Roman

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Actually v.interested to see which characters Stein would go for. Never took him for a comics RP guy.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

That's DareDevil season one done, folks. Bar an epilogue to wrap up, I've finished season one and will now start planning season two and my second character.

Please, please, please if anyone has any critique, feedback, review, or general thoughts and/or feelings on the character, the season as a whole, any individual posts, plot points, etc etc I welcome it all with frightening fervor.

EDIT: The post catalogue at the bottom of my sheet is fully up-to-date for anyone who needs refreshers in the history or anyone who would like to just read through from start to finish.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

^{_{IX. Done.}}

---

Matthew awoke to cool air and muffled murmurs. There was a large - large - crowd around him, he could feel immediately: - the collective heat of them throbbed, pressing on his skin from all sides; myriad heartbeats drummed a mismatch beat across the surface of his skull; the white-noise whispers washed over him like static from a tuned-out television set. Their sound and heat illuminated his world, and through them he could see he was inside the rear compartment of some kind of vehicle. Matt tried to move to push the trunk open from within with his legs, and realized his hands and feet were bound with plastic zip-ties - they were thick and tight and they dug sharply into his wrists as he attempted to loosen them and wrestle himself free.

He stopped as he heard the doors of the vehicle open and slam shut on one side, and then felt footfall - heavy, two sets - walk around the front of the vehicle - long, tall, boxy, likely some manner of Hummer or stylish APC - and open the door on the opposite side. Two more sets of feet got out, one after the other. One light and deft. The other heavier than either of the first two.

The three waited for the one, and as the one moved away, walking straight forward, the light set followed and the first two walked back around the vehicle to the trunk where Matt was. The muffled crowd exploded into vibrant clarity as the lid was flung open. The two men regarded Matthew for a second as he did the same, then caught his feet in their hands as he tried to kick at their chests from his awkward position. One of them buried a fist in Matt's stomach, and the other wrested Matt's remaining baton from its holster, hitting him across the head with it - Matt's head erupted and he felt a splinter crack across his cowl. Dizzy and winded from the blows, Matt struggled feebly as he was roughly seized, wrenched up and out of the trunk, and tossed out of the vehicle. Matt rolled as he his the ground. Concrete, asphalt. The back of his head hit a curb. He was close to the edge of the crowd, and through the growing noise Matt could pick up a few scattered conversations.

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen!"

"Shit, that's the Devil!"

'Fuck, man, he's got Daredevil!"

"Yo, that's the dude that's been fucking up Fisk!"

Across the blank space in front of him - the crowd, he could feel now, were being dispersed in a wide oval by masked men in body armour and armed with rifles - another voice came. Matthew shook to his bones to hear it.

"Cut him loose."

The two men that had tossed him now approached again, this time brandishing large knives they had pulled from their belts. They cut Matt's binds and stepped back as he pushed himself up off the ground, breathing heavy as he did so. He felt groggy still from the toxin; his side ached from his puncture wounds; his arm flared with hot pain from his shoulder whenever he moved it; his head rang with a thudding migraine from fatigue. Matt was wounded, exhausted, poisoned, and his state made it difficult to focus his radar, instead swimming in the buzz of noise and heat from the crowd - but all concern for his physical condition melted away as he tuned his senses onto the man stood not twenty feet across the empty space from him.

God, but he was a behemoth. Wilson Fisk stood seven feet tall, every inch of him rotund and straining against his suit. He rippled with carefully sculpted muscle hidden behind a veneer of obesity, but Matt knew his secrets. This confrontation had to be fast. Fisk would crush him with a single hand if Matt allowed it to drag on. Kingpin chuckled low, regarding the unsteady Murdock with disdain.

"They call you the Devil, the Man Without Fear. But this..." Fisk threw his arms out, gesturing widely at the open air and the crowd that circled the two men. "This is what happens when you meddle with a real demon. New York is a fine city full of fine men, Daredevil, but it needs dark men just as much. We are two sides of the same coin, two opposing forces keeping society in balance. Witness Times Square, a monument to self-destructive consumption. Men like me keep the billboards on, keep the companies ticking, keep the city from crumbling. Men like you..." he cracked his knuckles, sneering. "Men like you let the common people think they don't need men like me. But they do. Without me, New York collapses. You've had your fun, you've peeked behind the curtain. You've set me back a day, maybe two at most. And where has that left you? Poisoned. Exhausted. Bloodied. Beaten. At my feet, begging for mercy. But you will find none."

Fisk moved with surprising speed, dashing towards Murdock and clearing the space in a matter of just a few seconds. He launched a fist towards Matt's chest and Matt brought both arms up crossed across his breast to block the blow, stumbling back as the force of Fisk's fist hit him hard. He launched a feeble counter swing but Fisk grabbed his forearm and yanked, dislocating Matt's already injured shoulder and throwing him ten feet. Matt skidded on the ground, and around him he could feel the electric buzz of recording phones.

"You are to be an example of what happens to vigilantes who try to destabilize the empire I have crafted, the empire that is the foundation of EVERYTHING THIS CITY IS AND EVER WILL BE! There will be NO MORE 'Devils', NO MORE 'superior men', NO MORE MASKS!"

