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There’s a new drug on the street tearing apart Hell’s Kitchen. Evidently, it gives a one-of-kind high that always leaves the user itching, often literally, for more. Also, it’s cut with enough fentanyl that the overdose crisis has ramped into overdrive. Assault and petty crime has spiked to new levels and emergency services are depleted.
Worse, Hell’s Kitchen seems to have been the dealers’ guinea pig, and it’s now making its way to other boroughs outside of Manhattan. After weeks of punching his way up the crime food chain, Matt Murdock dons his red mask and suit to take down the warehouse packaging and shipping the drug to Brooklyn, Queens, and, as of last week, as far as Jersey.
It’s the early twilight hours, just before the sun peaks over the horizon, warming the streets and turning off the electrical hum of the streetlights. Hanging in the dark shadows of the building, Matt counts out four – no, five – heartbeats in the vicinity.
He uses the element of surprise to knock out the first two. The next ones are harder. One ends up passed out next to the metal table with a nasty concussion and a broken arm. Matt heard the skin rip when the bone poked through it. The fourth, he’s holding by the neck against a cinderblock wall.
“Who’s in charge?” Matt growls. He knows this operation isn’t being run by these dimwits.
“The boss ain’t here,” the man flails, his hand going behind his back.
Matt grabs the man’s wrist, twisting it until it snaps. The hidden gun clatters to the concrete floor. “Where is he?” He slams the man head against the wall on the last word and tightens his grip.
“I don’t know. Last I heard, he was looking for potential buyers!”
Not a lie. Definitely not a lie. But it didn’t make any sense. The drug is already being shipped to the big players in each area. And since when did the head honcho deal directly with selling?
Matt tightens his grip further. He can feel the man’s pulse beating wildly at the lack of air. He waits a minute until small blood vessels start popping, the man’s face pounding with blood. “The next words out of your mouth better be something useful.” He loosens his grip marginally.
The man takes a long desperate gasp. “Okay. Okay! We didn’t know! You can have him!”
Matt tightens his grip again and pauses. “…Have who?”
“Spider-Man!” the man croaks.
Matt thinks back to news of the small vigilante, swinging around Queens, taking down thieves and rapists. Definitely a step down from helping the Avengers stop the apocalypse less than two years ago. He hadn’t heard anything about the man recently though. Was he kicked out of the Avengers? Could he be behind all of this?
Matt leans in close. “Where?”
The air shifts ever so slightly as the man twitches his head to the left. Matt cocks his head to the side – there, the fifth heartbeat. “Thanks,” and, with a quick punch to the face, the man is out cold.
Matt silently pads his way towards the office in the large warehouse. He listens for a moment and then grabs the doorknob. When he opens the door, the scent of old blood hits Matt like a tidal wave.
There. There. Amidst the mildew, blood, piss, and a horrible wheezing sound, is the faint off-kilter heartbeat. The one he barely detected when he entered the warehouse.
Matt steps into the room and it’s a …kid. It’s a kid. Still an adolescent – no way out of his teens.
The kid is strung up with a long chain running from his wrists to the rafters in the ceiling. Clad in only his boxers, there is nothing to diminish the scents and sounds. The rusted metal from the chain and the over abundance of dried blood leaves an imprint of iron on everything else in the room.
Matt steps towards the kid. “Hey,” he says softly. He hears only wheezes in return. It’s quiet and muffled – one of the kid’s lungs is definitely punctured.
A cloth gag is wedged between the kid’s teeth. Matt reaches out to find the knot at the back of his head, but the moment his gloved hand makes contact, the kid – the child – gasps and wretches back. The wheezes pick up speed to an alarming rate.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Adrenaline is coming off the kid in waves. At least Matt thinks it’s adrenaline. There’s something about it that smells just a bit off.
The heartbeat, the blood, the adrenaline. Everything about this kid is off. Similar enough to everyone else that Matt wouldn’t do a double take on the street, but up close and personal, it still passes as human just with something else.
Matt reaches out again. To Matt’s surprise, the kid grabs the chains and manages to lift himself up to throw a double legged kick. It’s slow and sloppy. Matt has plenty of time to move out of the way. Even so, it just barely grazes the side of Matt’s torso and Matt can feel the superhuman power behind it.
“…You can have him!”
“Have who?”
“Spider-Man!”
Matt turns his head back to the kid, eyes wide with surprise. The kid is now fully hanging from his wrists, chin to his chest. The maneuver appears to have completely drained him. He is still conscious though. Matt has to give him credit for that.
