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It wasn't often that Matt missed being able to see.
Well, maybe that wasn't exactly true. It was more that he just did his best to not think about it. It wasn't like he could change it. Besides, he could get around better than most people who shared his disability. He wasn't exactly grateful for his senses, but he had work to do. He couldn't let himself sink into a hole of "What ifs."
Right now, though, he really wished he could see. He was surrounded by heat and electricity with no clear source. The air pressure fluctuated wildly and the sound...He wasn't sure how to describe it. It was like the air itself had been ripped.
It was too much. He had no idea where he was, and in the end, he did something he almost never did.
He tripped.
He tripped, like an actor in a crappy comedy, right into the center of the heat and electricity and pressure and noise. Granted, he tripped while pushing a woman (who has shrieked in surprise and frozen in place) out of the way. He had no idea what he was pushing her away from, but being further away seemed preferable than getting closer.
Then he fell into the mess, hitting the ground hard. For a moment it was his entire world. He couldn't sense anything outside of this thing, or phenomenon, or whatever it was. If it turned out to be magic he was going to be pissed.
Then it was gone. The ripped air seemed to seal itself back up with a strange sucking noise, taking everything else with it. He was left on the hard concrete, cool night air wafting over him as the sounds of the city filtered in. And the smell, of course. It was stronger than before. He hadn't been in an alley before, right? Christ, he really hoped this wasn't magic.
He got up carefully, checking himself over for any injuries. He hadn't been in an alley before, but he definitely was now. If the smell hadn't clued him in, the furious scratching of frightened rats digging deeper into trash piles would have.
He tilted his head. A heartbeat, coming closer. Very, very quickly.
And it was...above him?
He focused in on the sound. A little fast, but steady. He heard the sounds of feet and hands hitting walls, jumping away before the sound could finish reverberating. He could hear slick and sticky material smacking against the buildings, the taut wire slicing through the air, then being ripped away as a new one stuck onto a different building. A very familiar orchestra for Matt.
Except for the humming. Usually Spider-Man didn't sound so...feminine.
"Uh, hey."
Matt tilted his head towards the noise. Definitely not Spider-Man. She had the same abilities, as far as he could tell. She even hung upside down in the same way, her webbing stretched tight as it held up her weight.
But Matt didn't recognize her voice at all.
"Hey," he risked responding. She was clearly young and hadn't attacked him on sight, so it seemed like a good bet. After all, he was completely lost. He could use the help.
She dropped to the ground. Matt couldn’t help but flinch a little at the amateur landing.
“That’s bad for your knees,” He said before he could stop himself.
“...What?”
“The way you landed, it puts the strain of hitting the ground on your knees. You should work on that if you don’t want severe joint problems in a few years.”
“Uh, thanks? I’m sorry, who are you? I came over here because I saw some weird green lights, and now there’s a dude in a weird devil outfit or something telling me to watch my knees. What the hell did I miss?”
“I didn’t see any green light.”
Her silent response was comical. It was inappropriate timing, considering Matt’s increasing suspicions that he wasn’t in his New York anymore. This was the kind of thing that happened to people like Dr. Strange, not him, but ‘strange green light’ didn’t do much for his hopes.
“Look,” he sighed, “this is going to sound strange, but I think I might need your help.”
***
Sometimes the world was too much for Matt Murdock.
Smells so intense he thought he’d choke, sounds so loud his head might burst, fabric that rubbed his skin like sandpaper, they all defined his world. He’d spent a lifetime blocking it out, sorting through the chaos until it started to make some sense. The world was never quiet, but he’d learned how to shut it out just enough to stay sane.
So how could he react when it shut him out? What did he do when he couldn’t sense a single thing outside of this room?
It happened the moment he realized who stood in front of him. There had been chaos before, the sounds of a brawl between spider woman and a dozen thugs. She held her own just fine, but still needed practice making sure the people she put down stayed down.
Matt wanted to help. He was going to help. Then this-he couldn’t call him a man, if half of what Gwen told him was true, that was far too nice a title for him. No, then this monster spoke, words hitting Matt like a winter gust, freezing him solid. The world narrowed in that moment, a sliver of existence becoming the entire universe.
“And who are you supposed to be?”
It was wrong, a recording played back that you insisted sounded nothing like you while everyone else laughed. A twisted joke too cruel to imagine any sane person playing.
The voice was cold and emotionless besides a layer of mockery dripped on top like oil. It couldn’t be the same, but-Christ, did Matt ever sound like that?
The creature held a cane much like his own, but the tone was wrong when it hit the ground. It wore a soft, well-made shirt that could be from Matt’s own closet but covered it with a suit cut so finely Matt knew he wouldn’t be able to afford it no matter how long he saved up. All of it familiar, all of it wrong.
The other person shifted as if they were going to move towards the door. Matt responded without a thought, angling his own body to cut off any exits.
“If you’re not going to answer, then I really don’t have time for you.” He lifted his cane, gripping it in both hands. Matt tightened his grip on his billy clubs, still silent.
Gwen had called the monster Murderdock. It didn’t take Matt long to understand why.
He lunged with inhuman speed, no movement wasted as he closed the distance between them. The slightest noise of smooth metal against metal, cutting air with a razor sharp edge, was the only warning Matt got. He twisted away, billy clubs raised to deflect, but it wasn’t enough. Too slow to fight this creature, all angles and edges and sharp movements. The blade sliced through a soft part in his armor and ripped his left arm open. A clean cut, at least. It hurt, and the blood seeping into his clothes and leaking over his suit was uncomfortable, but it was all manageable. He needed the arm as he jumped and twisted and rolled, desperate to avoid another hit, let alone get in one of his own.
