-diming his way through life. But, he also keeps his ears and pistols cocked to the deeper thrums and rumblings of the streets–a talent that has kept him, as far as I'm concerned, from a graveyard. "What do you hear, Turk?"

"That you've turned. You're shaking down folks, now. story is, you've grown bitter, DD, bitter and thirsty for revenge."

So that's what you're hearing?

I put a not-quite-protective arm around Turk.

"That's what the press is saying, Turk. Now, why don't you take a deep breath and tell me what you think is really happening. Be creative." I say, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Tell me what you think is happening."

He looks around, his fear obvious. The sweat, the fidgeting–but it's not fear of me.

"I don't know, Dare–"

"Talk, Turk." Then it comes.

"It's big. That's all I really know. It's really big. Someone's making moves in New York that I've never seen done before, big moves. Power plays. I don't know who's involved, honest. All I know is they're new, and they want you out of the West Side, away from the docks. First you, then the others."

"No vigilantes," I smile. "Just the crooks and the overwhelmed and crooked police department. Thanks, Turk. I know that was hard for you." I leap to the fire escape.

"If I'm lucky, I won't have to bother you again. But, just in case, keep your ears open." I climb away from the hoodlum.

It seems to take forever for night to arrive. My call to Karen was brief but helpful. Whether or not she believes me, she came up with just the information I needed. A reporter helped her look up the plans for Fisk theater in public records, and she also picked up the guest list of everybody that will be in attendance (I probably won't need that), and even where Kingpin's private box is located.

The premier is scheduled to be a glittering event in the political campaign, with each of the five mayoral candidates attending. As will I, in my own special way.

For a while, I hover around 8th Avenue, stumbling upon other refugees from society that are awaiting darkness.

My radar sense picks up the line of cars pulling up to the theater–heavy stretch limos and a taut little Mercedes, with a few lesser-autos thrown in from the press corps.

Fisk arrives nearly at 8PM, ready to make his entrance. I pick him out easily, lumbering out of his car. Though huge, Kingpin is no sluggish fatty. He is a powerful, brutal man, with just enough distance from his dirty dealings and himself to stay in the good graces of the law.

Then the car disappears.

It seems like the rear of the theater is nice and quiet, almost peaceful, when I pick up some motion against the walls. A stagehand, I suppose, or maybe someone checking scenery. But I pause, suddenly aware that there's familiar patterns in the movement.

Then I know what it is. Someone is climbing the rear wall. Nice trick. In fact, I have quite a few friends capable of that feat. But this one is more than a friend–Black Widow.

I start towards building, wondering what in the hell she is doing here?

The door opens, amazingly enough, and I find myself face-to-face with a security guard. As I knew I would.

"Daredevil!" He shouts, going for his gun. How quickly they all accept the big lie.

"Sorry, friend." I say, throwing an effortless blow that sends the guard crashing against the main stage entrance.

Fortunately, my restrained blow knocks him out, at least long enough for me to carry on.

I turn from the stage and auditorium entrance to a small staircase leading to the basement of the theater. It spirals down for three levels–below all the fancy stage machinery that can make complete sets disappear and raise the orchestra to the rafters. Finally, I'm at the bottom level, the business end of the theater. I find three heavy-duty boilers (cool and quiet now) and a battery of noisy, groaning compressors that feed cool air into the entire theater. There are also pipes leading under the seats to the front of the house, then up to the mezzanine, the balcony and the box-seats.

I run, hearing the muffled vibrations of the orchestra playing a warm-up number. It sounds very bassy down here, but nonetheless wonderful.

I run now, annoyed at the sheer size of the theater–the biggest on Broadway. Built by dozens of shady handshakes, and dirty money laundered by way of Columbia and Miami. Then I hear somebody running behind me, running just as fast. I turn, and before she says a word, I know who it is.

"Black Widow. I didn't expect to surprise you." She steps closer to me. "Are you here to help?" I ask.

"In a way, Matt. I think…I think you need some help."

"Welcome to the club." More steps, and we face each other in the narrow chamber, separated by only 5 feet.

Black Widow, Natasha Romanov. An enemy at one time, a lover at another, and now aupposedly an ally.

