[for Eduardo] The Devil Comes to Town

[hasnobullets]

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

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[hasnobullets]

Pocket universe. That's not the sort of terminology just anyone throws around. (Reed Richards, Stephen Strange, or Tony Stark? Sure. But those are all people who would know how to explain it. By this man's own admission, he's about a degree of separation away from being as clueless as I am.) There's no enemy of Daredevil who has this sort of power. If they did, they wouldn't have sent a messenger in their stead. A trick like this deserves a good gloat, and there's not a single bad guy out there who wouldn't take a moment out of their schedule to crow about their success. They all sign their work.

Which brings me back to my earlier theory that I've been drugged. With what, I don't know. (That's a recurring theme. Uncertainty. The ground beneath my feet feels solid enough, but it's not the ground I should be standing on.) Mysterio managed to fool my senses in the past, who's to say someone couldn't do it again? It could even be Mysterio. He wouldn't be the first lowlife to discover death's expiration date. Hell, it seems, has a revolving door.

It's about as hot as Hell right here, though. Sweat's starting to bead on my forehead. With my Daredevil costume on, I'm counting in at three layers of clothing, which was fine for fall in New York, even if it feels like I'm standing around in my own personal sauna, now. But the shirt I have underneath my jacket's short-sleeved, so I settle for taking off my hat, tucking it in the crook of my elbow to free up my hand, brushing back wet hair from my forehead. God only knows what I look like. It's been a trying night as is, and now I have this insanity to deal with. Only, if this guy's story is taken at face value, this sounds more like a ploy for the Fantastic Four, not me. I'm strictly street-level. (Does this place even have streets?)

"...you're right," I say after a very long beat, with a short, sharp nod. My incredulous tone hasn't gone anywhere. "That does sound crazy. Insane, even. I just stepped out of a church, and you're expecting me to believe I've been... What, exactly? Transported to another universe?" I cough out a laugh, a sudden thought occurring to me. "Is this some kind of joke?"

[pointzerothree]

"Believe me, I wish it were," Eduardo replies with a huff of a laugh that doesn't sound amused at all. His memories of the day he arrived here are strange: parts more vivid than he would like (mostly before the arrival itself), parts all blurred together, parts somewhere in between. He's fairly certain, though, that he asked the same thing, something about the words ringing a bell though he'd been high on adrenaline and brokenhearted at the time. Now, mere hours after waking up from two days spent (ostensibly) back home, he can begrudgingly acknowledge the benefits of being here, but he would still choose to return. There's a lot, in fact, that he'd like to believe is a joke; he'd take even Facebook being one if it meant he could go back to how things were. "That is... exactly what you're supposed to believe, though. I was in an office; someone else I know was in a parking lot. Whatever's responsible for this isn't exactly picky."

[hasnobullets]

"Whatever's responsible?"

The phrasing strikes me as peculiar. (It's not the only thing, but my focus is all over the place. Stick once told me that everyone used to be born with my heightened abilities. That my radar could be relearned. I try to let my other senses paint the picture I can't see, but finding some measure of calm to work with proves difficult when my mind's reeling from the implications of this man's words.)

"I don't understand. You... don't even know who brought us here?"

[pointzerothree]

"Not a clue," Eduardo confirms, shaking his head, though it's a gesture that he supposes is solely for his own benefit. "A lot of people talk about, you know, the island did it, like the place is sentient, but that's bullshit, if you ask me, I mean, it's an island." Somewhere, there's got to be some reasonable explanation; of that, he is entirely certain. They just don't know what it is, and he isn't sure they ever will.

[hasnobullets]

"An island you were transported to against your will for reasons unknown," I point out, playing devil's advocate for the sake of wrapping my own head around the notion. I've heard of stranger situations. I've been in stranger situations. But the loss of my senses throws a spanner in the works, and denial that this is even happening continues to make the most compelling argument.

"If not that, then what?"

[pointzerothree]

"No idea," Eduardo says, shrugging helplessly. "Really, your guess is as good as mine." What it says that that can be true after two and a half months here, he doesn't know and doesn't want to, but it isn't something he can lie about, either, especially not to someone who's only just arrived. Maybe it makes him ill-equipped to try to explain this, but he's never been able to walk away when needed. He's here now; no one else is. Remembering himself, he winces. "I'm Eduardo, by the way. Eduardo Saverin."

[hasnobullets]

Less than an hour ago, a man shot himself in the head right in front of me. It's not the first time that's happened. I pray it'll be the last. Point is, it's been a rough day. One that's followed a long and arduous series of rougher days. And now I'm expected to just accept the fact that my life's been overturned. Again. Because despite my deadened senses, it doesn't escape my notice that he's made no mention of how it is I'm meant to get back to New York. And given what little I know of this place -- and let's be clear, I know very little -- I can't imagine the journey home will be an easy one, if there's a journey to make at all.

"Matt Murdock," I say, distracted by my own thoughts. I remember to stick out my hand, eventually, though it's wet, still, from the rain. "I'm an attorney. Making wild guesses about the alleged sentience of an island I've only just been brought to is a little outside my wheelhouse."

