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Chapter Text

Matt was embarrassed. He was only eleven and hasn't ever been so embarrassed in his stubby life. He brought, made, a gift, a token of appreciation, for Stick. Matt was meant to come to the basement and give it to him and Stick was meant to accept it and say Matt was a good boy and give him a break from the training, but Matt realised he fucked up, some time, then. It was a bad idea, Stick was there, and Matt was stuck. 

The bracelet was crumpled in his bruised left hand.

"What do you got there, in your hands, Matty?"

He crumpled it further, "Nothing."

Stick's heart was as steady as ever when he laughed. It's creepy. It's supposed to fluctuate.

"So you think I'm stupid." Stick's right hand said, grabbing Matt's own little arm, feeling the bracelet, "Aw. Matty made me a.. trash bracelet but was too ashamed to go through with actually giving it to me. Jesus Christ--"

"You don't have to be a jackass about it," Matt said, feeling brave, "It's just a bracelet. Don't be.. it's just a bracelet, are you really going to make a big thing of a bracelet? Nick taught me. It's fine."

Stick laughed some more. He must have be in a good mood, "Never talk to me like that, kid, and never play that shit again. I'm not your dad. You're a soldier and I'm your trainer. That's it. Throw that shit away, we're starting knives."

Matt exhaled deeply.

**

A few months later, on a cold medieval New York afternoon, Matt's in the narrow, echoed streets of lower Midtown. It smells like garlic, soy sauce, and the extremely wealthy. Matt doesn't know the place well but it sure as hell smells better than the Kitchen. The nuns say Stick's not allowed to train him anymore, so he has to take a cab to places. Matt assumes they're just continuing kitchen knives today.

The cab drivers- it's not a cab, really, it's Stick's Special Associates' car- are always different but they all smell the same, rot and really nice perfume.

Stick's standing outside. The building he's standing outside of is a restaurant with offices over. It's different. Stick normally takes him places under construction or trap-houses.

"Where are we?" Matt says as he steps out the car. 

"You know where we are."

"You know I don't."

Stick sighs, "You're in Koreatown, kid, you're meeting someone today."

"That wasn't.. who?" Matt says, walking with Stick into the building.

It's loud and, God, expensive-sounding in there. It's Matt's just-out-of-touch fantasy. What he wants is to get out of the orphanage and live like one of these Midtown pricks. K-town. Whatever.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Shut up."

"I'll shut up if you tell me," Matt tries.

"No, you'll just shut up." Bad try.

They walk to an elevator. From the elevator to the seventh floor. 

The seventh floor's immediately hard to breathe in. It's the fragrance of New York times twenty, so unbearably different from the pleasant smells 6 floors down. Matt coughs through Stick's saying of a secret-password. Yes, Matt thinks, it's finally happening. If he can stay breathing the whole time it'd be a feat for the books. After being buzzed in they move a big room with many people in it- 25.

"What's with the smell? Is this your secret headquarters? Your secret warehouse? Are these your secret people?"

"Not mine, kid," Stick says, disappointing Matt. If Stick's some nobody-schmuck, what's the point? They walk to a corner with a person around Matt's age standing there.

"Ellie, meet Matt. Matty, meet Ellie."

Matt smiles, Ellie doesn't. 

"It's Elektra," she says pointedly. Is Matt the only one with a normal name around here? "Don't call me 'Ellie'."

Elektra smells and sounds like a rich girl, nice shampoo and new clothes with a British accent. Matt thinks all Europeans must rich, because of course they are. It make's Matt nervous, the proximity to wealth. 

"Um," Matt hesitates, "okay. I'm Matt."

"How old are you?" she races, just after Matt finishes his introduction.

"Twelve."

She opens her mouth, "Me too."

Just before Matt smiles, Stick goes: "Enough bonding. You two are enemies now. In the ring, we're sparring."

Matt grins wider.

*

They spar. Matt really likes Elektra 'cause she's kickass and rich and cool but Elektra doesn't seem to feel the same way. Stick makes them spar: so they spar. They spar, they spar, they spar.

People crowd the room. They fight in a boxing ring which makes Matt feel like his dad, now more than ever. With clarity he understands why he died doing it. Matt feels good. Elektra fights like Stick but more ruthless, surprisingly. It's nice. She doesn't talk during it and Matt feels good. He's getting used to the smell.

First round, there's a searing sound before they fight. Matt wins. HA! 

Second round, the same sound, and Elektra wins. Matt feels bad. She probably just got used to Matt's fighting 'cause it's practically a carbon copy of Stick's. 

When Matt's fighting his breath he hears Stick exchanging ringside words to Elektra. He feels worse. He hears, 

"You're doing great, Ellie, just focus. You'll win the next one."

-what he always wanted to hear. 

The next round and the round after that Elektra wins. After that Matt wins. 

It ends up 6:4, Elektra. Not bad? It feels bad. He feels ashamed like he gave Stick two bracelets. Truth be known, Matt really thought he'd win. He wins fights with normal people all the time. It's almost like he's being punished for something, like God himself personally chose this moment in his life to humble him.

6:4 wasn't the end of it. The crowd dissipated and Stick said, 'wear this,' a pair of headphones, and so Matt loyally did what he was told. Elektra won. 

Matt was thinking, Stick's really an asshole, huh? till Elektra put on a scarf over her eyes. He won that time. Stick's heart stayed even.

"That was good," Elektra says, making Matt jump slightly, "you're good. I'm surprised."

Matt nods, "You're better. You still put up a fight, blind."

"You're the one that's blind, though."

Matt tilts his head in disagreement, crossing his arms. He's warm to the touch despite sitting on cold tile. The nuns will be overjoyed to see the bruises on his face.

It's been a long day, the sun's setting and Matt's exhausted. He's been tired a lot lately, too tired for a boy with no obligations. Elektra sits next to him.

There's a bird in the window adjacent to them. A cardinal.

So he's tired. That much, and he's hungry like you wouldn't believe. He keeps thinking about Doritos, or Red Vines, or burgers, food that the nuns and Stick wouldn't want him eating. Stick hates the food Matt eats, always smelling his breath and shaking his head. 

Matt doesn't notice Elektra left until Stick comes up to him. 

"Hey. Matt."

"Yeah?"

"Say 'yes'. Stop saying yeah."

"Yes?"

"Don't try to befriend Ellie," he says, "it's not what soldiers do."

"Soldiers can have friends," Matt protests.

Stick shakes his head, "Not us, kid. Not you, not good soldiers. Our war is different. The Chaste's war is different. Friends can be used against you."

Not you. Not good soldiers. Matt supposes it's close enough. Chaste.

Matt rubs his eye socket, "..'kay."

"Don't."

"Fine."

He hardly listens to Stick, anyway.

***

String is from Iowa. She teaches Matt all the non-fighting stuff, like Chaste history and the Hand is our enemy and your Japanese pronunciation is terrible, never really reaching anything interesting. Once she taught Matt how to lie believably, that was kind of cool, but it was a lot of practice.

In the strange office-like headquarters, String's talking to Matt about some guy in the Hand who's trying to live forever. Matt's bored.

"--then he hid in the mountains of the Caucasus, only to come out when war strikes. Anyway. Playtime's over, Matt. Do you know what a passive voice is?"

"That was supposed to be playtime?"

"Do you know what a passive voice is?"

Matt says the only thing he remembers from the story to avoid verb conjugation, "How can a person live forever? We're dust to dust."

"The substance," she says, "We've been over this, and I don't want to hear about your Catholicism, what I say is real information from the present day, relayed to you. I'm your teacher. Whatever an ancient book said is not your teacher, I am your teacher. Sit up straight."

Matt's offended but he does what he's told, "The Chaste is an ancient organisation, is it not teaching me? You can't just say the substance like I know what you're talking about."

"Yes I can," she sighs, "you know this. I told you. The fossils of the dragon? Matthew, this is not a game, I'm preparing you for war. You're not a little boy anymore. And no, I am your teacher, the Chaste is your obligation."

"The dragon," he repeats incredulously.

"Where were you, the night I told you? Were you listening to the cartoons outside? Matt."

"I was just beaten up for, like, three hours directly before it!"

"That's not an excuse. You listen to what I say."

This is all starting to sound like both Stick and the nuns at the same time. Sister Theresa, after lecturing Matt about the virtues of cleaning the church; Stick, after lecturing Matt about the virtues of listening for the tibia's little pop before a kick. 

Matt's so bored. He's starting to miss Stick's lectures. 

"I'm sorry," he says, irreverently.

"You're just like--" she's getting annoyed, "The dragon's fossil. Don't you wonder why there are ancient drawings and folklore of dragons in every culture? The Hand found their fossils and used what was in it because they wanted immortality," she says, like Matt's stupid for questioning it.

"But they can still die?" Matt asks.

"Yes, they can be revitalised, but they can die. They die a lot. If you weren't here, Matthew, you'd be there. Don't you think this is the better place to be?"

It makes sense to him, because of his powers, the other side would take him and make him go against his faith and fight much harder. String said that they have a figurehead, one person, who they worship as a their greatest weapon. Matt was smart enough not to call it a cult to String's face. Where the Hand is a cult, the Chaste is merely an obligation.

He's better off with the Chaste.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "I don't want to be revived," he says, knowing he's meant to be mortal.

String seems pleased, nodding, her hair echoing the movement, "Good. Do you understand now?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah? Is that what you say?"

"Yes?" he tries. 

"You're not getting out of verb conjugation. A passive tense is.."

Matt's so bored.

****

The tiles on 32nd and 5th are freezing and apathetic. Matt's an expert on these tiles, may as well get a Master's degree on tile-ology. They're cleaned with bleach and Tilex but there's still a distinctive grime coating everything. He still lays on top of it with his bare back.

Matt has to lay on them for an hour till they warm to his body temperature. They don't allow beds or cots on this floor, despite the fact there's always someone trying to sleep, here. Stick says he doesn't even need a bed at all, but Matt's back hurts like hell after all the training. It was hardly even training! Stick basically just beat him with a bat and said he was slow. Matt's not even exhausted. He wants to be, idly.

String locked him in a closet. 

Matt traces a phantom point in the tile. At one point, gum was dropped, someone tried to pick it up but the saliva that once stuck to the gum dried on the floor. This place is a shithole. An hour ago, he dug the three dots into the floor with the points of his sunglasses, spelling an M in braille. 

An M for hope and eventual victory. An M that says you will get through this, no matter the bodily fluids you smell.

He's here because of String.

The point is, String said, all mid-westernly, that when punished to a certain extent, Matt will listen to her. Stupid point. Stupid Matt, for trying to challenge String. Name stinks. God. He has homework. 

He hears the door open by lotioned hands and a key. 

It's Elektra.

"Hi, Matty."

"'lektra?"

"No, it's Santa Claus. Who else would it be? Use your, I don't know. Your senses."

Matt sits up, notices Elektra's not wearing clothes fit to fight, "How'd you--"

"It doesn't matter. Let's go."

Matt blinks once, twice. He's conflicted, doesn't want to be punished some more but he doesn't want to be punished any more. Matt's smart, he supposes, and when smart people see an opportunity to hang out with a girl, they take it. He takes his bag and gets up by way of Elektra's hand.

*

It's windy outside. The air smells like: what's it smell like? 

"Victory!" Matt exclaims. Elektra laughs.

"Come on." Elektra walks and Matt timidly holds on to her arm. Matt feels so grown up going out with what might be a friend. The nuns don't even know. And they seem to know everything, like they have secret powers, too.

"Why'd you come save me?" Matt asks.

She shrugs, "String is cruel and I was bored. New York can be fun outside that ghetto-ass building, I would know, I am a New Yorker."

Matt's amazed. That building is the opposite of ghetto, it's fancy.

"Ghetto-ass building," Matt echoes. 

"You sound so American."

"I'm a New Yorker, you know, we're in America," he says, maturely, "you said you are? With that accent?"

"Quiet," she said, all posh-like.

*

Matt expected fifth avenue or maybe even Lexington and Elektra's dad's credit card. Shoplifting, maybe? Instead, Elektra impressionistically pulled his hand through the subway turnstiles, avoiding the police, in a fantastical action sequence. It was thrilling if confusing. Matt expects something different, as he walks up the disgusting New York subway stairs up to the Upper East Side.

The Upper East smells like if Clinton was washed and then doused in coke, car grease, and coffee-breath. It's pleasant and wealthy.

She takes him to what she says is the most beautiful part of Manhattan, 95th street. She says the townhouses are gorgeous. He wouldn't know but he lets himself get drifted away, naively but not entirely stupidly.

Races down crowded brownstones are only as fun as they can be for a blind kid. Elektra says one of these houses is hers.

She's lying, "Not really mine, per se, but my father's business associates," she says, with more confidence in her voice. She ties her hair.

"So you lied?"

"Shut up. Come on, let me show you a trick."

The trick was throwing a rock at the window and then pulling Matt's head down like she'd heard a gunshot. They're robbing a house. Weird for a rich girl, Matt thinks, but he doesn't want to disappoint her. 

Elektra whispers, ghostly, "You'd tell me if anyone came, right?"

He says, face on the roots of some poor gardener's tulips, "Yeah."

Elektra seems to smile excitedly and drags him up, over the hedges, into the brownstone. She has the foresight to make him take his shoes off before crossing the boundary into the house. The place smells like dust and hands and the leather cover of books, old books. This is the biggest place Matt has ever stepped into.

"It really is my father's associate's home," she points out, "he doesn't live here. He lives in California."

"Okay. What now?"

"Ah. You need clothes."

"There are clothes here?" he asks, unaware of anything about the Gatsby type of rich a person would have to be to live here. The only frame of reference he has is Home alone and an orphanage kid's made up stories.

Elektra creeps up the stairs, "Don't be silly," she stops in her tracks, "are there alarm systems in here?"

"Yeah," he says, feeling stupid he didn't mention it, "let me just-" 

Matt sneaks like his teacher, Ice, taught him. Knees bent, don't hold your breath. The alarm system can be turned off, familiarly, on that wall, there, opposite to Matt. There aren't any cameras, he notes. He doesn't even know what he's doing, he doesn't even know if he likes it.

The alarms are turned off. Elektra is radiating with happiness. 

"What I'd do for your powers," she sighs, leading Matt into rooms upon rooms, knowing not to touch anything with her hands. 

"Go blind?" he suggests. 

She hums, "Not so much."

They make it to what was once a boys room. It smells like it, sheets and some clothes. Most scents smell factory-new.

With the sleeves of her jacket, she opens drawers and closet doors. Matt sits on the boy's made bed, "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

"Um. I don't know," he says stupidly.

She scoffs. "You need a coat."

A rich girl, instead of buying a jacket, goes through the trouble of breaking and entering, all for Matt. He's not sure whether to feel flattered or vulgarised. Confused is the word written on his forehead.

"You shouldn't steal."

"What, did the nuns say that? Do you still seriously believe in that church bullshit?" she says, absent-mindedly looking through the guy's closet like it's the half-off bin at the Goodwill.

"..No." he tries.

She turns her head to him, smiling slightly, "Ha. You totally do. Matt!" she starts laughing, "dude, listen, okay, it's fine. Listen. This is fine, we're getting you some clothes 'cause you're an unfortunate soul and because it's fun. Okay?"

"We don't need to have fun," he scowls.

"What do you think we were doing this whole time, genius? It's fine. Soldiers can have fun," Elektra declares, throwing a denim jacket he catches. 

Soldiers can have fun.

"Okay. Fine. How'd you know I'm-"

"I know everything."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Matt has been fighting for the Chaste for nine months today. He walks through the Diamond district.

Asshole wealthy men and women get in his way. Matt tries to dodge people and dogs and the fallen leaves on the way but he trips, agitating the bruise on his calf. He stabbed the boy 9 months ago. The fights since, he's learned it's really not that awful to stab someone or to be stabbed. Well. Yeah, it hurts bad, but it ends the fight. It's intestinal and immense and sweaty, but it ends the fight.

He's only been stabbed three times after his first fight. It's really not that awful. He's been beat in ways more painful. 

Scars suck, but most things suck; the best part of it is the after. Stick (mostly) and Elektra (always) are there in the after. He acts a martyr, all pious and concerning, until Stick yells at him to get off his fucking cross. He takes pills.

Matt and Elektra end up having matching tattoos and matching scars, he says, but she disagrees, says they look different, while changing the dressing for him. She's been distant lately, quiet, he says. She says it's 'cause she has finals. Matt's had finals before but he hasn't-- whatever.

She's still there when he gets stabbed. She even gets him candy. 

It kind of made Matt want to cry. The air smelled like the truck that blinded him and the dawn after his first fight.

Getting injured after fights made him feel weirdly close to Stick. He even seemed worried once. Matt felt like Elektra, Stick being nice to him. It was great and made him, ugh, miss Dad, boo-hoo.

He gets to 32nd and 5th, Salt gives him a katana. Not unusual, Stick just taught him katana technique. Salt says it's an early gift, prior to the fight; as opposed to the usual small things given in lieu of a money reward. It's sharp, deadly: he's practiced. Lethal and non-lethal.

(He doesn't know it yet, but with every punch he changed. Elektra knew it, Stick knew it, every God damn nun at the orphanage knew it. Without one doubt, he's changed. Almost unrecognizable from the little boy his father knew not 4 years prior. Matt's so comfortable with it, almost high on it, that boy fights like hell.)

He doesn't remember when he entered the fight room. 

The kid- Matt calls all his opponents Eddie now, after an asshole in English class- has no weapon but seems taller and tenser. 

The sound goes, and, like dogs, 
they fight.

Eddie doesn't lunge at him immediately, Matt moves first, then Eddie leaps, trying to get the katana. 

There are punches, Matt's got something of a signature move now, he uses it, a high powered fist to the jaw, various attempts at securing the katana, he doesn't. 

Eddie must think he won't use it, 'cause they're basically kickboxing. Annoyingly, he keeps kicking at the same spot on Matt's ribcage, making a bruise blossom painfully. 

Most Eddies Matt fights don't speak but this one does. He's Japanese, he fights like Matt. 

It hurts like hell, he punches hold his breath, makes him hiss and go nauseous. Matt powers through.

The hard part is this:
He's pushed to the ground, if it was Eddie's doing, Matt doesn't know, but he's on the ground and the katana by his side pushes into his calf, his bad calf. 

Matty feels the pain like a bomb. He rolls over, grabbing the katana. His own skin begs him to stop.

Pain, from his head, his skull, moving down his body, concentrating on his leg. Matt could be in hell. He's burning up, his ears, his feet. He's always run warm but burnt isn't the same as lukewarm.

He's pushed again, prying hands strive for the handle of the katana but never gets it. 

Matt Murdock's still on his knees, fourteen and on his knees, like he's praying, he hears his dad's voice and gets up. 

He gets up, God, he feels like shit, feels like a sucker. 

He's being punched instead of being poked at for the katana.

Matt decides he doesn't like it anymore. The decision is made.

With a battered body, he,
swings the katana.

Like Stick taught him, he murdered, decapitated Eddie, the Japanese fighter. The room is quiet, extraordinarily silent. Matt's on the floor. He could be dead, could be in Hell already, but he's breathing. He could have been dead by now. It could have been Stick's fault and he would be taken away and Matt would have been the pivot changing his life, but he's breathing, still.

Matt's dad isn't there. It's Stick, by his side again.

He didn't mean it, he's, fuck, he didn't mean it, he fucked up eternally. What happened today will become the pivot of his life, what he will look back on, and realise it fucked everything up. 

It happened despite his grievances. 

*

Matt needs a Valium, or something. A Xanax.

*

Salt takes the katana away. Stick doesn't even let Matt repair himself.

*

If Matt could see his reflection, he sure would be horrified. The nuns let him stay home from school, not worried enough to find him another therapist but just worried enough to start doing something.

**

With an empty stomach, Matt sits in his room at the St. Agnes's. Matt had a roommate but he's out with a foster family. The roommate was cool, never asked about the bruises or the tattoo he spotted. The one before that had a lot of questions. He's been with the Chaste, what, three years, now? He tolerated that much in three years? 

Headache. It's been a day since he committed homicide. That was Friday, centuries ago. He sunk to the bottom of the Earth in two days' time. Shit, he's only fucking fourteen, he should be awkward with girls, not killing people. It's not even like he comes from shit stock, either; sure, he's a blind orphan from New York who, frankly, never once acquainted himself with a non-violent person, but he still had a god damned choice! 

Did he? Matt doesn't even know anymore. 

The staccato of Sister Maggie's shoes reminds him to put a shirt on. 

She opens the door, the creak makes them both cringe, "Matthew. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

She hesitates, breathing in, then out, rapidly, "I've been--" she abandons the sentence, "Go down and watch the kids, would you? Just until the volunteers come. It would help with your reputation."

"My reputation?" Matt says, coy, like he doesn't know what she's talking about.

The volunteers. Good Samaritans spending time with orphaned children to say that they did. It pisses Matt off. Why don't older orphans get things around here? At Saint Nick's, a Brooklyn orphanage, the older kids get books and decorations, nice things, things Stick would despise. The older orphans don't get things because it's just unfashionable. It's not cute anymore, they're just scum on the streets of New York.

"Your reputation," she repeats. Matt doesn't want to play this game.

"Maybe next time."

"You say that too often, Matt. There never is a next time with you. What happened? You were such a bright child, full of curiosity. So sweet. You had the record for most Hail Marys just two years ago. That was you, once. But now you're missing mass, you're skipping your duties here, and when I talk to you.." she sighs, "you still sound like that kid. Oh, look," 

She touches Matt's head, the cut he forgot was there smarts.

"Steri-strips on a fourteen year old. How did this happen, Matt? Was it that blind man? What did he do to you?"

Matt stays very carefully quiet. He's panicking in that head of his. He would cry but the blind man beat it out of him. Matt didn't realise the nuns paid any attention to him. 

"Matthew," she sighs, resigned, she almost sounds like Elektra. 

"Do you still pray?"

Matt's offended, but it's a just question. He only prays when he needs it, "Yeah?" 

He didn't mean to sound so offended, to snap at the nun, but he did. Sister Maggie blinks.

"Alright. I'm sorry for doubting you."

At Matt's silence, they sit. She smells like the matronly hands of the Catholic Church and the children downstairs. She's by the door when Matt says:

"Why do you care, sister?"

"I care because--" she stops herself, scoffs, "-because I hate to see a good kid convince himself otherwise. Come to mass next week."

*

He goes. He confesses he broke and entered, only once, Father, but I feel so guilty about it, and Sister Maggie and Father Lantom are happy with him. Matt senses God isn't, though.

They'd know it wasn't only once, if they could see the cash under Matt's bed.

There's only so much uncertainty one can take. Is Matt a Catholic? Yes, unequivocally. He broke the fifth commandment and put in it's place the fifth amendment. The fifth, along with the fourth and seventh commandments. He can be forgiven, sure, anyone can be forgiven, but he doesn't feel deserving. That Eddie might've not been a good person and he most likely wasn't a Christian, but he could have been. He could have had the chance to go to heaven if he didn't, and Matt took that away. 

*

He stops going to K-town for two weeks.

The weeks are spent going to school, pissing off his teachers, getting to his room and sitting in bed. He's unhappy. He's unhappy as he could be, in a familiar yet lonely beehive. The buzz is almost gone, in the background, but the hexagonal shapes are different and stubborn.

What he doesn't mean is to leave forever. Impossible, he knows, he just needs a break. 

Two weeks worth of nothing, as it turns out.

*

In one of Elektra's many treks to Hell's Kitchen, she makes it to the orphanage, for the first time! Only then, Matt recalls he forgot to talk to her the whole while. She's angry as ever. With the nuns and children in her audience, she hisses at him in words only he understands. 

The type of person he is, Matt gives in, of course he does. In a small, okay, sure.

*
It's Matt and Elektra again, sparring in the ring like they used to. Matt feels great, athletic.

She feigns a kick, which Matt predicts, punches, another prediction, but then; in a real ninja move, she flips and brings Matt down with her. Matt's laughing again for the first time in a while.

They're laughing in the ring together, in the big room, unoccupied and free. While Matt's still clutching his stomach, Elektra starts dancing (more like running) in a circle around Matt. She offers her hand in a frenzy. He takes it.

Their hands are joined and they're suddenly dancing without music, together. She tries her best to sing, 

"I want somethin' eh-else..

"To get me through this semi-charmed kinda life-"

And it's horrible and off-key, but they have the energy and the warmth in the room is so strong it doesn't matter.

"Baby, baby, I want something else," he mumbles the next line, laughing with her, "doo do do dooo."

They dance together and Matt feels fine.

*

He takes a cab to 32nd and 5th, despite himself.

***

It's too easy to fall into rhythms, to get used to things. That's what habit is. Matt's habits are violent. 

Just like Elektra's. 

The seventh floor is populated by them two together more often than not, these days. The energy's transformed. Stick, still as stern as ever, starts letting them be as tied-together as they are. Matt jokes, knowing Stick can hear it, that Stick finally pulled the Stick out his ass. He got yelled at, but the mere fact he could say it, is evidence enough. Matt and Elektra can joke with each other, now, while doing homework or sparring or fighting on the tiles.

It feels good. He was sick of pretending to be blind at the orphanage.

It has a new criminal edge to it, a more mature air occupies Matt's mind. He's finally grown, he killed someone, felt the bottom, even if it only visited him very briefly.

People notice. Salt stops playfully hitting his neck every time he comes in. The kids, the younger ones, mostly trained by Ice, pay more attention to him. Stick, though it may not be favourable, stares him down the best a blind man could do to another. Even the nuns notice, they stopped pestering him about his messy room.

Elektra stays the same, thankfully. 

When they fight together, a team, against whoever Stick says, they win. It's gymnastic and glorious. 

Formal fights are held almost 3 times a week, now. Elektra named it the fight room. They mostly use blunt weapons and fancy Japanese blades. After the fights, Stick takes them to a room and talks all about what they did wrong. The list is shortening.

Matt takes the subway to the K-town.

On Monday, April 17th, 1999, Stick said Matt was to spar with an older Chaste operative with Elektra. Practice. Simple, yeah?

Simple things never exist in Matt's life, though, because Elektra's heart is beating faster than expected, and the operative seems nervous and twitchy. They're not doing coke or molly together, are they? What's the deal?

Matt turns to Stick, knowing Stick knows he noticed their behaviour. 

"Wrap your hands, kid, you're going in with fists."

They'd been training with hard to pronounce knives for so long that Matt almost forgot the meaning of the word. Matt likes fists, he'd rather it than anything else. He tries not to be excited about it. 

In the room next to the fight room, Matt does what he's told. 

The Parliament smoking woman is back. She smiles at them, says, while chewing cinnamon gum, "Aw, look at you guys! You two've grown," and leaves. 

Elektra goes, "You know her?" 

-she has a skill at pretending to be normal. It's almost perfected, but she has a tell: speaking very monotonously. Matt hears it and hears her heart rate and the grubbing of her cuticles against her nail as she tries not to fidget. 

Matt nods anyway, "My first fight. She said, 'Christ, child!' and sent me out."

Elektra snorts, taking Matt's hand to get up. 

There's a familiar air in the room. Matt knew, then, that something would happen because it reminds him less of being beat by Stick and more of (decapitating that Eddie, Matt can't even think about it). The operative, his name is Key, they're fighting Key, stands on the other side of the room, brimming with anger. His hands are also wrapped. 

There are a lot of people watching from beyond the glass. Kids, adults, elders.

The sound goes- Is it a Pavlovian yet?-and Matt dances to the rhythm. 

Eddie, uh, Key is skilled. A Muay Thai expert. The fight is had, standing. It's fast, fists and kicks left and right.

Key jump kicks a lot. It's slightly hazy with the kicks, Matt has to snap to keep the time. 

Matt uses aerobic manoeuvres, Elektra uses brute force and whatever serves her. It's a strange affair, the two beating an older man. Key's lagging, slow to react. Is this a test?

Elektra and Matt are winning.

It has to be. He's not a bad fighter.

Matt punches him square in the jaw, something so barbaric compared to the refined styles they were swaying to. He hits the floor. 

Elektra takes this opportunity to move into a wrestling position. Elektra's not one to wrestle with her slim frame, but she's winning the fight either way. Matt stands with his hands on his hips.

"Stop," Key says. 

Elektra doesn't. When an elder tells you to do something, around here, you do it. "'lektra?"

"My name's not, 'lektra, you know," she replies, so casually, like this is standard procedure. Matt was about to snark her back when he figured it out. This is due procedure, they've given Elektra the order. She's tightening her grip on Key's neck, Matt hears his airflow constrict.

Matt knows he's right when Key says, struggling against Elektra's elbow, "Fucking children. This isn't," a gasp of breath, "-a life to have. Ask Stick-- go ask Stick if it still.. itches," and he passes out.

As Elektra leaves a dying man to rest, Matt's wide-eyed and silent. 

Seeing Matt's alarmed face, she says, "I take you've figured it out. Would you be a darling and find my Ōdachi?"

"No." Matt says, barely containing his frustration. A man died, someone who seemingly just wanted to get out of the Chaste. Matt hears Stick's heart beat travel with one silver blade. He says, "This isn't-- you didn't have to-"

It is just like Stick to enter the way he does, like a stale crow, "Yes she did, boy, she did what she's been told. What did you do? Get upset? Stand like a damn child? He was a rat, kid. We would have been busted in a week if Ellie didn't deal with it. You want to cry about it?"

"Fuck off." 

Elektra laughs a little.

"It's not funny. You should have been used to this a long time ago. Get used to it now, don't waste your time," he says, leaving the blade leaning against the wall. 

Matt very swiftly leaves the room, following Stick weaving through the halls of the floor.

"What, still got more to say?"

"Why couldn't you have just.. shot him? Given him a mercy kill? Why was I involved?"