"How'd you know I was here?" She doesn't answer, but I do for her. "Karen. Did she contact–"

"No." She says, reaching out and touching my arm. "I cornered her." I let my hand press against hers.

"Why, Natasha?"

She pulls away. "To catch you. To talk to you. Matt…I still care enough for you to try to keep you from doing something you'll regret. You have to turn yourself in…answer some–"

"Like hell I do!" I step back. "Natasha. You can help me or leave me alone, it's your choice. But you're not getting me out of here until I do what I've come to do."

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Matt. Very sorry." She raises her bracelet suddenly, catching me off guard. Twin jets of gas spew out at my face.

I perform a quick backwards somersault, slapping my feet against the ceiling, but the maneuver gets me away from the pellets. I raise my club, waiting for the gas to dissipate.

"I don't know why you're doing this, Black Widow, but two can play at that game."

I pull my punch.

She may be a former KGB spy, but she's been a good friend and loyal lover too. I can sense that she almost didn't expect the blow, and her reflexes arent quite enough to avoid it. It sends her stumbling backwards, fumbling at her bracelet (perhaps ready to give me a taste of something lethal). I waste no time pinning her arms to the ground.

She struggles hard, but I'm too much dead weight. "Get off, you big–"

"Easy," I say. "I'm just trying to protect myself."

"And I'm trying to protect you, too! If you can even still be protected. Half the people in this city think you're a violent outlaw."

"They're wrong."

"A lot of good just saying that does. Will you get off me now?"

"Not until I'm sure you're not gonna try to hand me over to the, ahem, proper authorities."

"I promise."

I stand up, waiting for the ever-so-nimble Black Widow to try to lay me low again.

"There," she says exasperated. "No tricks. Now, tell me what's going on."

"Easier said than done, but here it goes…"

I move close to Natasha, remembering how much I once cared for her. I try to make my story sound convincing.

"The fire was real enough," I say, speaking about the warehouse two nights ago, "But the voice I heard came from a loudspeaker."

"But, why?"

"A trap, and a plot to discredit me. The media lackeys were there, waiting for me when I made my 'suspicious' departure."

"And the coaster?"

"I guess you'll have to just trust me on that one," I laugh. "But Boomerang was there. He set off the explosives. He also directed me here–to Kingpin. I don't mind a fair fight, but there's something about this that's way over my head. If Kingpin has some of the answers, I want to talk to him."

Black Widow stands there, silently debating whether or not to believe anything I'm saying. Perhaps figuring the best way to get me under lock and key or turn me in. Then, quietly she asks, "what can I do to help?"

"Bless you, beautiful. Even I was beginning to lose faith in my one-man campaign. Here's what I need:"

I hold her–its so wonderful to to have someone else to lean on–and ask her to surveil the front of the theater.

"In case Kingpin decides to step out before I get to him."

"Fine." She says.

"If you see him sneaking away, just come and get me. Now, I'd love to stay and catch up but I'm already late for my grand entrance."

I turn from Black Widow and dash down the corridor, beneath the massive hall, to the shafts leading up to the box-seats–and to Kingpin.

The corridor narrows, then opens into a small room with larger shafts leading up. Ducts appear to carry hot and cold air to the rear of the auditorium.

There's a schematic drawing posted above one of the shafts, showing where each leads. One exits right behind the box seats, probably ending in a small grid facing the seats. Not so small, I hope, that I won't be able to squeeze through it.

I sense another shaft feeding into the ones leading to the rest of the house. There's an oversized valve to one side. I close it–hoping the patrons won't mind their next ten minutes or so of stuffiness, Because I hope that ten minutes is all that it will take me. Then I pop open the metal flap leading to the seats, I stick my head in, hoping my radar sense will guide me safely.

Up I climb, pressing my feet and my back against the walls of the metal shaft. Outside I hear the sounds of rock music–I can't place the song or the group–keeping up with contemporary rock groups hasn't been a priority lately. But it's good and loud–guaranteed to mask my activity.

Then my radar sense picks up a curve ahead, and worse, a slight narrowing. The shaft curls and becomes half as large.

I use my arms to pull myself along, all the time thinking that if the shaft gets any smaller, I'd be stuck like a cork in a wine bottle.