[pointzerothree]

"I am - was - an Econ major," Eduardo offers as he takes Matt's hand to shake it, all warm professionalism, a tone of understanding in his voice. "So I know what you mean." He'd done a fair amount of science in school, but that had been physics mostly to further his interest in meteorology. To call this out of his league would be a massive understatement.

He thinks less about that, though, than he does the irony inherent in having met a lawyer a day after he'd actually needed one. It makes it a shame, really, that he couldn't pursue the same option here even if Mark were on the island. Just to make a point, he would do it. "It is... nice to meet you, Matt, despite the whole potentially sentient island thing."

[hasnobullets]

In spite of the assurance that we're in the same boat, I doubt he's half expecting to wake up in the back of a fan filled with federal agents any second. (Or is he? If I think I'm unconscious or drugged, that would make him a figment of my imagination. So he'd know what I know. Which isn't much. But we've covered that. I'm already turned around. Retreading old territory in the hopes it'll make more sense the second time around isn't helpful when all it's doing is leading me in circles. So I need to operate on the assumption that this really happening, with the caveat that maybe it's not. And if it is happening, I can think of a laundry list's worth of reasons for why someone would want to get me out of the way. What I can't figure out is who has the motive and the power to send me to a tropical island without warning, let alone strip me of my abilities in the process. It's like I've stepped into someone else's story.)

His hand feels solid enough in mine (he's wearing some sort of ring), but the whole situation calls to mind Plato's allegory of the cave. My senses are unreliable. Even so, I use to excuse of the handshake to tuck my cane under my arm right along with my hat, and cover his hand with both of mine. I ghost the shape of his ring, but that's only a distraction from the fact that I'm currently pressing two fingers to his radial artery. Compared to my usual method of listening, it's a crude way to figure out if he's lying, but it's preferable to the other alternative.

"What's this?"

[pointzerothree]

It isn't what Eduardo is expecting, but then, he supposes he can't blame the guy. If he were blind and suddenly displaced to a potentially sentient island and talking to a stranger, he might pick up on a little detail like that, too. Eyes wide, he glances down at where Matt's hands are around his, looking up again before he responds. "It's a, a class ring," he explains, finding himself feeling sheepish for it the moment after the words leave his mouth. "I was halfway through my senior year when I showed up here."

[hasnobullets]

There's an engraving. The ring's big enough that I don't need my senses to trace the with the very tip of my index finger, carefully spelling out each letter, even if it's just a bid for time. I'm not so interested in the ring, after all, as I am in the veracity of his story. His pulse is strong and steady under my touch, signs consistent with telling the truth. At the very least, he really was halfway through his senior year when he showed up here, or so he believes. I don't yet let go, wanting what passes for confirmation before I do. I'll need to keep him talking.

"Harvard?"

[pointzerothree]

"Jesus Christ," Eduardo says, letting out a short, surprised laugh. It's both disarming and impressive, a combination that reminds him vaguely of Mark, though the circumstances, for obvious reasons, don't compare in the slightest. (Mark, he tells himself, remembering what Olive said while sitting on the bed in his dorm, was only blind in the metaphorical sense, unable to see the lengths he would have gone to and how much he cared.) He glances up again, having looked down at the ring as if to see just how obvious it would be to feel. He doesn't think it very, but then, he's never had to read it by touch before. "Yeah, Harvard. You're good."

[hasnobullets]

"I'm literate," I reply with the barest of smiles. Reading an engraving is nothing special, but for others, it makes for a neat trick. A distraction. But there's no indication that he's saying anything save the truth, and I've run out of reason to keep holding his hand without rousing suspicion. Whatever else, he attended Harvard, and, at some point, showed up in a pocket universe. The same one I've found myself in. (If I'm here at all.) I let go of him.

"I did go to Columbia."

[pointzerothree]

"Columbia," Eduardo echoes, mouth pulling into a crooked grin, "nice." For him, it doesn't change the fact that to be able to read the ring like that is impressive. After having been told once that the average IQ of this place is probably somewhere around genius, he can't say that meeting someone else with an Ivy League background is too big a deal. With an exhale that isn't quite a laugh, he adds, joking, "I didn't know they taught classes in being able to feel out engravings there."

[hasnobullets]

"It was an elective," I offer with a shrug, tucking my hat into the inside pocket of my jacket to free up my arm. I'm not in the habit of offering up insights into my abilities to strangers, least of all when the media is still on my back. (Or when those abilities are apparently gone.) Not that the media's followed me here, I don't think. The feds who were tailing me certainly didn't. (It occurs to me only now that Mr. Saverin, here, could actually be a fed, but I dismiss the thought. I've been around enough agents to recognize one. Besides, it wouldn't jibe with the Harvard story, and that much, at least, is the truth.)

"You've left out a crucial piece of information."

[pointzerothree]

"You're wondering how to get back." The response takes a few seconds, Eduardo having to pause to work out what he could be referring to, and he winces when it finally comes to him. This is the worst news to have to break. At least he seems like he might take it better than Olive did, though it isn't as if he could fault her for getting so upset at the prospect. Worrying at his lower lip, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "That's, uh... That's kind of the catch. You, you can't."