Matt pauses to reconsider his course of action. Spider-Man’s a kid. A kid that got caught up trying to take down the wrong group of people. Matt takes a deep breath and tries to calm his stomach from the overwhelming scents swirling around him. Kid’s been here for three days, possibly four.
Heat is thrumming off the poor kid’s mutilated body, but it does nothing to stop his shivers. Matt reaches out one more time. Kid somehow seems to know before he makes contact because he violently shakes his head whenever Matt’s hand gets close. Matt grunts his displeasure. He needs to get the kid – Spider-Man – down, but he can’t while he’s still in fight or flight mode.
Matt looks over the kid again. At one-point, bloody, frothy drool had escaped the gag and slid down the boy’s chin.
Spider-Man has never worked with Daredevil. Matt isn’t even sure Spider-Man is aware of Daredevil’s existence. Between aliens, the Avengers, the blip, and whatever else the guy – kid – faced, crime lords and city bound vigilantes were probably insignificant. Regardless, Matt needs to get the kid out of here, and by the increasing sound of fluid in every breath, he doesn’t have time to coddle.
Sighing, Matt crouches down so he is lower than the kid’s eyeline.
“Hey, Spider-Man.” It sounds ridiculous saying it aloud. “Kid, you with me?” He touches the boy’s cheek. Again, the kid immediately flinches back. Matt places a gentle hand behind his head so he – hopefully – doesn’t move too far. “We’re on the same side.”
To his surprise, that actually seems to work. Kid’s breath stops mid wheeze. He stills and looks at Matt. “I’m going to get you down now. Nod if you understand.” Matt feels the shift in the air as the kid slowly nods.
Matt jumps up on one of the filing cabinets and makes quick work of the chain looped around the beam. He slowly lowers the kid to the floor and unravels the chain from his wrists. The sound of blood rushing from his purple and bruised fingers overpowers everything else for a moment. Matt gently massages the kid’s hands, feeling the blood pulse and muscles relax beneath his fingertips. “You’re okay, kid. Let’s get you out of here.”
The kid nods in response, wet coughs coming through the gag. Matt turns his attention towards the knot in the cloth. He takes off his gloves, so he could feel the turns in the knot, and quickly removes it from the kid’s mouth.
Hearing the kid work the strain out of his jaw, Matt turns his attention to the rest of the small body in front of him. Heat continues to pour off the boy, likely dehydration and fighting infections. The internal bleeding and blood loss are definitely a concern. Not to mention the punctured lung. Lacerations cover his legs and back, but those are healing quickly – inhumanly quickly – to Matt’s relief. He’s heard of others having a healing factor. He wonders if it's similar to Luke Cage’s abilities.
“Mis…”
Matt glances up at the voice. It’s so frail, he barely hears it over the rushing blood and jittering heartbeat.
The kid has his head leaned back against the wall. Blood is pulsing around one eye, likely swollen closed. “Mister Stark.” The relief in his voice is palpable.
Ah, yes, the infamous Iron Man. The two were seen working together on occasion. Matt makes a small noise of displeasure. He won’t feed into the delusion, but he can’t bring himself to break it. “C’mon. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
Kid rolls his head back and forth. “No. No. …no.” He immediately raises his hands to protect himself when Matt reaches over to pick him up. “No hospital.”
“Okay. Okay. Fine, kid, no hospital.”
Matt swears he can feel a shift in the room when all of the muscles in the kid’s body relax at the words. He reaches over and gently picks the boy up.
Just as Matt is getting the kid upright, the kid mumbles, “Thanks Mis…ter St…” and passes out.
Well, shit. This just got a lot more complicated.
-*-*-
Peter’s going to die. …Everyone’s going to die. But Peter’s death is going to be slow and painful. He can no longer feel his fingers. His muscles in his arms and legs burn with strain. Despite the occasional stale sandwiches and sips of water, his stomach has given up desiring food and has been clenching and throbbing its displeasure for the past day.
And absolutely nobody is coming for him.
Nobody knows where he is because nobody knows who he is.
Peter slides the balls of his feet against the floor, ignoring the puddle of his own, chilled urine, trying for the umpteenth time to alleviate the pressure in his hands.
God, he’s a mess. He’s going to die a disgusting, filthy mess.
Peter tries to ignore his sixth sense – “…your Peter Tingle” – closing his eyes as it screams against the back of his neck. Over the past three days its been running up and down and his spine, blaring about the ever present danger and just refusing to shut up. He breathes in to try to swallow his pain but every breath feels like a dull knife sliding in and out of his chest – that’s probably the one that’s going to do him in. He wishes he could place a bet on it. The odds would be in his favor.
Peter lets his head hang and roll to the side. At least his awareness is fading. Maybe he can fade away and not have to think about the cold floor or the dark room anymore.