But then I see the grid. It's small, but unless my senses are off, large enough to squeeze through.

I wait, letting my breathing ease up. I concentrate on finding where my favorite tough-guy, Wilson Fisk, exactly is.

There he is! In one of the boxes just behind a heavy door. I can pick out the bulky figure resting on a custom-designed seat. He's in his own compartment, shielded from anyone to his left or right. Two goons are near the back, as if Kingpin couldn't take care of himself!

It's time to pay the big man a visit.

I put my hands onto the mesh, but then I sense something else–or the lack of aomething. Kingpin has no heartbeat, no breathing. He's either dead…or he's a dummy. A decoy for Daredevil.

"In for a penny, in for a pound." I say. At least I know it's a trap. I smile to myself.

The grating gives way with only the slightest sound. Fortunately, the rock music continues to blare at ear-splitting volumes, masking what noise I make.

The lobby area is empty and I sense a door ahead, leading to Kingpin's box. I walk to it quickly, almost matter-of-factly. It opens, and I hear the music at full volume. I sense the great bulk of Kingpin ahead.

Unfortunately, I also sense his two burly thugs flanking him.

No matter, I can get to him before they can get to me.

I hear footsteps, and I throw a chokehold around Kingpin.

"Okay, Willy, I think it's time we had a little chat."

But the massive bald head doesn't move–it feels like dead weight in the crook of my elbow. Is he dead? I hear two semi-automatic pistols being drawn from shoulder-holsters. It's time to change tactics.

"Sorry," I say, releasing Kingpin's head, which lolls forward, "but I'm afraid firearms are not allowed in the theater." I quickly club each of the thugs' gun hands and the silenced Uzi's clatter to the floor. I reach out and grab each of the goons by their sharkskin lapels. "Now, let's see which of you knows more."

"Im afraid neither of them would be able to help you." Says a voice. It's Kingpin, standing at the rear of the box. I hear a whining sound behind me, and the box is enclosed in a special clear acrylic. I let his two hoods go.

"Fine, I'll go directly to the big man himself." But he catches me off guard. My radar sense picks up Kingpin raising his jeweled cane overhead. Harmless enough, I suppose, if I can dodge the laser he has built into it.

The box is completely enclosed. Anything could happen in here and the rest of the audience would be oblivious to it. "Such an easy mark!" Kingpin laughs, and I hear the high-pitched whine of the laser as he brings it down, aimed directly at mt chest.

The laser slices the air where I was standing. It singes the still-new carpet. The now-enclosed box suffuses with a foul odor (like the illegal dump on Staten Island).

"I'll take that," I say, reaching out to grab Kingpin's cane.

I reach out and grab at Kingpin's jeweled cane (a compact industrial laser that Fisk wields with the dexterity of an accomplished swordsman). Kingpin's arm is like an unyielding tree limb. But I twist his stick left and right, giving it a sudden flip, and his sausage fingers loose their hold. It takes me but a second to toss the weapon to the side.

"There," I say, "Now we can talk like two civilized men."

He comes at me. A human steamroller, ready to flatten me.

In the narrow confines of the box seats, it will take some artful maneuvering to avoid his 450 pounds of firmly-packed flesh.

I wait until Kingpin is almost on top of me, then I nearly press myself against the brushed velvet wall while delicately tripping him. He falls to the floor against the wall with a crash.

"Okay, big guy, on your feet." Then I feel the cold, unmistakable steel gun barrel neatly lodged at the base of my spine.

"You can turn around, Mr. Daredevil. But do it slowly, if you don't mind."

Alex Wiley, mayoral candidate, and hater of costumed crimefighters, especially me.

"I guess you really don't care much about your candidacy," I say. "I mean, hanging out with old Tubby hard knocks here."

Kingpin's temper flares and he swipes me across my face with the jeweled end of his cane.

I begin to reach for him when Alex Wiley cautions, "Tsk, tsk, Daredevil."

I sense two accomplices on each side of him, with their weapons trained on me. "Such rude behavior. And I'm afraid you've got it all wrong, my friend. I'm not hanging around him. He's assisting me…for a price. Wilson's community spirit ends with his checkbook." He drapes his arm around Kingpin. "Though, I'm sure he'd support me for mayor anyhow."

