[for Eduardo] The Devil Comes to Town
From my sodden jacket, I retrieve my billy club. Running my fingers along the familiar aluminum, I briefly fumble with the mechanism that converts a weapon into a blind man's cane -- something harmless. The motions are instinctive, though, and I find the switch quickly enough. I've spent most of the last year denying my life as Daredevil to anyone who would listen (and more than a few who wouldn't), but now it would seem my favorite lie has a grain of truth.
My name is Matt Murdock. I was blinded by radiation. My remaining senses function with superhuman sharpness... Or they did up until a few seconds ago, when the rain slicked streets of Hell's Kitchen gave away to a world as unfamiliar as it was sudden. Hence the cane. Generally speaking, it's just a prop. I don't need it to get around, but it sells a story. My story. That the whole notion of a blind defense attorney moonlighting as a vigilante is an absurd hoax cooked up by the tabloids. It isn't, but you'll never hear me say it. I just told a room full of people why there's a guy dressed like the devil running around at night, and not once did I utter the words, 'I am Daredevil.'
'Skeevy, shyster lawyer $%#@!,' Luke would call it. Maybe he's right, but it keeps me out of jail. And as long as I'm out of jail, I can keep trying to build something in place of Wilson Fisk that we can actually in live in. Well. That was the plan, at least. Crucial to that plan was being in New York. And wherever I am now... It isn't New York.
The downpour's stopped. Wet, unforgiving pavement is replaced with the bone dry scrape of dead wood. The temperature's jumped a good twenty degrees. The heavy, cloying smell of humidity assaults my nose and coats my mouth. It's like breathing soup instead of air, but it's nothing compared to how disorienting it should be. I strain my ears to catch the sound of heartbeats I already know won't be there. Not only do I doubt that whatever's spirited me away would have brought the feds who've been tailing me along for the ride, but even if it did, I wouldn't be able to hear them anyway. Because something's hit mute on my senses. All I hear is the twittering of birdsong. The whoosh of wind blowing through trees. The distant, rhythmic crashing of water. The buzzing of insects. The creaking beneath my feet as I take a few steps forward to get my bearings, tapping my cane against the ground to get an idea of what I'm working with -- wooden planks, apparently. (A boardwalk? I'm outside, obviously, and alone. That much is clear. Not much else is. The darkness lacks its usual dimension.)
My own heart pounds in my ears as a surge of adrenaline puts my every nerve on edge, but I don't let myself succumb to panic. I've been at this long enough to know there's an explanation waiting for me somewhere, provided I keep my head until I find it. And so, in spite of the overwhelming uncertainty that serves nothing but to clog my senses further, I keep putting one foot ahead of the other. It's the only thing I know how to do.
My name is Matt Murdock. I was blinded by radiation. My remaining senses function with superhuman sharpness... Or they did up until a few seconds ago, when the rain slicked streets of Hell's Kitchen gave away to a world as unfamiliar as it was sudden. Hence the cane. Generally speaking, it's just a prop. I don't need it to get around, but it sells a story. My story. That the whole notion of a blind defense attorney moonlighting as a vigilante is an absurd hoax cooked up by the tabloids. It isn't, but you'll never hear me say it. I just told a room full of people why there's a guy dressed like the devil running around at night, and not once did I utter the words, 'I am Daredevil.'
'Skeevy, shyster lawyer $%#@!,' Luke would call it. Maybe he's right, but it keeps me out of jail. And as long as I'm out of jail, I can keep trying to build something in place of Wilson Fisk that we can actually in live in. Well. That was the plan, at least. Crucial to that plan was being in New York. And wherever I am now... It isn't New York.
The downpour's stopped. Wet, unforgiving pavement is replaced with the bone dry scrape of dead wood. The temperature's jumped a good twenty degrees. The heavy, cloying smell of humidity assaults my nose and coats my mouth. It's like breathing soup instead of air, but it's nothing compared to how disorienting it should be. I strain my ears to catch the sound of heartbeats I already know won't be there. Not only do I doubt that whatever's spirited me away would have brought the feds who've been tailing me along for the ride, but even if it did, I wouldn't be able to hear them anyway. Because something's hit mute on my senses. All I hear is the twittering of birdsong. The whoosh of wind blowing through trees. The distant, rhythmic crashing of water. The buzzing of insects. The creaking beneath my feet as I take a few steps forward to get my bearings, tapping my cane against the ground to get an idea of what I'm working with -- wooden planks, apparently. (A boardwalk? I'm outside, obviously, and alone. That much is clear. Not much else is. The darkness lacks its usual dimension.)
My own heart pounds in my ears as a surge of adrenaline puts my every nerve on edge, but I don't let myself succumb to panic. I've been at this long enough to know there's an explanation waiting for me somewhere, provided I keep my head until I find it. And so, in spite of the overwhelming uncertainty that serves nothing but to clog my senses further, I keep putting one foot ahead of the other. It's the only thing I know how to do.