That would be nice.
Yeah… that would be real nice.
Suddenly, a gloved hand touches the back of his neck. Peter’s eyes fly open and he wretches away from the unknown hand.
They’re back – shit, they are already back. God, weren’t they just here? Peter’s arms scream in protest louder than usual as he gathers his feet beneath him. He must’ve passed out. He glances towards the wall but he’s too light headed and his eye’s too swollen to read the clock. Not to mention how dark the room still is.
They’ve never come in the dark before.
He feels the presence of the glove return to his neck. Without thought, he reaches up and kicks with all of his might. The kick doesn’t land, and Peter is left swinging from his arms before he can get his feet beneath him again.
Shit. This is bad. This is really bad.
Peter hangs his head as spots dance around in his vision. Light from the other room is filtering in through the blinds. He blinks the spots away and tries to focus on the silhouette in front of him. Even though he can’t see it, the hand keeps coming back. He shakes his head away from it, moving almost without volition.
Finally, the offending hand stops. Peter closes his eyes and scrapes through a few breaths.
“Hey, Spider-Man. …Kid, you with me?””
Warm leather touches his cheek. He flinches away only to have a hand behind him block the movement. Please, go away. Darkness is clouding his vision, and he feels like he may actually get a chance to die in somewhat relative peace.
“We’re on the same side.”
“Underoos! …Same side! Guess who?”
Peter’s heart flutters. For the first time in days, his sixth sense calms to a gentle hum. He lifts his head, trying to focus on the man in front of him. His right eye is useless and everything is blurry, but the streams of light hit the side of the man’s head, highlighting the red mask.
“I’m going to get you down now. Nod if you understand.”
Peter stares uncomprehendingly but nods. The voice is off, but the tone is right.
Maybe he died. Maybe when he drifted away it was for the last time. Now he can leave this horrible room with these terrible people and go back to where it is warm and welcoming and feel loved. He thinks of all the people possibly waiting for him on the other side of the door. His heart thrums with their smiles.
“You’re okay, kid. Let’s get you out of here.”
Oh, he’s on the floor now. Pain rushes back to his extremities as his blood finally makes its way back to his deprived arms and fingers.
Oh God. It hurts.
Still alive then. He has a hard time believing the afterlife would involve this much bodily pain. That’s okay though. Everything’s okay now. Peter looks at the man kneeled down beside him. “Mis…” it barely comes out. Not even audible. His voice is red and raw and destroyed. But the man still looks up. “Mister Stark.”
The man is still for a moment then threads his arm behind Peter’s back. ““C’mon. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
No…no. Hospitals have people and questions, and maybe he’s not dead but Mr. Stark sure is. “No hospital.”
“Okay. Okay. Fine, kid, no hospital.”
Peter feels himself get lifted up. Thanks, Mr. Stark.
And finally. Finally, his sixth sense is silent. He lets the darkness overtake him.
He’s safe.
-*-*-
C’mon, kid…
…stay with me.
Matt! What the hell?
…whatever you need, Claire.
…doesn’t wake…
…still need a hospital…
You got this, kid.
-*-*-
Matt notices the change in breathing as the kid slowly regains consciousness.
Thank you, Lord.
“Hey there, it’s okay.” He consoles as the kid’s eyes flutter.
“Mister…”
Matt frowns, not certain if he can continue to pretend to be the dead hero much longer. But then the kid’s eyes narrow and something even more surprising happens.
“…Mis…ter Murdock?”
What?
Matt scoots his chair closer, mouth open to ask any number of questions, but he’s cut off when the boy promptly loses consciousness.
….What??
-*-*-
Peter’s eyes flutter open to a blurry image of a middle-aged man with dark hair and unkempt scruff.
“Mister...”
His vision clears. No, it’s not him. He’s gone.
He closes his eyes to the image of the dark silhouette with the red mask. It must have been someone else. He takes a breath and feels a sharp stab in his right lung. God, it feels like he’s breathing through fire. His eyes roll in the back of his head for a moment.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.”
When Peter opens his eyes again, the man has moved closer. Everything is still dark around the edges, but Peter recognizes the familiar face. He opens his mouth to greet him but swiftly clicks it shut. Mr. Murdock doesn’t know him. Nobody knows him. He’s adrift in the world. His only anchor are the people he saves. And even they don’t know him.
Which then leads to the question…
“How am I here?” He turns his head to look at Mr. Murdock, only to see his red sunglasses and remember the man is blind. It provides a small relief, that he can close his eyes, ignore the thrumming pain in his chest, and not be considered rude.
Mr. Murdock clears his throat. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed awake for this conversation.”