"Yeah, all the rats and–"

Kingpin raises a fist to me, but Wiley touches his arm. "No, Wilson, allow the devil of Hell's kitchen his final few words to be pathetic banter."

My ears perk up at the use of the word: 'final'. It has the kind of terminal ring to it that makes me feel cold in an interminably hot and stuffy theater.

"So why trash my reputation, Wiley?"

"Ah, wonderful," he smiles. "You still think I'm Wiley, and if I can fool you, I can fool anybody."

I'm confused. Of course it's Wiley. My senses wouldn't trick me, not in that way. The voice, the mannerisms–all of it indicates Wiley.

"I can detect your confusion. The real Alex Wiley suffered an….unfortunate accident some years ago. I've taken his place."

"You killed him?"

"Oh please, Daredevil. I never kill anyone. Not directly, anyways. But I was there to take his place. The best bioengineering in the world has made me into an almost perfect duplicate of Alex Wiley. I assumed his distinguished background–Harvard Law, prestigious firm, and so on–and moved his entire political career in a slightly different direction. All according to plan."

Kingpin turns to Wiley. "Do you think you should be telling him so much?"

"Why the hell not?! It's over, Wilson, and you played your part well! In fact, you can leave us. There are still certain things not even for your ears."

Kingpin storms out of the box and down the corridor. I wonder whether I could take the three of them now–wiley and his two henchmen. But then I sense that their fingers are pressed tightly against the triggers, only a few millimeters away from blasting at me.

Okay, so I'm a captive audience.

The rock and roll band finishes one number and quickly segues into a second, even louder.

"You see, Daredevil, we have to discredit you, to turn peopke against all costumed vigilantes. With my platform, such hate would be easy to manipulate into a victory."

"You control the West side. So what? Not the rest of New York." He smiles, as if my comment had come from a child.

"Yes, the West side, and all it's docks. Absolutely crucial to our purposes. But we wouldn't ignore other costumed gadflies. It would just take time. In the meantime, our representatives would be in place.

"Oh yes, didn't I tell you? It's not just New York, my friend, though it had to be, of necessity, the first. Each city will have its own tailor-made plan, tied to an upcoming election. When we have a foothold in each of the major cities, then we can really get to work."

"We? Just who is this 'we'?"

"Ah, even Kingpin doesn't know this, Daredevil. He just thinks I'm trying to take you out, become mayor, use the docks for drug-running and moving radioactive waste to cheap dumps."

Now I remember how this all started. "Staten Island." I say quietly.

"Yes, I heard that site had an unwanted visitor. That was you, eh? Well, that's just a sideline to generate extra cash flow."

He steps back, towards the door, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that my audience is about to come to an abrupt end.

"You see, getting the cities is only the beginning. Important and necessary, but only a beginning. The Association wants nothing less than control over the entire nation–though we have plans for later…expansion. And it all starts with you, Daredevil." He begins laughing wildly, a hysterical, maniacal laugh. Another crackers case out for world domination. But something tells me that this guy–whoever he is–and his Association mean business.

One thing is pretty clear. Whatever Alex Wiley and the Association have planned for me, it won't be good. The way he's edged to the back of the box seats would indicate that my time for planning is up.

He backs up another step.

"My colleagues will accompany you outside, Daredevil. I suggest you come along quietly, their guns are silenced, and they are more than willing to use them."

I bet they are.

I follow Wiley out, looking for a good moment to disarm him and trash his plan for world domination. He leaves the box seats and walks for the emergency exit. "Oh," he says casually, "I almost forgot." He turns a small pen-shaped object over in his hand. "Almost." He squirts a thin stream of gas in my face.

"What–" I mutter, my nostrils inhaling the powerful stench. I try to reach for Wiley, but I'm collapsing to the floor.

Oh, my aching head! Is it still there?

I rub at my skull, trying to find the source of the throbbing pain. Slowly, I remember. There was a gas. I can still taste it on my lips, like insect repellent.

I feel the floor. Smooth, flat…and moving.

It vibrates under me, and rolls left and right, as if–im on a boat!