Fisk crossed the gap again and this time seized Matt's cowl in one hand, squeezing until the splinter down Matt's forehead ruptured and cracked completely. Fisk tore Matt's mask from his head and crushed it beneath his feet. There were scattered gasps and screams from the crowd as Matt's face was exposed, and in the distance, Times Square billboards lit up with Matt's bloody face as the news was live-streamed on every channel.

"You may have thought you could topple me, Mr Murdock. You may have thought you were RIGHTEOUS enough, ZEALOUS enough, MORAL enough." With every word Fisk put another fist to Matt's face, cracking his nose and jaw and teeth and lips. Matt felt only pain. Behind the pain, anger began to rise. "You are a MAN, Mr. Murdock. Just a man, with fear, and weakness, and no true power. You hoped to leave a legacy by becoming my undoing, but your only legacy will be a warning. A warning to any other would-be 'hero', any other vigilante who believes they can affect ANYTHING in MY CITY! After tonight, EVERYONE will see what happens when they cross the Kingpin. And no one EVER. WILL. AGAIN."

Fisk picked up Matt by the collar and punched him in the stomach. Matt felt ribs break and coughed blood, the hot red spray staining Fisk's suit jacket. Another punch, a punctured lung. Fisk slammed Matt to the ground, kicking him in the stomach and then marching over to the two men who had pulled Matt from the car in the first place. He held out a hand, and they gave him Matt's baton. He walked back towards Matt, who had rolled over to his back to face Fisk. He was numb to pain, and behind his eyes the Devil rose with white-hot fury.

Fisk raised an arm to bring the baton down. Adrenaline flooded his system. Matt made his move.

He snapped up a broken shard of his cowl and dug it viciously into the back of Fisk's knee. Fisk yelled as his leg buckled and Matt kicked at his opposite ankle, breaking it and sweeping the leg out and bringing Fisk to both knees. Fisk tried to grab Matt but he rolled sideways and then picked himself up, putting the toe of his boot in Fisk's solar plexus, winding the giant, and then brought his leg up to break Fisk's nose with his knee. Fisk put his empty hand on the ground and Matt stomped the wrist, snapping it clean; he snatched the fallen baton from the floor and brought it down on Fisk's kneecap, shattering his patella, and then again, and then the back of his head, and again, and again, and again. Fisk grunted with each blow and Matt felt the loosening of bone and heard the cracking of the skull from behind his scalp as the skin tore and split, ravines of flesh opening and letting loose rivers of blood that poured down his back and dyed his white suit red. Fisk put a hand up and behind to catch the baton; Matt grabbed the fingers and pulled them sharply backwards, snapping them and Fisk shouted again and cradled his hand. Kingpin spoke, gurgling through the blood streaming from his nose and wheezing.

"You can't stop me...you can't put me down...I'll be back...I'll always be back..."

Matt loosed the cable of his baton and wrapped it quick and tight around Fisk's neck. He stomped on his back, pushing Fisk to the floor, and grabbed both ends of his baton, pulling up hard with everything he had left. His shoulder, broken and stabbed, screamed with pain that Matthew could not hear over the ecstasy of the Devil. There was a gurgle as Kingpin tried to say something. Matt didn't hear him.

There was a snap in the base of Fisk's neck, and he shuddered and lay still.

Just a man.

Matt let go of his baton and stumbled backwards. The crowd was silent. Kingpin's men were silent. Matt fell to the ground, spent completely. The world went dark, and before he blacked out completely, for a solitary, tranquil moment, Matt felt like his great struggle was done.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Roman>

Alright, so am I clear to nab Hand agent status for Shado, because what I'm hearing is that you're less inclined to use them and wouldn't mind but I might be misunderstanding.

@Dblade26

Yeah, go ahead. The Hand is a big enough organisation for the two of us. Just shout me if you're planning to use any of the leaders so I can adjust my season 2 plans.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Since we have Batman Beyond, Batgirl, Captain America and Daredevil around, what's the status on groups like Hydra, the Hand and the League of Assassins?

I was thinking of making Shado have ties to either The Hand or the League instead of her usual nebulous Yakuza employers as a way to tie Star City in with the wider 'verse but I don't wanna step on any toes.

Also Connor's sheet's been updated to include more of his NPCs and his post catalog, trying to think if there's anyone Marvel that I'd be able to incorporate that fits well with him without grabbing up somebody that should go to someone else...

@Dblade26

The Hand are in New York and Elektra is an agent, but other than that I don't really have any plans for them until late season 2. They were just a useful outside source of mooks and I needed Elektra for Matt's season 1 arc. To be honest The Hand and the storylines around them are my least favourite parts of Daredevil's mythos.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Probably the most painful DD post I've written thusfar, if only for it's combat-heavy second half, but don't worry! The next post is all combat!

