slushiousCup
RPM
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Eddie Brock
Natty
EzekielMatt Murdock
2.1: The sin of omission.
Location: Clinton Church
Morning breaks over New York, the city humming with restless energy.
Matt woke to the familiar roar of city traffic by his window. He reached for Elektra, but her side of the bed was already cold. She had vanished into the morning, off to work before dawn.
The aches from last night’s church brawl still throbbed beneath his skin; each bruise, every motion Matt makes is a silent reminder that he is only human. He remains lying lifelessly on their bed, processing the chaos he went through last night.
“This is not what a pastor should behave,” Matt muttered under his breath and prepared for the day ahead.
When the blind pastor reached his church, police cars littered the street, and officers milled about. Radios crackled, sirens wailed, and the noise pressed in on Matt’s heightened senses. Bystanders whispered about the giant owl from last night, their voices swelling into a storm that battered his mind.
He snapped out of his trance and composed himself, adjusting his rose-tainted glasses and collar.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of having the police visit this humble church?” Matt asked, stepping into the back-and-forth debate between a nun and a police officer.
The cop gave him a quick glance, paying little mind to Matt, and continued to confront the nun.
“Ma'am, I already told you this was nothing more than a late normal visit; no giant owl man or thugs were involved in this incident. They won’t be arrested under the circumstances, nor do their actions fit any criminal activity. Mr. Owley says he won’t press charges against the church. As for the masked vigilante who attacked them, that’s another story,” the cop said as he wrote something down, dismissive of what the nun had to say. He is clearly biased in his judgment and leaning towards the robbers.
“You can’t be serious! You’re supposed to protect the victim, not the robber,” the nun exclaimed as her nagging continued. The neighborhood and the people were all ready getting a whiff of this verbal confrontation.
“Ma'am, I need you to step back and not interfere with our work,” the officer said, his lips trembling with frustration. He extended his hand and reached for his back.
Matt’s brow furrowed as tension crackled in the air, hearts thundering with agitation. Sister Mary’s anger simmered, the cop’s hand inching toward his concealed taser, ready to ignite the standoff.
Was he gonna use it on a civilian? Maybe. But Matt wasn’t gonna take any chances.
This was not how Matt imagined spending his morning.
He knew he had to step in before things got ugly.
The cop drew his taser. Instantly, Matt moved his baton-like cane, intercepting the officer’s intent with swift precision at the same time.
With a single, fluid motion, Matt flicked his cane upward, knocking the taser from the officer’s grasp. The weapon spun through the air as the blind pastor deftly disarmed him, wounding only the cop’s pride. The threat was already over before it even began.
The old nun shrieked and clutched Murdock's arm for comfort after what happened.
“Oh dear, did I hit something? My apologies,” Matt said softly, feigning innocence behind his blind condition.
The crowd’s attention snapped to the scene as more officers rushed in, eager to assert control.
The corrupt cop’s wariness grew, shame flickering across his face. He forced a crooked smile, glancing at the onlookers. He realized now that striking a nun and a blind pastor would be a public relations disaster in broad daylight.
Matthew can hear his heartbeat. The cop was bitter and guilty, as if he were paid to protect someone; that’s why he resorted to violence so quickly. Matt smiled beneath his skin after exposing the cop's abuse of his position.
“Tch, I’m fine,” the officer muttered to his colleagues, clutching his bruised hand and sounding defeated as he walked away. He wasn’t gonna admit a blind man bested him so easily in the most subtle way.
“If you say those men are just visiting the church and not associated with burglary, then let it be. Who am I to deny that? The house of the lord is always open, especially for the lost cause.” Matt said, keeping his gentle-pastor demeanor.
"Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away." He continued, reciting a verse.
“Let's go, we’re done here.” The cops took one last look at the blind man before leaving; they glared at him with disdain after embarrassing one of their own. They knew this was far from over.
-
Once the police finished their so-called investigation and left, Matt and the nun slipped quietly back into the sanctuary.
“Surely you don’t believe that, Pastor Matthew. Those thugs tried to rob the place. If it wasn’t for this masked man who showed up, they could have gotten much worse.” Sister Mary said, in panic in her voice.