At least I'm intact, I'm glad to feel, stretching my arms and legs. I stand up, hoping my radar sense will give me a better picture of just what my current status is.

I'm not quite prepared for what I pick up. There's no one else on board, and this is no pleasure yacht. It is a good sized freighter, moving at a brisk clip. All around me is glass…this must be the bridge. There is a door just to the side, and I'd bet my life savings that ifs locked. I walk over to it slowly, painfully, to test it. The knob won't even move, as if it's been welded to the door.

"Great," I say a loud. "This has been a great week for me."

I concentrate harder, desperate for any information about what's going on here…what's happening.

There's another sound out there, beyond the glass. A ship–a big ship. An ocean liner, and this freighter is headed straight for it.

Sealed in on the bridge, with no controls and no way out. From the sounds surrounding the ship, I'd guess I'm still in New York harbor. But what am I doing here?

There's only one answer. A final disgrace committed by Daredevil, some horrible disaster perpetrated in plain sight of the harbor. It will have to end in my death. But what a wonderful way to crown Wiley's campaign to make the streets safer for criminals again.

I bang on the glass with my fist, but my hand bounces off harmlessly. I doubt even my billy club, if I had it, could do any good.

Then, I hear another rumble, not the ship but from beyond the glass. My ship seems to be turning slowly towards it.

"Oh no." I moan. "Not this." The freighter seems to kick into a higher acceleration, bearing down on what is senses to be a giant ocean liner. Everyone on deck, kids, lovers, retired peoples back from their dream vacations, are probably watching Daredevil steer a freighter right at them.

The Ocean Liner is now less than a half a nautical mile away. It lets out a warning howl. Someone, somewhere is sending the freighter I'm on at them.

Then I hear another sound, faint. A small motor, another boat.

Finally, I hear the sound of someone coming on board my ship. Footsteps, padding on the main deck, heading towards me. There's a heartbeat–and a voice.

"Daredevil, stand back from the glass, I'm going to blow it."

It's black Widow. How she got here, I'll never know.

I wait for the explosion–a specialty of hers–and I feel chunks of glass fly by me.

Black Widow climbs onto the bridge. Only a few thousand feet seperates me and the liner.

"Go!" She screams. "Find the controls! Before it's too late! Go!"

I step outside and listen to the freighter, hoping to find the sounds of a hidden control panel.

This time, I get lucky, zeroing in on the small control unit hidden aft.

"I've got it!" I yell to Black Widow, as I run over to it. I rip open the small box, noting the maze of wires inside. I first disengage two strands of wire leading to explosives–I obviously was not meant to survive the crash.

C'mon, which one controls the rudder? That's all that's important.

I can hear the ocean liner, close now. So close that I can hear people on deck, screaming and pointing at me.

C'mon!!!

Then I have it. One wire, then another, and the boat's throaty engine goes dead.

Still, the ship drifts forward. But, slowly, as the liner passes. Halfway, and the liner's almost clear. Then the bow of the ship nudges the ship before it sails on.

The people on the liner are knocked about, but they safely float by.

"You did it!" Black Widow exclaims.

"You did it, if anyone did." I say to her, throwing my arms around her and squeezing her tight.

A police launch chugs it's way towards us.

"So how did Black Widow know to follow you?" Karen asks, as two days later, all charges against me have been dropped, The two of us walk together through Central Park.

"She didn't–not at first. But when she decided to come back and check on me, and I wasn't there she got worried. Looking at the back exit, she found Wiley leaving with me all tied up."

"And where did Wiley go?"

"Back to his buddies in the Association, whoever they are. Black Widow has notified SHIELD and the FBI and other cities' police forces, but the info is so nebulous that I dont know what they'll do."

Karen pauses, then asks, "And was it fun meeting with Black Widow again?"

"Fun? Surprising, maybe and helpful. But–"

"No sparks?"

"No." I say.

It's just a small lie. Not much to feel guilty about. I take Karen's hand and walk towards the sounds of music and children coming from the Central Park carousel. Finally, a smile comes to my face.

#marvel comics #marvel fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #daredevil #matt murdock #karen page #foggy nelson #black widow #natasha romanov #kingpin #wilson fisk

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