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

^{_{VIII. Trapped}}

---

Ninety-six hours later and Matt pushed his twelfth thug-of-the-night's face roughly into the wall of the money laundering lair he'd busted into in search of any lead on Kingpin's safehouse where Fisk had sequestered himself, or the whereabouts of his elusive aide - the mysterious gentleman with the distinctive watch. He'd had no further attempts on his life from any agents of the shadowy cabal called 'The Hand', but near everywhere he went he felt hooded eyes and patient minds upon his back, biding their time, watching him work. A tiny, darkened part in the back of Matthew's mind quietly wondered what flood water Kingpin held back with his presence; but he would not allow himself to be distracted from his righteous crusade, not when he had come this far, and had so much taken from him. The lines between Justice and Revenge blurred and muddled together in Matt's heart until they were inextricably linked, two sides of the same coin.

This was his third raid on Fisk's operations tonight alone, and he had dismantled seven more of various sizes and purpose in the nights previous since his escape from the custody of police. He was now well and truly a fugitive; there was no remedy, no soothing of the blow. Fisk had backed him into a corner and now Matthew fought with the rabid ferocity of a feral dog. This war between the immovable Fisk and the unstoppable Murdock had thus far been too heavily weighted against Matthew, but now he felt the scales tip beneath his feet and the balance of power slide towards him, every new goon bloodied, bruised, and broken another piece cleared from the board. Kingpin was powerful, Matt held no delusions about that, and probably hoarded enough fortunes to disappear forever - but the flaw of rich and powerful men, Matt knew, was their inability to be sated by their wealth. Fisk would be just like any other man who considered himself above others: unable to satisfy himself, starving for more, using money to fill the void where his humanity fled him long ago. Matthew would shut off his supply, and Fisk would become desperate, panicked. He would make a mistake. It was simply a matter of time.

Matt felt the thug squirm beneath his grip and he pulled his latest victim up by the collar. The thug whimpered slightly. Matt's cowl glared at him with red lenses and there were lashes of blood across his face, very little of it his own, and as he smiled in a violent, menacing grin, the blood seeped into his teeth and completed his ghastly visage. The goon nearly pissed himself in fear.

"Wh-what do you want from me?!" Suppressed panic threatened to overwhelm his voice. Matt said nothing for a second, allowing the sheer tension to disturb the thug further, and then broke the silence with a low, sinister hiss.

"Fisk..."

"I don't know man I don't FUCKIN' know okay?! Ain't no one know!"

Matt unsheathed a billy club from its holster on his thigh and released the end section, allowing it to fall to the floor on its wire. The metallic clang rang through the darkened room and melded with the creaking of the lights left swinging from Matt's ferocious assault. They were the only two things conscious in the building; around them lay the out-cold bodies of 3 more of Fisk's men, all low-level muscle. One lay messy with blood, his hair matted to face. The thug looked around frantically, searching for any single shred of hope, but found none as Matt pushed him to the floor and placed his knee across the top of his chest, restricting his breathing and movement as he picked up the thug's left arm. Matt seemed disconcertingly serene as he methodically wrapped the wire of his billy club around the lowest knuckle of the thug's first finger - and then with a flinch from both men, pressed the button to withdraw.

The thug screamed as the high-tension wire rapidly spun as the club retracted itself, and then cut clean through the flesh and wrenched the finger bone from the knuckle as the two halves of the club came together. Matt stood and allowed the man to buckle over in pain, clutching at his missing digit - only to put his boot back into his chin and the knee back on his chest, picking up the same arm again and releasing the same billy club again and wrapping the same wire around the second finger.

Against the melodic backdrop of blood dripping and quiet sobs, Matt hissed the same question a second time.

"I do-I don't know, please, I don't, I really don't, I-I I ain't told no-one's told please, please! There's one-one guy that knows, his o-only trusted guy. That's it just him he organizes everything for the boss his name's S-Silkworth, okay?! O-Oswald Silkworth. Fuck man take my burner man take it I only ever get, get calls from him, it's in the safe! It's in the safe...code's zero-four-S-L-one-nine-six-four-B-E...just take it..."

He slipped into unconsciousness from shock and fear and exhaustion. Matt let his arm drop to the ground and unwound his baton. He tuned back in to the ambiance of the room for the safe, and felt a hidden crack in the floor in the rear corner where air currents slipped in and pushed back out. He moved towards it quickly and ran his hand across the concrete, feeling the micro-canyons beneath his fingertips...and then felt where the floor changed feeling and pushed. The hidden mechanism activated and the slab popped up on one side, allowing Matt to grab an edge and pull the covering off the front of the safe. The door was thick steel with magnetically sealed lock, and in the center a small screen and keypad. Matt tapped the screen lightly and it whirred to life coming out of standby, and then he ran his fingers over the keypad. He wondered if the screen was QWERTY or alphabetical.

It was QWERTY, and the locks hissed as they unsealed and the safe popped open. Inside was a small phone and nothing else. Matt retrieved it, suspicious and wary, regarding it at arm's length - and then it began to rang.

"Mr Murdock, I presume? Don't worry about answering, there's no need. Presumption is merely a formality, I assure you."

The speaker paused. Matthew didn't say anything.

"Quite. I understand my associate has given you my name, and I already know yours, so we can skip any perfunctory introductions. You are looking for my employer, and I can assure you he is eager to accept a meeting. You've ruffled some feathers, as I'm sure was your intent, and I have to say your efforts continue to surprise and impress us. Simply unacceptable, obviously, but we must offer respect where it is due nonetheless."