“Huh, I should personally thank this masked man if he ever stops by again,” Matt said, unable to suppress a chuckle at the thought of thanking his own alter ego.
“Don’t worry. If necessary, my wife will handle the legal aspects of this case if those cops decide to harass this holy sanctuary.” Matt reassured the nun.
“Strange, isn’t it? The police missed the call during a robbery. In a city where they see and hear everything, it’s odd they weren’t the first to arrive,” Matt mused.
Matt stepped into the battered church, his footsteps echoing through the cavernous, wounded halls.
“Well, well, so this is where you’re hiding. Quite the show you put up there, it would be headline worthy if you knocked the teeth out of that smug cop’s face.” A man said, facing the altar with his hands behind his back.
Despite his not showing his face and his back turned, Matt recognized that voice, an old friend from the city.
“Enjoying the retirement, Ben?” Matt retorted.
“You mean the hush money the government gave me to keep quiet? Sure, it has its perks. The guilt and cold sweats at night are just a bonus knowing the innocent lives lost due to the kingpin's reign over this city”, the reporter said with a wry smile.
“I wish I could take it all back. I was foolish back then,” Ben released an exasperated sigh.
“Is that a confession? Should I absolve you of that? Lighten the burden you carry, old friend?” Matt said gently, his tone earnest.
“No, I think we’re past that, pastor. I can only move forward and deal with what I’ve done. That’s why I’m here.” There was a crack in Ben’s voice, showing he truly regretted not speaking up in the past.
The two caught up in the churchyard, swapping stories and laughter, recalling better days before Mayor Fisk turned the city upside down.
As their stories darkened, Ben leaned in, his tone shifting to something more grave.
“You know, there are so many injustices in this city, Matthew. The cops are as blind as you are to what's happening here in the streets. They only protect what serves their interests. I’ve seen it first hand,” The reporter sighed.
“Giant Owls, Corrupted cops brandishing their weapons at a defenseless nun, A Crimelord turned Mayor, Stiltman putting cats on trees for his amusement. The list goes on. Matt,” He continued.
“Wait, Ol’ Wilbur, is at it again? I thought he turned a new leaf and got a new job as a firefighter?” Matt shakes his head.
“No, I was joking about the last part, but you get the gist.” The detective reporter said, pausing for a brief moment, weighing the words he had to say next.
“The city is Mutating, Mr. Murdock. Maybe, instead of just preaching the good gospel, how about you put the fear of God in them? For old time's sake. Put on those menacing little ears, and help me fight crime together.” Ben Urich smirked.
"They're horns"
Elektra
2.2: The artist and the assassin.
Location: New york courtroom
“Due to the lack of evidence and failure to establish the element of the offense. The court finds Mr. Cooper —- not guilty. The court is dismissed.” The judge slammed his gavel and made their verdict.
Elektra’s defense team of two successfully defended their client against allegations of breaking and entering.
She and her client stood up, respecting the court’s decision. She felt proud of the outcome—another win for her law firm. Yet somehow, someway, something is not right.
Now that she thought about it, her client showed no remorse, no emotion—just a faint, unsettling smile that sent a chill down her spine.
Elektra’s instincts screamed that something was wrong after being dismissed. Witnesses murmured uneasily, and the plaintiff looked shattered, as if the verdict had crushed their world.
The cop flashed a sly, almost wicked smile, his brief glare carrying a subtle threat.
Elektra caught the look—her client seemed to be taunting everyone in the room.
Maybe she had made a grave mistake defending this man. Perhaps her skill blinded her to the truth. Her instincts screamed that justice had not been served.
-
Elektra slipped into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face in a desperate attempt to clear her mind.
Unknown to her surroundings, someone was there, waiting in the shadows for her. The cubicle door creaked open just a fraction—slow enough that most people wouldn’t notice. Her eyes shifted, catching the movement through the mirror before she turned.
SWWOOOSHHH...
Within that small gap, A dagger flew toward her. She heard the rush of air as it passed.
Elektra weaved and dodged it easily. She quickly picked up the knife from the floor, ready to throw it back, only to hesitate once the shadowy figure emerged from the stalls.