Matt couldn’t match his speed, his strength, his raw viciousness. It took everything just to stay alive while his opponent’s heartbeat barely registered a change.
The Hand, Matt thought distantly as he fought to maneuver back to the center of the room, trying to avoid being cornered. That’s what this style was, quick, economic movements designed to kill with minimum effort.
Matt fought the nausea threatening to overtake him, and earned another slash across his legs for his efforts.
He could have been this. He could have been this killer who swaggered into battle with a sword in his cane and no hint of mercy or kindness or compassion. He could have been a pawn of The Hand with every ounce of empathy long since beaten out of him.
He was this.
A miscalculation threw Matt off as an attempted evasion backfired, sending him toppling to the ground, flat on his back.
Some people called him the Man Without Fear, but there was no other word for the coldness in his gut and the way his throat pulled tight. He would die on this dirty concrete floor, not even leaving a body behind for his friends to mourn. Killed by a devil in an impeccably tailored suit.
The first blow was easy to predict at least, and Matt met the blade with his clubs without problem. The next one, though, came down before the ringing of the first collision could even begin to fade. Matt struck up with his legs, desperate to put just a little space between them, but his counterpart dodged all too easily, nearly taking Matt’s foot off in the process. Matt rolled and his opponent follow, never letting up, never giving him a chance to even breathe.
I’m going to die, Matt thought, almost numbly. What would Foggy say if he knew Matt died from what basically amounted to an evil twin? An evil twin who didn’t even know who he fighting, no less.
Something shifted in the back of Matt’s mind. His opponent didn’t know he was fighting a blind man. Matt knew, though. Matt knew everything.
He blocked the next blow with only a single club this time, the other held just off to the side. The force sent pain ripping through his already injured arm. It was barely enough, with the blade already slipping, only a slight twist of the wrist away from sliding into Matt’s neck.
He didn’t give it a chance. Matt swung up with his other club with as much force as he could muster, bringing it down right on the middle of the blade.
Even knowing it was coming Matt found it hard not to flinch. The noise was hardly unbearable, but it was enough to hurt for a moment, especially for someone with ears as sensitive as his.
The same ears Murderdock had.
Murderdock flinched.
Matt moved his entire body at once, kicking out with both feet while simultaneously gripping the blade between his clubs and twisting. His feet made contact with solid mass, and the sword was unceremoniously ripped from its owner.
The movement was too wide, more about power than finesse, so the sword went flying in one direction while the man who had wielded it went the other way. Matt flipped back up to a standing position, clubs held tightly in each hand.
For the first time, Murderdock moved slowly, taking his time to get up with careful movements.
Good moment to attack or a trap?
No, he couldn't hesitate, there wasn't time for that. Matt pushed forward through the uncertainty and stinging pain of his wounds, bearing down as fast and hard as he could. His opponent was crouched, one hand touching the ground in a transitory position between sitting and standing.
Still, it wasn't enough. Murderdock’s hand snapped up, striking like a snake and stopping Matt in his tracks. Matt reacted instantly, pulling and twisting to force the grip open, but it was like prying open iron manacles.
His own momentum was turned against him, spinning him forward and wrenching his caught arm up behind his back. He lost his grip on his clubs, and they clattered to the ground while a small blade slid up by his neck, pressing into the thin, unarmored material there.
“I’m really starting to wish you'd answer my question.”
Matt wanted to gag. It was like slime in his ear. Instead, he thrust his free elbow backwards. Predictably, Murderdock stopped it, but the blade disappeared at the same time.
Matt smiled.
He reared back and slammed his head into his opponent. He could feel the nose collapse under the force, and hear the delicate bones crack, loud as a gunshot in his ears. Murderdock cried out, dropping his hold on Matt. A perfect moment, but with no time, so Matt ignored his clubs in favor of his fist as he spun around to strike.
Murderdock dodged, but not completely, taking a solid hit to the shoulder before moving out of range. For the first time he was on the defensive, and Matt took great joy in beating him back.
It was like fighting a wild animal, snarling and fast and always lunging for the throat. Everything stunk of sweat and blood and adrenaline. No longer a lethal dance like before, all finesse had been thrown out the window, degrading into a street brawl. A street brawl that happened to be between two martial arts experts. Neither gave the other a chance to go for their weapons again.
Matt finally was giving more than he got, but he couldn't avoid every hit, no matter how hard he tried. It was starting to wear on him. If this went for much longer it would become an endurance test. Who could keep it up? Who would slow down first, who would stumble?
As it turned out, it was Matt. One wrong step, one swing just a little too wide, and Murderdock slid into the gap. The small knife reappeared for a fraction of a second before slipping between Matt’s armor and into his side. He couldn't help but cry out in pain, pausing in momentary shock.
Murderdock paused as well, a slight hitch in his labored breathing a sign that he was about to speak again. Probably to gloat.
Matt punched him in the throat. Hard.
Murderdock went down like a dead weight, uselessly grasping at his throat as he choked and coughed and struggling to breathe.
Matt quickly backed up to retrieve his weapons, then approached slowly, ignoring the pain radiating from his side with each movement. Even standing over him, though, Murderdock didn't move, still collapsed as he fought for each ragged breath.
“That's why I don't gloat until I know I've won,” Matt said. Murderdock twitched at his voice. Did he recognize it, or was he just surprised?
“To answer your question...I'm Daredevil, and I'm the man you could have been.”
With that, Matt landed one last blow, sending Murderdock to the floor with a final, satisfying crack.