Matt growled. "If Fisk wants a meeting you just tell me where and spare me the rhetoric."

"A man of action and not a little bluntness, I see. No room for subtlety these days. A shame. Very well, Mr Murdock, lest you fail to consider either myself or my employer men of our words. There is a vacant property owned by our organisation that we recently scheduled for condemnation on the upper east side of Hell's Kitchen. Should your altercation result in some structural damage the expense will be minimal. I trust we can expect you there shortly?"

This is a trap, Matthew thought to himself.

G O O D the Devil thought back.

"This ends tonight." Matt spoke.

"At last, we can agree on something. It has been a pleasure, Mr Murdock. I do believe we will miss your fervor when you are gone."
Silkworth hung up. Matt smashed the phone in his hand and left.

-

Matt picked his way through the debris that littered the building, thinking that any structural damage that could be done to the place had already been done long ago. He had slipped in to the top floor through a large empty window pane, quietly ducking through the rusted and bent iron frame with ease. Holes in the bare concrete floor were patched over with planks and duct tape; mesh wire stretched haphazardly across gaps in the walls; exposed rebar threatened laceration on the end of every pillar. Glass and rubble crunched beneath his boots and everything he could taste and smell was shrouded in dust and concrete powder. He reached out with his senses with every step, letting the eruption of sound from his footsteps light his way forwards, trickling down steps and around corners. He felt stifled by the stale, unpleasantly warm air, and he knew that any step could be the first one into whatever manner of trap Fisk had laid here for him. He had cleared the top floor, each crumbling room empty save for piles of wreckage and litter, and avoided the stairs down in favour of carefully lowering himself through an uncovered hole in the floor.

He hit the ground with a muffled crunch and paused, listening to his landing ripple out. He felt it immediately - the stifle and suppression he had felt in the holding cells before the ragged man had attacked him. Whoever The Hand were, Matthew knew they and their agents were here now. He felt vulnerable, naked - they had a technique to hide from him, and the concept was alien and frightening. He drew his batons, curling his fists around the cold metal as hollow reassurance. He felt out of his element, relying on senses he could not trust, paranoia playing on a deeper fear. He had built the devil to fight against fear. To be the man without fear.

He knelt, putting a baton carefully on the floor and placing his hand flat on the ground; Matt could feel the building shudder and creak minutely under his fingers as the beams groaned under their own weight. The Hand hid from his ears and his nose, but he doubted very much they could hide from his hands. Touch was firm, touch was concrete, touch was infallible. Touch showed him two sets of footprints coming from the room in the east corner of the floor. The door was closed and locked, but flimsy. It was definitely an invitation. Matt would gladly accept.

He seized his baton again as he took off sprinting, jumping feet-first into the door, boots placed beside the lock and crashing through as the old wood splintered and burst from the force. He landed on the first set of footsteps and felt their ribs break under him, and followed up his impact with a boot to the chin; jaw snapped and teeth crushed, Matt finished him off with a baton to the front of the skull. The man beneath him switched off like a light, but Matt barely had time to switch focus before he felt two sharp stings in his shoulder and ribs - the other agent had taken the opportunity to flank and throw two knives, puncturing Matt's armour, and now they came quick and fast with tantos. Matt rolled backwards and kicked towards the agent's ankle, but he drew his leg up and deftly feinted backwards, before lunging for a swipe. Matt had time to think they're fast as he swung a baton up to deflect and pushed the agent away, stepping back himself to gain some space between him and his adversary.

His senses were still suppressed, sound and smell like faint echoes and wafts; his side ached from the knives and he could feel blood trickling down his leg; he was exhausted from his relentless assault on Kingpin's operations since his escape from the precinct; and something in the back of his mind screamed at him that something was wrong, something was off. The agent before him seemed to swim in his radar, their image fading in and out as Matt tried to keep a clear bead on them. They struck quickly, rushing forwards with another lunge - deflected by Matt - followed with a swipe - Matt ducked and jabbed at the knee - the agent stepped sideways and brought their other leg around - Matt blocked with an arm and stumbled -

A tanto found its way into Matt's shoulder and he growled loud, tearing it out and throwing it as accurately as he could approximate. The agent dodged it easily and Matt felt it vibrate in the wall, using the feeling to judge the positioning and throwing a hay-maker; the agent caught it in midair and jabbed Matt's face, pushing him aside and putting another two jabs in the existing knife-wounds. Matt was in pain and bleeding out. The agent put a solid boot into his stomach and his head exploded as he burst through the weak wall and the weaker floor behind it. Matt un-latched a baton and launched it, hoping to snag something to break the fall. He blacked out when he hit the ground.
Matt came back around a few seconds later. His senses were cleared, he felt that immediately; sound and smell surrounded him and rushed inwards, painting the clearest picture of the building he'd had all night, and now he could feel the wrongness stronger than ever. Something else, something worse, lingered in the air, the faintest ghost of a scent, but present nonetheless: Elektra. Matt's mind spiraled, desperate to find her and protect her, rescue her from this vicious cabal, this new breed of adversary.