"We thought you would actually do something. A mercy kill devalues what he did to us, Matt, to the Chaste. He had to see the new generation's better than him. Everyone did. You're going to freak out about that?"

Matt understands.

"This.." Matt sighs, "this shit is nothing to me. I want a Valium."

"Oh, boy, you really are something. You know what an oxymoron, is, Matty? I convince you to take one pill, once, after you got stabbed, and now you're begging for a fix? Are you going to beg me for drugs every time someone dies around here? I'll tell you this, and you should really fucking listen for once in your miserable life, that's not how things work."

Matt sighs, nods, tries not to think of the smell of blood wafting through the air, "Yeah."

"Oh, yeah, okay, Matthew," - what the fuck is he lecturing him for?- "listen to this, then. You can't keep fucking whining and feeling all the time in this building. I hear you, I can hear what you're thinking, Matty, it's pathetic. Don't you remember all that I taught you? Don't befriend Ellie, be a man, don't say yeah, and you didn't listen to me. I have two kids I'm training, two! They're both stupid pieces of shit. You two never listen to me. That's going to change, you understand me?"

Matt's just so confused.

"Yes."

"Talk to Salt about the Valium. This is the last time, Matty."

*

Elektra's showering in the other room while Matt tries to sleep on the tile. He lost his shirt somewhere. The floors are kind of refreshing on his boiling skin. Matt should be thinking existentially about the dead body, his real name was Toru, the dead body rotting, carried by the Chaste's laborers. He's tired about it.

A kid in the next building over's watching Tom and Jerry. 

Matt remembers Tom and Jerry. Brown and Gray animals, quality television. He can't really tell what's happening, but Matt's having fun anyway. 

Tom's losing in their war, Matt assumes. The kid's giggling. 

"Matty," Stick says, ha, who else? "Take."

It's a sack, Stick throws it at him and Matt catches it, "Money and a knife?"

"You ask me, Ellie did all the work, she should get it, but," he shrugs, "not my decision."

"Poor you. How much is it?"

"Ah," he gesticulates, "somethin'. I don't give a fuck, neither should you. When Ellie gets out of the shower tell her about the money. Listen to me!"

"Eh," Matt shrugs. Stick uncharacteristically stays upright in front of him. 

"Can I help you?"

"How old are you, Matt?"

"Is this going to be another lecture?"

"Shut up."

"I'm fourteen." 

Stick hums, "You're going to high school?"

"I'm already in high school."

"Enjoy it now, kid. It's all downhill from there," he says, then finally leaves.

Matt needs this money. He's still wearing a jacket he stole at twelve years old. It's so cold in New York, the homeless guy on his block's thinking about getting his shit together. Matt's excited to be on the payroll. This is how they get you, it's undeniably affective. He needs a new coat.

*

At least he's not the Persian, right?

*

Elektra counted 50 dollars. He went to the Goodwill with Elektra and bought himself what Elektra called a very stylish overcoat and a slightly expensive braille book, (books, technically) on Thurgood Marshall. The rest was spent on food and coffee.

*

The rooftops of Hell's Kitchen are white. November snow is rare, so Matt and Elektra decide to go out and have some fun, as normal kids their age do. 

Matt's wearing the coat for the first time. It stinks and he's cold.

"Matthew! Matt, Matt, Matt. Look," she says, then, BOOM! Hits a car in traffic with a snowball.

Elektra's smile is wide, "Did you hear that?"

"I heard that," he says, making a snowball, like he did with Dad, all those years ago.

"Patience, wait," she says, "I think- Ha! Okay, now."

Matt's confused but he does it anyway. Fuck, he missed. Elektra laughs and laughs. 

"It's not funny," he grumbles.

"It really is," Elektra says, another bullseye. It's the same car, the person inside the car is freaking the fuck out, it's so funny. He's cursing entire bloodlines.

Matt laughs a little, "If only you could hear the guy in the car, holy shit."

Elektra seems to grin, "Shut up. If only you could aim."

"Hey!" Matt hits her with a snowball.

*

Matt got a new roommate at the orphanage. A fifteen year old named Lucas. He was kicked out of St. Nick's, Matt heard, which is ironic because of how sensitive he is. So emotional. It makes him feel like Stick, but Lucas is a lot akin to a younger Matt, if he talked like a Beastie boy. 

Lucas only asked about the bruises and the scars once, when Matt was bandaging a popped stitch on his arm. They had two beds on opposite sides of the room. He's a light sleeper which is unfortunate, the orphanage is so fucking loud. The nuns like to wake up and drink together and the doors would creak so loud, a normal person could hear it from across the block.

"Aye, Matteo," Lucas calls him Matteo, "who the fuck knifed you, man?"

"My blind ninja-sensei."

"Yo.. dead-ass? I believe you."

This startles a laugh out of Matt, "Yeah?"

"You're always saying mad wild shit, man. Sounds like my dad before he passed, God rest his soul."

"God rest his soul," Matt mutters, "What wild shit?"

"I don't know. Like when I was complaining about the mopping and you told me to shut the fuck up and do what I'm told?" he starts cackling as quietly as he can, Matt's still wrapping his arm, "That shit got me cracked the fuck up. I was mad pissed at you but now, man, that shit is crazy. You're a nice guy, how the fuck'd you learn to talk like that? You watched Taxi Driver too much?"

Matt snorts, "Do I look like someone who could watch?"

"Shit, my bad."

Matt gestures, "Yeah, whatever. I, um, had a blind teacher-"

"A guy taught you how to be blind?"

"Yeah," he laughs, "he's the one who got me talking this way. "

"Sounds like a dick."

"He is, but being nice isn't always important, Luke."

"But didn't, ah, Proverbs tell us to be nice? 'Man who is nice benefits himself, but a cruel man hurts himself'.. something like that?" Lucas said, sitting up in his bed. Matt didn't expect him to be able to quote Proverbs off the top of his head.

"Fuck nice, Lucas, you can't do anything, being nice."

"Yo, that's whack, man, nah. God told us to be nice, Matteo. Gotta be nice."

He's sweet, despite obviously being a kid who grew up on the streets of New York, he's naïve. Matt had this conversation with Stick when he was.. eleven? That pre-32nd and 5th training sounds fake to him now.

"You wanna be nice or do you wanna be.. affective?"

Lucas sighs, "I hate this whack-ass city, man, we got a blind kid talkin' like this with a fuckin' cut on his arm, we're in a fuckin' orphanage, like.. shit sounds like Gotham. Nah, I wanna be nice, 'cause you don't never know what's happening with someone, you know? If I'm depressed and shit, I'd want someone to be kind to me, even if it's business. You ever seen the Godfather?"

Matt nods.

"How, uh, Godfather was mad chivalrous to everyone? People should be like that."

"He was shot. Chivalry didn't work for him."

"Yeah, but that's just 'cause he's a mob boss, not 'cause he's nice."

"I'd argue being a mob boss and killing people isn't very nice," Matt said ironically.

Lucas seems to sober at that, saying, "Man."

*

Chapter Text

"Matthew, you remember Roscoe Sweeney, the son of a bitch who killed your father?"

Elektra says, as Matt walks through the door into the 7th floor. She seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a punch to the face after hours of sword-training. The question surprises him.

"Don't tell me you did anything stupid?" he asks, walking to the coatroom.

"What I did was actually quite smart, but you wouldn't know from smart, would you?"

"Fuck off," he quips.

"I found him," Elektra says, hanging Matt's coat, "He's here. I got him for you. Happy birthday," she spoke, the opulent quality of her voice travelling through the air and into his ear, sounding like deception. Matt blinks, opens his mouth, closes it. 

Opens it again, "Thanks. What?"

"I got him for you. Salt thought it was sweet of me."

"Uh. Okay. Why?"

She tilts her head at him, "Because it's your birthday? Come on, I put him in a room, here," she said, grabbing his arm, dragging him into a room, then another, as if he really was a blind man. Heartbeat, one, two, one, two; Matt recognises it from a hazy, euphoric, pre-k-town era. Someone from when Dad was alive. He stops her from walking any further. They're in front of a door.

"Matt- don't tell me.."

"I don't want to."

"What?"

"I- I, I just--"

"Matthew." 

"I can't do this."

"You're acting like a little boy."

"I can't do.. shit to him, I can't, it's too.."

"It's too what?"

"It's too personal."

Elektra seems to smile wide and laugh, delighted, "It's too personal?"

"It's too personal!"

"You'd be alright if it was my father's killer?"

"That's right."

She laughs again, "You are one sick puppy, Matthew. You don't have to beat him. You don't, okay? Just kill him, I'll find you your katana, I know you like katanas! Just kill him, for me, for your father's death, for my efforts." 

"You're pleading for me to kill a man."

"Yes?"

He sighs, "What does Stick think?"

"Stick thinks I'm too kind to you."

A deep breath, one, two. Lord, I ask you for strength. Matt's going to hell for sure. His guts and his chest vibrate, he's giddy.

"Alright."

"There we go."

*

"Jesus Christ," the man said, the stench of rum hot in his mouth, "when I get out of this.. oh, I'll remember your faces."

He smells like shit, gastric juices and thyme, just as Matt remembers. It makes him mad, how he's still there, still able to have the privilege to be tied to a chair and be killed ceremoniously. Dad wasn't. Elektra stands, acting predatorily girlish, next to Sweeney.

She chuckles, turning to Matt. Sweeney continues, "Every single bit of them. I will hunt you!"

"Aw. When you get out?" she says, coyly holding a katana to his throat. She's having fun. This can be fun. Soldiers can have fun.

"Why's he tied up?" Matt asks, seemingly triggering something prosperous in Sweeney's memory, something not long apart from now, as if God insisted they cross paths. Matt's mad. He's angry, upset, he's been missing Dad for so long. It doesn't come without vertigo.

"Oh. Ha. 's that little Matty Murdock? You're battlin' Jack's boy! Oh, you amateur."

"Fuck you, amateur?" Elektra says, taking offense on behalf of Matt, who, truth be known, is offended. Matt takes the katana handed to him. 

The blade smells like chrome and bleach.

(Matt will return to this memory later in life, later, when he's in a mood, drinking cheap beer in college; when he's with Elektra, on a mission going off tracks; after a party, in his room, and he's feeling like shit: he will return here with no strong emotion felt: his first true kill. )

He breathes like Ice taught him. He's so mad. 

"You're dead. Nothin' but a couple 'a kids actin' like they're in a Godfather movie. Did your pa ever show y' that, Matty? Before I wiped his guts on the floors 'a your neighbourhood?"

"Quiet," Elektra says.

"Could you give me a moment, please, 'lektra?"

"Now I know both 'a yer-" 

"I can't participate?" Elektra intones, catty. Matt tilts his head. 

"Fine," she says, moving to the other side of the room, in the periphery.

"You need her permission? You two a duo? Partners in crime, son? This is pathetic."

Matt punches the words out of his mouth. All heart rates increase. Sweeney's grunting and spitting is disgusting but Matt enjoys it as if he's indulging in his heavenly calling, what he was meant for, what God prepared for him. It's false, he thinks, busting Sweeney's tooth, it's far too inelegant. 

Punches last but scents don't. The odour of Sweeney's rot is replaced by fresh blood, tainted blood, not for nothing. Matt pants, a cheetah hunting for sport.

"'S that all you got, boy?"

Matt delivers another punch for good measure. Matt didn't come here to beat him. It happens now.

The katana's drawn, picked up off the floor. It's metal sound echoes across the floor, today there's no chirping or children's shows. Matt's heart is remarkably steady when he says:

"Dad, when I'm doing this I'm thinking of you,"

and slices Sweeney's head off clean. 

*

Well, shit.

*

Elektra's polite applause reverberates throughout New York city.

*

The restaurant downstairs is expensive and loud but Matt and Elektra go despite themselves. Matt's been coming to this building multiple times a week for four years and this is the first time he's tried the restaurant that's been below it the entire time. 

He's shaking, manic. Elektra always seems to be calm.

"The bread's shit," Elektra notes, tearing another piece from it.

"We should've gone here before, 'lektra, I don't know why I never thought of it till now. Even if it's shitty, it's been downstairs this whole time. How long have you come to this building?" he blurts.

"Same as you. The floor was new when you came, it's not like you were late."

"What?"

She's thoroughly amused, "You really can be stupid."

"Shut up. It was not new."

"Yes it was," she says, then goes quiet for a bit, "How'd it feel?"

In hushed tones, this time, "To kill Sweeney?"

"Yes."

It felt good. The agony of Dad's loss turned to newfound ecstasy. It felt amazing, dizzying, fucking crazy. It was better than jacking off for the first time, better than dancing in a circle, better than Valium.

It felt like peering into the eyes of God and being completely free of his wrath.

But Matt can't say that, so he says, "Better than ice-cream."

Elektra snorts. But it's true. 

*

It's incredible, this feeling, it's like he was born again. A sword being shined, a fight won. A kid watching Seinfeld, a nun smiling at him, a late birthday wish. This is life and Matt's not above it.

*

He feels good everywhere. At church, he almost feels closer to God but, what do you know, the guilt is gone. He's not really a Catholic without guilt, is he? At confession he says he hasn't been doing his duties to the church, to the orphanage, but he's ready to start trying. 

The floors will be mopped and the nuns will be happy but Sweeney's head fell from his neck and hit the world's tile and that will forever be what happened that day. 

God is mad but Matt is down here. In Hell's Kitchen. Chopping vegetables. 

*

It's sustainable, is what it is.

**

"Hey, Matty, let's go," Stick said, kicking Matt hard. It hurt so much more than it should. Matt's confused, he just woke up, he's, where was he? On the cold tile.

"Huh?"

"Get the fuck off the ground, let's go," Stick said, pulling Matt by the back of the neck. Why does it hurt so much? Matt feels the pain like a knife. Matt, still not fully awake yet, got off the floor, there's too much blood everywhere, it smells like blood, but Matt got up. 

With blood in his mouth, Matt said, "Where are we going?"

He didn't even know the damn time, it's so quiet, why's it so quiet? 

"We're going to hell, boy."

"Huh?"

"Stop saying that. Don't be afraid."

He didn't speak one false word. It's all so dark, Matt can't tell what's happening. He doesn't understand. Where did everyone go? Why does everything hurt? Did they all go to heaven already? Do the sinners go last? Are the sinners going last? 

"I don't-- this isn't how it happens. I don't want to go."

"You have to."

"This isn't how it happens."

"What, you expected Jesus? You don't get Jesus. Let's go. I'm taking you"

"Don't take me with you. Please, Stick, Jesus Christ in heaven. I- this isn't how it happens, it's not you, it's not-- Please would you just let me sit on the floor, I need--"

"Matty, Matty, shut up. It's happening. There's no begging, there's no Valium. Come on."

"No, Stick, please. There's been a mistake. Let them take me-"

And Stick said unto him, "You don't understand, Matty, you can't outrun your fate. I am not your opposition, I'm who guides you. I am the one who counts the losses on your shoulders. I am the one who paces you. I, I, I am the volatile nature of your dissatisfaction. I am the one who takes you, 

Not Christ, he is no help for you, now, Matthew, not now, for what hellfire you seek is your doing, what you did, what you may do. What you kill is what you bury. Be not afraid, be calm, boy, this is the mercy your Father gave to his children,"

Stick said to him, the righteous hand of all which is true. With his own gravity and might, with his own rules and reality, by the hair of Matt's neck, he is pulled down.

Down, and yes, it's happening, a Herculean catastrophe, Matt's finally being pulled down. What meaningless power a human wields, what blood Matt bleeds, is crushed beneath the pressure of the past and future behind him, on his back. He takes grievance, by God, he takes grievance.

And Matt comes a fingertip's distance from feeling the pain, almost weeping over into it, like a blade to fresh skin, but he doesn't. Not yet, he just:

*

On the tile, Matt finally wakes up.

*

Stick's in the other room, talking to some boy. 

*

Elektra, she's not here. 

There are people around him, a young girl's sleeping on the ground next to him. String's near. 

*

She's not doing anything. Picking at her fingers, looking at something. He's supposed to go see her tomorrow.

*

Jesus Christ.

*

He gets off the tile. 

*

Ice is by the door, next to Salt. Matt's stuff is on the ground, only now, he realises his entire body's sore. He needs to get dressed and go back to the orphanage. Needs to sleep.

"What time is it?" 

Salt answers, "2 AM, Matty, got somewhere to be?"

"Um. Yeah," he says, picking up his bag with his Catholic school uniform. He puts on the undershirt on the floor, the shoes next to it. He's not missing anything?

2 AM- what day is it, Saturday, it was, yeah. Stick tied him to a chair and made him withstand fucking capital T: Torture. That's what the dream was. Fuck. The ribs must be broken. Stitches broke on his toes. Mass is tomorrow, when the sun rises over the Earth. Matt is in Hell's Kitchen and God is up There. 

Matt's hands still shake, the adrenaline still didn't leave him.

"Bye, Salt."

"Good luck out there, Wind."

*

Stick has to leave the country for a while.

*

Matt doesn't know. Probably Japan or something. Elektra says Japan.

*

Thank fuck.

**

Algebra, Matt's not great at. The nun who teaches it is old and confused as to why a blind kid's in her class, so, really, what Matt tries to do in this class is ruminate. Ruminating, like Algebra, is also not Matt's strong suit. He's good at punches, good at arguing with nuns, good at avoiding the rumination process. 

So it's not quite rumination as much as it is, Matt's absent-mindedly listening to the classroom, trying to pick apart sounds.

Christina, in front of him, snuck an mp3 player into school, somehow. She's listening to Soul Coughing. Her foot taps quietly to the beat. Vince, next to him, really the only one paying attention to the class, has a too-fast heart. It's almost as fast as Christina's music. He has coffee on his breath, no doubt. Grace, behind Vince, is an asshole with an asshole friend group. She's chewing strawberry gum.

Strawberry gum is maybe the worst flavour. If Matt had it his way, algebra would be banned and blueberry gum would be the only existing flavour.

Grace must hear Matt diss her gum in his head, she whispers, "Hey, Matt."

Matt's not being a dick, it just doesn't bring him joy to respond.

"Matt. Psst. Hey. Yo. Matt, Matt, hey, Blind kid."

I mean, Jesus, is it that important? "Yeah?"

"Can you pass this to Christina? Oh, wait. You wouldn't know where she is," Grace, the asshole, starts giggling with her cronies. There wasn't even a note.

"Hey. Quit it, Grace, you're not funny," Christina surprisingly says, her music turned off. 

"Protector of the blind, are you? Or.. are you just that much of a whore? Does your mouth have, ha-ha, diversity hires?" she laughs, which- horrible, but interesting premise. A mouth with diversity hires, a prostitute who only blows midgets, she's brilliant.

"Shut the fuck up, Grace, go let your daddy molest you. Go- go throw up after, too. Bitch."

That's fun. Grace's heartbeat goes, bump-bump-bump-bump. She's so hurt, "Cunt."

Christina turns around.

"Are you okay?"

Matt attempts to meet her eyes, "You didn't have to do that."

"Oh, you know-"

"You really didn't, Christina," he says, then realises he aspires to die with at least one girlfriend, "but thanks anyway, that was cool of you."

She beams, mission accomplished, and turns around. Her music stays off. The rest of the class is boring as usual, Matt ruminates and picks at the scabs on his knuckles. 

After the class is over, Matt's the last to walk away, as to not have to navigate through the centipede of students. She's waiting on him, trying to be quiet. Matt pretends he doesn't notice her.

Christina follows.

She finally says, "Matt."

"Yeah?"

"Can I guide you to your next class?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, Christina, I have English. What do you have?"

She sheepishly laughs, "Call me Chrissy. Art. But I want to walk you there, anyway. Let's go."

"'kay."

Matt takes her elbow. He's kind of nervous. This isn't like hanging out with Elektra.

He doesn't really know what to say.

"So, what's up?"

"Nothing much, my ribs hurt," he says, before he can stop himself.

"Why?" she asks.

"Uh, 'cause I fell."

She half-laughs, "So you really are blind-blind, huh?"

He exhales, "Yeah."

"What's it like?"

"I dunno. It's been a while, I'm kind of used to it. It's dark."

A fuller laugh, "Okay. Um. I'll see you, Matt. Enjoy English, or whatever."

"Yeah. Enjoy Art."

*
They sit together at lunch.

*
Matt doesn't know what a crush feels like but he hopes he has one on Chrissy. She could fix whatever's wrong with Matt. She's a Catholic, but not the type Anne-Marie is. 

She likes swimming at the Y. That's normal, in an odd-person way. 

*
That day, Matt killed someone else. It's his fourth confirmed kill. Ice told him to do it, in a fight with Elektra. Bare hands, Elektra was going to do it but she told Matt to do it.

It was scary but he did it.

The night's rest was rough, but at least now he has money. Dad would be sad but he'd like the money.

*
She lets him listen to her music. Her favourite band is Portishead. Elektra likes Portishead but Chrissy really loves Portishead.

"Like, I could swim in this song. It's so amazing. I think I listened to it 42 times in one night."

*
Sleep has been awful. He isn't sure what it is, he thinks it's Sweeney, like his foul fucking soul clutches at the part of his brain that allows his thoughts to shut down. But the week after the man was gone, he slept the sleep of babies. 

Fucked up, it's probably the dream. If Stick just didn't go to Japan he would probably sleep well.

What the hell could Stick want with Japan, anyway? It's been so long. Months. 

Matt used to be able to sleep whenever he could. Almost a superpower. It's gone and Matt misses it dearly.

Lucas is sleeping tight. 

Maybe water will let Matt sleep, he thinks, but when he gets back to the room, fully hydrated, he can't sleep. The sheep are being petulant, Matt loses count of them, only gets angry. 

His head doesn't even hurt. Nothing hurts, goddamn it. 

The pigeon's chirps don't startle Matt out of his slumber, he hears them coming.

***

Summer in Manhattan, sophomore year is over, and Matt's at 32nd and 5th. Stick's still in Japan.

It's been months. For Matt, it's been a week since he walked to k-town. He missed the walk, missed getting punched. Hell's Kitchen really proves its name this summer. People say the world's ending, it's so hot, but it was hotter last year. Maybe Matt just gets up earlier this year.

The seventh floor smells like bodies and a certain person's hand lotion. Elektra's here. They both have been too busy with exams to come everyday. Salt's by the door, as usual.

On Tuesdays, Matt doesn't fight anyone.

"Matty."

"Salt," he acknowledges. Matt hates how everyone still calls him Matty around here. He touches his rib, the dumb tattoo. The plan today is to just work out.

"Just because Stick isn't here doesn't mean you shouldn't train every week. Nino's waiting for you."

-and Matt thinks, wait. 

"Who the fuck is Nino?"

"Nino. The kid. You're training him."

"No I'm not?"

"Yes? You are? Get your ass in there, kid."

With a groan on his lips, Matt makes it to the main room. Nino, he's training people, now? He's only 15, how's he going to teach anyone? He can hardly teach himself. Matt walks up to Elektra.

She's standing by a young boy, sounding mad. 

The kid smells- is this creepy?- not much younger. Matt doesn't want to do this, he just wants to spar with Elektra in peace. 

"Matthew, thank God," Elektra huffs, "uh, did you know about, uh, what's your name?"

"--Nino," Matt answers for him.

She blinks. "Ah. Do you know about Nino, and whatever we're supposed to do with him?" Oh, good, so it's not just Matt who's clueless. Matt still thinks Salt is playing a prank on them.

"You're supposed to train me," the kid mutters.

"I think we're supposed to train him," Matt says.

"Yeah, genius, how are we supposed to do that?" She says, "Wait. Okay. What we do is introductions. I'll go first, my name's Elektra, or Cloud, you know, whatever."

It occurs to Matt that, this whole time, he didn't know her code-name. It was always Ellie and Matty, with them. Matt always knew Stick liked her more, but if she's Cloud and he's Wind? Jesus. 

"You're Cloud? What the fuck!"

"What?"

"I'm Wind and you're Cloud."

"Do you have a problem?"

"Yes! I'm a fucking fart joke and you're the otherworldly beauty of--"

"Okay."

"--the otherworldly beauty of the sky. Is that not unfair?"

"Cloud is cigarette smoke, anyway, and the wind pushes the clouds to move, so-"

"No it doesn't!"

"Yes it does!"

A small voice adjacent to them goes, "Guys?"

Both Matt and Elektra move their heads towards this mysterious voice. Nino, right. The introductions were completely thrown out the window. Window would be a better code-name than Wind.

"What's my second name?"

Good question, Nino. Matt wasn't involved with the picking of his name. Unfortunate as it is. Would it be the first fight he does? He sounds a little young. 

Elektra hums, "Fog."

Fog's equal to Wind in terms of horrible-ness. Elektra just wants to be at the top.

The kid cheers up, "Fog, I like it. Okay."

"Yeah, cool, whatever," Matt says, "how old are you?"

"Twelve."

Matt exhales. He's as old as Matt was when he came to this building.  

"So you know basic Muay Thai, Jiu-Jitsu, stuff like that?" Elektra asks.

"Yes."

When the hell would Stick have the time? 

"Okay. Jamie," she calls over a kid Ice is training, "do you wanna spar with, what was your name?"

"Nino," he says.

"Do you want to spar with Nino?"

They spar. It ends up in a tie. Matt has a lot of flashbacks to the first time he sparred here, only three years ago, but he's grown, since. Everything's different, not one thing stayed the same. Matt understands why Stick was such an asshole back then. 

It's almost impossible to make Nino understand anything. He keeps wanting to be called Fog. Irritated, Matt is! 

Elektra gave up and went to her bourgeois apartment.

Nino doesn't get that he's a soldier, parts of a whole, tools in a tool box. He can't follow rules like Matt could. Unbelievably, really, he has a talent for it, Matt wonders where the Chaste finds these people.

"No-- Jesus, I told you, like, twenty fucking times already, move your foot, you're doing it all wrong."

"How old are you, even? Why are you teaching me?" Nino says, from the floor.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does matter," Nino says, "ha. Matt-er. Because your name's Matt. I think."

"Oh," Matt articulates, "you think? Agatha Christie? That was lame, by the way. Get up."

Nino huffs, "No. Actually. I'm leaving, my mom's outside," he says, no lie in his heart rate.

"You have a mom?"

"Uh. Foster mom. I call her mom."

"Yeah, fine, whatever."

"Bye?"

"See you," he says, Nino laughs.
 
It's weird.

*

Later that day, Christina emails Matt. They hang out. Matt still kind of smells like sweat, he hopes she doesn't notice. She's talking about girls he doesn't know, calling them bitches and real sluts. He pays for the hot dogs they get.

She says, "How do you have money? Do the nuns give you it?"

He says, "Nah."

(Two types of pork, onions, sweat, some blood, tomato, corn syrup, spit, detergent from the stand guy's other job, yeast, flour, piss; this shit is disgusting.)

"Ooh. Mysterious Matty, how alluring."

****

Lucas got jumped by a guy and his friends. He won't say who did it. Matt fixes his injuries.

"Oh, come on, I won't do anything. I just wanna know, man. To steer clear."

"Yeah, right, Matteo, with those fuckin' bruises. I don't know what the fuck you're doing as a blind motherfucker but I sure as hell don't want to get involved, 'kay? Leave it."

"You really want to protect whoever did that to you?"

"Shut up, kid."

"Don't call me that, Lucas, just tell me."

"I don't have to tell you shit."

"Dude."

*

Later,

"His name is Daniel Liu. Normal ass name. He's Chinese. Lives above that liquor store on 53rd."

"Okay."

"Don't do any crazy shit, man, swear to god you won't."

"I swear."

*

Matt's above that liquor store on 53rd. In the place. In the boy's room. He can't tell if this counts as crazy shit. He's wearing a mask over his mouth.

"Danny?"

The guy's kind of big, he says, "Je-sus Christ, what the fuck? What the fuck are you doin' in my house? I- what the fuck. Get out before I call the cops!"

So Matt goes, "Do you remember Lucas?"

"Yo, get the fuck out."

"Daniel?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

The knife Matt got as a gift is in his hands, pointed at Daniel's neck, "Your mom's coming in. If she comes in I'm killing both of you, do you understand? I'm not playing."

"What the fuck?" Daniel hisses. 

"Danny, baby?" his mom says, through the door, "How are you holding up? You feeling okay?"

"I'm not fucking lying to my ma," he says, "and you won't do shit--"

Matt breaks skin on his throat, pressing harder.

His voice changes, "Uh, I'm fine mommy, I'm just, um, resting."

"Okay, sweet pea. You want me to check your temperature?"

Pressure on his neck increases, he says, "No."

"Get some rest, baby."

Miss Liu walks away from Daniel's door. She has a bit of a limp and smells like laminated paper and rubber and blood. She's a doctor, and what is Daniel? A wannabe gangster. It's funny.

"You call your mom, mommy?"

"Shut the fuck up. What do you want? Before I call the fuckin' cops on you."

"Tell you and your friends to never touch Lucas Moreno again. 'Kay?"

"And who the fuck are you? How do you know Luke?"

Matt really doesn't know how to answer that. He's still wondering how Daniel's mom doesn't know about all of this. Matt feels lucky, the knife still against Danny's neck.

"What does it matter? Stop your gangster bullshit, you're embarrassing yourself, Danny. I'll know if you do this shit again, you understand? I'll know. I'll know like I knew your mom was coming up."

"Okay, fine, Jesus, fucking'... Micheal Corleone."

The knife is loosened.

Matt's going crazy, "What is it with everyone and this movie? It's not like.." he sighs, "whatever. I'll know, dude."

He jumps out the window.

*

The same day, Lucas is freaking out, pacing in the room. Matt guesses he found out through a friend, or something. It's an overreaction.