“I’m impressed. Your senses are sharp as ever. Are you sure you don’t want to rejoin us?” A slim Asian vixen in a black trench coat introduces herself. It was Aka, a member of the Hand.
“I think I’ll pass.” The former assassin glared at her, her stare cold and unwavering.
“You have ten seconds to tell me why you are here before I jam your own knife against your throat,” Elektra said, her voice filled with venom.
“Feisty, I don’t believe you’ll do such a thing, ever since you got married to that red-haired pastor. Your morals have shifted.” Aka retorted.
“Also, but believe it or not, I’m just the messenger. I have a proposition for you, or rather, the mayor. that I’m sure you’ll be interested in.”
“Doesn’t that egomaniac lard have enough lawyers covering up his ass till on his deathbed?” Elektra scoffs.
“I’m not asking for your legal services. I want your skills as a killer—a hit, if you will.”
Elektra listened in silence, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s all behind me. Find someone else,” Elektra instantly declined.
“Please. I don’t know what your blind, red-haired husband has told you about his religion, mercy, second chances, and all that Sunday school stuff. But you and I both know some people need to be stopped.”
“What do you mean?” Elektra asked.
“The man you just set free, Bastian Cooper, is a problem for Mayor Fisk’s peaceful New York. He’s not the perfect cop you think he is. He’s a serial killer based on our intel —a coyote in wolf’s clothing. Here, check his profile.” Aka tosses an envelope at her.
“Take out this rogue cop, and you’ll be doing everyone a favor. You shed your guilt, Fisk keeps his city in order. It’s a win-win.” The lady ninja smirked at Elektra.
The offer is tempting, the cause disturbingly close to her own interests.
She gave a small nod. For some reason, Elektra reconsidered. Maybe it was guilt over defending this man in the courtroom a few hours ago and letting him escape justice.
“We’ll be in touch.” Aka was already at the window, standing as she let herself fall backward, making her exit.
Elektra sighed and lingered on the photos of this serial killer’s profile. She is haunted by her past, living a double life as a lawyer by day and an assassin by night.
Maybe it was time to embrace her other job and hunt down the elusive murderer who kept slipping through justice’s cracks.
~
Freedom had never tasted sweeter for Bastian, with all charges against him dropped that day.
He can’t stop thinking about the one person who made it possible: her face, her smile, the way she weaves words in the courtroom, the way she persuades the heart of the jury. To him, Elektra Murdock was his savior, his deliverance.
Bastian slipped into his fortress-like high-rise, punching in the code and glancing both ways. He moved with the careful precision of a man with secrets.
Inside his apartment, a spacious cold storage stood waiting. He opens it and feels the freezer's cold embrace engulf his body.
Inside that frozen vault was his sickening collection, his obsession, his morbid art. This was his true self: the ripper of New York City.
He immediately dropped the whole NYPD act and succumbed to his urges. Bastian licked his chops as he caressed his fingers along the slabs of meat dangling on the hook and delved deeper into this room, savoring the texture of each piece of flesh of his victims.
Dahmer had nothing on this man as he looked over his gruesome collection of frozen human remains. Torsos, limbs, legs, fingers, even a severed head—he had it all. The butcher kept everything preserved to his liking.
Each piece was shaped to his whim, organs stitched together like clay, forming a sickening masterpiece only he could admire.
He lingered in his cold gallery of flesh before finally closing it off from the world. Bastian smiled wickedly, satisfied to behold his collection of corpses once more.
Bastian opened his police radio and listened to its feeds as background noise.
Within this moment, he had a flash of inspiration, the urge to create art in his own unique way.
The artist seized a kitchen knife and stabbed his palm, wincing as blood streamed from his hand like water. He didn’t mind the pain as he plunged the knife even more into his skin.
He stood before a blank canvas, picturing the woman who set him free. With his own blood, he painted her face, capturing every detail from memory.
Her name was etched into every corner of his twisted mind. The more he repeated it, the sweeter it sounded.
ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
ELEKTRA MURDOCK, ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
ELEKTRA MURDOCK, ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK,ELEKTRA MURDOCK
Muse’s obsession with the lawyer who freed him only deepened. It tormented him—not with desire, but with a twisted admiration.