"I'm sorry it came to this, Matthew."

His blood ran like ice. Despair clawed at the bottom of his soul and found its way up his core, spilling into his throat and bulging the space behind his eyes.

"Elektra...?"

"Yes, Matt."

He could see her now; she approached him from the stairwell at the far end of the floor. The baton he had launched lay beside him in two pieces, line neatly severed before it had had a chance to got taut around an anchor. He reached for his other baton, but it wasn't there; he tried to reach for the broken end, the stub better than nothing, but his arm wouldn't stretch, his fingers wouldn't work, couldn't form a grip -

"The knives, of course. They were all I needed. Everything else was simply showmanship. Toxin is a cowardly way to best a man. But Fisk...Fisk is a coward."

Matt swore. From the shadows came another voice.

"Were I not indebted to your organization, Miss Natchios, I would kill you where you stand."

Fisk stepped forwards. Elektra faced him.

"You wouldn't be able to."

Fisk merely chuckled. "Despite my... extensive portfolio, I assure you... I still hold many secrets for myself. You have performed adequately."

Elektra ignored him. She continued towards Matt. Fisk spoke again, now with an edge of eagerness and viciousness creeping into his voice.

"Your orders were not to kill him, need I remind you. You have done enough damage. He will hardly make for sport."

Elektra knelt beside Matt, running a finger over his wounds, chuckling playfully when Matt drew a sharp breath from pain. She hushed him, and gently put his other baton back in his holster.

"Step away from him." Fisk ordered, and Elektra complied.

"I was only helping your sport, Wilson. The toxin has done its job; he won't be moving. I trust The Hand can expect you to honor your end of the deal?"

Fisk nodded.

"Then I'm done here. I don't want to spend another moment in this hovel. I feel filthy."

She slipped away, and Matt lost her, his senses dulling again but this time from the toxin. He could feel Fisk moving towards him.

The world grew dark. Matt closed his eyes, and slipped away.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

I see webboy and think spiderman but no. I see star lord and think guardians but no. How dare u confuse me with ur awful schemes! D:<

@Ceta de Cloyes

And I'm not even from 30 BCE!

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

^{_{VII. Struggle}}

---

Matthew's conversation with Foggy had been brief, but full of both grief and forgiveness in equal measure. It was clear to Murdock that what he had previously assumed was an unshakable bond between the two friends had indeed been stirred by the initial impact and fallout as Kingpin's plans unfolded before the city; but despite lingering paranoia and conspiratorial whispers, Foggy still believed in Matt, and that was enough. There had been apologies from both sides, wordless explanations of thoughts and feelings, secrets implied and trust shared and rebuilt, and ultimately a reaffirmation of support, loyalty, and above all, faith. Faith was so important now; Matthew clung to his faith in the belief that he was on the right path, his faith that he would not allow himself to stumble and fall in the face of such terrible adversity. His faith that Wilson Fisk, Kingpin of New York, was simply a man, and would be felled as such.

They had decided between them - Nelson and Murdock, partners forever - that Foggy was not safe. It felt obvious and remained unspoken by either of them, but the implication was there: if Foggy stayed, he was a target. They had discussed options, each one feeling less desirable than the last, and Foggy had eventually accepted that he needed to leave the city, perhaps even the state, and to take Karen with him. One of his firm's major partners had a soft spot for Foggy, and an understanding of his relationship with Matthew; initially, the offer of a temporary leave of absence had been then rejected from pride and disbelief, but now seemed prudent to accept, thereby removing Foggy and Karen from danger's path. Matthew would miss them terribly, and worry about them constantly; but Foggy had soothed him and they had said goodbyes with warm, hopeful voices. Matthew would regret their absence. A small part of him felt suddenly un-tethered, as if another lifeline to his humanity had been severed.

The officer that had brought him his phone still had not returned, and Murdock smelt freshly burning tobacco and sugary coffee through the cracked window pane of his cell. The man in the cell at the end of the corridor had not stirred through all the commotion since Matthew's arrival, nor through his conversation; whatever had put him under had put him under deep. His heartbeat was slow and steady and did not flicker or falter. Matt sighed, still trying to ignore the stench that oozed from the man's still, prone form, and turned his attention back to his phone. He tapped the screen lightly with his thumbs, feeling the warmth of the display as it lit up in response through his fingertips. He wondered if Elektra would want to speak to him, if she had even seen the news.

"Command: Call Elektra."

His phone whirred silently as it connected the call, and vibrated as it began ringing. Matthew held his breath as he brought the phone to his ear. All other sounds ceased as he listened to the ringing and the ringing only, every new peel of the tone a renewal of his desire to speak to her, touch her, explain his behavior and apologize for the way he'd treated her, beg for forgiveness and understanding and repentance. The phone rang on.

There was a click and a tone and a gap in the air where everything paused - and then another click as the answering machine activated. Elektra's recorded voice came through muffled and ragged.

"Matt, if this is you, I've gone back to my father for a while. I'll call you. I need some time to...think about things. If this is anyone else...don't bother leaving a message."

Another click and then a dead tone. Matt let his hand fall to his side as he hung up.