"What the fuck, Matteo? I told you, yo, don't do anything crazy, yeah? And you were all like, yeah I won't do nothing, and then you did something, man. It's like no one listens to what I'm asking them! You sent-- you sent a whole-ass criminal to barge in and fucking pull a knife on-- what the fuck! This shit is-- how do you know these people, man?"

"Did I get you in trouble?"

"Yes, you got me in trouble. Like, mad trouble. I swear, on everything holy, that you got me in trouble. Fuck!"

"I'm sorry, Luke," he says, and really means it.

"Fuck!"

This feels worse than the bracelets and his first kill. Something from k-town should never reach something from the orphanage and it just did. Badly. Lucas is still pacing around. Matt just sits on the bed.

*

Christina lives in Clinton, like Matt, but in a nicer part, closer to the Upper West Side. She never wants to hang out there, though, so they sit by the bridge on 9th ave, eating candy from the bodega across the street. 

Manhattan feels perennial in these moments. 

Matt rubs the sweat from his palms on his jeans. He's heard so many conversations on the streets of New York, charming people, weird people, interesting people. He doesn't know what to say or do, despite that.

Candy's good though. Airheads, Chrissy likes Airheads, but they stick to his teeth and leave his mouth tasting like factory and corn syrup. 

She's talking, but he's thinking about the candy, "-which is stupid, 'cause humans were meant to sing, they were meant to draw and sing and engage in these, um, creative acts, but because of this stupid system we have in place, people are discouraged--"

"Yeah."

"--from doing these things which are so, ah, biological. You weren't listening, were you?"

He wasn't, "I was."

"Matt," she says, "come on. I won't be, like, offended."

"Yes you would be."

"I don't really listen when you talk."

"Really?"

She's smiling, "Dude," she says, and Matt doesn't know what that means. The candy's still stuck in his molars, he feels the cavities forming. 

It's quiet again. Directly across from them, a couple's fighting loudly. She's like, your dick is tiny, and he's like, your pussy stinks like fish in the sea. Chrissy's giggling.

"That's going to be us in the future," she says, quizzically.

Matt feels gross saying this: "Stinky pussy and tiny dick?"

She laughs as the couple continue yelling at each other, "Yeah. What do you think?"

He really doesn't know, "Excellent."

She nods emphatically, taking a dramatic bite out of her Airheads. It's blue flavour, apparently. Blue flavour should be blueberry but it's blue raspberry -what the hell? That's not a thing. Blue raspberry is fine. Matt loves candy more than most things in life but he never buys it, Stick's annoying about it. He's not here but, well, too many pleasures would make a person lazy. Matt contemplates the Airhead.

"You ever been in love?" she asks, suddenly serious.

"Uh. No."

"Me neither."

"Stupid bitch!" the man swears. How trite. Matt swallows the last bite of his Airheads. 

"You probably haven't, like, even been with a girl yet, right?"

"Uh," he says.

"Sorry. But I'm right, right?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you had your first kiss?"

This is wildly uncomfortable. He crinkles the wrapping, "No?"

"Do you.. want me to be your first one?" 

Holy shit, finally, his brain is thinking, but it's also thinking, what the fuck, and did she actually say that and, regrettably, that's kind of slutty. Pang of guilt. Matt doesn't say any of those things, instead he stays quiet for a moment.

"Like, in front of the tiny-dick guy and the stinky-pussy lady?"

"Yeah."

"Um," he says, stupidly, "okay?"

She laughs, "Okay."

They lock lips in front of the arguing couple.

And, well. Matt always thought it would be pretty gross but it feels awesome. Matt tastes, man, he tastes the cucumbers Chrissy eats, the Airhead's blue dye, his own spit, and the plaque on her teeth, all in front of the arguing couple. 

Her heart is so steady while his is going crazy. His first kiss was under the bridge on a hot summer's day.

Christina breaks it, humming, "How was it?"

"Good. Great," Matt stammers.

She laughs, "Excellent, Matt."

*

Fifteen is a good year, but Matt still can't sleep. 

*

It makes him irritable. 

*

Elektra calls him annoying, and says, "If you'd just get out of your head.." and never finishes the sentence, distracted. She means chill the fuck out, but Matt doesn't know how to.

*

Matt doesn't really know where the Chaste gets their pills from, but he asks for a Valium and sleeps fine. Lucas says he's a druggie but Matt seriously can't sleep.

*

School's starting again soon, Matt will be a Junior in high school, and Stick's still in Japan. He's not Matt's dad or anything, he's not attached, it's just annoying. Nino is annoying and too silly for a boy his age, and Matt's probably too soft on him, but Stick's still in Japan.

What even is in Japan? Business, probably, but that can be done in New York. 

NYC has everything. People come here to do things, New York doesn't go places. So why's Stick still in fucking Japan?

Matt should be happy. The last time he saw Stick was for a torture thing, but it wasn't really torture, and Matt's getting bored with the fights and the training and the knives. He's not done being taught. Stick's not gone forever, Matt knows that, but it's been months. Summer ended and Stick's gone.

The body count's, like, three up, and Stick's gone.

These thoughts are embarrassing. 

*****

When Matt was, what was it, seven? When Matt was just a boy, there was this kid. His neighbour, his neighbour to the left, his name was Harvey. It was so long ago. Harvey was a lot like Matt, which was maybe the reason they fought so much, something subconscious, subliminal. Something like that. 

One day, it was a hot day, Dad just fought a guy, big guy, but Matt forgot his name. That day, something pissed little baby Harvey off so he decided to piss Matt off and when two kids are angry, they resemble their parents. Dad found Matt wrestling the other kid.

It seemed so mythological, like Matt was the mighty Zeus engaging his fist in a righteous punch, and Harvey was, like, Poseidon, or whatever, but when Dad came in, he felt like the biggest idiot on 55th street.

Dad was there when Matt cried and cried about it.

Well. Time is a big fat circle.

Seventh floor, Elektra and Matt were supposed to fight two blind Eddies from Japan. They totally lost like they were the Philly sixers. Thank fucking Christ Stick wasn't there to witness it.

Ice called a whole registered Doctor. Salt gave him Valium. Valium and something else. It's nice, floaty.

This much Valium makes Matt all loopy. 

Elektra's upset, but that's just 'cause she wasn't given any drugs. 

"Is it not unfair to you?"

"Nah, 'lektra, we lost, pear and square."

"Nothing about that was fair. Why we fought two older, super-powered people, is beyond me."

"Maybe Stick knows about you giving Nino a dumb name."

"Fog is a good name," she asserts, but Matt can see through all lies. Most of them. If they're moving with lots of sound. Matt can hear through lies, that sounds better.

"Did you know I can hear through lies? It's so cool. It's so cool."

"And it's fair that I fight two people that could do the same?"

"You won against me. Six-four, remember?"

"That I did. Even a high Matty remembers his losses."

He laughs, "'course I do."

*
It took a while to remember, but when he did, Matt was sad. Stick will think they're both stupid pieces of shit. He hates to lose, doesn't understand it. He's stupid. 

Japan sucks.

*
日本は最低だ, that means, Japan sucks.

This is what he knows after hours and hours of verb conjugation.

*
And Matt knows the Eddies feel so good about it. Ice thought Matt had internal bleeding, they laid both their bodies, directly on top of Matt's busted rib. It fucking hurt, man.

They're probably all, 'ha-ha, we beat the Americans, they're so bad', but it really was unfair, like Elektra said.

*
The worst part is, Matt can't even stay at home on Monday. He took his bullshit econ class at 8 in the morning like everyone else. It's bullshit because the nun hates him and thinks he's stupid.

Fuck you, Sister Bernice, and fuck you, Japan.

*
Japan fucked Matt up, for real this time. He's not just frustrated about pronunciation, he had to deal with people asking if he's abused. Matt still doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to say.

Matt's 92% sure Chrissy still thinks it's the nuns. He avoids her when it's actually bad.

*
Christina and Matt are together. It went:

"So, do you wanna be, like, girlfriend and boyfriend? Or whatever."

She laughed, "Uh, yeah, okay, sure."

Not great for his ego, but she said yes. He'll take it.

*** **

Nino might be stupid, but at least he's earnest. Matt trains him every Wednesday, for four hours until his mom comes and gets him. They can't do knives so Matt teaches him kickboxing while Elektra teaches him a type of Capoeira. He's not quite gifted at kickboxing, but he's a fast learner. The foster mom must be either really great or really awful to leave him here every other day. It must have been arranged by Chaste. 

Matt's on the cold tile after a long stretch of arguing whether doing drills and basics are needed, while they were doing the drills and basics, unbeknownst to Nino.

Stick's been gone for 5 months.

Matt can't shake the feeling off. From the dream. It lurks over his shoulder.

"Matty?" his voice makes Matt flinch, it's not a voice that should be calling him that. Nino's light, young voice doesn't suit it.

"Don't call me that."

He points, "You have a tattoo that says Matty."

"Oh, gee, Nino, I wasn't aware."

He always feels like an old asshole, talking to Nino. 

"It's a stupid tattoo. Do I have to get one? I think I saw Elektra with one, too."

Matt sighs. He sinks on the floor, "No, Nino, 'lektra and I got them on accident."

"How'd you get a tattoo by accident?"

"Beats me."

Nino snorts, sitting beside him, the smell of sweat pungent on his skin, "I can't imagine someone beating you," and this particular brand of adoration fills Matt with a dread deep in his stomach. This child doesn't live in Matt's New York, isn't truly here, doesn't smell the rot sunken into the floor.

An impressionable panic leers on Matt's heart. 

This boy, this twelve year old, was Matt once. Young, confident and blind. Nino's fate was probably a quiet life on the margins before his parents went. Does he deserve this world yet? Is he still meant for a more sober something? He's soft, nebbish, he calls his foster parent mom, for God's sakes. There isn't a person in the Chaste that has a mom. Does he deserve it?

Sirens, a street over. Nino probably doesn't even hear it. Doesn't have to, yet. 

"Did Stick ever tell you the story of the Persian?"

"The Persian?"

"It's a yes or no question."

"No."

"Ah," Matt says with a realisation, "I should probably have remembered it before asking."

Matt sits up. Nino looks attentively.

"A long time ago, like, the early 20th century, there was this guy-"

"Was he Persian?"

"Shut up?" Matt suggests, "He was in the Chaste, like us. Back then, a Chaste operative couldn't be not Japanese, or whatever, people didn't like that he was Persian. On top of that, he refused to kill anyone. Can't do that, you understand."

"That's crazy," he says unexpectedly.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah, it is. So this guy had a wife by the time he was 20, and that wife got, uh," Matt wonders if he should say this word, "raped. In a fit of rage, he killed the rapist and his friends at 20 years old; too late in his life. As it turned out, the guy's rapist was a member of the Triad, Chinese gang, who are the Hand's enemies. The Hand are our enemies, so, you know, it was what the Hand wanted him to do."

"A mistake?"

"Yeah. They did it 'cause he was weak, and they, uh."

Matt then realises this moral of the story sounds like a load of bullshit. What an asshole, Stick was. Is. He probably made the whole thing up. Matt catches himself rubbing his chin then feels a million and a half years old.

Nino laughs, "What's your point?"

"I said that when he told me this story, you know."

"The Persian told you the story?"

That startles a laugh out of Matt, "That's cute. No, the point is:" he sighs, "You can't expect things to work for you, and for things to be right. You gotta be smart, you can't just.. your mom will be used against you, Nino, do you want that?"

"No."

"Make a decision."

Nino's silent, disquieted, "Okay."

With the frigid tile beneath their bare feet, the moment feels ancient. High in their tower, they mean something. They have the secret, arcane knowledge of their own draft, the war, who they are, what will happen. Matt knows that Nino can't simply make a decision, he can't leave this road. No one could leave this place and become a citizen again. 

Matt just doesn't want him to suffer.

*** *** *

6 or so months after Stick's gone, Japan still sucks, but he's back. He just happens to be on the seventh floor the same day Matt is. Recognising Stick's heartbeat, Matt feels black and blue. Matt tries not to seem too surprised. 

Stick recognises Matt's, too, it looks like, "Matty. Come here."

He's over by a trainer Matt doesn't talk to. Matt hates himself for missing it. Nino's being trained by Elektra in the other room. Matt has been awake for three days. 

"Ye-s?"

The other trainer laughs. Matt feels like he's being made fun of. It's been too long.

"Missed me? I heard that two people here got their ass kicked by a pair of Japanese pansies. Do you know anything about that?"

Matt exhales, says, stiffly: "No."

"You're coming to a meeting with me, on the upper East side. You smell like a girl, what is that?" Stick says, dizzyingly.

"Don't start," Matt groans.

"You shouldn't make these connections, Matty."

"Fine."

"You really shouldn't," the other trainer says, like Matt gives a fuck what he thinks.

Without a pause, Matt says, irritably, "When's the meeting?"

"Feisty, this one," the guy says. 

"Shut up," Stick says to the other trainer, it makes Matt smile, "The meeting's soon. Find a knife."

*
The meeting was fun. Something about Heroin with another gang? Matt just stood with a katana. He's one of those guys, now.

*
Things are progressing nicely.

*

He's still dating Chrissy. Matt has to justify it every time he talks to Stick. It's stupid as hell. 

*
For his birthday, Chrissy gave him a CD player and Lucas sung a horrible rendition of the birthday jingle that calls him an asshole and, as a gift, he flipped him off. Chrissy thought the story was funny but Matt didn't know how to answer when she asked why his roommate hated him so much. Elektra let him perform the execution in one of their fake-fights. 

He does fake fights now. Eddie thinks they're just fighting but Stick says kill 'em and Matt does what he's told.

Fifteen was good.

*
The number's 6 now.

Mostly using katanas. One wasn't his.

*

Chapter Text

What Matt hates about the 7th floor is how normal it is. The choked, coiled atmosphere, the stab wounds, the torture, they're all comfortable. So familiar, Matt feels most in tune in the k-town sky. It's all so wrong. In Matt's New York there is no moral dilemma, you get up and move on, but Matt feels the itch.

It's a distinct restlessness that Matt ignores, it's only felt on 32nd and 5th, he's standing on his own judgement. What happens here has consequences. It's God, watching him. 

Things matter in these rooms. A person like Anne-Marie has only a few chances to make a splash in the water. She could throw a bottle of vodka into the Hudson, but what Matt and his people do is throw bodies. Six of them were his doing, six.

Six in braille has 7 pits. In Japanese, ろく. 

Six people, six times two, that's 12. 12 mothers and fathers. They had more family and friends and community, that was Matt's doing, that splash in the Hudson.

It's a lot, right?

Well. Despite the revelation of his grief and guilt catching up to him, Matt still lives in his own world. He only ever has these thoughts in the elevator.

7th floor, Saturday. Someone called the cops, so they're trying to make the place look like an orphan club day-care or something. Matt doesn't know. This has happened before, but Matt ran away in time.

Cops aren't here yet, and Nino's first formal fight is scheduled for today. The fight itself occurs only for Nino, a test. He's thirteen, the same age Matt was, at the time. He's not all the way inept, Nino's ready, but the world isn't, and Matt doesn't know who to ask. Will it happen? People are mopping tiles. Bruises are being hid. Elektra's taking pictures of the children (because apparently that's what day-cares do). Matt's standing.

"Don't be a brat, Lucy, sit. Christ, girl! Sit!" 

Elektra talks to kids like Stick does. 

"Good job. Hey, this is a cute picture," ah, never mind, praise God.

"Hi, 'lektra," he says, hearing his own voice like a ghost.

"Matthew, I know you're blind, but would it murder you to take these pictures?"

"Yes."

Elektra scoffs, "Oh. By the way, what happened to Nino's thing? Are we still doing it? If the police heard groans and crying it'd be kind of suspicious, but, you know. I was excited for it."

She said these words but they didn't run in his head. Her jab wasn't dodged. Matt's still curled up in his head.

"Uh," Elektra never says uh, Stick doesn't, "I don't know."

She hums, always so calm, "Next!" 

Jamie's next. There are only 5 kids being trained at one time. They're all nervous.

Snap, says the camera. "Okay. Next!"

Nino's next. He's nervous, heart and arms, he must have heard them. Matt feels slightly nefarious but it's not like he hasn't done worse. 

"Smile," she says, snaps the camera, "Employee pictures, now. Uh, Smoke?" 

Matt doesn't like Smoke. Being around him feels like being around a type of priest. Matt sighs beside Elektra.  

Snap, the camera goes. Matt's knuckles are hurting.

Snap. He's so tired.

Another snap. There's no talking. Matt's panicking but he doesn't know why. There's skin in the air, it smells like those times Matt almost died. What the hell is wrong with him? Elektra's saying something to him, distantly, somewhere.

Snap. Matt runs out, he can't do it. Someone's breath is in his ear. Nino has to fight today.

He makes it to the other room and 

the breath is still in his ear and Elektra's still snapping. The heartbeat's fast, too fast, what is it, it's a heart attack. Yes, there's a pressure on his chest, it's a heart attack. He needs to sit on the floor. He needs someone to tell him what to do.

It's the dream. It's the pivot, what fucked everything up, the manifestation of all those Eddies. Fuck. They're coming back for him. 

Matt's body is turning off. Shutting down. 
This is it. Heart attack. He's dying.

This is it. He's really going to hell, now. Jesus fucking Christ. His breathing hastens, the fire aggravates. Je-sus Christ. There's-- he doesn't know, it's on his back, a wave of panic on his back. Bitter taste in his mouth, it tastes like the first and second stabs, all those years ago. The sensations crash and roar into Matt's brain, six, six, six, like the Hudson. 

Breathing is so hard. It's. There's skin in the air. He needs to cough but his brain's bad so it won't do anything. He doesn't know where the fuck he is. It's too much. 

There's bile in his throat. Burning, disgusting, his own bodily functions.

Punching the floor. Freaking the fuck out. Six, six, six. He needs to cough so gravely. It's less about the doom- he's fucking dying by the second. What's wrong with him? His brain's all wrong, all wrong.

Can't tell what's happening. Vertigo, he's sweating so hard.

Six bodies, fruitlessly. How long has it been?

Someone's there. Clutching his hand, he wonders how long. The hand is warm and calm. Elektra?

He's not dying anymore, his breathing's waning. Elektra. Nice. Good.

"Matty?"

"Yeah," he says, roughly. He's not in front of too many people, thank God. Where's Stick? Breath is still fast.

"Stick's out. Dealing with, um. Optics. Are you okay?" He must've said it out loud. Elektra's hand is so warm.

Matt doesn't know how to answer, "Good. I'm fine. Sorry."

"Don't apologise. Fuck, Matthew. You-- are you really fine?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

"Lie down. Relax. You're good. Do you want me to get you water?"

"No, stay."

"Okay," she says, still clutching his hand. Elektra. Matt wipes the tears from his face, how long has it been since he cried? What happened to him? Slow breaths, one, two. This is so embarrassing. At least it's Elektra. He might jump off a bridge if it were anyone else.

Elektra says, "Do you want candy? I brought candy."

Shakily, he smiles. She's really the best. "Yeah, sure. Thanks."

She gets up to find the candy. Jamie's kind of staring at him. She's holding crayons, ravenously colouring letters in. Matt's in the hallway to the fight room, the place smells all wrong, smells like a real office. 

What a fuck-up, what a weak, soft, fuck-up.

Elektra's back with candy. Matt's supposed to help everyone but instead he's all tangled up, salt in his eyes, getting candy like a child. The vertigo's leaving him.

The candy's good. Matt's good.

She says, "You're good?" He nods, "Okay. I have to go help. Calm down before Stick gets here."

Matt's always good at doing what he's told.

*

With wide eyes, Matt walks back. 

Expectedly, there's no applause for his arrival. The cops finally arrived, Matt's a little shaky about it. Only two officers. Matt had a whole breakdown because of these two cops? Deep breaths. Elektra's gone. Stick's standing like a scarecrow.

He's hyper-aware of his surroundings. One of the cops is rapidly approaching. Matt tries to walk away non-suspiciously. 

"Sweetheart?" God damn it, "You good? Have you been crying?"

"Uh," stupid, Stick's right there, "no, I'm just-- this is just my face. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Cherry Blake with the NYPD? I'd like you to answer some questions for me, okay?"

"Sure."

"What is your name?"

"Uh, Matteo.. Mur..do..ch. With an h. My mom was Italian." That was awful. Matt wants to go home so badly.

"Alright, Matteo. Do you work here?"

"No. Not really" 

She stops writing, suspicious, "What do you mean, not really?"

"I get some pocket money for doing chores 'round here, sometimes."

She's writing again. Ice and Salt have their heads turned to them. He's so tired. He wants to plead, a poor little Matty wants to plead to go home and cry, but instead: he's forced to give this, the naturalist performance of a lifetime. 

"Pocket money from who? Who's the boss around here?" 

"I don't know, actually. I get the money from my, uh, my uncle."

"Can you describe your uncle for me?" 

"I'm sorry?" 

"Are you able to give a description of your uncle, his height, age, does he look like you? Did he come in today?"

"What do you mean, does he look like me?" 

She sighs, everyone seems to sigh around Murdock, "Is he white?"

"Ah. Yeah, I think. He's, ah, another blind man. Tall when I was a kid. Now he's old, really old, last I heard," he attempts for laugher, no dice.

"Alright. Now, Matteo, would you follow me to someplace more private?" she says, urging him with her hand.

"Why?" 

"One final question."

They walk to the hallway, a less populated area. There is no witness to whatever may happen here. 

The officer's breath smells like grapes and pomegranate wine. Her lips are coated with cheap, drug-store lipstick, her uniform smells like her own perfume and a man's chemical bay leaf cologne. She's real, and she's in Matt's New York, and she has some impact on Matt, and so Matt's world, and so everyone's own little sphere, ergo, what will Matt do?

She opens her mouth, the scent is overwhelming, "It is very important you answer honestly, okay?"

"Okay?" she says, again. Slowly, leeringly, maybe, Matt nods. 

"Did your uncle ever hit you or any of the kids? If not, did anyone else, any authority figure, anyone, did anyone hit you or the kids? 

That was the final piece of the puzzle. It was the bruises that ticked them off. Matt's exhausted. 

Fuck, and there's more to the day. Nino, he's supposed to fight that Eddie; Matt's supposed to get lunch, go home, shower, study economics, damn his own soul, Jesus. It's all such a drag. 

And now, what, this woman's asking if Stick hit people? It's bizarre. Yes, these kids are being hit. They weren't fast enough, so they were hit. Also because they weren't fast enough, the police are here, causing cursed dominos to fall over another. When will it end?

But Matt can't say that, he says, 
"No. No, nothing like that, officer."

"Are you sure?"

He doesn't have to feign his own weariness, "Yes, there was a-- bully, somewhere here? A child. Why do you think uncle," Matt doesn't know Stick's name, "Johnny abuses people? That's--"

"Matteo, please. I'm sorry, it was just a question. Alright? You need me to guide you back?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Certain."

"Alright."

And so the curtains meet.

*
Car door is slammed. Matt needs a break.

More words, Stick: "That was shit, Matty. Uncle Johnny?"

Elektra's laugh would typically be a comfort, "Aw, let him go. It's been a long day."

"Long day? Am I hearing that right? It's 10 in the morning."

Matt's only half-aware of whatever the fuck could be happening right now. There's many bodies in this car, all smelling like rot and nice perfume. Six. The number haunts him. Matt, Stick, Elektra, Nino, String and the driver. 

He's in the middle. The seats are loose and dreadful.

"Fuck off, let's go," Matt says.

"やめろ," stop that, "You don't talk to Stick like that. You don't decide when we leave," String says, beside him. 

"I'm not a child--"

"No, he's right. Nino, boy? Where the hell is he?"

"Here."

"Let's go."

The car starts moving. There's not much traffic, the next couple blocks. It's so fucking hot in this car. Summer in New York, and the car's been in the sun. Matt wants to sleep so bad.

"So. Nino. What's it like having those dumb fucks training you?" 

"It's good."

"You're supposed to say they're not dumb-fucks Mr. Stick! Elektra's the best!" Elektra says, in a voice.

Yeah, right.

*
Out the car, Matt goes.

They're downtown, in Chinatown, Matt smells the insomnia in the wind. Lawyers and crackheads alike live in this neighbourhood. He slept and woke with a crick in his neck and an ache in shoulder. Matt's so sick of these god damn people and it's only something past 10 o'clock.

How inconvenient everything can be. There's no group of people Matt wants to accompany a fight with less.  

A gang of six walks in Chinatown. Stick impatiently hurried them out at the first sign of traffic. It's a chilled, Babylonian February, they're all arrogantly wearing overcoats. People, real people, so lost in themselves huddle over food stands, negotiating prices. Nino walks behind.

Matt waits for him to catch up.

"Nervous?"

"You already know," he says and, indeed, Matt does. Hands are clammy, fast heartbeat, dry mouth: symptoms of a little boy.

"Don't worry about it. You're progressing nicely, Nino. You're doing good. I didn't even know I was about to do it, my first time."

"What do you mean?"

"I only heard it through, ah, the floors. When I was coming up. It was Hydra."

"Hydra? The one with the scary guy? With the arm?"

Matt hums. Nino sours, quiet.

Continuing the walk is as boring as New York can be. In a two block radius, there's a woman bathing in a fountain, a guy smoking a cigarette holding a baby in his arms, and a homeless man with a sharpened rock for a knife. This is the length of their walk. 

Matt knows they're nearing the spot when he starts to smell heroin. Ice, the navigation leader, slows in his tread.

Traphouse. Excellent.

Everyone slows down for today's star of the show. His hands are still pouring, poor boy.

*
Well.

Not really, poor boy. He wins with no cuts because there was no knife. Colour Matt the only colour he still recognises, disappointed. No crying, either. Boring piece of theatre, but Stick said Fog fights just like Wind and Cloud. Matt tried not to smile.

Stick, Elektra and Matt are standing by Nino's Eddie's handler. He's holding his katana! Fun.

"Your boy's really so good," he says, his name's Landon, something. Creepy guy, he's like Smoke except the child-molester aura emits more like Chernobyl.

"Yours sucks. Why?"

"Oh. Uh, ha, I started training him late. Too old for my taste. In more ways than one."

And, hey. What The Fuck?

Stick goes, "Lennon, I hope you're not implying what I think you are."

Lennon sputters. Elektra gives a kind of elbow squeeze that means both I saw that too, and what the fuck? at the same time.

"Because it sounds like you just said you fuck little boys. You don't fuck little boys, do you? Or do you not have a gender preference?"

Fast heartbeat. This guy fucks kids. Matt was right.

"It's not--"

"Jesus Christ," he says, disgusted.

"I didn't mean it like that!"

"You goddamn heretic. Sick fuck. I'm done."

"I-"

Stick leaves. Lennon's alone with Matt and Elektra, and the two of them look a lot like Mark David Chapman right now. Lennon exhales as they inhale. Nino's Eddie is in a room alone.

He opens his mouth, smelling like rosemary and lemons, Chipotle, "Would you tell boss-man that it's really not like that? It's a joke, for crying out loud, and this is supposed to be our opening to--"

"Why do you think talking's going to get you out of this? Your mouth is bad. It's not helping you," Elektra says, toying with her katana. 

"What are you, threatening me? Kitten, honestly, it's not working, tell your-"

Slice, the sword goes. Through Lennon's neck. Clean and beautiful. Head hits the ground as soon as Nino opens the door. Ha! Shit.

Elektra pulls Nino out the door where there is no car. His symptomatic shock is left untreated. Stick and Ice and String left them on the road like dogs. 

**

Elektra wants burgers, Matt's hungry and tired, Nino's traumatised; so they get burgers. No good diners in Chinatown, they get on the train. She pays.

It reminds him of their cat burglary days. 

When Matt brings it up, Nino says,
 "You guys used to do that? Really?" with too much admiration in his voice.

"Yes. The first time was," she laughs, "because he couldn't afford a coat. I must have had fifty coats and jackets in my wardrobe. I don't know what the hell happened to me, I hit my head, or something; but I thought it would be a good idea."

"You were so good at it, though."

She smiles, "I was. You really freaked out that first time."

"I remember. You said my Catholicism was 'church bullshit'."

"You're a Catholic?"

"Yeah."

"Oh," he says. 

*

A Hell's Kitchen spot is always going to be good. Harmonious chemicals, just Matt's type. The place stinks of nicotine and the waitress smells like Zoloft. Burgers are served, Elektra's getting it.

"I don't want to go back," Nino says, over a plate of fries.

"You don't want to go back?" Matt muffles, mid-bite.

"No."

Elektra asks, "What do you mean?" 

"To the Chaste building. I don't want it. I'm done."

"Why?" says she.

"I don't want to kill, I don't want to be here.. rather just be a normal kid."

"Ah," she says, "Matthew, talk to Nino. I have to go to the ladies room," a lie. 

"What the f--" and she's gone. Nino cowers in his seat. He's sitting opposite Matt, hardly eating. He's been so nervous this entire day Matt's surprised he didn't pop.

Matt feels like a dad after a long day's work. 

"What was it, the fight?"

"I don't know. There's a bad feeling and I want to go home every time I'm there and.. I hate it."

"Was it-- was it the head on the floor?"

A pause. Okay.

"Christ. It's been a long day, Nino, I understand. I understand what you're feeling, I've been wanting to go home since I was ten years old, but, over this? Over a little head? Larry, the pedophile's head?"

"Leonard."

"Oh, whatever. Over that? What the fuck do you think this is, Sunday school? There are decapitated bodies on the seventh floor every day, Nino."

"Yeah but-"

"-Everyday, on the tiles you rest your poor little head on. You wouldn't know, Nino, but you gotta know. Think about it. You live in New York City, our New York City. This can't break you. You can't be a part of Chaste and be so soft. You're Fog, for Christ's sake. I spent 7 months training you, I was so proud when you won," he says, hammering his hands on the table. Other customers turn their heads.