For the grim serial killer artist, his delusions were crystal clear. In his mind, she was his Joan of Arc, and he, her Gilles de Rais.
It's time to return the favor of setting him free. He must have her in his collection.
Foggy and Karen
2.3 Big Apple, Rotten Apple.
Location: St. Patrick’s Cemetery
“Aren’t ninjas supposed to be invisible? How does the caretaker even spot them?” Karen wondered aloud to Foggy, her curiosity piqued as they wandered the winding path to the cemetery.
“He didn’t just spot one, he actually caught one. Well, technically, he’s blind, so ‘see’ isn’t the right word. Err- It’s complicated. You’ll get it when we meet him. He’ll explain everything.” Foggy replied, his words tumbling over each other.
The two reporters weaved past rows of weathered tombstones, finally arriving at a solitary mausoleum standing apart from the others.
The one engraved ‘In memory of ‘Battling’ Jack Murdock.’
Inside, an old man sat cross-legged at the center, encircled by a ring of flickering candles that cast long shadows on the stone floor.
“Hi there, excuse me. We’re the two reporters who requested your story.” Foggy timidly said, trying not to interrupt the man’s meditation.
Their introduction falls on deaf ears, met only with a long hum from the old man.
“I don’t think he can hear us,” Karen said to Foggy as she followed it up with a loud Hello at the old man.
“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Just finishing centering my Anima. Young people these days, always in a rush,” the old man finally grumbled, breaking his silence.
“Name’s Sticks. I look after this place.” The blind old man rose from his meditation in one fluid motion, then, with a sharp flick of his wrist and a slicing gesture, a sudden gust extinguished every candle at once.
“Whoa,” they breathed together, awe flickering in their eyes.
“Didn’t expect to meet Mr. Miyagi in the flesh,” Karen whispered, grinning as she nudged Foggy with a spark of mischief.
“Quiet,” Foggy muttered, shooting Karen a look for her untimely joke.
“So you got something for us? The news about the graverobbery this morning.” Foggy asked.
“Are you sure you’re not being followed?” The old man stepped in close, his wrinkled face inches from Foggy’s, searching for any hint of deception.
“Yeah, pretty sure we’re not followed,” Nelson gulps and immediately replies.
“Good. Come.” Sticks commanded. The reporters exchanged a glance, shrugged, and trailed after him, as if fate had already decided for them.
“So tell me, how long have you been working as a caretaker in this cemetery? What's your story?” Foggy asked, trying to start a conversation with the old man.
“Yer’ a curious one, aren’t you, and you talk a lot.” Sticks spits out something from his mouth.
“I’m a Japanese soldier veteran who came to New York. About 8 years ago, the pastor and the attorney from Hell’s Kitchen were kind enough to give me this job, guarding his old man,” answered the aging caretaker.
Soon, the trio arrived at another mausoleum. As Sticks unlocked the heavy door, the air filled with the thuds and guttural growls of something wild inside.
The door creaked open, revealing a wild figure in tattered red. It dropped to all fours and lunged with a snarl. It looked more like a beast than a man, with froth at its lips and heavy chains barely holding it back.
“Sweet baby Jesus, what is that?” Foggy gasped, clutching his chest as his heart hammered in his ribcage.
“One of the rabid ninjas who was unlucky enough to escape,” Sticks said, lighting a torch inside this tomb where he kept this dangerous captured ninja as a prisoner.
“This thing is nothing more than a mindless puppet. A servant of their countless undead horde, suffering a fate worse than death—forever bound to serve a ninja group called the Hand. I know this craft, an unholy experiment of their demonic resurrection.” He continued.
“I’m sorry, demonic, what now?” Karen said in disbelief.
“Here, I found this around the guy’s neck. Perhaps it's where the Hand has taken what you’re looking for: the missing body of Benjamin Poindexter.” The blind caretaker tossed a silver pendant at Foggy.
“Is this an old prison tag? It says property of R-ker isles.” Foggy stared at Karen, wide-eyed, as they unraveled the mystery of the notorious ancient ninja clan.
