devil gonna follow me e'er I go
By all rights I should be sleeping. Confusion's given away to exhaustion by the time Peter's through explaining what Mr. Saverin wasn't equipped to, though even he has no real answers for where we are or why we're here. He's distracted as he paints the story of this place in broad, haphazard strokes. His expected jokes are forced. His responses are perfunctory. I cut him off when I realize it's a stalling tactic. That he doesn't want to confirm what I already suspect. That the loss of my powers isn't temporary.
My name is Matt Murdock. I was blinded by radiation. My remaining senses functioned with a superhuman sharpness that allowed me to experience the world in ways different than any other. But now that world is flat. Lifeless. Dark. I strain my ears for any sound beyond his voice, but I catch only snippets. People walking in the hall. Music blasting from another room. The clink and clatter of dishes from what I can only assume is some sort of kitchen. An assumption that's confirmed by the wafting smell of someone's brunch over the sharp tang of the air conditioning.
I rein my focus back to Peter. Were it not for the familiarity of his voice, I might not have recognized him at all. I'm so used to identifying him by his heartbeat (his is more distinctive than most -- constant with or without his mask) that its absence is almost more disorienting than anything else. Combined with the fact that the most unpopular man in New York City is apparently an elected official of a mysterious island in an unknown pocket dimension, and you can understand why I'd like to know if he's lying or not. (The evidence -- what little I have of it -- suggests he isn't. He mentioned clones, earlier. Versions of people we know from universes other than our own. I slip in a few questions only he'd know the answers to just to make sure that isn't the case here. He humors me, but his annoyance after the second question reads clear. I always told him he could've been a lawyer. I don't know why politician seems so far-fetched, but it does.)
Regardless, he offers me a place on his couch for the time being. Tells me not to worry about my housing situation, because he'll take care of it. When he remarks that I'm still sitting in my sodden jacket, he places my hand on his shoulder, and slowly leads me down a flight of steps to get a change of clothes, giving me far more instructions than I actually need. I've been blind for as long as we've known each other, but never like this. He doesn't know what to do with me. Even as I make a point of memorizing the route, the special treatment sets my nerves on edge. I'm not an invalid, I want to scream, but I bite my tongue, too tired to spark an unnecessary fight.
We're crouched down in front of what he informs me to be "a magical cardboard box that occasionally coughs up something you would be caught dead in," when, out of nowhere, he blurts out, "Listen, Matt, I just remembered-- I'm late for class."
"Class?"
"I teach."
"Of course you do," I say, unfazed. I've reached a saturation point of new information. He could tell me he's grown an extra set of arms, and I'm not sure I'd so much as blink. He managed to balance a teaching career with his vigilantism, I guess it can't too hard to strike something similar with the life of a politician. "Councilman, teacher... Sounds like you've done well for yourself here, Peter."
There's a long pause before he replies, "Maybe. But I would give... anything to be back in the city right now."
I don't have a chance to ask for clarification before he's retreating in the direction we came from, his steps quick and purposeful. He's joined by somebody else heading into the room instead of out, just audible over the steady rumble of the washers and dryers.
"Hey, hi, can you help out my pal down there? Thanks!" I hear him say in a rush, but I don't catch the other person's response, the loud buzzing of a finished load of laundry drowning every other noise. By the time it's run its course, Peter's long gone, leaving me alone with God knows who. My fingers curl around the edge of the so-called magic box, and I turn towards some rough estimation of the entrance.
"He's a little high strung," I note lightly, with a wry, weary smile.
Timed to shortly before noon on Monday morning. Please see these posts prior to tagging. Note that he is wet. Unless we've talked previously, this post is now CLOSED TO NEW TAGS.
My name is Matt Murdock. I was blinded by radiation. My remaining senses functioned with a superhuman sharpness that allowed me to experience the world in ways different than any other. But now that world is flat. Lifeless. Dark. I strain my ears for any sound beyond his voice, but I catch only snippets. People walking in the hall. Music blasting from another room. The clink and clatter of dishes from what I can only assume is some sort of kitchen. An assumption that's confirmed by the wafting smell of someone's brunch over the sharp tang of the air conditioning.
I rein my focus back to Peter. Were it not for the familiarity of his voice, I might not have recognized him at all. I'm so used to identifying him by his heartbeat (his is more distinctive than most -- constant with or without his mask) that its absence is almost more disorienting than anything else. Combined with the fact that the most unpopular man in New York City is apparently an elected official of a mysterious island in an unknown pocket dimension, and you can understand why I'd like to know if he's lying or not. (The evidence -- what little I have of it -- suggests he isn't. He mentioned clones, earlier. Versions of people we know from universes other than our own. I slip in a few questions only he'd know the answers to just to make sure that isn't the case here. He humors me, but his annoyance after the second question reads clear. I always told him he could've been a lawyer. I don't know why politician seems so far-fetched, but it does.)
Regardless, he offers me a place on his couch for the time being. Tells me not to worry about my housing situation, because he'll take care of it. When he remarks that I'm still sitting in my sodden jacket, he places my hand on his shoulder, and slowly leads me down a flight of steps to get a change of clothes, giving me far more instructions than I actually need. I've been blind for as long as we've known each other, but never like this. He doesn't know what to do with me. Even as I make a point of memorizing the route, the special treatment sets my nerves on edge. I'm not an invalid, I want to scream, but I bite my tongue, too tired to spark an unnecessary fight.
We're crouched down in front of what he informs me to be "a magical cardboard box that occasionally coughs up something you would be caught dead in," when, out of nowhere, he blurts out, "Listen, Matt, I just remembered-- I'm late for class."
"Class?"
"I teach."
"Of course you do," I say, unfazed. I've reached a saturation point of new information. He could tell me he's grown an extra set of arms, and I'm not sure I'd so much as blink. He managed to balance a teaching career with his vigilantism, I guess it can't too hard to strike something similar with the life of a politician. "Councilman, teacher... Sounds like you've done well for yourself here, Peter."
There's a long pause before he replies, "Maybe. But I would give... anything to be back in the city right now."
I don't have a chance to ask for clarification before he's retreating in the direction we came from, his steps quick and purposeful. He's joined by somebody else heading into the room instead of out, just audible over the steady rumble of the washers and dryers.
"Hey, hi, can you help out my pal down there? Thanks!" I hear him say in a rush, but I don't catch the other person's response, the loud buzzing of a finished load of laundry drowning every other noise. By the time it's run its course, Peter's long gone, leaving me alone with God knows who. My fingers curl around the edge of the so-called magic box, and I turn towards some rough estimation of the entrance.
"He's a little high strung," I note lightly, with a wry, weary smile.
Timed to shortly before noon on Monday morning. Please see these posts prior to tagging. Note that he is wet. Unless we've talked previously, this post is now CLOSED TO NEW TAGS.