"This is your living, breathing life, Nino. This is your purpose. I give you shit but you're here, why, because you're so fucking unfortunate? Stick picked you because you have something they don't. Okay? This isn't it, not even half, not even a quarter. You're going to be there when shit happens because you're a warrior, and you're good at it. This is you. And you stay, you understand me? Don't make mistakes, don't be like the fuckin', uh, Persian. Ah. Elektra's back."

Cheshire, she slides into the booth. 

"Are we all through?"

"Nino?"

He's turning his head, looking for an escape. No one can help him here.

"Yes," he groans, "I got it."

"Nino, you're fine. There's nothing a person can't live with," Elektra reassures.

"Unless her name's Elektra."

She pulls the butter knife and stabs him in the arm with it. Ouch, fuck. Jesus. "Shut up," she says. Matt shuts up.

*
Lucas doesn't help him with the wound, he's still mad. Doesn't even ask where it came from. The nuns don't ask where he's been. Matt didn't want anyone's concern anyway.

*
Matt, with a dry throat, can hear Lucas pray for him in whispers, using his real name. There's a funny feeling between his ribs, he needs it, he needs it, he needs it. 

The knife thing was a bad idea.

He showers but doesn't study economics. He sleeps the minute he falls into bed.

*
Matt got an A-. Chrissy said it was impressive, but it's just econ.

***

At Christina's apartment, he tries his best to act normal and nice. The apartment is nice and her parents are nice. They're good to Matt and tell him not to worry about his plate. They serve grilled chicken, which the dad cooks. 

They're a real family with pictures on the wall and everything. 

It made Matt think. Not even with Dad did he have that kind of family, the type in movies and books. Dad always came home late, he couldn't cook, never took him places for the sake of taking him places. Couldn't teach him to be a man, he died too early. 

Matt forgives the past, forgives Dad for dying and forgives the burns in his eyes for leaving him, too.

"Matthew?" the mom says, "Care for some pie? Chrissy's sister makes an excellent cherry pie. It's in the fridge if you want some."

"No," Chrissy answers, "it's horrible. Matt doesn't want it"

"Uh-"

"I insist."

"Matt," Chrissy says. Matt feels trapped. "Do you want the pie? He doesn't want the pie."

"Let the poor thing answer!"

"He's not--"

"It's just some fucking pie? I mean. If you want to give me the pie, you can give me the pie," he says, and there is nervous laughter coming from everyone but Chrissy. Oops.

The dad's laugh is deep and booming, "Wow. Oka-"

"Matty, I don't know if they taught you this at the orphanage, but that's not how you talk to your girlfriend's parents."

"Christina!"

Matt smiles, the polite tension lifted from his shoulders, this is how people should treat him. 

"Sorry. Pie would be great."

"Alright, sweetheart. I'll get you some pie."

*
"A blind guy?"

"What, I can't date a blind person? Or is it because he's a poor orphan?"

"Chrissy, it's not like that it's--"

"What, mom, what?"

"We don't mind blind people. I think Matt is great, me and your father just thought, you know, with Derek--"

"Oh, because what you think is so important in how I live my life."

"Would you stop interrupting me?"

"Stop bringing up Derek, then. This has nothing to do with him. Matt is good. And he's nice, so can you stop?"

"Can't you just have a normal life? Can't you and Jezzy just have a normal-- I mean, why does your blind boyfriend have bruised knuckles? Why does he have a bandage on his arm, Christina, for Heaven's sakes? Please. Did we not raise you well enough?"

Matt grips the cold basin of the bathroom sink. 

*
Nine is easy. Nine bodies in the Hudson. Not there, buried somewhere, by men whose names Matt doesn't know.

Does Stick count his bodies? Warm blooded, Stick's above him, berating someone. It could be Matt, but he's not listening, never paying attention. There are birds outside. He's starved.

"Matty," he says, startlingly. 

"I was listening."

"No you weren't. You were off in neverland. Were you thinking about little Chrissy, boy?"

Matt's not surprised he knows her name.

"No," he says, and his heart doesn't skip.

*
Elektra v. Russian Eddie, all they fight are Russian Eddies, she got stabbed, she lost. 

The wound is from her forearm to her wrist. Many arteries there, String said, once- last week. She has never seemed so weak, on the floor, covered in thick and viscous blood.

The door won't open. Stick can't open it

The Eddie isn't scared or confused. No sweat on his hands. Slightly elevated heart rate, the high from the kill. He stands, staring owlishly at the door, then the glass, where Matt's behind. Ice is rushing out, leaving the door open. 

It takes too long, cardinal seconds before Stick rips open the door, grabbing her like a child. Matt knows now what it feels like for the other person, on the other side of the glass. He is so glad he can't see it.

Thoughts are late to Matt's mind to leave the room.

She can't walk, there's so much blood loss. Stick leaves her on the floor in her own blood, but she will be okay because this isn't that big of a deal, this isn't, and Elektra's the strongest person Matt knows. Stronger than the tile of this floor, stronger than the steel of Matt's katana, stronger than Matt.

"Matthew?" she says, not sounding strong, "Matt? Where's Matt?"

Salt's here with the doctor. 

"I'm here, 'lektra."

"We need to.. Nino's first fight."

The doctor says words, but Matt's not listening. "We already did that, 'lektra. A month ago."

She's coughing, Matt doesn't know what it means when the doctor reacts. He says, "I need everyone out, now!"

So Stick runs out with Matt parallel.

*
It's fine. She takes a Valium and she's fine. Matt gets her candy, the expensive kind he can't afford.

*
Chrissy's house, again. They're sixteen and carnal, she likes to drink and he likes pills, so they drink. Her parents are gone. Matt palmed a bottle of wine from her street bodega. She likes that fancy brand, asked for it without a second thought. It's for a girl, they would understand. Her speakers are playing low, aggressive girl-rock. Nervous. 

Wine makes it easier to not be nervous, though.

She asks him, wine tipsy, if he's a pot-head. He says he's never tried it and she says, Really?!

He nods, dopy; and she smiles and kisses him, tasting of those pomegranate chemicals, but also of herself. Christina smells so good. She's so close, she gets the same scents every time. Blueberry. Matt's more drunk off the blueberry than the wine. 

Pulling away, Matt says, "Your sister's coming in the room."

And so she does. Chrissy seems to make a shocked face.

"How'd you know?"

"It's a blind thing."

"Oh. Jez, say hi to my blind boyfriend, Matt."

Blind boyfriend.

"Hi, Matt," she says, and Matt gives a cute little wave, "Look, don't tell mom and dad I'm going out. 'kay?"

"Okay."

Her sister's some sort of stripper, wearing big shoes, carrying a dime bag of coke. The door opens and closes, leaving Chrissy and Matt on the couch alone.

She's smiling. Matt really likes the blueberry smell.

*
Chrissy says, "Make it last." 

This order's harder than the rest. 

*
There's a hot white shame on his back, after, remembering that miracle of life video, those lectures they give at school. The rubber in the air is all that goes into his lungs. 

****

Lucas left. Matt's mad about that, can't find it in his heart to forgive him and the new kid, too. Newly orphaned 15 year old Adam, he's so poorly closeted. The eternally shocked type, clamouring heart with sweaty hands wiped on cheap jeans. He sings show tunes, bothers Matt with questions, and cries all day

Crying pisses Matt off. It happens too much.

Grief is non-linear, said the trauma therapist they had him go to when Dad first died. A person has to move on, though. And poor fucking Adam needs a stopping force.

He needs to stop crying. 

泣くな, said Smoke, to a kid named Kaito. 泣くな, quit your crying.

So Matt says, "Jesus, do you ever stop fucking crying?" while Adam's sobbing in bed.

He says, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just quit the crying."

"My fucking-- ugh. Mom died. And now I'm here."

"It happens. Get over it, man," he says, forgetting not everyone needs orders to do things. 

"What the fuck? ‘It happens’? Fuck you, asshole."

And Matt only feels a little bad. 

*
A little more than a little bad, maybe.

*
He doesn't apologise. 

*
Because Adam stopped crying. That was Matt. His mom died and now he's done crying, that was Matt who told him that, and now he's quiet at night. 

*
People are nervous around him often, blind kid, they're stepping on their own toes, but Adam's new nervousness around Matt is distinct, something Matt keeps an eye on. Different from how Nino's nervous around him, even. It only makes Matt more abrasive.

This abrasiveness does nothing to dissuade Adam's strangeness. 

He feels like shit.

*
He wishes things worked more like the 7th floor. Though he hates it when he's there. 

*
Life gives him symptoms that make his occupation hard to deal with. Like Chrissy. Matt asked Chrissy out, knowing he would get too attached, knowing it's a bad thing. It's not what soldiers do. Let us not love in word, neither with the tongue; but in deed and truth, right? He's got conflicting orders. 

Matt doesn't know why Stick doesn't give him more shit about her.

*
Church is hard. God is love. Church is hard.

*
Chaste gives him watches and knives and money. 

The Church gave him all this confusion. The Church gave him a weepy roommate.

*
Matt doesn't know where his unhappiness comes from. Both at the same time?

*
Yeah, it's both of them, he thinks, as he takes a pill.

*
While Matt was trying to meditate on the tiles of 32nd and 5th, Stick fucking stabbed him.

"What the fuck?" he said, clutching his hand. It could almost look like stigmata wounds.

"You really were in a trance, huh?"

It hurts so bad, he's such a dick, "What the fuck??" -and no one's even looking at them, this is so normal. Getting used to bleeding is a task his body wishes were easier.

"We're going to a meeting uptown."

"When?" 

"Fifteen," Stick says, then walks away. God damn it. How's he supposed to do shit like this?

Too soft for this place, the symptoms of the outside, he thinks, as he's half-heartedly wrapping the stab wound. 

*
Elektra and Matt are in the backseat, Stick in the passenger. Two canes, Matt's cane is a secret ultra-thin katana, two knives, four pairs of sunglasses, and interestingly, one gun. Matt loves the idea of shooting a gun but they never allowed him to try. They let Elektra.

She points the gun at him which is not funny so Matt smacks it out of her hand and Stick yells at them.

They're silent the rest of the ride.

*
East Harlem smells like bricks and spices. The building they go to is blasting Spanish ballads and has 10 people in it, all armed with guns and knives. They smell like newly-inked tattoos and GHB.

The stab wound still hurts, gripping his not-cane. 

"Who are these two?" Main guy says, smelling acrid, sickly. He has no hair-smelling scents on him. Cancer?

"Cloud and Wind, my guards. They're good." he says, and a small tinge of pride tugs at Matt's heart.

The guy says, "Why the fuck-- Cloud and Wind? Shit is absurd. Why do you bring kids- one of them's blind- to our fucking meeting? This don't mean nothin' to you? I'm here, working my ass off, trying to be the biggest distributor in the East Coast, and you--"

"Martin, Martin, calm down."

"You don't tell me what the fuck I--"

"Listen. I have people cleaning our stock in Saitama. The clean drugs will cost no more for you than that dirty shit you get in Monterrey. I don't have to do business with you. Do you still have any problems?"

He hesitates, "It won't cost no more?"

"Yes."

"You sure of that?"

"I'll bet the blind kid's life."

"Alright."

*
There's more talking after that, but that was cool. Elektra said, while they were talking, that Stick bet on his life instead of hers because he's the favourite.

*
Elektra's wrong. Matt used to think she was so smart.

*
Back on the seventh floor. 

Salt says, "Open your hands."

Matt does what he's told. Three pills are dropped in his hand.

"What's this? I want to know what I'm taking."

"Two Valium and a Klonopin. So you can sleep."

"I can already sleep."

"Shut up and take the pills, Matty."

"Okay."

*
Matt finds out that these fake-fights he does with Elektra only work because of an agreement made by everyone in the 50s. The Chaste abuses it. They decreed ‘recreational fights-- because what they do is so recreational-- that take any lives should not be considered a sign of war, if it's proven accidental’. Today Matt's going in alone. 

No fidgeting, no shaky breaths. He's good. 

Parliament woman is back, next to him as he dresses the (stigmata) stab wound on his hand. His katana lays on the floor below the bench he sits on.

"You want help with that?"

"Sure."

As she dresses his wound, Matt has fantasies. Not regular fantasies of fleshly women and their blueberry lips, none of those thoughts belong here, with them; he's thinking of his own death. 

Not by sword or gun or hands, but by God and his earthbound, biblical ways. Matt in a field long before New York was New York, nightmarish storm, a bolt of lightning strikes his spine such that nothing of his body is left but dust and charcoal. A donkey kicks him down the descent of a ravine, unrecoverable body. Dad is there, mourning. Dad is always there, in his fantasies. 

Lowly, like an electrical hum, she forces him back to life, "Hey."

"Yeah?"

She sounds younger than she is when she says, "Do you like the fights?"

He doesn't. He feels too old for them. "Not.. particularly?"

"I can get you out of here," she says, touching his shoulder. As if it provides some solidarity, some comfort.

"..what do you mean?"

"I can get you out. I know some people, they can get you ids, move you to other states?"

--move you to other states, can't move minors across state lines without the permission of a guardian. Matt's guardian is the government, the Administration for Children’s Services, ACS, who couldn't give two fucks about Matt, but they'd find out he's gone.

"What?"

"I can--"

"I know what you can do. What are you doing, helping people disassociate? What the fuck?"

Stick's about to come in.

"Do you really want this life?" She says, and he's never thought about that, but Stick's coming in, and he says, 

"This is life, this is--" Stick's mad, "I have to go."

*
He's over Eddiette with the Katana. The girl's panting, hissing, terrified. What is Matt compared to this moment? He is nothing. A speck of dust or charcoal. She's gesticulating uncontrollably. Matt's head hurts.

"Сущий дьявол," she says, unfamiliarly, "боже мой. Please. Спасти меня, this fucking devil, ah, fuck, please--" she says, before Matt kills her. Ten. 

Fucking devil. 

The scent of blood sharpens Matt's senses, coughing, leaping backwards, ten, he should be used to it by now. Someone comes in, yelling at him, but his head hammers the number ten like ashes on his forehead. It must be Elektra who grabs him by his arms, taking him away. Matt is a toddler again, failing to walk, confused. 

He stumbles out into the other room and the blood smell is still so sharp. He misses Chrissy.

"Matthew. Matty," she says, Elektra, "you have to get used to this, you can't keep panicking. It's not good for you. I worry, you know."

"I know," he says tiredly.

"You got chafed a little," he only notices the hurt now, "you want me to take care of that or are you fine?"

"I'm fine."

Center stage, enter Nino, "Matt? Are you okay?" he says, sounding worried.

"Nino, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I wanted--"

"I'm fine, guys, don't worry. Get back to training, or whatever you were doing."

"I was with String."

"Whatever," Matt says, trying to get the med kit. Elektra hands it to him with her semi-working arms. The scar is still there, Matt hears it. Elektra tries to get Nino out as she leaves him to himself, but Nino only stands, watching him disinfect the cut. Absent-mindedly, Matt wants Nino to leave this place. He wants the Parliament-smoking woman to take Nino and go as far as possible, California, something. Someplace nice, warm, without any crime. 

Nino stands and watches in the doorway instead.

*
Elektra comes back with Swedish Fish. Nino doesn't want one.

**** *

Chapter Text

2001, September 11th, Matt's cutting class.

Seven in the morning in this abandoned shithole feels like a dry throat. The air's suffocating on the smell of decomposing bodies on the 7th floor; no longer smelling of Parliaments. It smells like her shoes, her stomach acid, her spectred guilt. His chance is over, the key's gone, thrown into a river.

Matt didn't do it. That's low work.

Lying on the floor like a rotten prince, Matt's getting hit by Stick. He's not hitting him out of anger, it's kind of weirding Matt out, it's more like Stick's playing with him. Like a wild panther, this is his idea of play. Stick wants him to go to a meeting since he's here so early on a weekday.

"I have a hand wound. I can't."

Matt didn't skip school to go to a meeting.

He gets hit again, Stick's pawing at his shoulder, "Can you stop hitting me? I don't want to go."

"Since when do you have the gall to assume I care?"

Another jab to the head, Matt's head hits the wall, "I'm not a basketball! If I get brain damage it's your fault."

"Since when do--"

"Yeah, yeah."

Pause. Stick kicks him to pass the time. Matt doesn't fight back.

"I'm not going."

"Yes you are."

Bad idea, do it anyway, "Is Elektra going?"

A weird time, Stick's being nice (not cruel; Nixon goes to China) and Matt opened his mouth and fucked it. Stick scoffs and Matt feels it in his bones, Stick's actions is the hinge by which Matt's mood is judged.

What Matt knows and Stick doesn't is that he is Matt's people. Stick, Elektra, Nino, Ice. With unbending loyalty, Matt is made unalone by his people.

Stick stands, "No. Elektra's not going. Don't be a child," he says, walking away, "Be ready in an hour."

Instead of getting mad or self-hating or fake-apathetic about it, he stays down.

A sort of angry masochism, he already misses the moment. Matt was too hopeful.

The tile feels like hospital tile warmed beneath him, he's feeling newly blinded, he's missing Dad, after everything he's done. But he doesn't deserve to miss Dad, not after ten. Not after the Parliament woman died. Not after, after, after. Matt's violent decisions.

*

In the car: Chambers street is loud and busy. The car is at a standstill with others next to it. It feels like the bus to school.

"Chrissy, your girl.. how is she?"

Stick has a brick of heroin concealed in a box in his lap. Matt should have gone to school.

A concerned beat. "You didn't do anything to her, did you? She's not dead under--"

"I can't ask?"

"--the Williamsburg bridge?" Matt swallows, "She's fine."

"Nothing else. She's fine?"

"Some- some asshole tried to rob her the other day. She's fine."

"You didn't save her?" Stick asks with a tone so serious, someone not familiar with him wouldn't notice the sarcasm.

Matt laughs, "Fuck you, did I save her."

"You wouldn't save a crying child."

"Says you? Stick? Guy who makes me kill kids?"

An unfamiliar sound, Stick laughs. Holy shit. Matt doesn't understand.

"I don't make you do anything, Matty."

He listens to the air around him, listens to him move his head, touch the H box, and clutches onto it. The moment's still there, he's living it, but it's blundering away. Stick laughed good naturedly. Matt feel stupid. Stick's nothing, only one person, and yet so much more.

Matt misses Dad, with Stick beside him.

There's an airplane in above Manhattan.

It's kind of close to the ground? JFK, LaGuardia, they're outside the city.

"Do you hear that?" Matt asks. It's getting closer.

"Yeah."

A fucking BOOM into one of the towers just ahead of them. Shit! An explosion of sound. The World Trade Centre is smoking, fire sounding like cracking bones. It's dwarfed by the sound of the people.

"..the fuck?" the driver says.

"Uh. Stick?" his hand is on Matt's shoulder.

"Holy.. shit?" "What the hell was that?" "Yo?" is all he hears.

Stick says, "The tower's been hit," like Matt doesn't already know.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know."

"Oh my God?" "They hit the World Trade Centre." "Woah. What the fuck?"

"Uh. Should we.. should we do something?"

"Like what, Matty?"

"I don't know. Get out the car, go back?"

"Shut up."

Matt shut up but it didn't get any quieter. New York has never been louder, never sworn more.

"Do you see that?" "Oh, my God."

Matt wonders what kind of shit pilot could have accidentally done this.

"That's so much smoke." "Oh my God?"

People crying already. This is so weird, this whole day.

"I'm not getting anything," Stick says, because he's smart, "they think it was aiming towards the building."

"Like the pilot wanted to crash?"

"Something like that."

Alarms sound throughout the city. It's so loud everywhere. Matt misses the tile, misses his bed, school, even. The heartbeat of New York is pounding.

"Are we still goin' to the meeting?"

"No."

*

"Oh my God," Matt says, astounded.

The other tower hit by another plane. It's so loud. People are louder the second time.

"That's crazy."

"How many people do you think are in that building?" Stick says, not waiting for an answer, "15 thousand. A good amount, most of them aren't even from New York. You could get a car with that money. Build an empire with that many people."

"One way to think of it."

It's so loud, but Stick's there. With his brick of heroin, Stick's beside him. Matt should've gone to school.

The driver goes, "It's not lookin' good. I don't know if I can move."

Stick half-groans, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, boss."

"Fine. Matt, you want to listen to the fire?"

"No."

"Let's go."

*

It's loud, disgustingly so. Everyone in the streets acting like its the end of the world. Talking, yelling, walking, coughing. It tastes like walls and fire. Stick's leading him to the subway. Debris in the air. No canes.

Down the subway stairs. 50 people, all being so loud.

Matt wants to sit down, feel the floor.

"What the fuck?"

"Hey jackass, I got kids waitin' on me."

"What are you yellin' at me for? I can't do anything about this. It's closed. The subway's closed."

Defeated, Stick says, "Well, fuck. Walk back on your own, kid," as he starts to walk away.

"What are you talking about?"

"You heard me."

"You're leaving me on my own? Asshole?"

"You can do it. You're a big boy, Matty."

Matt doesn't know what he expected. They had a thing going on. Stick laughed when Matt called him evil. He could be shocked but this is exactly like him.

"Damn it."

Next to him, "That's messed up," some random New Yorker says, scent of dish soap on her hands, "Your dad just left you?"

After some consideration, Matt says, "Yeah. Fucking.. piece of shit. Can you, ah, walk me back? Get me a cab, something? Please? I got no one."

"Where do you live, honey?"

"Hell's Kitchen, West 49th and 10th."

"I-- What are you doing downtown? Your dad-- I live 5 blocks away, baby, I'm sorry to leave you here. I'm broke, myself. Do you have anyone to call? Do you need a phone?"

She's so strange. A person can't be this gentle, polite, here, now.

"Yeah, uh. I have someone to call. Thanks."

She hands over the phone. Who to call? Chrissy? Elektra? The orphanage?

Matt chooses his girlfriend out of spite. The nuns couldn't give less of a shit about him. He could die exactly like Dad did and they'd get fucking Adam to clean the floor beneath him.

She answers on the third ring.

*

"Chrissy, it's Matt. You okay?"

"Matt, um."

"Are you alright?"

She's shaky, "Fuck, I'm sorry, my fucking aunt--"

"What?"

"--works at the World Trade Center, she's probably dead, I'm just--"

"I'm sorry."

"--don't know what to do. Um."

"It's okay."

"It's really not."

"Yeah. I'm sorry. Do you need me to come over?"

"What?"

"Do you want me to come over? I'm at Tribeca. I can come over."

"Why are you in Tribeca? No. That's a long walk. Um. Please pray for my aunt, okay, just-- I don't know. Stay safe. Why are you in Tribeca? That's so close to the towers. Why didn't you come to school? Matt?"

The woman's looking around, getting impatient. Pursed lips, already sweaty hands getting sweatier.

"Don't worry about it. Hey, look, I got to go. I'm sorry. About your aunt. I'm-- I'm so sorry."

"Matt?" He hangs up.

The woman takes the phone.

"Everything alright?"

"Uh. My girlfriend-- It's fine. Thanks for that, really, you didn't have to do that."

"You can make another call."

"It's fine. I-- do you have the time?"

"9:25, baby."

"Okay. Thank you."

"It's no problem."

He walks away with nothing but his hands in his pockets.

*

Matt's pissed and guilty, it's a weird walk back. Shoes on the sidewalk, there's not a single person not shaky on the street. It tastes like smoke and carpet. Matt hears people grumble about World War III and worries the buttons on his shirt.

*

People are scared. Which is so glaringly stupid.

Being scared does nothing but fuck you up. The last time Matt felt fear, he thought he was having a heart attack, still stupid of him. Shame and hatred powers the walk back.

*

The air is tough.

*

Matt wants a Valium. Or to be punched. Something normal. He wants Stick to be mean to him, he wants Elektra to be flippant, Chrissy to be indifferent, Lucas to be passive-aggressive at him. He wants a shorter walk back to the orphanage.

*

Make sure to pass Chinatown, in his thoughts. It's easy to navigate. Columbus park still smells like piss and Meth.

No people huddled over for produce. It's still day, but no one's doing anything. They're ants, scrambling. How much money is that? How many soldiers?

Matt's feet fucking hurt. Fuck you, Stick. Headass.

*

Elektra's probably fine.

*

Aching feet, by the time he makes it to the orphanage, the nuns figure out he was gone. They were waiting for him, he realises, walking through the gates. The entrance room smells like sweat and bleach.

There's never been so many people in this room. Orphans and others, since when did Cecilia have a hooker friend?

Sister Maggie says, in front of everyone, "Matthew? Where the hell were you?"

The day has been long enough.

"Did you miss me?"

"St. Hillary's called. They said you skipped again. It's 10:30. Where were you?"

"Where was I? I was at- uh, I was at school? I don't know why they said I wasn't there. I was there, it just took me awhile to get back. Don't worry about it."

"You were at school."

Matt's regretting this, "Yeah?" at her silence, he says, "Can I- can I go? Am I excused?"

Another pause. Matt pisses people off too much.

"You're not excused."

"Okay."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No, sister."

"So why are you treating me like I'm stupid? Answer me."

Adam's by the doorway, he's looking at them. It's not quiet but it's not loud and people hear them.

"Why are you yelling at me? It's not like it's the first time."

"Don't make this difficult for yourself."

Matt touches his rib, the tattoo. Matty. Elektra's probably fine. Aching feet, a pit in his stomach, this chaos doesn't make sense, Matt doesn't understand the argument. He digs his uncut nails into his palms. This makes sense, the controlled pain.

"What did I do?"

"You-- what did you do, Matthew? You stressed me out."

"I stressed you out?"

"Yes, of course you did. It's all you do."

"Why? I'm fine, you're fine.."

"What do you-- just tell me where you were. Where's your cane?"

The cane. Fuck.

"It's not like I was in Tribeca when it happened, okay? I'm fine. Nothing to be stressed about, it's-- you're not my mother, I don't know why you care so much. Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

She suddenly exhales, changing how she carries herself. What was once a tense, pissed posture (clenched fists, clenched jaw, pursed lips, Matt misses dad so much) becomes relaxed. Sister Maggie really fucking cared, huh?

People stop looking at them. Cecilia and her new hooker bestie are discussing the blind guy Matt.

Sister Maggie stares, "You're fine. Alright, Matthew. Alright. Go to your room, a prayer for peace will be held soon. You're not leaving this place until this whole building is scrubbed."

He removes his nails from his palm. It drew blood.

"God damn it," he hisses, walking away hands swaying like he's blind, closer to Adam "Wait. Sister Maggie?"

There are so many questions he could ask. It's only 10 in the morning, there are birds chirping, still. Are the towers still on fire? Is Chrissy okay? Are you mad at me? Stupid question. He's stuck with an aching body.

"Yes?"

"What happened to Lucas?"

"Lucas Moreno?" Adam butts in, "Are you talking about Lucas Moreno?"

"What's it to you? How the hell would you know Lucas?"

Adam gestures, touching Matt's chest, "Wh--" as Sister Maggie says, "Language."

"But you just--"

"Lucas Moreno? Was he right, is it him?" she says, dry.

"Yes, yes. My roommate Lucas. Who else? God fucking--"

"Language!" she says, more serious this time.

"Sorry."

She sighs, "He got adopted. Nice couple, they live upstate."

This strikes him and Adam, "Really?" they say at the same time. It pisses Matt off. Sister Maggie doesn't answer.

"You were friends with Lucas?" Adam asks, turned to Matt. Leading question.

"Shut the fuck up."

*

It collapsed. If Matt stayed he could have heard it, felt the rubble fall. They say the number's 2000-something.

*

The day after, when there's no school, Matt gets a call. Stick. Matt didn't know he had his number. He yelled at him a little about the subway woman, spoke seriously about something else Matt doesn't care about, and then said;

"Anyway. You got a mission with Ellie in Hell's kitchen. 4:00, Friday. Don't you fucking forget. You better not be so useless this time."

任務, mission, task, job.

Missions are cool. Not the fights, not the money, not training stupid fucking Nino. Mission. He's finally going to be important, mean something.

*

Teary, Christina calls an hour later and says her aunt's dead.

"But at least my cousins are rich now," she laughs somberly, "Victim compensation or something. You're invited to the funeral, the fourteenth. I don't know if you know this, but you have to wear a black suit. Ask a nun, or something."

For Dad's funeral, one of Dad's gym buddies gave him a red tie, for that Murdock Touch, he remembers, obliquely.

*

Matt can't go to the funeral. Friday is the fourteenth.

*

The mission.

*

Are you kidding? Matt wouldn't miss that for the world. It's so fucking cool. This is the progression of his life, he's going to do missions and be a real Chaste operative. He'll be like that guy from Pulp Fiction except not, 'cause Matt's smart enough not to die. He can't go to the funeral.

Chrissy sounded disappointed but that's means nothing. Soldiers don't miss their first mission. That's a death.

*

All day long people discuss the towers and what it means for America.

*

Matt couldn't care less.

*

After taking three pills out of his stashed, tongued Valium, he's borderline unconscious walking to 32nd and 5th. He knows he shouldn't take it before the mission, shaky hands, clumsiness; but he needs it. He'd get nervous or overly excited and fuck it up without taking at least one. A lonely walk, to: little amounts of tourists on the streets.

Borderline unconscious, you'd think his heart would be normal, but it's beating out his chest. Took too much.

He walks and breathes for 10 minutes until his chest functions like he wants it to. That time is bad. It should have been much faster.

*

Mission summary:

"His name is Alex Hynes. Kitchen boy, apartment at 52nd and 10th, four-two-six, second floor, fifth apartment. Got that? . I want no witnesses or fingerprints. Nothing suspicious. You understand, Ellie?"

"Fine."

Mission timeline:

"I gotta be back before 5."

She chuckles, "You have a curfew? I haven't had a curfew since I was 12."

"The nuns are mad at me."

"Not happening."