When the officer returned some time later, having been sternly reminded by her section chief, she found his phone placed on the floor just beyond the bars of his cell, and Matthew himself asleep on his cot, back towards her, his suit jacket folded neatly on the floor, and his tinted glasses resting on top.

-

It was dark outside when Matthew was awoken. He couldn't see the light, or lack thereof, but he could feel the cooler, more crisp night air seeping into the building, and he heard the soft rustling and low coos of nesting pigeons on the roof above his cell. Beyond the holding cells the station was quiet, with only subtle ticking of clocks and dripping of loose taps and leaky pipes rhythmically breaking the silence for microseconds at a time, each tiny burst of sound exploding outwards along walls and surfaces to paint the world for Matthew as it went. A few yards down the corridor, through a electronic door with magnetic seals - the most advanced tech in the station, Matthew realized, noting how poorly equipped the Hell's Kitchen precinct really was for the rapidly evolving world beyond the New York borough - he could hear the low rumble of snores from the officer on the graveyard shift.

Matt sat up quietly and moved towards the bars, feeling the floor where he had left his phone some hours ago; nothing. He hadn't expected it to be there, but it would have been a useful surprise. Instead, he sat back on his cot, reaching out with his senses and paying attention to the building and the air. Something had stirred him from his sleep, though he could not place what - but the longer he listened, the more something felt off: the sounds felt oddly layered, and louder than they should be; the air currents were subtly wrong and illogical, pushing heat around in unanticipated patterns; the smells present were expected, but seemed muted and suppressed, like breathing through a cloth. Though his senses were clear, he felt somehow stifled, suppressed...

Suddenly the veil appeared to lift, and Matthew pushed himself forwards off the cot, ducking low and rolling left away from the back corner of his cell he had felt the movement from. It all rushed in immediately: the man's heartbeat, the heat of his body, the air pushing in and out from his ragged breathing, and that smell of cheap whiskey, hard drugs, and poor hygiene. It all swelled out of his assailant like some fetid aura and Matthew shook to his core at the thought that this ragged beast of a man had hidden from him so effectively.

The ragged man chuckled, low and filled with malice, and withdrew his arm from the vicious thrust that he had intended as a killing blow. He brought his hand up and Matthew now realized his weapon: a hypodermic needle. He pressed the plunger ever so slightly and cool liquid spilled from the tip. Matthew was hit with the pungent odor of liquid morphine - bitter and chemical - and it suddenly seemed all so obvious. Drugs were already part of the accusation. The media would lap up an overdose in prison. The assassin licked the droplet from the needle, and Matthew heard his heartbeat slow and felt his body-heat recede into his torso.

"You'll have to try harder than that." Matt threatened, and he got only a wheezy, humorless laugh in response as the ragged man straightened up.

He thrust forward again in one quick, clean motion, arm trailing behind before swinging forwards needle-first towards Matthew's neck; from his crouched position Matt rolled sideways once more and took a low sweep at the legs. The ragged man drew one up out of the way and hopped back on the other, landing gracefully. The arm with the needle hung low and limp; Matt noticed the other was strapped in tightly to his chest, moving little. Matt stood, the ragged man opposite, each waiting for the other to take the first move. The ragged man swayed slightly on the spot, lilting left to right and back again, his movements almost mesmeric. He bobbed for a few seconds - and then faked left before jabbing right with his free arm, grazing Matt's neck as he pulled backwards and duck under, spinning as he went and taking another low sweep, this time catching the ragged man's ankle and causing him to stumble into the back wall of the cell. The needle dropped as the ragged man used his free arm to catch himself, and Matthew quickly brought a foot down, snapping the tip and smashing the glass syringe. Morphine vapors exploded into the air and the ragged man swung back around.

"That was for the clean option." He snarled, lunging at Matthew again - only this time, Matthew pushed himself into it with one foot, raising the other to plant his shoe square in the ragged man's chest and impact what Matthew suspected was a weak arm. He was proven right as the ragged man gasped in shock and pain, pushed backwards to bounce against the wall. Matt grabbed the ragged man's free arm and wrenched him forwards again, putting the butt of his hand into the ragged man's back between his shoulder blades as he went; the ragged man slammed hard against the bars, his free arm stretching out between them into the corridor beyond, and Matt moved quickly, putting a knee in the bottom of the ragged man's spine before stepped to the side, grabbing his forearm from through the bars and pulling sharply in the wrong direction.

There was a snap and a squelch and Matt's head rang from the smell of blood and the scream of the ragged man in his ear. Matt stepped back as the ragged man slumped to the floor, snapped arm stuck outside the bars, blood dripping. Matt heard the snores of the night guard stop and snort as he woke to the scream; he didn't have much time. He knelt and roughly seized the ragged man's face in his hand.

"Where is Fisk? How did you hide from me?"

The ragged man chuckled through labored, wheezing breaths.

"He is hidden, as I hid from you. The Hand has you now. You struggle, like a rat, convulsing death spasms."

Matt punched him in the nose. He heard the night guard fumbling with his keys at the end of the corridor. "I don't care who you are, or how you hide. Where is he."