Peter opens his eyes again, “Yes…yes. Sorry, of course.” He swallows against the lump in his throat. “How-“
“I’m going to ask the questions first.” Mr. Murdock’s voice is harsher than he remembers. But the man still gently taps his fingers around the nightstand until he finds the glass of water and hands it to Peter.
Peter accepts it gratefully. “Thanks.”
“How do you know my name?”
Peter almost sputters out the water. “I-I…don’t.”
Mr. Murdock frowns at that. “You may not remember. You said it earlier. How do you know my name?”
“I know you from the news. …You’ve done things on the news…right?” He hopes the uncertainty in his voice isn't a dead giveaway.
Mr. Murdock pauses for a moment with his head slightly tilted. “Minus the fact you are a terrible liar, I can tell when most people are lying. It makes me a really good lawyer.”
I’m a really good lawyer.
Peter can still picture the brick clutched in Mr. Murdock’s hand. We believe Mysterio. At the time, everything felt horrible, like the world was against him. He was stuck in an impossible pit of judgement and all he did was drag the people he loved down there with him.
…But he was still in his apartment with May. May was there. May had hired Mr. Murdock. Inexplicably, Peter starts to chuckle. God, it must have been someone else’s life it feels so long ago.
-*-*-
The boy is laughing. Matt narrows his eyes. Despite all the other injuries, there’s no sign of a concussion. While the lacerations have healed, he must still be in an overwhelming amount of pain. His breath still hitches on every inhale and wheezes on every exhale.
Laughing must be torture.
Mid chuckle, the kid places his hands on either side of him. “Well, this has been real. Thank you for your help. Thank the other guy too, please. I should go.”
Matt fights the urge to roll his eyes. There is absolutely no way this kid is going anywhere for at least another day. Seeing this lack of self-preservation from the other side must be karma. Before the kid can move any further, Matt places a hand on his shoulder, and forces him back down.
“…Ow.” He has the gall to pout.
Matt sets his jaw. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
Matt raises an eyebrow, visible over the red lens.
“…almost,” the kid concedes.
Matt sits on the side of the bed, hand still on the kid’s shoulder. “You’ve been missing for four…going on five days now and there’s been no missing person’s report. Any reason why?” He can hear, can feel the kid’s heartrate instantly increase to almost concerning levels.
“…I really should go.”
Matt lets go of the shoulder, but his body is still blocking the kid from easily leaving the bed. “You’re scared. Why?”
He shakes his head. “No. No, I’m not.” Lie. “I… I… please, just let me go.”
Matt sighs and wraps his hands around the top of his cane. “Okay, just tell me who to call.”
“What?”
“You’re not walking out of here. Just tell me who to call to come get you.”
The kid rubs both of his hands down his face and then leaves them there. His heart is still fluttering with anxiety and every muscle is tense. “Please don’t make me say it.”
The words are muffled behind the hands, but Matt still easily hears them. He cocks his head in response.
The kid lets out a deep breath, his lungs trembling with the force of it. Matt can feel the agony pouring off of him, but the kid doesn’t make a sound nor move his hands from his face. After a moment, he mutters, “No one. There’s no one to call.” Matt smells the salt from the tears behind the trembling hands.
Matt thinks back to his first few years of college, before he met Foggy. He could have just as easily been in the same situation. In over his head, desperate for help, but no one to call. “Okay, well,” he reaches into his wallet and pulls out his business card. “Now you have someone.”
The kid shifts his fingers to peak through them and hesitantly takes the card. With a small sniff, he mutters, “Thanks.”
Matt hums and looks away. “You going to tell me how you know my name now?”
The kid fiddles with the card in his lap. “…I can’t.”
Not a lie. Interesting. Matt keeps his eyes trained on the corner of the ceiling. “Are you in trouble?”
“I was… now I’m not. I solved it.”
Matt can hear the bit of pride in his voice at that. He nods his approval. “Is anyone else?”
The kid hunches his shoulders. “Not that I know of.” The pride is gone without a trace.
Matt looks down towards the kid again. “Well, you know my name. Do I get to know yours?” Despite how true it is, he refuses to think of the child as Spider-Man. There are enough child soldiers in the world. There must be a way to covertly help this one without risking either of their souls.
There’s a long pause, but Matt’s willing to wait.
“Peter. It’s Peter.”
Matt holds out his hand, just a little off center, as always, to not give himself away. Peter takes his hand gently in his own and shakes it.
“Nice to meet you, Peter.”
“Yeah, you too, Mr. Murdock.”
Matt can sense the smile on Peter’s face. He returns it easily. “Matt’s just fine.”