"Okay."

Weapons?

"I brought my favourite knife and a katana," she said.

"Me too."

Notes:

"Don't fuck it up."

He doesn't think to ask why they're doing this until they get there.

*** ***

餌食, prey, victim, Eddie.

*

Eddie is immediately terrified. Stupid. At the sight of Matt and Elektra, he grabs a gun taped to the bottom of his desk and flees. The run is to a window, but he's not Chaste, not really, Matt knows from his (familiar?) smell, so he's slow compared to Elektra. Katanas can't be drawn.

The gun is in Eddie's hands, between the two of them. Strong grip. Matt's gloved hands are struggling against the gun and hers is punching his face. His mouth goes copper but he won't budge on the gun, too stunned to fire.

An attempt to pry it out is not working. Work on the blood flow to his fingers. His favourite knife comes in handy. Asshole gets a punch in before Matt can reach it.

Fuck, too fast, uncoordinated, it feels like Matt's first day on earth, the knife feels foreign, but he manoeuvres it anyway. Muscle memory. Took too many pills. Three is the limit.

Wrist goes copper, reminding him of Elektra's wound. Eddie is not quiet but he doesn't scream or yell, groaning and panting.

The gun skitters on the floor.

Elektra moves to pull out her katana--

He takes the gun again. Shot fired. No blood in the air other than Eddie's, bullet almost gets Matt's side, but he's green. A katana almost slices through Eddie's neck, clean, how she likes it: but he ducks. Hair falls on the ground like parts of a building.

Another shot, bang, this is something suspicious. He's a bad shot, it hits the ceiling. Elektra drops her weapon.

She struggles with the slide of the gun. She wins. Matt gets his legs, he's on the floor next to the gun. Eddie almost gets it but Matt stabs his arm to the floor. His yell is muffled by Matt's hand. Please. Спасти меня, this fucking devil.

She doesn't grab the gun. Eddie is kicking.

"'lektra. Come on."

This unfreezes her.

The Eddie was dispatched with one shot to the head, so loud, she's a natural. He can't hear shit but he can smell that cadaverous newly-killed body scent and the fruit-gum of Elektra's lips moving. He lets go of the body, sits next to it, still warm. With unusual clarity of mind, he realises why this Eddie was so familiar.

Alex Hynes. Alexander, son of Simon, Mark 15:21, a Catholic name. Alex was an older Catholic orphan when Matt was 11, only at St. Agnes for a year before he went into foster families. A Kitchen boy.

Matt killed this Alex with a gun, like Dad was. With God watching.

"Earth to Matty? Are you there?" she says, not fully clear yet.

Haunted, "Too close to my head, 'lektra."

"Shit, sorry. You went deaf, there?"

"A little."

"That sucks. Um. Do you want to rob his apartment? To cheer you up?"

Ha. An orphan won't have much in his apartment, much less a Hell's Kitchen orphan. He's a dealer for Chaste for Christ's sake. Matt wouldn't be surprised if the most valuable thing here is a needle. Matt shakes his head and Elektra groans.

"Why not? He has a safe, there must be some interesting shit in here?"

Matt didn't notice the safe. He nods. Matty and Ellie are back on the town.

As she grabs the gun, he says, with the body still right next to him, "Wait. Wait-wait-wait-wait. I have an idea," fully crawling to the metal box below Alex's desk.

Snap, one, two. Such a fucking genius.

"You and your ideas."

"I need a.. thing. A bobby pin."

"You really are something. I don't have any bobby pins."

"Get one? Come on. Paperclip."

She sighs but looks around the messy desk, papers and energy drink cans, and-- "Found it," she says, handing Matt two paperclips. He sets one on the floor, bends the other and wriggles it around. Such a fucking genius. It pops open swiftly.

"Nice job, Matthew," she says with a grin. Yes. He sits up while she looks through the safe.

Rummaging through, she doesn't seem to like the contents-- jewellery, bills, photographs-- until she touches something. A dime bag of cocaine, Matt realises. Good quality. Chaste doesn't manufacture cocaine.

She holds it up, "Do you want it?"

"No? You're taking it?"

"Yeah, I'm taking it. Are you sure you don't want it?"

Shaky hands, "Since when do you do coke?"

"Shut up. Do you want anything else or should I close it?"

Matt reaches in and takes a gold chain. Heavy. It has an age to it, must have been an heirloom. Feeling different, he closes the safe as Elektra puts the gun in Alex's hands. Alex, who would cry in the bathrooms at St. Agnes, whose best friend was a quiet girl named Sofia. There are no bloody footprints.

For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it for you on the altar to make atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that makes atonement by the life: in Matt's first gifted braille book. It stuck with him.

Matt isn't who's to judge.

It should have been four Valium. Or a couple more, without the thoughts. Enough with the thoughts. Too busy to think. He will be late.

Chapter Text

Clinging to himself, hoping his guts don't sprout out, Matt smothers his memories in his orphanage room. 32nd Street has started giving him pills in a bottle (not only Valium, something else, Matt can tell) like he's some kind of mental case, Stick says. Well. As the pills stab in his throat, he agrees. One of those rough nights when Matt has a busted lip and a halfway-to-scarred ribcage with pills that don't let him sleep, Adam is awake, across from him, on a cold, bitter, rotten mattress and under a stiff blanket.

Those pills don't let him move normal, either, conspiring with Stick's resentment. God help him, Matt takes it anyway.

Two thousand and two, now. Dad's been gone for eight years, Matt's been something like friends with Elektra for six years, he's been training Nino for two years, and he's been dating Chrissy for a year and a half. Towers fell four months ago.

He only notices time's effect when he's been away from the floor for too long.

"Hey, Matt?" Adam asks from his own bed. Flashbacks to a couple winters ago, when Lucas didn't hate him and when Matteo was still sore.

"Yeah?"

"Do you really believe in, like, heaven and stuff?"

"What?"

"I'm not saying it again. You heard me."

Never works. Stupid question exchanged by stupid boys. After Matt dies a soldier, he won't go to Heaven-- a person who enters his line of work knowing the word of God does not simply go to Heaven. When Matt dies a soldier, a sister could kneel by his body and pray to a crucifix above his body, to God, and ask him to please let Matthew in. She wouldn't know the extent of his sins. Matt cannot outrun his fate. Maybe not Heaven but Hell.

Adam, on the other side of the room, tastes and smells like bitter saliva, Matt says, "Don't you?"

"It's not that."

"What is it, then?"

He shifts, sitting up, the door creaks like a lung. "I'm going to tell you something and if you tell anybody, like, anybody, I'm telling the nuns about you sneaking out and your pill stuff and your tattoo thing. Okay? Capisce?"

"I already give you--"

"Okay?"

"Fine. Fuck? What do I care? Capisce. Whatever."

Deep breath, "I'm gay."

"..I'm blind."

"What?"

Matt laughs, floating in the realisation of what he said, "I already knew you were gay, you fucking idiot."

"Oh. Is it 'cause I'm from here?"

"Here?"

"Hell's Kitchen."

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm from here, too?"

"Oh. Ha. Well, people say it's the gayest neighbourhood in Manhattan. I thought you were from Brooklyn."

"Why?"

"Um. Nothin'. No reason. Do you think I'll go to hell 'cause I'm gay? Will I go to hell?"

Will you go to Hell, Nino? 

"There are many things to go to Hell for, Adam--"

"Is that a yes?"

"I'm not a priest. The fuck's your deal? If you want to go to Hell for being gay, then, sure, you can go to Hell, but there are better things to do. You're fine."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know what wisdom I'm supposed to impart on your soul, Adam. You're an orphan pansy. Big fuckin' deal. I was thinking. Can I continue thinking, please?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Dude, I didn't even tell my mom before she died, and I was so paranoid about this shit, and I just said it and now it's, like, suddenly not a big deal?" he says, too close to yelling by the end of the sentence. "I don't--"

Barefoot, an overseer of the teachings of God, plants her feet on the morning tile. They woke her.

"Adam."

"--understand what--"

"Adam. Hey. Calm down. Shut up. Hey."

"Matt?"

"It's okay. Sister Maggie is coming in. Can you be quiet?"

"It's not. She's not. You just don't want to keep listening to me."

"You're right, I don't, but she is."

"I'm going to hell."

"Stop."

"Boys?" Sister Maggie hisses, "Don't you know the time?"

"I don't."

Adam is staring directly at Matt.

"Make yourself quiet and sleep; you wake up in 3 hours," she says, and she's gone. Adam's crying again, a burst of tears a few seconds after she closes the door. Jesus. The crying flu strikes again. 

It reminds him of Alex Hynes in the bathrooms. There's so much pain in the world, so much unnecessary crying, it makes him think of ten. How many people per kill cried for them? Matt hears everything. Sandy, a fourteen-year-old girl, is crying because her foster family brought her back this morning. Someone outside is crying on her fire escape, calling her mom.

Matt doesn't know what to do. 

"I didn't even tell my own mother."

"Dude."

"I'm going to hell."

"Please calm down. Why are you panicking?"

"Fucking god."

Matt could channel Father Lantom, tell him not to blaspheme, say he understands, that he's going to Hell with him, or he could tell him to shut the fuck up and be strong. He'd say this to Nino, but Nino's a soldier. What is the life of a non-soldier?

He stays quiet until Adam says, "How'd you know that she'd come in? How? Is it a blind person thing? Was it the pill? Why would you give me a pill that does this to me and then take, like, another pill that gives you the ability to know when Sister Maggie's coming in? Why?"

"It's a blind thing. The pills didn't do this to you, man. You have to relax. I can get you water? Or.. candy?"

"No. No, I want another pill."

"You just--"

"Do you want me to cry more? I'm, like, self-medicating. If the nuns and the fucking social workers and therapists cared about us enough, they would-- ugh, I don't know. Like.. come on, give it to me already."

Matt gets up and lifts his mattress. The knife, the cash, papers, fancy watches Matt forgets to pawn, that chain, the pills. The truth of a soldier's existence lies underneath his bed. Take the pill, hand it to Adam.

"Thanks. What am I taking? Are these uppers or d-d's? I want to know, Matt; don't stare at me like that."

No idea.

"Don't worry about it."

*

An early greed grows into eleven and a thing for a little bottle that drums and rattles. 32nd and 5th. Thir-tee sec-ond and fiftthh, like a snake. Kor-ea-town. In braille, eleven has three characters and uses six divots. 

Eleven, only eleven yet, drawing Matt down. Swallow with water, eleven, and an American girl is gone.

That is your fault, Matthew; what you kill is what you bury. It's not theirs. Stick doesn't make you do anything.

*

But he does. With his fists and his opening mouth, he does. Matt didn't bury eleven. It wasn't him.

*

So,

*

you know,

*

is it really his fault?

**

Degenerate brute, Matt's losing against Stick for the first time in a while. His guts are sprawling out, bare on the floor, tied up. They're in String's teaching room. It's called waterboarding.

The water tastes like piss and other chemicals. Stick is yelling in his ear words indistinct. Matt's not fucking okay with it. He can take beatings like a masochist ragdoll, but Matt likes to breathe air, no matter how many bodies are in it, no matter how impure, fucking breathable air. Stick knows this as well as most other facts.

Drowning. Water particles come into his body; feel it, it feels like shit.

"Matty. How are you doing?" from over him, asshole. He takes the rag off. Breathe rapidly.

"Fuck you."

Rag goes over Matt's aggrieved face again. Fuck. He can't even yell. Heartbeat is controlled, but Stick can still tell when he's losing consciousness.

"Tell me, how'd you feel about Magdalena's death?"

This on-and-off shit is annoying.

"Who the fuck is Magdalena?"

"She smoked Parliaments."

Rag. It's a long time. There aren't many thoughts; Matt's just mad, as he is with most of Stick's endeavours. Weak and powerless, it makes him mad, and being mad is not quite Chaste.

"That shit meant nothing to me," and his heartbeat's fast but controlled. A fast heartbeat is different from the rush of a lying one.

Rag. Water moves to his lungs, drowning is a word too small, he's smothered, strangled. Cold. String taught him how to stay calm, hushed, all those years ago in a non-Chaste way, after one of Matt's famous episodes where he cries like a baby. What can you sense? Can you tell me three things you taste in the air? 

Ammonia. Sodium carbonate. Chlorine. Fluoride. Carboxylic acid. The water tastes like Nicorette gum. His mouth tastes like the pill from two days ago. His teeth still tastes like stale produce. The head feels like it's being hammered.

Still down, "Don't lie to me."

Up, "I'm not," he grits.

"How many pills did you take for your first mission, huh? Fucking junkie?"

"Fuck off."

"Very good."

Down again. Fuck. The mourning bird keeps cooing.

*

"Did you fuck her yet?"

Up. Breathe.

"Shut up."

*

Matt hardly ever feels mad in the after, just depressed and worn-out, sad. It always reminds him of an acute powerlessness he has in the building, no matter eleven dead, the missions and fights won, his life is still fragile. The organs hurt, barely still inside him. 

Nice to have control of arms and feet, at the very least. His hair's getting longer against the tile of 32nd and 5th.

"Get up."

"No," he groans coquettishly.

"Get up, you fucking suicidal imbecile."

"I plead, just got tortured? I need a Valium."

"I don't give a fuck. Sustained, whatever. Elektra's waiting," and now, he's disgusted, "You.. addict."

Matt gets up.

"I'm not an addict. And you say dismissed or overruled. Sustained is when you approve."

"Don't be a smartass. Break up with the girl."

*

Before meeting Elektra, Matt asks Salt for his (prescription?). He says no. Stick said no. Okay.

*

She sees his tremor, his sweating hands. "What the fuck?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, Hamlet, did you not know your hands were shaking?"

Feeling the world around him, "They are."

"That's so reassuring," she says, and Matt doesn't want to say it, so they're quiet until she goes, "It's the pills, isn't it?"

From the other side of the car, he hesitates, "Stick took me off 'em. He thinks I'm an addict."

"The shakes are from you being off the pills?" he groans. "What? Matt, that means you're in fucking- withdrawal. You're- and you're just going to do the mission? Like normal?"

"I'm not an addict, 'lektra, he was being dramatic, don't be a bitch."

"Fuck off, don't be a bitch? Are you kidding? Says you."

"What?"

"Yeah. You're the bitch. Crying like a baby. Hypocrite."

"Why are you being such an asshole today?"

"Asshole's better than a bitch, I'll give you that."

"What the fuck's the matter with you today?"

"Oh, I'll tell you. You always fuckin' have something going on, and there's always a problem when something's happening, and I'm.. so scared for you. Okay? You're the favourite, you can't be-" she stops herself, "I have my own shit and you have your own shit and your constant state of freaked out makes this hard to deal with. For both of us. You understand."

Matt wants to go back to his room. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"I'm not the favourite."

"That's what you picked up? From that whole-"

"Sorry, Elektra, that I can't cope as good as you. Like? You want me to say that?"

She scoffs, "Is that what you really think?"

"What, then?"

"Tell me you're good for this. Tell me you won't fuck yourself up."

"I won't. I'll do good. I'm fine."

(I'm sorry.)

"Alright. It's okay."

*

The senator was, is, a Christian. A Protestant. He goes to church. Tammy Blaine, his wife, wears a gold cross and chemical, powdery makeup as she's kissing his cheeks goodbye, about to go see La Cage Aux Folles with an old friend. Elektra says she's pretty, the funny way girls can make a compliment derogatory. 

*

He's on the phone with a lawyer, holding the phone with a heavy gold watch. How was the trip, how's your visit? You know, flying to the city after September eleventh..

Can't do anything while he's on the phone, the lawyer would act as a witness. The man has no idea they're 5 feet away from him. 

*

Forgot the weapon in the car. He fucked a big thing badly.

*

He signals this to Elektra, hoping she notices. She almost groans. Okay. She'll take the kill.

*

They can't help but tremble, Matt's gloved hands over the politician's stubbled, O shaped mouth. An impressionistic fear in the beat of his heart (was already too fast, is now faster than the beat of techno). 

*

Swiftly, in the bathroom of a nice hotel room. The faucet is still running, it gives him a headache. Matt thinks of birds and Valium. Mourning birds have a sweet birdsong; Matt could call it from miles away with a gunshot fired in his other ear. Flute-like. Could have been a blind birdwatcher on TV, that could have been enough in another life. Here, his profession is murder.

*

NO, PLEASE, I HAVE A DAUGHTER. PLEASE, CYNTHIA'S ONLY THREE YEARS OLD. PLEASE.

*

Dead, and Matt acts normal, laying him on the floor. Elektra coughs (sounds are louder without the Valium, more three-dimensional, watch the waves move the world around him) and walks to the room, looking after something, so it's him who has to pose the body. No protocol. Do what she did last time. Does this count?

She walks back in and sounds satisfied at his dressing. It takes might to leave as inconspicuous as they do. 

*

Walking back. Something has to change in his life. It's all the same stuff over and over.

*

I know it's been hard for you, sweetheart. It's okay. You've done so good and it's almost over. Make it through the day, yeah? You can do this.

Says Dad above right shoulder. Really, he'd be pissed Matt's in this situation in the first place. He should be, which is why Chaste didn't pick him when Dad was there. He wouldn't understand. 

The kid's name would be Cynthia Blaine. 

*

Matt is so sweaty. They always say please, but this one was polite enough not to insult him. Please let me live. Well, since you asked so nicely, I might let you.

*

He was supposed to meet with Chrissy today. 白痴. Stupid.

*

After twelve people (?), by God's opaque will, he enters the church intact. Good job, Matty. In braille, twelve uses is three characters, 7 divots. That's twenty-four parents unless Matt killed the second coming of Christ. It hurts to move his head, the headache's so bad.

Adam hogs the floor's phone, loafing like he'll win a contest for it. He's calling his uncle from Boston who swears he'll get him out of that horrible place, one day. 

There are two phones on the floor, but that other one belongs to the girl's section, whose phone never turns off unless a nun comes yelling. Can't go there. Chrissy will be mad. 

Matt sits by, waiting, listening, on an old yet clean cushion of a chair with wood over-polished. He would rather Adam fucks off to a dark corner of New Jersey, never to be seen again. Instead he stands across Matt after a day's work of nothing in particular, useless, lazy, stupid. Chrissy will be mad.

"Alright. Alright, I'll talk to you later, okay, yeah. Bye, Uncle Neal. I'll talk to you."

"Your uncle coming to get you yet?" Matt says, walking to the landline.

"How about you stop being a dick? For once?"

"You took my last pill, fairy."

"Fuck you. How'll you dial, even? You're blind."

"I'm blind? Holy shit, no way!"

He walks off.

Dial the number, she has a pretty number, mostly fives and sixes. His cell phone ran out of battery, the piece of shit, but she'll know it's him. Adam walks back to their room with the door open. Matt pretends his hands aren't pouring. 

"It's Matt. Hey. Hey? 'stina?"

She's in a crowd, "Where the fuck were you?"

"Woah."

"Where the fuck--"

"I heard you. Christina, I'm-"

"No. Do you know how pissed I am? I waited for 2 fucking hours."

"Chrissy, I couldn't come. I have a headache, I'm-"  

(you're in fucking withdrawal)

"I think I'm sick-"

"And that's why you couldn't call or text? You think you're sick."

"I can't be sick?"

"You left me waiting, you stu-pid fuck-ing cunt!"

"I'm sorry! Sorry, Chrissy, relax. Why is everyone so pissed at me today of all days?"

"Oh, why?" she says like she's been dared.

Brace for impact, "Chrissy-"

"Because you're a piece of shit blind asshole, that's why. Don't call me."

"Christina--" and the line is dead. "Fucking bitch," he mutters, to no one in particular.

Blind asshole, what the fuck? This day is twice as long as it should be; it should be midnight already. It was 3:30 a few moments ago. In real life, there's a kid waiting behind him. Shorter by about 10 inches, 88 pounds, glasses, fast heart, way too nervous about a blind kid having a phone call argument. 

Matt's still holding the hollow plastic of the telephone in his hand below his chin. He puts it down. She probably won't let him come over for the rest of the week. It's a habit he's taken up. Sleep at Chrissy's, argue with Sister Maggie later.

Cough once, twice, stand by the kid and make sure no one important heard that. No nuns or tattlers. Something very wrong today, like God was unhappy that he ditched Chrissy.

The kid gulps. He's holding paper in his left hand.

"Who are you going to call?"

"Um. M- uh, my dad," he says, and Matt thinks he's putting on a horrible Boston accent before he remembers the American South. 

Weird.

The accent Matt recognises from a movie he watched when he could still see, all orange and blue and black. It struck him as beautiful, an early memory from when Dad left him in the apartment to fight. He remembers how the movie looked a little more than how life looked. There were horses. 

Matt forgets not everyone is an orphan, not everyone is from New York. 

"You have a dad?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"W-why, sir?"

Sir. Ha. Not even Stick is a sir, he'd probably beat Matt just for calling him that. Favourite, his ass. So he's, like, a real-life person from Texas or something. Matt has to check if pigs are flying above him. Wacky day.

"Don't call me sir. Why do you have a dad, Texas-boy?"

He's starting to sweat. "'m from Ala-Alabama. My name's Buck; people call me B-Buck."

"I asked why, like, 5 times already."

"Because of my, my m-mom. When they had me." Wow. 

"Do you still have a mom?"

"No."

"Why're you here? In New York."

"No w-where e-else-- no where else to go, sir. Long st-story." 

It would be nice to call Dad again, nice but scary. He's not the good person he could have become, went into violence so early on. Dad would be sad. Good thing there aren't phones up in Heaven.

"Okay. Good luck, Buck."

"Yes, sir."

Cool. Yes, sir. Yes, Wind.

*

Buck must have somehow blabbered his ass off; Sister Grace, kind as a nun, made him say almost 50 Hail Marys for taking the Lord's name in vain. Stupid hick. Asshole. God doesn't care about that of all things. The 7th floor is where he's watching, that's real television, all else is advertisements and boring sitcom reruns.

Does it have to be, though? Matt wants something, anything, any change. Valium gave it to him; he felt better, but that wasn't the main point. He felt different on Valium. Now everything's the same: braille on paper, nuns in an orphanage. Nauseating.

*

He gets watches and rings to pawn, they're never a lot of money, but what is there to buy? He gave one to Christina in lieu of an apology, said it was a promise ring or some other sentimental bullshit. She wears it everyday in lieu of a thanks. 

They're good. They shouldn't be good. Matt stood her up. It shouldn't.

*

In class, Matt has Biology with Christina. She's talking under the geriatric nun's voice about a fight she had with some 'fucking snake-ass cunt' who 'talked shit for no reason'. The energy is all different. Matt thinks it's the twin towers' fault. 

*

Not quite, is it? Of course it began with Stick. All because Stick wanted him to fight in 1996, the sweat on his back in that early hour when not even Adam is awake. 

*

This can't be it. His life can't be this, he doesn't want to be this. He's miserable. He could join a cult but with the Chaste and the Catholic Church, his schedule's pretty much filled. Plus with school and all, 

*

Life punches like a Russian, he realises on the floor, sweating and bruised. Stick beat his ass; Matt wasn't allowed to fight back, only dodges. It was three hours. He's dying, his pulse has never been harder to control, he's losing breath. Normally a pill would be taken by now.

He's dying and going to hell twelve God-damned times over. He crosses himself at the thought, then asks himself why he did that.

"Saint Mat-thew," Nino says, crouching by Matt.

"Nino. Hi."

"What on Earth were you doing?"

Matt scoffs, "What were you doing?"

"Training. Like a person. Were you praying? I didn't know you were actually a Christian."

"Catholic," he says, a reminder to himself. カトリック. String laughed when she found out. Cruelly. "You already know this."

He gestures, "I have a fight tomorrow. Scared."

"That's dumb."

"No."

"What will being scared do for you other than fuck you up?"

Nino slumps, poking Matt's tattoo. "Fine. It's dumb. Can't help it. I don't wanna, Matt, I don't wanna fight anymore. I wanna go home. 'm Tired."

You can't be a part of Chaste and be so soft. You're Fog, for Christ's sake. Matt's home has new tenants. Can't go home.

"Me too. It's fine. We still," Matt sighs, "fight, train. The Hand won't care if you're tired, you know," he says, more of a suggestion of an argument than something he really feels. 

"Yeah."

***

Christina's mouth is in motion. She's wearing cherry lip gloss, but it doesn't quite taste like cherry in his mouth. The syrup coating sounds like bubbles popping in Matt's ears. There's tension in his shoulders. New York smells so horrible today.

"I mean, you took me to your.. jewel-box of a church, and my dad expects me to--"

Matt flexes his hand; the micro-movements of his pinkie finger adds to the orchestra of normalcy.

"--it's just so unfair, so un-Catholic of him, so I outwardly disagreed and he yelled at me! Jez and I- you know, we don't tolerate that well, but my mom's, um, my mom's pretty used to it--"

He's been so disgusting these past two months. Stick scowls every time he enters the 7th floor, a signal visible only to him. Nuns can be vicious about wasting water. He has to shower, though. 

"--so, well, at the end of the day, Mom agreed, and now I'm coming to your church next Sunday. Hey, what's up with you? Is there something on my face? Oh. Sorry, uh."

Matt says,

"I think we should break up."

A beat of silence, she stops all movement; the ring conducts heat on her finger.

"What?" 

He's been thinking about it.

"I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's, uh, yeah. This is real. Sorry. I- I don't think it's working anymore. You're great and all, and I liked these years, you know," he gestures, "You should still come to my church. And you can keep the ring or whatever."

"Matt, what-- you're serious?"

He pulls a hangnail, it bleeds. 

"As a heart attack."

"Was it the call? Matt, that was nothing, like.. what are you- Why?" 

A mourning dove whistles as it takes flight, right outside this Korean restaurant on 32nd and 5th. Too close.

"It's not your fault. You didn't do anything."

"Dude."

"I don't know what to say to you."

She sighs in front of him. The E train runs; the soil and rock below them shiver in static. A waiter's tip is being counted.

"Matt, you're," she cuts herself off, "you're so annoying. Did you have to do this a week before prom?"

"Yeah. Yes."

Matt wants to go home. He's wearing his Catholic school uniform, his right cuff is unbuttoned, wet with the condensation of his one-dollar tap water. 

She scoffs, "Why? Why are you breaking up with me?"

Ha. Read: Why are you breaking up with me? You're blind and you're a poor orphan boy; it should have been me, the pretty, interesting, middle-class Catholic girl. We aren't made from the same dust, don't you know? It's offensive, what you're doing. 

Why? Matt just can't do it anymore. He's matured. Soldiers don't have girlfriends like Matt has Chrissy.

"Answer me. Don't go all quiet martyr on me, bitch. I see what you're doing."

Matthew licks his lips,

"What am I doing?"

"Answer!"

The 7th floor is calling him over, asking him what the hell he's still doing back there.

"I told you. It isn't working."

"Is this a joke? What the fuck is that supposed to mean, it isn't working?"

"Christina--"

"What was it supposed to mean?"

"What do you want from me?"

"What doesn't work?"

"Us. I don't think we work together anymore. I'm sorry."

She's hissing when she says, "Can you stop saying that and give me an answer? We don't work: what could you possibly mean? We work. We're doing fine. You got me a ring and you came over and- and you held me while I cried about my aunt, and you want to break up? What the fuck?"

Matt hardly remembers that day. A hiccup in his memory.

"-I don't want to break up. What the fuck wrong with you?" Then she says, "Don't look so wounded. Fuck," she huffs, "You're such a dick. Such a Dick."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're fucking sorry." She looks away, combing the back of her hair, turns back, and says, "You're barely human. I don't mean to be a belligerent bitch, and I know this isn't politically correct, but you can't be blind and an asshole. I can't be ugly and a cunt. I mean, fuck. You can't be blind, an orphan, a nerd, and an asshole, Matt. They're mutually exclusive. Maybe that's why you have all those bruises on you."

*

Alright. Okay. Damn.

*

The knife in his pocket, that first one, his childhood weapon, waits patiently. Matt touches his rib.

His hands still tremble, but less this time.

*

It is why he has all those bruises on him. She's right.

*

Matt hates her and Valium and Adam and everything in the world and above. 

*

When he eventually goes up 6 floors, Stick is less harsh. He wastes time up there, doing nothing but lifting weights like he's some civilian. 

*

ChrissyChrissyChrissy

*

The truth is, she was being a belligerent bitch, but Matt didn't say anything 'cause he's a grown adult. Unlike her. She occupies the same space in his head that Nino and Adam and (what was his name?) Lucas do. In his mind palace (that last apartment with Dad), they live in the bathroom he used to cry in.

Matt, for some reason, waits for her email, phone call, a text. None come. Obviously.

*

Matt hates her.

*

At school, when she's absent, people figure it out. There's no confirmation for them, but if you put a bunch of snooty Catholic school kids in a box, they'll talk and talk so much they'll meet God. Christy and that blind guy broke up; they call her Christy. 

She doesn't have the personality of a girl named Christy. She's Chrissy; she likes strawberry candy, and when she kisses you, she always manages to bite something. 

Christy is some imposter. A girl who is not a belligerent bitch and who does not perpetually have grass on her knees. 

Matt hates Christy, too. 

*

It had to be done. It'd be nice to have a person, a warm body to make out with, someone to call him weird but also have it be kind of a compliment. Someone to listen to Sunny Day Real Estate with. Someone who likes him other than Elektra, and even Elektra's idea of him is a debatable thing.

Her parents must wonder.

*

Matt mentions it to Buck, like a moron, and now he's meeting with his new social worker. They've met once before, but Matt was still taking pills then. No memory of the incident. From the other side of the door, Matt can tell she's pretty. Perfume, straightened hair, no cigarette breath. She smells like last night's martinis. 

Mean older women and Stick are really the only people who Matt listens to. On a table stiff and cold, she clasps her hands like she's still drunk.