"You are a fool. Fisk did not hire The Hand. He asked for a blessing. We will find you. You will die. Make your peace, Matthew Murdock."
Matt heard a clicking from behind the ragged man's teeth and immediately realized what he was doing; he pushed his hand over his mouth, trying to wrench his jaw open and remove the capsule, but he was too slow - the ragged man had already bitten down and swallowed, and now he foamed from the back of his throat through Matt's fingers as the poison capsule took hold. The ragged man shuddered once, then lay still.

Matt swore. Behind him he heard the night guard finally opening the door to his office, grasping clumsily at the clasps of his holster; Matt stood, leaving the ragged man's corpse behind. The door to his cell was open, key still in the lock; he moved quietly to the end of the corridor, waiting for the guard to come around it. He did so in a hurry, not paying attention - Matt took him by surprise, sweeping his legs out while pushing him to the floor with his hand, a quick jab to the forehead putting the guard out cold. Matt took the baton from the guard's belt and left the station.

The night was deep and long; Fisk was out there, and he was scared, cowering behind this new cabal of assassins. Matt could smell the desperation; he would draw Kingpin out. He craned his neck towards the sky, and felt the sword of Damocles hanging perilously above the city. One way or another, this great struggle would end.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

^{_{VI. Accusations}}

---

The room buzzed with myriad sounds, filling Matthew's head with a white noise that crawled and swarmed across every surface that surrounded him, pouring around corners to spill over the thrumming crowd that awaited him in the next room: reporters flipping pages of notebooks and clicking pens as they prepared questions; presenters murmuring to themselves and their colleagues, warming up their throats and beginning their introductions; lawyers and solicitors whispering conspiracies and rumors, expressing disgust, disappointment and disbelief in equal measure; and always, always the bystanders, the civilians, the onlookers, tuning in for another episode of Hell's Kitchen, Kingpin's seedy puppeteering of the city having become a spectator sport.

The press conference and its contents had been Kate's idea, though she had suggested it through white-hot fury and gritted teeth; after 72 hours supposedly 'missing' in the wake of the accusations, Matthew had single-handedly - though unknowingly - allowed the ensuing media circus to obliterate any faith in his innocence the public may have held. Matthew knew this was not entirely Kingpin's doing, as the tabloids and gossip-rags were eager enough to sink their claws into a new victim without needing any malign influence, but by wiping away his personal public image he had also destroyed the people's faith in his position as ADA, and this damage had begun to bleed into Kate's office as DA. People were losing faith in their public defenders. Matt heard a door open and shut and Kate's scent approached him from behind a good two feet in front of her until it surrounded him and she was at his shoulder. She was hot, and her measured breaths and careful voice told Matt that she was still seething. The debacle had caused considerable damage; it was unlikely Kate would emerge unscathed.

"Everyone's ready, Murdock. You've got your script. Time for damage control."

Matt shifted his weight uncomfortably; Kate's words felt venomous, and although her true anger was directed at the man behind the machinations, he couldn't help but feel some frustration deflecting towards him.

"I'll do the best I can. I'm truly sorry that this has all happened, Kate."

"It happened. There's nothing else to say about it."

There was a cold pause, and then Kate lifted her arm and gave Matt a solid, singular pat on the back.

"It was nice working with you."

Matt nodded. Kate left.

-

Despite Matthew's condition, from where he was sitting - center table, flanked by legal counsel and police on both sides - he knew that there wasn't a single eye in the room that wasn't on him. There was a moment of stillness; despite the accusations, Matthew Murdock had always been respected by many for his conviction and competency in the face of adversity. It warmed him that that, perhaps, was not completely lost. And then the buzzing began again, this time furious and immediate. Matthew quickly stood and held up a hand to quell the questions, and then sat once more, pulling a microphone closer to speak as he steeled his nerves.

"As you all know, evidence has come to light that implicates me in a serious drug-trafficking ring, as well as accusations of bribery in court. The media considers me a fugitive for my time spent missing; I assure you, I was not, and am not, an outlaw on the run, and I have invited you here today so that I may address this issue on my terms."

He took a moment to sip water - somewhat to settle his own nerves, and somewhat for the sheer drama of it - and then continued,

"I will tell you now that whatever testimony is levied against me I will fight and I will declare fraudulent. These accusations wound me professionally and personally; I am disgusted by the thought of betraying my office, the people of New York, and most of all my home of Hell's Kitchen. I find these accusations heinous - but they stand regardless, and I must answer to them. I pledge, here and now, that I will fight these charges with every avenue available to me, and I will be cleared. As a show of good faith in New York's robust justice system, the same justice system I myself have striven to uphold since I was still re-learning how to read, I will be voluntary submitting myself to police custody immediately following this conference."

There was a wave of murmurs, which Matthew allowed to ripple and die down, the frantic scratching of pencils and pens and clicking of tape recorders a constant sound underneath as his speech was transcribed, quoted, interpreted. Sometimes, he thought, it came in very handy not being able to read headlines. He powered through. The worst was yet to come. Kate's voice seemed to echo in his head. Rip off the band-aid, Murdock.