Sweaty hands.

"Hi, Matthew. Take a seat," she says, gesturing. "Do you need guidance to the chair?"

She sounds like Chrissy's mom, pleasant but distinctly from not here. Matt wonders what her mom is thinking of him. Would she tell her mom, or would she keep it in? Matt wonders now what her prayers sound like. Dear God, please kill Matthew Murdock?

"Why are you here?" he says dumbly. "Did I do something?"

"No, no. How are you? Good? You look... slightly ill. I'm sorry. Is everything alright? Are you sure you don't need help?"

"I don't have any bruises on me, do I? Is that why I'm here?"

It's weird, she smiles. The taste of olives in the air, it smells like nights travelled in the Atlantic. "Sit down, would you? I'm not interrogating you, Matt; I just want to have a conversation. Can we do that?"

Talks like Christina, sounds like her mom. Barf. 

He makes his way to the chair; they're sitting in the Mother Superior's office, he's only been here twice. First time, he fought another orphan kid (who later got adopted by a bunch of Protestants); second, seven years ago, when he first started living here. Mother Superior called him special. She said this would only be a temporary home.

She shakes her head, "Sister Grace asked me to check in with you. She said she's worried about you. What's up? What's wrong, Matt?" then, somewhat manic, she whispers, "Always something wrong in this city."

"Yeah. Always."

"You heard that?"

"Blind thing." --yeah, because he's a blind asshole.

"Ah," she says, "Alright. Nice. Um. What's happening in the world of Matthew Murdock?"

"Nothing. I don't know. I didn't even argue with any poor.. lonesome nun. Why are you here?"

"Okay, well, you know, perhaps Sister Grace called because she... cares for you?" she says it like she's talking to a child when, in reality, Matt's the one who knows more about these people. Sister Grace's heartbeat quickens when a certain man enters the church. Her mother wasn't a Catholic. Her stomach is bleeding internally. The social worker doesn't know any of that. "Is that so shocking?" she says.

"But why would she randomly just get the social worker?"

She says nothing for a long time before going, "She cares. People care, Matt." She doesn't know anything.

"Yeah. Whatever."

"Tell me what you think got Sister Grace so worried about you."

"I got a new roommate. He's a pain in my ass. Um. His name's Adam."

She smudges her lipstick a little. "That's not why."

"Why, then?"

She comes closer. French perfume, probably gifted. "You and your girlfriend broke up, I heard? If I am right in the assumption that this is your first girlfriend, it's a pretty big deal, right, Matt?"

"I dunno, lady."

"Don't call me that. My name is Gemma."

"Sorry. Gemma. Where are you from?"

"You asked me that last time," she says mildly. "I'm from Wisconsin. Then you said: what do they even have down there? Cornfields? You don't remember?"

That sounds like him. Matt wants to go back to his room. 

"Was I right?"

"Yes," of course, "Are we ready to talk about your breakup? Come on. When did this happen? Talk to me."

When did this happen? When Dad died. "Um. Maybe a week ago?"

"How have you been doing, since?"

Matt hums, "The same."

"Well. Why do you think it happened?"

"What are you, writing for the school paper?"

She stays quiet. Matt can play this game. He's a winner at it, as he is with most games. He pushes down a cough, wondering what he'll do for the rest of the day. He has to study for the SATs, but he wants to lie in bed instead.

He peels off a bandage on his hand. 

"Matthew."

"The breakup was fine, whatever. I broke up with her. It was fine."

"Why'd you do it?"

Inhale, exhale. She's just another person in the city. 

"I dunno."

"I'm not going to tell her, Matt; it's okay. This whole thing is for you."

"I broke up with her 'cause I wanted to break up with her. It's fine."

She has an unimpressed aura distinctive of a nun. It's hard to breathe. 

"'Cause she's, I dunno, she wasn't something serious, it was," here, he realises he shouldn't have said a word, "um, unnecessary. I don't even know why I was with her in the first place," and at her continued silence, he goes, "What? I got bored. I didn't want to be with her anymore. That's all."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why?"

There's blood, past and present, on his hands.

"Fuck you, that's why."

"Do not speak to me with that language, young man. Calm yourself."

Mother of God.

"Why are you interrogating me about this? I don't want to talk."

"I see why you're getting mad, and I understand that. We need to have this conversation. I know I don't know you that well, but think about it: no stakes. Sister Grace isn't going to hear about this. Your roommate Adam isn't going to hear about this. Talk to me, Matthew. You need to talk about this. Do you know why you broke up with her?"

God. Stick.

"Yes."

"Talk to me."

"What do you want?"

She shifts in her seat, "Sister Grace told me you'd stay at her apartment for weeks on end."

"Okay, well, it only went on for a few days, for a few days at most. I just didn't want to be here."

"When'd you decide?"

"That I didn't want to be with her?" she nods. He says abrasively, "I don't know. I just thought it was going too far. It's not like I hated her for months before doing it."

"So?"

"What are you-- I don't know!"

"Matthew, relax!"

"I'm fine!"

She clutches her pen. "I believe you."

This shit means nothing to him. He's the baddest of the badasses. He goes on missions. This shit means nothing. 

Matt huffs, "I'm out of here."

She doesn't chase.

*

Sister Maggie talks to him about counselling, stiffly; she's failing to act comforting. He walks out. Fuck yourself, Sister Maggie. Fuck the world.

*

"So what's heterosexual breakup like?" Adam asks on one of their late-night journeys. Matt's still fucking sweating.

"What?" Matt says, face-down on his bed. Sister Abigail and Sister Candace are drinking above them. Adam's not in his bed. He's standing by the dresser, with a mirror propped up over various smelly accoutrements. He's inspecting himself like women do. 

"You and that girl on the phone. What was her name, Kris or something? Girl you brought to church? Ringin' any bells?"

"Chrissy. Christina. It was fine. Probably just like gay breakup. You wouldn't know. Virgin."

He scoffs, "Touchy-touchy. Don't take it out on me, asshole, that's just pitiful.." He puts his fidgeting hands down, turns his head, "So you're finally, like, on the market, huh?"

"Shut up."

He's right by Matt's burning ear, "Alabama called you sir. Did you like that?" 

"What the fuck? 

"Am I your little drug bunny?"

"Adam. What the fuck's the matter with you?"

He seems to smile, "Dude, like, I'm just playing." He says, mildly, "Did I really eat your last pill?"

Matt hums, "That was weeks ago, dude. You finally want to pay me back?"

"Is that code?"

Matt turns his head, and he must have a look on his face, because Adam blinks and acquiesces, saying, "I have vodka, um, under my bed."

Vodka? With Adam? Matt didn't focus, stupid, didn't think about the liquid he registered, "Vodka? What are you, a teenager in 1943? Why do you have vodka under your bed?"

"Pickers can't be choosers." 

"Drinking straight vodka and taking a pill are two very different affairs, Adam."

And it's true, drinking's not as casual. Drinking's no longer medication; it's something deeper, more engraved in history. There are too many Irish-Catholic alcoholics.

"Oh, don't condescend to me. What, did you want weed? I'm not a dealer, I don't have.. uh, glaucoma. I don't know any dealers." 

Ponder it. He's been weird without the Valium, but it was never anything serious. He just got the prescription shit. The vodka could help him sleep, but it's too kitschy, ending up at a rehab saying my daddy gave me my first drink at nine, and then he died and now I'm here, oh, boo-hoo, it's all in bad taste. 

He's been so weird without the Valium. Matt seriously thinks it fucked his life up, them taking him off it. Chrissy would make fun of him if she knew, if she knew any of it. She's gone, and it was him who cut her head off.

It's something to do. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

"Okay, yeah, whatever. Fine."

*

Need a fucking break.

*

He still has to go to school after all of this. Praise God for Columbus Day's week break. 

*

Matt and Elektra now have traditions after missions. They both pop every joint in their body. Matt polishes their weapons. Elektra spends money on candy and smokes. They don't talk about anything that matters.

*

arms-body-legs-flesh-skin-bone-sinew

Tore.

Fucking hurts. Tied up. The kids are beating him on orders. Matt has that and a headache. Fuckers. It hurts. They don't know when to stop. They haven't been taught. Fuckers. Fuck you, Stick. くそったれ.

He's screaming distantly. Gave up trying to get out. 

Kids are uncomfortable, pulse and stiff arms. Matt has been uncomfortable in his life. It never stopped him. They will be good soldiers.

What weapons are they using? Matt doesn't even know. All the training. Don't know. He just knows the blood that blooms from the contact. Ignore the pain. Focus on the taste it brings. So bitter. It's blood and something else. Fuck you, Stick.

No solidarity on the 7th floor. Think of Elektra. Think of 6:4. It felt bad. Bad better than this. It's been so long. Think of those times with her on the floor. It was his for only moments. Matt never did this at their age. Fuck you, Stick.

It hurts. Enough to make a person fucking crazy. 

Movement on the other side of the room. Someone's watching them.

Pain escalates to nothing. One day it will be over. He will quit the pain and become greater. One day.

"Stop," that someone says. Yes, please.

"You smell like ethanol." Matt could hear Stick's words from miles away with a gunshot fired in his other ear. 

"Fuck you."

Brace for contact. None comes. "Aw. Get the fuck down. How does your face feel?" then, to the kids, "Fuck off."

In and out.

Asshole. How the hell is he supposed to get down? They didn't hit his face, but it feels numb anyway. Matt wonders, dizzily, if they do this to Elektra. Thinking it kind of makes him upset for all the wrong reasons. The act is so personal.

"Fine. Feels fine."

"Good. I'm planning something for you, Matty. How's your acting?" he doesn't give Matt time to respond. "Tomorrow you will sign papers agreeing to be adopted by me. It's got to be good." それは良くなければなりません, "You're lucky you're an orphan. It's going to be harder with Ellie."

Orphan, 孤児. それは良くなければなりません. Got to be good. 混乱した. Confused.

"..What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I thought I told them not to strike your head."

"Okay. Yeah, fine. Fine, whatever. I don't know how to get down."

"Figure it out." -and he's gone. What?

Matt can't cry. He craves sedatives.

*

The kids (none of them being Nino, guess he's too old) call him Wind and bring Elektra to come take him down. Matt says thank you and they nod shakily. Matt couldn't have done this at their age. 

*

Elektra calls him a druggie but offers him two surprise pills from her expensive private-school backpack. Matt takes it without a second thought. They sit on a bench in Central Park, curled in on themselves. Elektra's being quiet, and her heart's beating faster than usual, but neither of them acknowledges it.

Matt missed her, he realises. He wants to say it but something keeps him really quiet. The jacket she wears smells like expensive cologne and cigarettes.

*

When he asks her about the smell, she smiles and shushes him, "Don't worry your pretty little head," she says.

*

If they were regular people, Matt and Elektra wouldn't have been friends. Matt wants it anyway.

*

Chrissy is the person attached to every pair of headphones playing Ruby Vroom. It makes him mad. Father Lantom says it's only natural, that it happens to every boy his age, but no priest would understand the energy that flows, fingertip to fingertip, by every other action in this world. 

*

String yells at him. She says, You can't even write, so pronounce it properly, at least. Fuck you, String. 

Matt hates that bald-headed bitch, too. He's sick of her leather gloves and her Japanese expressions and her flat fucking voice. It's always so cold in that room, the room she teaches in. In the middle of her explanations, Matt fantasizes about his hands falling off. He's almost hungover.

*

Matt spends a lot of time there. Fourteen. 十四. 

****

On April 7th, 2002, Matt is still bruised. Tired, but he gets up anyway. It's really hard. Mass was yesterday; it was hard. Chrissy wasn't there, and Father Lantom kept talking about killing because some asshole shot a member of the congregation. He always feels like Satan is sitting next to him, telling him to focus; they're talking about you. 

It's especially hard because he can hear people pray when he can't. Not anymore, not properly. Not when he's moved his church to k-town. 

Breakfast's cereal and a dry apple. People at St. Agnes's normally sit with their roommate for meals, but Adam made a friend across the hall. Matt doesn't typically eat breakfast on weekends, so all the other orphans keep leering at him.

Chapter Text

In his Sunday's best, wearing his good-boy face, Matt sits in a courthouse like he's on death row. People walk across his ears, getting into their seats, sipping their coffee and babbling to each other. I worry about a medical condition, they slur. Disgusting. The judge spilled her black coffee all over the floor and the security guard laughs like she told him an especially clever joke.

Warm in here. Too warm for December. He opens the state-issued free bottled water, provoking a pain in his shoulder from the Birdie mission, and takes a long sip. The water tastes like skin and plastic, and it reminds Matt of the air around a dead person.

Stick seems tense but Matt can never tell with him. He puts the bottle on the table, a preventive measure, so Stick doesn't give him shit for fidgeting with the bottle cap.

It's so warm; the heater's somewhere Matt can't identify. Warmth leads to sweat and then to his clothes feeling itchy, a familiar but foreign feeling. He normally pushes it down, he was taught to, but now it's itchy. Breathe, think, why is it itchy? He's not nervous, that's stupid. There's no reason to be nervous.

Adoption hearings are only a formality. They don't matter. No one cares. Matt used to listen to these all night when he was a kid; he knows how they go, why is he itchy? The warmth, right, and the weird suit. A donation from some orphan-pitying Samaritan.

Dust in his throat, Matt begs himself not to cough. Relax, please, will you relax?

The judge coughs.

His social worker touches Matt's shoulder, and only then does he remember her. Breathe in and out; you're in a courtroom, and you will be okay despite any bullets that may hit you. Get it together for the love of God.

"Are we ready to commence?"

Right now, nothing sounds better than home.

*

By the time he was thirteen he had memorized how to reply to these questions they ask. Seventeen-year-old Matt can't remember any of them, only that it doesn't take any longer than twenty minutes, this is what he holds on to. That and the feeling of sweat on his spine. Don't think too much.

"Do you have children of your own?"

"No, I don't."

*

"Do you know about," she clears her throat, "Matthew's birth parents?"

"Yes. He's confided in me about his dad, who died when he was eleven. He also said that his mom left. That's all I know."

The judge hums.

*

Blood flows over what once was a scab on Matt's hand. Stick notices. Matt recoils.

*

"Matthew, have you ever been to, uh, Franklin's house?"

Imagine a torture chamber. It's going to be bad, nothing like the dream; it's going to be blank and harrowing. It will suck the air out of his mouth and beat his stomach till a hole cleaves his skin. It will hurt and it will make Elektra and Nino jump in, turning to far-away stars in the galaxy.

"A few times. When I don't want to sleep at the orphanage, I go to his apartment."

A scar across his shoulder beneath a button-up still aches. It's shameful how much he feels it, looming over his entire body, making him sweat; repulsive. Less lucid, sober than drugged-- how about that? Tired as a dog pre- euthanization , he tries not to think and breathes as slow as he can. Loud and hot, hot! The heat makes everything, the clutter, so much worse.

"Is that allowed?" she asks the social worker. She doesn't know anything about St. Agnes's or Matt.

"Uh. He's allowed to, your honor," the social worker stammers-- what was her name?-- smoothing her hay-textured hair in one clammy movement.

"Matthew, do you have his address?"

They prepared but Matt's too distraught to recall anything. His throat's dry, he's never not known what to say more.

"Um. It's in the Lower East Side. Above a Ukrainian place. Uh.. Vaselka's ?"

"Ah. I know it. Good food."

He opens his mouth, closes it.

"Yeah."

"Quite a trek for a blind kid," she inflects.

He grits his teeth, wanting to run away far from here. He wants to find Birdie and kill her again, Sweeney, anyone. Give him something, like a child with a pacifier. Stimulate him enough so that he forgets there was anything wrong with him.

"I manage."

*

"Why now? Matthew, you turn eighteen in.."

There was a metal detector. He couldn't bring any weapons, even the knife. He had a name for it, can't remember.

"Nine months, your honor. In November."

Stick steps in, "It's more than a legal thing to me."

The social worker smiles. Matt would count to sixteen before she'd die. He wouldn't even think. One snap of the neck, a flick of the katana, a sleight of knife movement, and she's dead. To meet the moment her breath dissolves into nothing, it feels good, a sweet surrender.

*

"Any objections?"

Blood's taste varies. It could be blood type, Matt doesn't know, but the undertone always depends on what the Eddie last ate; even if the Eddie didn't eat that day. The air from their mouth, in their bodies, always matches their blood. Blood is either sweet or salty. People from the Triad taste salty. Mission kills have been mostly sweet.

Chaste's blood is Salty. Matt has never tasted Stick's blood.

"No? Okay, guys, the process is officially finalised. You are now father and son. Congratulations."

Stick's blood would taste like asphalt with grass growing through. He would taste like blue protein, plastic, and Matt's blood in one disgusting dissonant melody.

Stick's heartbeat doesn't falter. The social worker is ecstatic.

*

Something like fifteen minutes, and it's done. He was sold and now is a son again. A driver, smelling like chlorine, picks them up from the courthouse in lower Manhattan.

*

Something hurts.

* *

Matt's too close to asking for a pill.

"That was bad, kid, that was disappointing," Stick enunciates.

He's only happy he finally spoke.

Exhale, "What was disappointing? I acted fine."

"'Acted fine'? For fuck's sake, Matty, you're better than this. Do you seriously believe that? You did not 'act fine' you acted like a child with emotional problems. A blind man, an actual honest-to-god Blind Man could tell you did not act 'fine'. What the hell happened to you?"

"You're what happened to me."

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Nothin'."

Stick huffs. Matt's not sweating as much as he did in the courtroom but he's still embarrassed. Matt knows he didn't 'act fine', he doesn't know who he's trying to fool. The driver, maybe.

The next car over is playing loud Puerto Rican music with louder drum and bass. Lucas was Puerto Rican, he confusedly remembers.

"What's your count, Matty, 17? All that, and you can't pull yourself together when it actually matters? Don't act like that again. Don't ever talk to me like that again. Understand?"

Matt scoffs, shame distinct in his heart and tibia, "You're exaggerating."

"Am I?"

"Yeah, Stick."

"Oh." He says, rebuked, "Am I hearing that correctly? Matty, who almost fully broke down, there, in that courthouse, says he thinks I'm exaggerating. Right. This is what you're going to do: you're going to walk to K-town. Right now. You're going to train until 7. Then you're going to walk to my apartment. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. You bet."

"What did you say?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand, Stick."

*

Bile on his tongue, the back of his throat. Long fucking day, even without Stick lecturing him about his strange and unusual vibe in the courthouse.

Matthew is truly, in law, Stick's responsibility. He's being responsible, that's what's happening. Daddy loves me.

*

Calisthenics. 体 操 . Stick is right outside his auditory range. Elektra doesn't talk about the adoption by his request, instead helping him with inverted exercises while chain-smoking Marlboros, talking about how they're the only good cigarette. Matt focuses on the smoke travelling through her lungs and up, letting his body do the work.

The kids fake-cough when the smoke reaches them.

This is what he has. Elektra and the 7th floor. This is enough, more than enough.

*

When Matt was a kid living in the lower part of Hell's Kitchen, nearer to Chelsea than the Upper West Side, he would spend rainy days counting coins with Dad. He'd scour the apartment looking for change in pockets and behind furniture. With the coins in an old Tropicana bottle, they would go grocery shopping on 43rd and 9th.

Normally all they could afford was a can of Chef Boyardee.

The grocery store was owned by a tenant who's kid was Matt's friend. Matt thought the store owner was terrifying and he'd always run away at the sight of him, so they didn't get any discounts, but Dad liked to shop there nonetheless. He'd always make conversation with the people in the store, his to-be babysitters.

Matt didn't know it at the time, but the tall ladies with bright clothes that hung out at this grocery store were prostitutes, Dad's business associates, to Matt. While Dad was somewhere doing something, these women would look after him.

A blonde hooker with curly, frizzy hair named Leah was his first crush, someone he looked up to who wasn't Dad.

As Matt shivers, soaked by cold rain, he thinks of Leah. She'd laugh at him if she saw him now, much like most people in his memories. Little soldier not so little anymore, then she'd blow smoke in his face and walk away, hobbling in her huge heels. She was 9 feet tall when he was a kid.

In real life, his feet hurt like Hell by the time he makes it to his death site, the Lower East Side. He doesn't remember the last time his feet weren't blistered, but at least he was in his own city. It's a nightmare to little Matty, who loved Hell's Kitchen more than life itself.

Dirty water seeps through the poor man's equivalent of a shoe he wears. His jacket, something Elektra picked out, saying it looked good on him, did nothing to combat the weather. Matt feels like an old widow, shivering in front of Sticks apartment.

The building is full of the elderly, almost a gravestone. It smells dead, the way people die without much fight. Only two young people live in this five-story, one's asleep, the other's smoking out a window. If Matt went up to their rooms right now and held his knife to their hearts, they wouldn't beg, they'd just ask to be let down slow.

Stick is cleaning produce in apartment 8F. He senses Matt; this much is known, but when Matt rings the doorbell, he turns his head in acknowledgement but does not answer, doesn't say a word. He leaves his new adoptee to suffer. Figures.

There's nothing around to pick a lock; he can't use his knife or ID.

He fishes his wallet from his pocket for ideas, all he's met with is despair and three 50-dollar bills, folded in triangles so he could tell the amount. If Elektra were here, she'd have actual lock-picking tools, but she'd probably kick or shoot the door down anyway.

"Stick!" Matt says in an almost-whisper. Have to be quiet.

No answer.

"Stick, I don't want to play games. Let me in."

"Let yourself in," Stick says, from the sink.

He shouts, "Open the door."

Stick is quiet when he says, "No."

He tries to swallow but his throat is too dry.

"I don't get a housewarming gift or nothing? Let me in!"

No answer. Piece of shit.

Matt could just go back to 32nd and 5th, back to the orphanage. Or he could end it all right here, right now. The knife in his pocket giggles, and the door in front of him glares. Are you actually thinking about this? If he pulled out the knife and gutted himself, would Stick open the door?

So over this. It's still raining outside. This just isn't his year.

Nothing can be easy in this life, Matt leaves the building to climb to Stick's second-story apartment in the rain. And Matt truly doesn't see God's plan anymore.

The rainwater is a christening of bad decisions multiplied. It's slippery and dusty (dusty, but cleaner than Hell's Kitchen rain), and Matt's head is starting to hurt. Grabbing a brick, he thinks of dying in battle. It will be inevitable, it won't be his fault; the Hand's never-dying members will have him surrounded.

He slips once or twice and falls once (watch Stick's reaction, he's completely focused on little Matty), but he makes it to the window, shaking. Stick stays eating his celery. Matt tries to open the window.

The window is locked. His symptoms are focused on feeling ill.

Pull the knife out. Matt breaks the window and gets in his new home, wet. Had enough. Stick can fuck himself with a glass shard. The Hand would not force him to break into a place to sleep.

*

30,

32.

"You missed thirty-one."

"Fuck off. I'm exhausted."

33.

"We're working on your stamina."

"Fuck you. Shut up. I can't focus with your yapping in my ear."

35.

Stick swats at Matt's temple. "Don't talk to me like that. And you didn't train hard enough today, you can't use exhaustion. Thirty-four."

34.

"Good."

35.

"Faster. What's taking so long?"

36.

"Faster. Come on, Matty."

37.

"Thirty-eight."

38.

"I feel like I'm training a little kid."

39.

"Forty."

40.

"How much do I have left? How m- how many are you making me do?"

"You're not only doing fifty, that's for sure."

41,

42.

"Aw. Are you tired, Matty?"

44,

"Forty-three."

Fuck you.

Matt takes Stick's face and punches it with all the might he can. One, two, till forty-three, but Stick's still the fighter he is, so he makes Matt's stomach tough and grabs his own knife. Stick's knife is old and sharp as he is. They stand across each other, staring the best two blind men could do, and they reach perfect understanding.

It's Stick who makes the first move, pinning him down, not using his knife on Matt's body, with gritted chalk-teeth. So much for a housewarming gift. Asshole.

A knife reaches Matt's shoulder, and so Stick is flipped.

Matt rages on Stick, groaning, scratching, hitting, near misses. No counterstrike.

One, two, three, four, his body, five, six--

"Quit it, Matty," he says, seven till forty-three, scumbag fuck. "Matthew, 止めろ ."

止めろ , stop.

Matt gets off him.

Stick stares, and Matt stares back, the best two blind men could do. Stick gets up and shows Matt his room, all nice-like. It doesn't matter at all.

* **

Hayden David is an independent entity in Queens. She used to be connected to the Chaste, but left. Understand? With katanas, no guns this time. This is your mission. Stick to it.

Ha. Stick says stick... to it. Elektra doesn't think it's funny. Okay.

2003, February 5th.

Elektra, Matt, and a kid named Delilah. Matt thinks Delilah might have been one of them who beat him, stiff arms and uneven pulse. No idea why she's coming along with the mission, Matt thought it was either him and Elektra or him and Elektra and Nino.

Delilah's a seeing girl, quiet, the way Chaste kids are, but she could handle herself. Her back is perpetually tense.

The energy in the car is that of a cold with an underlying migraine; they're not talking. Elektra's obviously trying to decide if she should speak or not, fiddling with her camera. Matt's been living a long life in a week, so he slumps as low as he can and tries to forget about it.

They could be his sisters for a moment. In another reality, he's in a car with his sisters and he's going to his rich person apartment and maybe he isn't even blind. Would that be okay, seeing? Who's he asking? It's his fantasy.

Matt sits in his illusions. He'd see the sun rise, all orange and blue. He almost feels good, euphoric for a second, like he believes it. After this car ride, the fancy hypothetical seeing-Matt would get up and argue with Elektra about something stupid and go to his rich-person pantry and eat candy while playing a video game. Blue-flavored candy. Blue raspberry and not blueberry.

After the candy, Stick would come home from work and see his kids. They'd eat lunch together in an energetic, talkative orange-light haze. Stick wouldn't be Stick, and he'd laugh at their jokes and ask Matt to tend to his wounds.

Maybe he's just thinking of Dad.

When Delilah sneezes, that life is over, and he's back in Stick's Special Associates' car.

"God bless you," he mutters. Habit.

In a small voice, "Thanks."

That life's still in his thinker. Matt hopes Elektra doesn't secretly have thought-reading powers. Cough if you can hear me. Nothing. Phew.

"Do you have a name yet?" Elektra asks, cutting through the silence.

A beat. "Um. It's Delilah?"

It's hard not to laugh.

"No, not like that. A code name. I'm Cloud, and he's Wind. Stick's Stick. You haven't been given one?" Delilah shakes her head. Elektra hums, thoughtful. What name could she possibly be thinking about? Cloud, Wind, Fog... and Mist?

"Mist," she says, right when Matt comes up with the same name. He perks up.

"You stole my thought!"

"It's a sign! It's a sign. You're Mist, done. It suits you."

"Mist. Mist," Delilah repeats. "Okay, thank you, it's great. I like it."

Elektra smiles. Delilah smiles. Elektra takes a photo.

*

"Delilah," Matt starts, "Me and Elektra, we have an agreement."

"Elektra and I*"

"Shut up." They glare at each other, the way they do. "If anything happens, anything serious, you know, more than a gun to the head, I duck and grab the legs, and Elektra goes for the kill. With you, I'm gonna duck and grab the legs, you're going to grab the arms, and Elektra goes for the kill. 'kay?"

"Wait," Elektra says, "it'd be easier and safer if I grab the arms and Mist gets the kill."

"I can subdue a target."

"Yes, Delilah, but Matthew and I have more practice. And for your first mission, wouldn't you want the kill?"

She tucks her hair behind her ear. "I guess."

Elektra looks at Matt, remembering his cue. "Now, see, this probably won't happen, but it's something you should know, okay? Listen, Elektra and I have a pact, of sorts, that if one of us dies during the mission, say, ' lektra dies. I take her pocketknife and use it instead of my own. What was its name, Lucy?"

"Winona."

"Winona. Then I put my knife in her pocket. What did I name mine?"

"Turtle."

"What? I named it Turtle? Why'd I do that?"

"You wanted something funny."

"Turtle's not funny."

"It's not," she cuts. They go over a speed bump.

Matt sighs. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'd give Turtle to Elektra and she'd keep it. Chaste burying rituals include being buried with a knife in the pocket, you know, just in case. No one's going to die today, but that's what we do if someone dies. This isn't in the, like, official Chaste guidelines. We made it up. Got it?"

"Yes. Got it."

*

Murray Hill, Queens, New York, New York. Quite the mouthful. The trio are surprised this even counts as New York City. The air tastes like water instead of the usual piss-and-meth feeling in the mouth. Disgusting. There's nothing like being out of Manhattan on business, though.

"It's all... gree-een ," Delilah says, looking out the window, walking with them. Hayden lives in a big hotel. She booked two rooms, 215 and 216, to confuse whomever may be following her. She was one of those people who threw Matt's bodies into the Hudson, so she couldn't have known Chaste can't be fooled. Poor fuck.

Elektra squints, looking around. "Weird, no? Have you ever been out of the city?"

"I used to live in Seattle."

"Before your parents died?"

They stop. Hayden's in there, looking at a Polaroid, the vinegar smell of it. She faces a window away from the door with a gun, a newspaper, and a glass of clean vodka on the table in front of her. Should be easy.

"--Before my mom died," Delilah says. She gets out her knife, ready. Good soldier.

"Ah," Elektra says, putting on her gloves, "How'd she die?"

"Shot. She was a prostitute; some guy shot her while she was suckin ' his dick." Jesus, girl. "Right after we moved here. Rest in peace."

It's jarring coming out of her mouth, but, in reality, there can't be any sweet little girls in the Chaste. Not surprising.

Elektra snorts. "That's a shame."

*

"Did Stick ever tell you why you're on this mission?" Matt asks from one side of the window. They've moved to one end of the hallway.

' lektra smiles. "He's jealous. His first mission was, like, a year ago."

"Or did you want Nino instead?" Mist says, next to her, on the other side of the window.

"Fuck both of you?"

"I'm here because Smoke said I'm ready," she says, with a tilt of the head, feeling brave. "He said I'm mature for my age. After this he's getting me adopted."

Elektra looks at her and then Matt. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. "He said that?"

"...yes?"

She sighs, walking, leading Matt and Delilah. "We don't have time to talk about that now, Mist. Are you ready?"

Delilah nods, slightly unsteady but adept in her stance. Elektra turns her head to Matt. "You ready?" Matt nods, and it's on Elektra's count. With her hands,

Three,

(Katanas.)

Two,

(Breathe in and out.)

*

One.

Hayden's up, with the gun. 1 shot, 2 shots. Silencer. No one injured. Matt goes for the legs, Elektra, the arms. Delilah goes for the kill, but Hayden makes it out with her gun scattering to the floor. Elektra grabs it.

Matt and Hayden, one on one. She's unusually strong, throwing punches as she's being cornered. Matt takes two punches before he's got her down and choked. Knife by her legs, so his legs wrap around hers. Delilah's katana ahead. He gives a nod.

She's in the stance to stab, and, Christ, ew; Hayden sneezes. There's snot and shit. Matt's dumbass lets go for one moment, and Hayden's out of his grip. She's running to the door. Delilah and Elektra on her tail. Hallway.

Cursing himself, he gets up and counts the people on the floor able to hear them. One. That's fine. Matt runs to the girls' location and finds Hayden bleeding by the end of the hallway where they stood a minute ago. The katana is on the floor.

"I'm not dying that easily," she grits, under Elektra. He grabs the katana.

Instead of a cutting rebuttal, Elektra addresses Matt. "Wind, Mist's position. Are there any potential witnesses?"

"One. Room 210."

"D- Mist, room 210, take care of them."

"Yes."

While Delilah hammers through room 210, whose guest is currently blasting techno, Matt attempts to assume her position while Hayden struggles, smothered by Elektra's hand.

"You Chaste people make me sick. Room 210's an old woman; she didn't do anything wrong."

"Shut up. Wind, I can't get her from here. You get her."

"She didn't do anything! Leave her alone!"

Matt grabs Turtle, planning to gut her, but she dodges. Elektra moves, giving Matt a disappointed look, when, somehow, Hayden gets up.

She bolts. Elektra's pissed at Matt. He doesn't know what he did wrong.

Chaste people are faster, so as she's running, Elektra throws her to the floor of her own hotel room. The music is so loud, but at least Delilah killing that old lady from room 210 is quiet. Hayden and Elektra go at it like murderous cats.

To the beat of techno, Elektra beats her face in. Pure pettiness. Matt's about to go for the kill when Elektra leaves a hand out, telling him not to. Okay.

Hayden smiles. She groans, almost a yell, pushing Elektra with all her might into the wall opposite them like she's on WrestleMania. Gun on the floor from the table, or was it Elektra's? Uh. Matt throws Turtle at Hayden's back. Miss. Katana. Sticks to her shoulder. Hayden yells. This has got to be over soon.

As Hayden yells, Matt realizes three things.

One: he's out of weapons.

Two: Elektra has the original gun, standing by the wall, vacant.

Three: Hayden's holding a gun. She has a gun. From the table.

Delilah makes it to the door, closing it. Hayden's up and trying to get at her first.

Elektra has the gun, and she's not moving; she's doing that thing again. Matt knocks Hayden to the ground and tries to shove her gun away, but Hayden's got a grip like a Hellhound. He tries to point it away but his fucking strength is down; he isn't as strong as he's supposed to be. Hayden's got an edge.

Hayden shoots behind Matt (fuck, a thud shakes the Earth), and Elektra finally comes to her senses and fires, one, two, at the target's chest. She's still wide-eyed and vacant, but she's turned to stare beyond Matt's back. He doesn't want to but he hones his mind's eye to Delilah, and--

And-- fuck. Don't look, fuck, the kid's dead. Jesus Christ.

It smells like blood all places but above, and Matt can barely hear. He moves, dizzy, like an (actual honest-to-God Blind Man) to her body, and she's gone. Damn it. Elektra's heartbeat is up; she's moving now, moving to Delilah's body, next to Matt. She's seriously dead, no brain activity, no blood pumping.

Elektra looks at him then looks down. She gets off of the floor, moving to her bag by the window. She opens it then lights a cigarette. Marlboro. She then finds Delilah's knife and replaces it with her own.

Matt fumbles with his phone, it reading various code names. Thomas, Elizabeth, Martina-- Matt's forgetting who he's supposed to call. He dials Elizabeth.

The motherfucker won't answer. Matt breathes in and out with every drawl of Elektra's cigarette. His hands are shaking again, and the two bodies in the room start giving him a headache. Why won't he answer? God fucking damn it. Matt needs air.

"Hello?"

It's the clean-up guy, Matt recognizes.

"Hi. I need cleanup in, uh, um--"

"On it. I have your location."

"Thanks."

The blood tastes salty like Sweeney's.

*

He can't stop thinking about how he put himself here, how he let Stick tie him up in the air and undress him. He's talking angrily, hitting him with a bat every time Matt coughs. He's been coughing for a while, now. Stick's words are too indistinct to make out but a part of Matt recognizes it, making the whole thing so much worse.

A noise Matt's been holding in the back of his throat escapes, phlegm moves, and Matt's legs feel mangled in one big bite.

His sins merit punishment. Stick hits on all the scars one by one, then twice for the rib the Matty tattoo is on. There's so much pain. It never gets easier to bear, pain is and will always be pain. Everything other than pain leaves Matt until it's all he feels, it fucking hurts.

Matt's stomach is empty and it just makes it worse.

This will be over soon. This will be over soon. Can't focus enough to remember how many other people there were. Over soon.

He coughs, and a hit to the stomach. Can't beg for mercy, won't.

Hit, somewhere else. Thigh or something. Matt wonders what his body looks like, what the Russian girl's looked like. Mangled. Maybe he looks like Dad.

After a moment, nothing strikes him, and Stick's presence is unfelt. He can't try to get out, no use in it. Stick's doing something in the other room, something about water. His body reacts, telling him the water's vaguely dangerous, he can't remember why. The door opens and it's Stick and he has a rag that smells like Nicorette gum.

A wet rag is held near his face and either Matt or Stick's breath is held for a moment before the rag is moved over Matt's mouth. Like a mother desperately shoving food through a sick child's lips.

It feels good, cold against his now noticeable boiling skin, for only a second, then it's bad again. Too tired to struggle, Matt doesn't scream or struggle too much until he feels himself losing consciousness. He moves his head west and east.

Stick holds on for too long. Matt's forgetting. This might be home.

He's let go and Matt breathes, breathes air, but it's getting hard. Birdie was shot in the chest. Was that instant? Did she have a moment after the shot where her brain signaled, I can't breathe?

Round two starts, and it starts with a smack cross the head, so hard his brain starts to function. Stick touches his face and asks him a question, starting with Matty, but he still can't tell. He focuses on trying to get through these moments, forgetting it as it happens, making the present the past.

His cheeks stung as Stick asked another question.

The rag could have made it to the floor, there was a familiar wet slap to the floor like Mist's body. What was her name? The door was open. Matt had never been naked that long.

Minutes felt stretched, like the sands of time slowed its descent. Matt felt the pain settle in his skin, felt his spine ache at nothing beneath his feet, his arms hurt at the small needles of rope holding him up. He felt hungry again.

He coughed with every breath. He didn't understand. Where did Stick go?

Blood through veins, it hurt to focus but he tried until he failed. Distantly there was something wrong with his senses, he couldn't place it, but finding Stick proved to be impossible. He was loopy but not an idiot so he gave it up, deciding to try and think. Ponder, lament.

No use. No words came up, he couldn't get his ears off his injuries. It all hurt so much. He heard everything wrong with him, heard skin ripping as he moved his wrists, heard the familiar boat-creak his lungs have been producing for so long now.

His stomach hurt. His legs hurt.

Something was happening.

Stick came back. Matt realised he didn't notice it. Shameful. In his hands are, back-of-his-palm New York tap water in a container of confusing shape. His warm hands undid the knots by Matt's almost paralysed hands and feet.

When the last tie came undone, Matt forgot how to stand. His knees wobbled until Stick held out a hand, wordlessly guiding him to the bodega plastic container.

There are thirty seconds of hacking and coughing before Stick put his head under water.

Under the water, the New York tap water, Matt comes alive again. He--

He didn't get enough air, he wants to say, wait a minute, let me breathe. He tries getting up, but beneath Stick's hands, he's weak. He tries unbalancing the water container, he tried spilling it with his body, but beneath Stick's hands, he is weak. He stays underwater.

Matt likes to breathe air. He can't calm down without air. He's doesn't know if he'd make it.

Normally he'd be up by now.

Let me up, he wants to say, I can't breathe.

*

Matt thinks he's dying.

I think I'm dying.

*

Lungs hurt.

*

really hurt. so tired of it.

*

i miss home

*

*

*

*

*

Jesus, Mother Mary.

*

*

*

*

burnt

tastesflesh

againwithstick it hurts

inhis side

the pain makes him want to wake up

*

*

*

*

am i still there

*

*

Shit, that hurts. His ribs. Cough it out.

*

Back in air, and he's clothed. Breathing. He's still alive, it seems. For a moment he's confused why he's not seeing anything. Panic, then he remembers where and when he is. Matt coughs, trying to find Stick in the length of his mind. The apartment is empty, and the neighbors aren't home. Stick's out, somewhere. Matt doesn't know if that's good or not.

He's still up. He's still tied up, and he's awake and dry and alive. Holy shit, it hurts. Matt wants to fucking die. He wants to succumb to cold, empty sleep. He doesn't want it anymore.

Matt closes his eyes like it makes a difference.

If he died and went to Hell, he wouldn't have too much to miss. This is practice. He'd just hate Stick for how mild it is, and how unprepared he sent him to battle. When he dies and goes to Hell, eternal and irreversible, he'll understand. He refused God and saw Stick instead, sinning in his shoes. It's not too severe a punishment for all the dirt he caked on his hands, over and over and over.

His sin does merit Hell. How many uncountable times he has wanted to deny it, knowing the truth by the last strand of hair on his hand, that this is where he's going, no matter what he wants to think.

Oil all around him, he's so wet with sweat he almost feels it. It's so hot, much hotter than earthly fire. He feels it in the veins in his wrists; it's going to hurt so much more than the esophageal gag of nagging pain, begging for attention, saying, You did something wrong. You're in danger, and now you must suffer, because how else would you fix yourself?

Can't fix a death. What was it, eighteen? Eighteen times two is what? Thirty-something. He can't repent with that many parents waiting on him. Dad wouldn't want to see him way up there, years after raising him to be a good man.

He's never killed without an underlying sense of release. He never acknowledges it, the capital-r Release, then guilt, regret, so much worse than that little pleasure. So much longer, too. He's never killed without that incredible regret, but he keeps doing it, tied to his ways. That's the worst part; he's stuck torturing himself, seeing, being the one reason, the perpetrator of their moving on.

Tied up like a blasphemous imitation, he decides not to pray. He thinks of Lucas's saintly innocence instead.

He hangs his head and cries

*

until he starts to hiccup. He's disgusting, snotty and pained, crying over his torso.

Had enough. He's gone, he'll never go back home, he'll never go back to the orphanage and never be with Dad again. He'll never be that boy again. Feel it covering top of your back in sweat; it feels like committed immoral sin, sins of commission.

He'd pray all night long after Dad died senselessly; he'd pray to bring him back. Matty would hear his dad in the streets, in any man who spoke or sneezed like him, missed men with his unique stench of sweat and day-old cologne when they left. Stick had something like his height, and Father Lantom had something like his good will; in front of them, if Matt closed his eyes hard enough, he thought Dad might appear in a cloud of grief.

It's wrong, offensive, the way people imitate him. No one could compare to what he meant. A grief counsellor gave him time and then told him he should start recovering, but Matt doesn't think he did it right. He's still there there.

Little Matty used to hope, standing a second too long in front of cars, thinking of Dad up there, thinking he'd see him.

Never happening. Couldn't say a forever goodbye, can't dare, Stick was beside him. Still gone. He's still gone, and Matt's down.

Sobbing, coughing, wanting to cover his face, his shoulders move up and down, dissolving into this horrible wave that can't be shaken. Dad stays with him in times when all he wants is to be alone and unconfronted. He's there in the face of Cynthia's father, and Matt knows, against his will, that his dad didn't have time to beg for his and his son's lives before he died.

And now it's here, this. He's so tired of this life, being hurt all the time. Would it be worth it? It isn't worth it now. He can't live a fabricated life; he can't lie to himself for too long. He's hurting to hurt in Hell. Dad couldn't stand to see Matt hurt himself. It's a good thing he's not here to see all the colors his own face was. Red and purple-- Dad was always red and purple.

Do I look like him?

Tied like a chicken for roast, does he look like his dad? Please, can he look like his dad?

Naked and in pain, he knows he doesn't. He's too scrawny and immoral. The Murdocks ' devil haunts him, concentrated on the pearlescent white prize of his stomach; the devil sees his meal, garnished with the so many offerings given to him. First was Dad, then it was Sweeney. When will it be him?

He closes his eyes like it makes a difference and breathes in and out, like String taught him. How does it feel?

It feels as real as it gets, a snotty face and dirty feet in an empty room in the sole of Manhattan's shoe.

*

He's let down after two days in the air. He can sleep on a couch tonight. It's really alright. He's already forgotten all about it, how it felt. Matt's fine to sleep on the floor, but he doesn't want to appear as disrespectful.

"Thanks."

"Go to sleep, Matty."

* ***

Mist and Dad are both dead underneath Matt's skin. His fake sister is dead. He's at school, the first day after winter break, with no mourning absence.

Matt's supposed to be in Catechism, but instead he's in the bathroom, miserable, vomiting his brain out. He would have disrupted class anyway; he's still coughing. It's a miracle he even still goes to school. Matt's pretty sure he used to want to be a valedictorian when he graduates. Yeah, right.

He skips school too much to be the valedictorian. Could have been. But Matt can't quite do what he used to anymore, so he forgets all about what very achievable dream he's always wanted. His brain can't shut the fuck up.

Too crazy, he is, too crazy.

This girl. Matt can't remember her name, Chrissy's friend, Victoria Gianni. Not Gianni. Gotti , Victoria Gotti , yes, she's going to be valedictorian. She's a bitch and a cunt. Everyone says so.

He feels another wave of nausea wash over his back, hurting him, as he kneels over the disgusting toilet. Matt's pretty sure he died last night. He should have stayed dead. Everything was set for it to happen. Instead, he has a cold like some regular asshole. It's not funny.

He doesn't even know what's in his vomit; the last he ate was two days ago. He's hardly functioning. There's no food in the apartment and he woke up late. He stopped waking up on time when he moved in with Stick. What's in his vomit is bile, he decides, focusing --and something else. He doesn't know the word for it.

It's coming up; there's nothing he can do about it. Matt feels and hears and sees it come through, hears what's to come minutes before it happens. Hasn't been like this since he was a kid, right after Dad died. He hasn't prayed since Chrissy's uncle, aunt, or whatever died. A courtesy.

But he does pray. Something about the nuns around him again, so familiar, and something about feeling throw-up move through his throat makes him want to pray.

He's halfway through an Our Father when he hears a gaunter of footsteps, rubber on ceramic.

Vomit wiped on his hand. Delightful.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Are you alright, says a familiar voice. He should be able to place it, he grew up with this voice. Fuck. He can't focus on anything. What's happening to him? Was he drugged?

"Hey? Dude?"

Right, Victoria Gotti's brother, what was it, Anthony? Which was Anthony? Italian from Staten Island, there are so many; just focus. He threw a chair over a kid's head last year. That's him. Ha. That's Tony Gotti .

He coughs, "I'm fine."

"Murdock, is that you?"

They know each other through class and mock debates, Matt recalls. Tony totally lost, that's the only thing certain in this whole shit. Tony, or someone like Tony was the boyfriend of one of Chrissy's friends.

"No, it's not."

So tired. Matt could sleep on the floor but that's not allowed here, Matty; we're civilized.

"Do you, uh, want me to guide you to the nurse's office?" Oh my fucking God.

People always talk to him for too long. Matt doesn't understand why they would feel the need to bask in his presence. It's not a delightful feeling, is it? So get the fuck out? It blows their minds that a blind person can be an asshole.

Shut up, Chrissy. Go away, leave my thoughts.

He coughs till his stomach's sore, gagging. Something about the whole situation makes him so mad. Chrissy shouldn't still be in his thoughts. She didn't mean anything.

"I'm fine."

"Dude, you've been coughing all day. I can take you. No big deal."

If he stays quiet, maybe Tony will forget he was ever there.

"Matt?"

"Can you take a fuckin' hint? I don't want you, I don't want anything to do with you. Is that all clear? Do you require more explanation?"

Footsteps again, slower this time. "Dick."

Start over again. Our Father, who art in Heaven...

*

Again, tired. Groceries for the apartment. Stick called the school and said Matt was sick. He feels like a little kid and a housewife all at once. Sticky gave him a crumpled bill with uncertain magnitude and now he has to walk to that big, dumb, loud grocery store.

Stick cooks meals, but only for himself. The last month all Matt ate were eggs and produce and nuts.

At the store, Matt doesn't know what to do. Not suffering is nice but Stick bitching about him not following orders would be a big pain in the ass.

Bump into someone. Good going, Matt, that was a great idea. Now you'll have to talk to someone. Isn't that just amazing? Did he perhaps hit his head on something hard last week? He can't tell when he bumps into someone? So he's on the floor.

On the floor. On the floor, and the guy who bumped into him is speaking. Can you focus?

He's picking Matt's canned stuff up, he's saying, "Woah, man. Hey, sorry, are you okay? Yo... Matteo?"

Huh?

"Matteo, dude, what the fuck are you doin' here! Yo!" he says, grabbing Matt by the shoulders into a weird hug. He doesn't recognize the voice yet. "Man, I thought you were still in the Kitchen, dude, this is crazy." Then he adds, quieter, "-been thinking about you, Matteo. How you been? Good?"

"Um," Matt stalls, trying to remember. Oh. It's Lucas. Wasn't he mad at him? "Lucas, ' zzat you?"

"Yeah, man! You good? What happened to your, uh," he gestures, "your glasses?"

"Oh." Matt touches his eyes. His sunglasses have been gone for a while, he supposes. They must've gotten lost or been broken, something. It's weird.

He settles with, "They broke. Broken. Uh, Adam says you got adopted, right? That's something."

God, save him. Please.

"Yeah, man, yeah I got adopted. Been doing good, you know," he says, laughing, and Matt doesn't understand. "Not the craziest thing happening, man."

"Ha, yeah..."

What a mess.

"Look, I gotta run. Uh." He grabs stuff from his backpack. He's writing, why is he writing, Matt? Focus. "Here's my number, man. I know I was pissed at you for a while, but, ah, I want you to call me. Adam told me all about you, Matt, he said you're all cool now. Uh, you good?"

"Ah. Yeah. I'm good. I'll call you, Luke."

He seems to smile, Matt's pretty sure. He mumbles a goodbye and Matt is nauseous.

*

When Matt's a little more lucid, he calls the number, walking back to the apartment after a long day of aerobic training. Lucas tells him about what he's been doing, the people he's been living with. Good people, man, you'd like them. He says they think he should invite Matt over. He asks what Matt thinks. He says, sure, I'll come over.

Can't sleep the night after.

*

Need a raincheck, Lucas says over the phone, apologizing. Matt exhales.

Matt never calls first after that first time. Lucas calls and Matt declines or answers.

*

7th floor, String's been working on getting Matt to read Japanese braille. She doesn't understand how different it is from regular braille systems. His brain keeps thinking it's English. It has eight cells as opposed to English's six. The rules of it are weird, too, and she expects him to understand it immediately. She's evil. He's so tired.

She guides his fingers over the dots. There's ink below it, pen ink from a Bic pen, she's careful to keep his hands out of her view of it.

It's in four divots, but lower on the page where English braille is higher. 'P', automatically, it's 'P' in English.

⠏ and ⡖ are different. It's not 'P'. In Japanese, it's something else. His head hurts and he wants to fucking sleep already.

" え ？ " E?

She hits him with a long wooden pointer she carries, right on an arm bruise, "First, you're wrong; second, it's e'," with a stop, "not ehh," elongated. "You're saying the wrong answer wrong. Again."

He's about to throw a temper tantrum.

" ね ？ " Ne?, he grits.

"Yes, that's right. Now use it in a sentence."

" ね ！ " Hey!

"You're lazy. Make a real sentence. Quick."

Matt groans. Using this particle is confusing. It's not a word, more like a suffix. Confusing. String uses it when girls are talking, but she says it doesn't really have a meaning; it's a filler word if a filler word wasn't for stalling. But also it's not. String only picked it to mess with Matt.

It takes him a minute to come up with this: " できないね 。 "

I can't, clearly.

String scoffs. Now they're both annoyed with each other.

* ** **

The landline rings. Stick gets the phone, Matt's not allowed to touch it.

"Who is it?"

Skin rubbed on plastic sounds like the whine bodies make when it loses control, when they die. It's late at night for most people but Stick keeps odd hours and so Matt does, too. Matt's studying for the SAT's and Stick's calling various drug lords and drug dealers.

"Is this Franklin Milton?" a man says, slow and pharyngeal, vaguely midwestern. Milton? It hardly picks up through static but he's in a police station. Stick moves his head in Matt's direction.

A tighter grip, "Well, who are you?"

"This is Officer Thomas Greenwood from the NYPD, I'd like to ask your son some questions down at the station?"

Damn it. The words burn him through the spine.

"My son? Did he do something?"

My son. The way he says it, so hostile. Matt stifles a cough and puts down his screen reader, thinking of what to say when the cop hangs up. It's about Mist's death, probably, he has to start planning the story. He's too busy for this shit. Weak to start with an apology. Stupid to explain.

"Don't worry, sir, I'm sure he didn't. We just want to ask him a few questions is all. Tomorrow at seven p.m. the 5th precinct on Elizabeth street, alright? Can't miss it."

Stick seems mad, turning away, facing the kitchen wall. Seven, this cursed number. Seven at night is a horrible time for Matt.

"We're busy. I'm busy. Can't make it."

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to clear your son's schedule."

He turns back, facing Matt.

"He's busy."

"Sir, if it's not tomorrow at seven, it will be the day after. Do you want that?"

Defeated, "Alright, fine. Seven."

Click. The conversation had after is long and nauseating. Elektra's called on her cellphone, she's going to be there with him, they called her parents, too. (Hugo and Christina, they're nice, but I've never met two dumber fucking people, she says.) It ends in Stick throwing something at Matt for coughing too much.

Nothing is ever as bad as Matt imagines it. But. (there's always a but) God's not willing to do any favors.

*

Turtle stays home. He calls Lucas on the way, asks, would you lie for me? He says yes, because he's sweet like that. Matt says, seriously, would you? Luke says yes.

Elektra calls him gay for it but she likes photography and is literally wearing a leather jacket, so she's just projecting.

*

Chinatown is similar to the Lower East Side in that everything feels cramped and the air tastes frantic and uneasy. Matt doesn't like it. Clinton was so big, the clouds were higher in the air. In Chinatown, there are buildings ahead and behind, to the right and left. Lanterns above the car ceiling. Meth caked in every corner, just like the Lower East Side.

The Kitchen was different. New Yorkers are New Yorkers but in the Kitchen there seemed to be more kids and less hard drugs, people always seemed so familiarly survivalist. People seemed actually busy. All conversation he heard seemed to be about, I don't know how I'm going to pay my landlord.

Elektra wouldn't know. Diplomat's daughter in a condo in the Upper East Side. Clean air and extracurricular activities is what she knows.

She doesn't carry herself the same as she did three, almost four weeks ago, on the Hayden mission. Elektra almost acts like other people, almost acts like an Eliana. She's dressed like a pretty girl you'd meet at church. Vinyl shoes and daintier than dainty necklaces.

Holding that damn camera again. She snaps a photo. Matt wasn't paying attention where the camera was pointed.

"Why do you do that?"

"I don't keep it anywhere someone can find. Don't piss your panties."

"You're so presumptuous. That wasn't my question."

She puts the camera down. "You really expect me to believe you have an interest in my photography."

Matt gestures. She looks at the camera again, inspecting it. "Why do I take pictures...." she says. Matt coughs and her eyes flicker to him, then back. She bites her lip, " Dunno . Something to do, you know?"

He almost laughs.

*

The police station is cold but Matt's feet are freezing. He's pissing Greenwood off by coughing.

Elektra's with another police officer, some annoying lady who wants to be tough too bad. The lady asks questions quicker, a drum-beat rhythm, it's almost jazz. Greenwood talks slow and the coughing makes it slower. Elektra goes first, then Matt. They planned this. If only Matt could focus on the words.

Dry air and a buzzing, flickering light, the coughs aren't forced. Still, he got fed up and went for a snack.

Matt's life has been so shitty, lately.

The worst thing is, he knows why. It's God, throwing this shit at him, for a just reason, as he does, but what's Matt to do about it? He'd rather sit on the tile than repent. He needs to do something good, he needs to win.

This is how his life goes, losses and wins, and he's been losing this whole year. After he beats this shit, he better well win five lottos in a God damn row. He was supposed to grow up and be a lawyer, that was his plan when he was a kid. What is he doing here?

Cops must be focusing on Hayden's murder. Next desk over, there's a kid with a distinct fake-fight smell. Some Puerto Rican crew, he's talking about how his mother's waiting for him in Harlem, his sister, too. All lies.

He should be listening more but he's tired of hearing all the time. Fuck! What's he missing, the cop's bowel movement? The disgusting pop and crack deep in the back of that next kid over? It's all so sickening. Normally he'd breathe and focus on himself, his body's movement, but lately he's been too hungry to keep up with it.

Fleshy cave of hot liquid, contracting and echoing through his hollow body. Who wants to hear that?

The cop walks back with a Coke in hand.

Dust in his throat. He knows exactly where it is. When he coughs, his eyes tear up.

"I got you a Coke for your cough."

Through the cough, "No-- uh," he hacks, "no, I don't need it, I'm fine."

The man sighs and puts the coke down, sitting down at his desk. Papers and folders are scattered around, dusty, but through the dust lies a delicious undertone of paper and ink. He grabs Matt's folder with clammy hands.

Officer Greenwood's old, older than Stick. There are layers of flaky old man dry skin around his epidermis, smelling like the typical older man (medicine, oil and halitosis) with the fun addition of rainwater and straight sewage. He's the type of old man that you could tell used to be hot shit.

"Okay, Murdock. We're back to it. Just to recap, you said your name is Matthew Michael Murdock and you are, indeed, that kid who jumped in front of that truck. That's how far we got."

Matt doesn't touch the Coke.

"Well," he says, "lets cut to the chase. I have a picture of you in Queens on February fifth, the day Hayden David died, outside her apartment."

Thump, ba -thump. Bluffing. He really thinks he's smart. Dumb fuck.

"Do you?"

He speaks slightly more nasal, a tip from Salt.

"I do. I wish you could see it."

"If that were true, why would I just be in this chair? When was February fifth?"

"The day before it snowed."

It snowed?

"I was... with my friend in his parents' apartment in Manhattan. Lucas Moreno. Why would I be in Queens?"

He smiles, teeth half gaping, the cigarette smell coated on his teeth is introduced to Matt's sniffer. Apache cigarettes, it smells vaguely Indonesian. "That's good. Do you have this Lucas's number?"

"So it wasn't me in the picture."

"No, it wasn't. It could have been. Your friend's number, please?"

"Um. 212.. 628 899. A number might be wrong, but... That's it." He coughs with a dry throat, swallows, says, "Why am I even here? How could I have killed someone? What am I, not blind? Who is this dead girl, even?"

String taught him to act. He thinks he's doing pretty alright, but that's mostly thanks to the dumbfuck cop as his improv partner.

"You're here because we thought it might be you," he says, writing. "Go sit over there. Oh, wait. Okay, I'll bring you there. Stand up--"

*

Since Mist's death, Matt got new sunglasses and longer hair. Stick let it grow out from his usual buzz. This is important because Matt's standing in a police line-up with a witness behind glass. It's like The Usual Suspects, but lame. The Puerto Rican kid is here.

In the lineup, a taller guy, mid-20s; a slightly shorter guy, early-20s; Matt; a random non-descript teenager; a cop, who does not look like anyone else; and the kid. They all stand like tough guys, these small time criminals.

Matt stands with a bit of a hunch for this.

A voice from a speaker says, "When your number is called, repeat the phrase you've been given. Got it? Number one, step forward."

Number one sighs, "I need cleanup in room two-twenty five." The card is passed. Someone must have heard him call the clean-up guy. Damn it.

"Number two, come forward."

"Need cleanup.." he clears his throat, "-in room two hunned tweny fiiive," he draws out.

"Three, take off your sunglasses and step forward."

"How much?" Matt asks, pinning his glasses in his button-down.

"Two, help him, would'ya ?"

He almost sounds angry, "He's blind?"

"Just do it. Three, you know what to say."

Two helps him step forward and now is Matt's time to shine. He doesn't remember how he said it, but he sure as hell knows how he didn't say it.

Nasal, leaning into New York, but still a face in the crowd, "I need clean up in room two-hundred and twenty five."

He steps back. Success.

"Four."

*

In the car back, Elektra seems less tense.

"What was your phrase?" Matt asks.

"'I don't care about that right now'. Yours?"

"'I need cleanup in room two-twenty five'."

"Did you say it gay like that?"

Appalled, "Fuck you?"