"However, the impact of these accusations - fraudulent or not - cannot be ignored; and indeed, the impact has been significant. I cannot defend the people of this city when the people's faith in me wavers; I cannot represent the interests of the city while being forced to defend my innocence as a law-abiding citizen of New York." Matthew paused. Grief welled up inside him for opportunity lost. Anger bubbled alongside it for hope taken. "It is with remorse that, in the face of the circumstances before me...I must tender my resignation as Assistant District Attorney to New York City immediately."

The room burst into furor without delay. Furious scribbling blended with shouted questions and attention-grabbing remarks, nearly every reporter in the room at once trying to become the first to tweet the news while simultaneously updating their website. Matthew did his best to stifle the invasion of sound, standing and making subtle motions to his counsel and the police. He spoke above the fervor in a forceful, final tone. These would be his last public words, his last public image. After this, he would be painted solely through the unforgiving lens of the media.

"I thank you all for coming. I apologize for all that has happened. I wish us all the best of luck. Hopefully...I'll see you on the other side."

And that was that. Matthew held his arms out, fists clenched and wrists together, proffering his hands for restraints from the officer he'd agreed his arrest with before the conference. He felt the cold metal click sharply and tighten uncomfortably on his bones, and then a careful, but firm hand on his elbow to lead him forwards. The clamoring of the journalists left behind in the conference room grew fainter as they covered ground, and soon was only a warped bubble of white noise as they stepped out of the building and he was pushed towards a police cruiser. Matt stood still, his hands holding the top of the door frame as he sharpened his hearing, shutting out everything around him but their words, trying to make out even a snippet of opinion or reaction - and then his head was pushed down and in roughly, and the slamming of the door cut everything off.

-

The station smelt of tobacco, sweat, and gunpowder. The building snaked away down a corridor to Matthew's left and he heard the faint echoes of gunfire and clinking bullet casings bouncing around corners and off walls from some distant in-house gun range. Around him, officers, civilians, and clerks muttered among themselves and to themselves, some stealing quick glances at Murdock as he was escorted through the main lobby of the building and towards the holding cells. News of his press conference and subsequent arrest had spread like wildfire, spilling through the streets in digital waves as the story was tweeted and retweeted. Those that crossed his path moved out of it quickly, heads down and gaze pushed aside. Many of these officers had respected Murdock during his time in office, and he had enjoyed a positive relationship with a majority of those at the Hell's Kitchen precinct; he felt shame and guilt for allowing himself to be torn down in their eyes, but also anger and betrayal that the system was now twisting and perverting to work against him at the behest of it's greatest enemy.

They rounded several corners, the noises becoming more distant and distorted as they moved away from the central hub of activity and towards the holding cells. They were empty, except for a single, ragged-thin man in the far corner, asleep and snoring. His frame shook and shivered with each long, labored breath, and Matthew felt compelled to cover his mouth as a a rancid mix of stenches assaulted him immediately; the bitter, sour smell of booze and heroin swilling with the sickly sweet stench of body odors and open sores. Matthew was guided into a nearby cell and the doors closed behind him. The cops who had escorted him thanked him for his decorum. Matthew did not return the gesture, and instead sat quietly on the edge of the cell's cot as they walked away and left him alone with his thoughts.

He sat for maybe an hour, perhaps an hour and a half - there was no ticking of the clock to keep track with - and then a new officer arrived, her vocation given away by the clinking of her badge on her hip against her belt and the slightly longer half-step on her right leg from where her firearm was uncomfortable on her pelvis. She fished something out of her pocket and offered it through the bars; Matthew stood and pushed his hand towards the heat of hers, and as his fingers met hers he realized she was holding his phone. He turned it over in his hands, holding the button down to turn it on. He looked towards her, and the shuffling of her feet and trousers as she adjusted her footing told him she was uncomfortable, maybe even nervous. Many people found it unusual to be scrutinized by a blind man.

"Chief says you get your phone. Didn't say you had 'one call' so I guess we're skipping that cliche. Guess he figures you know your rights."

Matt chuckled. From her bristling demeanor and icy voice, he could tell this officer was not a fan of her chief, and perhaps not of Murdock either.

"Thank you. Am I wrong to sense a bit of tension?"

"Whole station's tense, guy. No one knows what to think about this whole...mess."

"What do you think?"

She paused. Not necessarily a bad sign.

"I think you've been dropped in. Top brass is being real careful with the evidence they've got on you. Officers are being kept far away - except for a choice couple that were on some favourite lists anyway. And you - you're acting like you've been backed into a corner, but not one you knew was there. My sarge says I've got a nose for stink. And this stinks."

Matthew nodded sagely, politely. She was savvy. Street smart. Probably why she was only a beat cop.

"Well I appreciate your candor. And I appreciate my phone. Do I have a time limit?"

She shrugged, and then shook her head, and then shook her head again before speaking.

"Not that I know of. I gotta take it back when you're done, though. But right now I could really do with a coffee and a smoke."

Matthew listened as the sound of her boots on tile faded into the distance, that right-leg half-step nearly as good as a fingerprint. He sat back down on his cot, phone in hand, thinking of speeches and monologues and persuasion. He ran a hand through his hair, and called Foggy.