*

School is over and Matt's outside the building. He and a goth friend group sit on the curb everyday, they talk amongst themselves, sometimes including Matt, and he sits and zones out. When he thinks, it's about that fake life he could have had.

They're domestic scenes, birthdays, washing dishes, stitching skin. Always with an underlying bitterness and clenched teeth. Other times he's too tired to think much about it, listening to the blank, cynical conversation the goths are having.

Matt's digging his knuckle into the concrete today. He should really get up. His sisters are waiting for him in their apartment. They want to see a movie with him. Too tired to get up. Matt closes his eyes and tries to focus himself into getting the fuck off the curb.

To no avail. When the Hand chases him, how will he run? He can't bring himself off the ground.

Tearing apart his knuckles, he finds that life is boring in execution.

*

He hasn't called to see if Lucas kept his word.

Stick isn't any more mad at Matt than he usually is, in fact, he seems slightly pleased at how Matt handled guns in training, today. They sit and eat takeout from the nearest restaurant. Ukrainian food, on the floor of the apartment. There's a table but Stick doesn't eat on it, it's just for show.

The phone rings and Stick's still chewing so he moves his head, telling Matt to get it.

"Yeah. Who?"

Hurts to hold the phone, Matt has a boxer's fracture. Chaste doc gave him a soft cast and Stick has him forcefully meditating.

"This is Officer Greenwood. Can you pass the phone to Mr. Franklin Milton?"

Fuck you, Greenwood, now Stick's breathing angrily.

"What is it?"

"Is this Matthew on the phone?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me what you want."

"We want you to come back for a lie detector. The witness couldn't tell who it was. Tuesday, seven p.m."

Tuesday, today's Saturday. Yeah, alright. Nino always comes on Tuesdays, and he's been helping the kid with his shitty dodging skills, so he'll miss that. Whatever, not a big deal.

"But I gave you my friend's number?"

"That, you did. Can you give the phone to your dad?"

Stick's doing a decapitation motion with his hands, still chewing. That means no. "He's out. I'll tell him when he gets back."

"If you ask him to call us back, will he?"

"Maybe."

A sigh. "Okay."

*

Passed, he was taught how to a long time ago. Matt regulates his heartbeat every second of the God damn day, of course he would pass a lie detector test, he lies eve- ry God damn day. He wasn't even nervous about it. This should be a win.

Passed! He passed all the tests like a soldier does, but it doesn't undo how mad Stick is. He wasn't so mad before, but now: Mad, like a working man, the type of hot anger that's never been directed at him before. These shouts have been reverberating through the New York streets for decades, centuries, and the sound waves have now finally hit him deep in the chest.

  "How can you have possibly fucked it up? I've never seen anyone in the Chaste so incompetent. She was a bagboy, Matty, I trained you. Was it a mistake? I'm asking you, was it a mistake?"

It's jarring to hear a man so level-headed seriously angry. There's been disappointment and he's been ticked off but Matt's never heard this song of patrial anger come out of Stick. The notes come out all dissonant and Matt finds it doesn't suit him. He doesn't know how to shout. Still, it brings a reaction in Matt.

Matt's better at being hit than yelled at. The Chaste never prepared him for that. He feels like a kid again, when Dad caught Matt walking the streets alone when he shouldn't have been. That must've been the last time someone truly raised his voice at him. The nuns never yelled, they didn't care enough. Stick cares. Stick cares.

  "Tell me!"

  "It wasn't, it wasn't a mistake."

So when Stick heaved his anger through verbal outcry, all Matt wanted was a punch to the face.

It's beginning to feel comfortable, walking around half-conscious. Instead of living minute-to-minute, surviving, Matt's already dead.

*

Sleep is the only mercy he has, dreamless soft and warm. The lack of a bed isn't too bad, it's still sleep, a taste of death, an experiment of it. It's the only pleasure Stick approves of Matt having. It's more pleasing than candy anyway.

(He remembers what it felt like to die weeks after the incident. There was no mistaking it. He died and it felt bad until Stick broke his ribs in CPR. Matt doesn't like to think about it.)

It's funny, Stick taught him how to sleep. After the blinding, Matt couldn't sleep due to the noise. Eventually he learned to focus on Dad's ba -thump, ba -thump rhythm. When he died, Matt did the same with his first roommate's heart until he heard his first gunshot in Hell's Kitchen.

The Stick Way of Sleeping is to train yourself into exhaustion and then get into the sleep position and breathe for 120 seconds.

There's the criminal underworld, and underneath that, there's Matt and Elektra's underworld, Eddie's underworld. Specially trained children for the big War. You can tell a regular criminal from Eddie's underworld based on how they sleep, which areas they cover. Matt sleeps covering his neck. Stick and Elektra sleep sitting up.

Saturday. He should be going to church but he wakes up late to a car hitting the curb outside the apartment. He closes his eyes again, relaxing his muscles, basking in the thick honey of sleep.

*

Maybe he could get a belt and hang himself forreal.

Lucas is calling his cellphone. Lucas. Lucas. Lucas. Don't want to answer, don't want to hear him talk. Lord. String said it's useful to know people outside the Chaste but it's such a pain. Stick's right there and he's still kind of mad. He's going to hear the gayass thing they have going on and he's going to call Matt a pansy and in the end, Matt will suffer.

Click the button, what fucking ever. He takes the call in the stairwell.

"Yeah."

"Hey, Matteo. Did you know the cops called me? The motherfuckin ' police called me, dude. About you. Did you know that?" he says, sounding all manic and high-strung.

"You didn't choke, did you? You did what I asked?"

"Fuck you. Yes, I did what you asked. What the fuck, man? What did you do? I thought you were out of that shit, man. That's why I even accepted any of these stupid-ass calls. If you're involved with this crazy shit it means I'm going to get involved. I don't want to get involved. Called the orphanage. Why didn't you call me back?"

Not even Chrissy had this many questions.

"Thanks for not snitching on me, man." Matt sighs. Stick is definitely listening. "I didn't get your call 'cause I don't live at St. Agnes's anymore."

"What?"

"And-- and you're not going to get involved. It was old shit, I wasn't even involved. Don't worry about it. I, uh, didn't call you, in the first place, 'cause I'm trying to find accessible SAT stuff. I forgot to call, I got busy. It's fine."

"You forgot," Lucas breathes. "I forgot what a dick you are. Alright, yeah, Matt, whatever. It don't mean a fuckin' thing."

Phone goes quiet. Stick's laughing at him.

"Loser," he says. Okay. Fuck the world.

* ** ***

This is the last time Matt will be on the 7th floor and it really makes him want to cry. They're packing up and moving to Chinatown. The kids are excited, Elektra's blasé and Stick's slightly pissed. As usual. Matt wishes he knew about the move at least a month prior. He feels the same way about this place as he feels about Dad's place in Hell's Kitchen.

Too many things happened here. He's holding a box of weapons used against him, to be moved across the city. It's weird Chaste uses a van like civilians. We should be carrying this by hand, up and down Manhattan, Matt thinks, so it's a slower process.

It could be his fault, their moving. He's supposed to be too tired to think about it.

Matt's not, you know, insane. Dad was a sentimental man and his mom also must've been. His grandparents were the two most cruel people he's met. The reason Matt is so emotional is genetics. He knows buildings aren't alive and they feel no emotion but he can't help but think- he's abandoning something important to him.

7th floor, 32nd and 5th; this is his home, God damn it! How the hell could he leave it and not feel anything? He wore down a spot in a tile, a nice spot, how much he slept there. In God's statistics, it'd show that he slept more on those floors than in the orphanage bed. He can't half-consciously train in any other random spot, it comes with the location. It does. He's imagined dying here so many times.

He's starting to feel sick.

Put that shit down, yeah? Dizzy, he tumbles like, God, like an actual blind man. What did Stick say? It reverberates through his head but he can't hear it. What were the words? Why can't he remember anything anymore? Nothing's making sense and he's trying not to be noticeable and he's got a feeling it's not working and--

Breathe, Jesus, sit down. There's something wrong with him. He makes it to the floor but he hardly realises his worn-out jeans reach the floor when it does. Can you relax, for fuck's sake? Breathe, breathe.

Exhausted. Been losing sleep, hasn't been counting his God-damn blessings. He feels fucking insane. Why isn't anyone tired like Matt's tired? It got him in the connective tissue, in his muscles, he's exhausted with every step of the day. Mad, tired, fucking insane. Makes him want to whine and scream like a baby without candy.

Losing sleep. Angry, he's remembering everything anyone's done to wrong him these past days. They have to be symptoms of something, a cancer. Something. Anything.

It's like-- it's like there's something in his skin sometimes. The devil, whatever, it's in his skin and it wants out from all the hell Matt puts it through. It likes killing, that's what it likes. It only comes out when he kills and Matt feels that happiness.

And it really, it feels good. For a second, after he kills, after he ends a life, his hands go limp around whatever his weapon is and he exhales. His whole life, Matt's been holding his breath, it might be Dad's passing or Stick or even just a product of New York, but he's so neurotic and when he kills it all goes away and he's fine. He's fine and it's all cool, right after this sick release.

He's never thought about it outside a murder fantasy. It feels so good and his skin feels like it ain't even there anymore after he kills. It's insane and psychopathic but it's the only thing he's sure is true. He's fine and normal until a minute after, and he thinks; thinks of God and his Dad or some other shit and then he's no longer fine.

No longer fine. Something so wrong with him. He feels good and then bad about it. Shaking. Can you please? Can you be okay everyday? He's nauseous. Valium, please. Please.

He always feels it before a freakout. Can't you be normal? No one's actually happy but can't you feel some of it, feel good for one moment, please? He's falling apart on the floor, like a mutt. Seriously, what the fuck, he's been wired for weeks, shaking, what went wrong? Is it the death? Is it when you died?

Fucking insane. You've worked yourself up, buddy, and now Elektra's consoling you like she's your fucking mother.

But you can't hear her. Jesus, soldier. Are you actually vomiting? You're seriously vomiting the first meal you made in weeks? Are you a child? Can you please. Kids younger than you can kill and die without this mentally deranged shitfest you have going on. What are you doing?

"I need-- I need--"

You need medicine, not just for whatever made you throw up, but for your sick head. You're a fuckin' nut. Get your shit together or you'll die to the Hand, soldier. Better yet, to Stick. Don't fuck yourself up. Help yourself, Matty. Help yourself. Got it?

"Breathe. Breathe, Matthew."

"' lektra ?"

She hums, giving him a tissue. "Are you okay? Wipe your mouth. I can't get you water, 'm sorry."

"I don't wanna go, ' lektra . I don't want to."

"Me neither, Matty. We got to, though. You're okay? Can you move? I don't want to sit near your nasty throw up, Matthew. Let's move."

Like a mother cat, she takes Matt by his collar and drags him over to the other side of the tile. This room is where String locked him in all those years ago. That was bad. Being away from the vomit feels better. Breathe.

It feels good after a crash. With Elektra right there with him, he feels good. He could sleep like this.

"Matthew. Was it that we're moving? Did something shitty happen in your father's apartment, when you were moving?"

After Dad died, Matt was crying all snotty, taking his shit from the house. He remembers it so well. It smelled like dust and rotten oranges. Dad was so bad at cleaning.

Blinking the smell away, "What? Why?"

"You get like this when we're moving things around."

"Oh. What? No, it's- it's not that. It's all fine, I think I just--"

"It's not fine, don't give me that. You threw up. Stop saying you're fine or it's fine, it doesn't communicate what you think it does. Almost... the exact opposite. Was it the fact we're leaving this place?"

He nods, a flick of the neck, breathing.

"I don't like it either. This place-- I call it 'this place' in my head. This place was a... character in my life. Our lives. We really grew up here, didn't we? Home base, kind of."

He wants to gnaw his knuckles deep in this floor.

She says, "I'll miss it," grinding her teeth.

Matt sighs in agreement.

"What went wrong, Matthew? Can't you say something to me? You've been looking solemn for a month."

"I--" You died a month ago, that's what. "I don't know, ' lektra . I don't know. I've been feeling weird for a while. I'm just so tired. I blame it on Stick, but I don't think it.. is. There's. There's something wrong with me, I'm too sensitive for everything, for this world. I wish I could.. see what's wrong with me. I wish..."

"What?"

"I don't know. I wish I was a kid again. Did anyone see my freakout?"

"Stick did. He seemed fine with me going to sit with you. They're all gone, it's okay, they're not listening. Matt, there's nothing wrong with you. This is just how you are. Just like how I'm too abrasive to have regular friends. Just like how I'm--" she stops, shaking her head. "You know? It's fine."

Elektra's hand on Matt's shoulder is warm and isn't at all condescending. She makes him feel like he's almost normal. She can't leave too. No tears fall, not even a droplet, but their shadow lingers on Matt's face. He almost feels it. Sweat.

"He shouldn't have taken you off those pills, Matthew. I don't know how you've been surviving. Should've known. Every time I look at you, you have the most devastated look on your face, did you know that?"

Almost a smile, "No."

"It is Stick. I'm so sorry about that, by the way."

He's starting to feel lighter, "It's okay."

"How does it feel?"

Dropped, the lightness. Pick it up like it's a pile of bricks. Pick it up like its guilt.

"What? To live with Stick? It's alright."

"No. How does it feel, Matthew, right now? In your skin, how do you feel?"

"Are you trying to rile me up?"

"I'm trying to help you, don't be a dick."

"My skin feels fine."

"No it doesn't. Don't fucking lie. Not to me. My  skin doesn't feel fine. If it's uncomfortable for me it's uncomfortable for you. How does your skin feel? Give me an adjective, a verb, anything. Talk to me, Matt."

"What is this? Do you want to talk?"

"Hugo and Christina got me a shrink, I talk. I'm telling her stories. Don't piss me off, how do you feel?"

"Elektra."

"Matt. Please. Do you want me to look like an asshole, begging you?"

"Can you stop?"

"Tell me, you piece of shit."

"Elektra, come on."

"What? Tell me, you dickbag ."

" Dickbag ?" he huffs, a half-laugh.

"Tell me!" she almost yells, and,

"How does my skin feel? It. It hurts, Elektra."

' lektra pulls him into a hug. They both have bruises on their sternums. During the hug, their bruises overlap.

"Yeah?"

"It hurts a lot."

She rests her chin on the back of his shoulder.

"It hurts a lot."

*

Mystery pill at Matt's request. Elektra might be an angel, she gave him two. He carries things into the new Chinatown place way down where avenues and streets don't use numbers. K-town was too hungry and Manhattanite, anyway. This place might be good.

Chinatown buildings are small and industrious, fitting many people into few rooms. Their place is slightly bigger, a floor meant to be an office, but still tinier than he's used to. A mouse's cage, the windows are barred from the outside with patchy rust. The fire escape is falling apart, loose but still ornamental. It's cloudy. Clouds always smell so great.

In his Sunday's best, wearing his good-boy face, Matt sits in a courthouse like he's on death row. People walk across his ears, getting into their seats, sipping their coffee and babbling to each other. I worry about a medical condition, they slur. Disgusting. The judge spilled her black coffee all over the floor and the security guard laughs like she told him an especially clever joke.

Warm in here. Too warm for December. He opens the state-issued free bottled water, provoking a pain in his shoulder from the Birdie mission, and takes a long sip. The water tastes like skin and plastic, and it reminds Matt of the air around a dead person.

Stick seems tense but Matt can never tell with him. He puts the bottle on the table, a preventive measure, so Stick doesn't give him shit for fidgeting with the bottle cap.

It's so warm; the heater's somewhere Matt can't identify. Warmth leads to sweat and then to his clothes feeling itchy, a familiar but foreign feeling. He normally pushes it down, he was taught to, but now it's itchy. Breathe, think, why is it itchy? He's not nervous, that's stupid. There's no reason to be nervous.

Adoption hearings are only a formality. They don't matter. No one cares. Matt used to listen to these all night when he was a kid; he knows how they go, why is he itchy? The warmth, right, and the weird suit. A donation from some orphan-pitying Samaritan.

Dust in his throat, Matt begs himself not to cough. Relax, please, will you relax?

The judge coughs.

His social worker touches Matt's shoulder, and only then does he remember her. Breathe in and out; you're in a courtroom, and you will be okay despite any bullets that may hit you. Get it together for the love of God.

"Are we ready to commence?"

Right now, nothing sounds better than home.

* ** ***

This is the last time Matt will be on the 7th floor and it really makes him want to cry. They're packing up and moving to Chinatown. The kids are excited, Elektra's blasé and Stick's slightly pissed. As usual. Matt wishes he knew about the move at least a month prior. He feels the same way about this place as he feels about Dad's place in Hell's Kitchen.

Too many things happened here. He's holding a box of weapons used against him, to be moved across the city. It's weird Chaste uses a van like civilians. We should be carrying this by hand, up and down Manhattan, Matt thinks, so it's a slower process.

It could be his fault, their moving. He's supposed to be too tired to think about it.

Matt's not, you know, insane. Dad was a sentimental man and his mom also must've been. His grandparents were the two most cruel people he's met. The reason Matt is so emotional is genetics. He knows buildings aren't alive and they feel no emotion but he can't help but think- he's abandoning something important to him.

7th floor, 32nd and 5th; this is his home, God damn it! How the hell could he leave it and not feel anything? He wore down a spot in a tile, a nice spot, how much he slept there. In God's statistics, it'd show that he slept more on those floors than in the orphanage bed. He can't half-consciously train in any other random spot, it comes with the location. It does. He's imagined dying here so many times.

He's starting to feel sick.

Put that shit down, yeah? Dizzy, he tumbles like, God, like an actual blind man. What did Stick say? It reverberates through his head but he can't hear it. What were the words? Why can't he remember anything anymore? Nothing's making sense and he's trying not to be noticeable and he's got a feeling it's not working and--

Breathe, Jesus, sit down. There's something wrong with him. He makes it to the floor but he hardly realises his worn-out jeans reach the floor when it does. Can you relax, for fuck's sake? Breathe, breathe.

Exhausted. Been losing sleep, hasn't been counting his God-damn blessings. He feels fucking insane. Why isn't anyone tired like Matt's tired? It got him in the connective tissue, in his muscles, he's exhausted with every step of the day. Mad, tired, fucking insane. Makes him want to whine and scream like a baby without candy.

Losing sleep. Angry, he's remembering everything anyone's done to wrong him these past days. They have to be symptoms of something, a cancer. Something. Anything.

It's like-- it's like there's something in his skin sometimes. The devil, whatever, it's in his skin and it wants out from all the hell Matt puts it through. It likes killing, that's what it likes. It only comes out when he kills and Matt feels that happiness.

And it really, it feels good. For a second, after he kills, after he ends a life, his hands go limp around whatever his weapon is and he exhales. His whole life, Matt's been holding his breath, it might be Dad's passing or Stick or even just a product of New York, but he's so neurotic and when he kills it all goes away and he's fine. He's fine and it's all cool, right after this sick release.

He's never thought about it outside a murder fantasy. It feels so good and his skin feels like it ain't even there anymore after he kills. It's insane and psychopathic but it's the only thing he's sure is true. He's fine and normal until a minute after, and he thinks; thinks of God and his Dad or some other shit and then he's no longer fine.

No longer fine. Something so wrong with him. He feels good and then bad about it. Shaking. Can you please? Can you be okay everyday? He's nauseous. Valium, please. Please.

He always feels it before a freakout. Can't you be normal? No one's actually happy but can't you feel some of it, feel good for one moment, please? He's falling apart on the floor, like a mutt. Seriously, what the fuck, he's been wired for weeks, shaking, what went wrong? Is it the death? Is it when you died?

Fucking insane. You've worked yourself up, buddy, and now Elektra's consoling you like she's your fucking mother.

But you can't hear her. Jesus, soldier. Are you actually vomiting? You're seriously vomiting the first meal you made in weeks? Are you a child? Can you please. Kids younger than you can kill and die without this mentally deranged shitfest you have going on. What are you doing?

"I need-- I need--"

You need medicine, not just for whatever made you throw up, but for your sick head. You're a fuckin' nut. Get your shit together or you'll die to the Hand, soldier. Better yet, to Stick. Don't fuck yourself up. Help yourself, Matty. Help yourself. Got it?

"Breathe. Breathe, Matthew."

"' lektra ?"

She hums, giving him a tissue. "Are you okay? Wipe your mouth. I can't get you water, 'm sorry."

"I don't wanna go, ' lektra . I don't want to."

"Me neither, Matty. We got to, though. You're okay? Can you move? I don't want to sit near your nasty throw up, Matthew. Let's move."

Like a mother cat, she takes Matt by his collar and drags him over to the other side of the tile. This room is where String locked him in all those years ago. That was bad. Being away from the vomit feels better. Breathe.

It feels good after a crash. With Elektra right there with him, he feels good. He could sleep like this.

"Matthew. Was it that we're moving? Did something shitty happen in your father's apartment, when you were moving?"

After Dad died, Matt was crying all snotty, taking his shit from the house. He remembers it so well. It smelled like dust and rotten oranges. Dad was so bad at cleaning.

Blinking the smell away, "What? Why?"

"You get like this when we're moving things around."

"Oh. What? No, it's- it's not that. It's all fine, I think I just--"

"It's not fine, don't give me that. You threw up. Stop saying you're fine or it's fine, it doesn't communicate what you think it does. Almost... the exact opposite. Was it the fact we're leaving this place?"

He nods, a flick of the neck, breathing.

"I don't like it either. This place-- I call it 'this place' in my head. This place was a... character in my life. Our lives. We really grew up here, didn't we? Home base, kind of."

He wants to gnaw his knuckles deep in this floor.

She says, "I'll miss it," grinding her teeth.

Matt sighs in agreement.

"What went wrong, Matthew? Can't you say something to me? You've been looking solemn for a month."

"I--" You died a month ago, that's what. "I don't know, ' lektra . I don't know. I've been feeling weird for a while. I'm just so tired. I blame it on Stick, but I don't think it.. is. There's. There's something wrong with me, I'm too sensitive for everything, for this world. I wish I could.. see what's wrong with me. I wish..."

"What?"

"I don't know. I wish I was a kid again. Did anyone see my freakout?"

"Stick did. He seemed fine with me going to sit with you. They're all gone, it's okay, they're not listening. Matt, there's nothing wrong with you. This is just how you are. Just like how I'm too abrasive to have regular friends. Just like how I'm--" she stops, shaking her head. "You know? It's fine."

Elektra's hand on Matt's shoulder is warm and isn't at all condescending. She makes him feel like he's almost normal. She can't leave too. No tears fall, not even a droplet, but their shadow lingers on Matt's face. He almost feels it. Sweat.

"He shouldn't have taken you off those pills, Matthew. I don't know how you've been surviving. Should've known. Every time I look at you, you have the most devastated look on your face, did you know that?"

Almost a smile, "No."

"It is Stick. I'm so sorry about that, by the way."

He's starting to feel lighter, "It's okay."

"How does it feel?"

Dropped, the lightness. Pick it up like it's a pile of bricks. Pick it up like its guilt.

"What? To live with Stick? It's alright."

"No. How does it feel, Matthew, right now? In your skin, how do you feel?"

"Are you trying to rile me up?"

"I'm trying to help you, don't be a dick."

"My skin feels fine."

"No it doesn't. Don't fucking lie. Not to me. My  skin doesn't feel fine. If it's uncomfortable for me it's uncomfortable for you. How does your skin feel? Give me an adjective, a verb, anything. Talk to me, Matt."

"What is this? Do you want to talk?"

"Hugo and Christina got me a shrink, I talk. I'm telling her stories. Don't piss me off, how do you feel?"

"Elektra."

"Matt. Please. Do you want me to look like an asshole, begging you?"

"Can you stop?"

"Tell me, you piece of shit."

"Elektra, come on."

"What? Tell me, you dickbag ."

" Dickbag ?" he huffs, a half-laugh.

"Tell me!" she almost yells, and,

"How does my skin feel? It. It hurts, Elektra."

' lektra pulls him into a hug. They both have bruises on their sternums. During the hug, their bruises overlap.

"Yeah?"

"It hurts a lot."

She rests her chin on the back of his shoulder.

"It hurts a lot."

*

Mystery pill at Matt's request. Elektra might be an angel, she gave him two. He carries things into the new Chinatown place way down where avenues and streets don't use numbers. K-town was too hungry and Manhattanite, anyway. This place might be good.

Chinatown buildings are small and industrious, fitting many people into few rooms. Their place is slightly bigger, a floor meant to be an office, but still tinier than he's used to. A mouse's cage, the windows are barred from the outside with patchy rust. The fire escape is falling apart, loose but still ornamental. It's cloudy. Clouds always smell so great.

He's still tired.

It's fine. It can be fine if you ask nice enough.

*

Weird, walking to Chinatown. They've decorated and everything. There's a storage room, like this place isn't tiny enough. Places and people come and go ,but what stays is how stupid everyone can be.

He's still tired.

It's fine. It can be fine if you ask nice enough.

*

Weird, walking to Chinatown. They've decorated and everything. There's a storage room, like this place isn't tiny enough. Places and people come and go ,but what stays is how stupid everyone can be.

Chapter Text

He wakes up to his stupid fucking alarm. Friday. Matt does five things after turning it off.

One: listen to Stick aimlessly swear about waking up to the stupid fucking alarm.

Two: miss the nuns, who used to wake him up every day.

Three: think about his warm spot on the floor. He collapsed in the kitchen, a nasty place to sleep. Still warm.

Four: find his glasses.

Five: find his uniform.

Going to school has never been as much of a pain in the ass as it is now. He'd rather stay at the apartment all day and work on his trite admission essays. This piece of shit world and its piece of shit rules. Feel that disgust in the back of your throat; what does it taste like, Matty? It tastes like bile.

*

What's the point of it? Why get adopted? If he's still going to take the 5 to that same disgusting Catholic school way uptown in the Upper East Side, why even try? The answer doesn't come the whole ride over. No homeless wailing on the morning train; tired white-collar employees and tired students have no time to wail in between thinking up their own memoirs in their heads.

*

The memoir has no end. Senior year, and Matt doubts he'll ever not be in English Literature class. Just as his body never left that first fight of his, he's stuck here, in his body, feeling like this, forever. Yeah, alright, man.

*

School's out, and he's still depressed. On the train there is wailing from a homeless guy on meth. He's holding a board game board in one hand and is clutching his thigh with the other. Matt can tell he's truly in pain. He thinks, Who's hurting more, you or me?

The meth head won't shut the hell up, and it pisses Matt off enough to wonder if he has cash. He hasn't sold any of what he's supposed to; he doesn't forget, but he never ends up at the pawn shop.

Matt's stop after school has been Chinatown for a month now, Chamber's street-- his closest station. Since Bloomberg became mayor, the trains have been running on time. There is no such thing as a good mayor, though. Rich prick.

*

Chinatown, and it's only still the afternoon. The kids are growing up.

A little seeing boy, "Ice, Ice. Watch this!"

He does an unimpressive kickflip. Ice did not watch, and the only thing learned is that the little boy will not be a good soldier. Three-fourths of them are good, one quarter are not. They usually end up a mission.

There are four blind people in the Chaste's New York. Stick, Matt, a higher-up Japanese man who only speaks in Japanese mutters in his visits; and an actual blind little girl, Hoa. She's the daughter of the Vietnamese pharmacy owner downstairs. When Matt goes down for bandages, they say their hellos.

Where are the others? Japan, probably.

日本. Nihon. In Japanese Braille, ⠇⠮⠴. In English Braille, ⠠⠴⠁⠏⠁⠝. Too many languages. Sickening.

*

Elektra comes to Chinatown at three-thirty. Then he gets notice of a mission they're meant to execute at midnight. Some mayor, something.

They spar for a while, at Stick's order, before deciding they're hungry.

*

Chinatown and K-town food is better than the rest of New York's. Fresh raw meat in the back, cows chopped in-house. Vegetables from angry farmers in the old country. Matt imagines they get discounts.

Most of his old favorites have long lines out the front now. Elektra always knows a spot.

*

Bodhi, on 77 Mulberry. She laughs at the sign. "Kosher vegetarian restaurant. Amazing."

At least there's always good food in New York. Steamed Home-Style Dumpling for 'lektra. Vegetable Chicken Fried Rice for Matt. He's been having a difficult time with food, so he only eats around a quarter of it. The only thing he could focus on was what poison would taste like with the rice.

They finish their meal at five fifty-five, she says.

*

The sun sets and Stick takes him back. He makes calls and Matt listens to a book. Stick then tells him to study, don't you have tests? Fine, whatever.

He was listening to A Civil Action, a book about a water contamination case. If he's going to be a lawyer, this is pretty much studying. What does Stick know about studying? He's already taken the SATs. He's already started writing admission essays. What does Stick want?

*

You'd think the daily life of someone from Eddie's underworld would be more exciting, but tonight is just like any other night. Thinking, being incredibly useless.

Somewhere along the line he got restless, bought a soda and drank it. Real good soda.

*

So good.

*

It tastes like sugar water, but it's real tasty. It gives a zap to his step. One step, zap, two steps, zap. It's like old Coca-Cola, when they put real cocaine in it. 

*

Eleven comes, fucking finally, and by then, they're at Chinatown. Stick, him, and Elektra. Mission time!

*

God in Heaven, he's feeling good.

*

None of that chemical bullshit; he's feeling real, organic, good. Happiness? At the mission? The soda?

*

Was that it? Was it this random fucking soda he drank that's making him feel like this? It wasn't that extraordinary; it was just tasty additives. Is he going crazy? Like, forreal crazy?

*

Whatever. That sucks shit, but at this point, he'll take anything but suicide watch. What can he do about it? Not a fuckin' thing. More important things at hand. Very important. The mission, Cloud and Wind are to assassinate Vietnamese mayor Do Pham. Something about Chaste owing BTK a favor, which is pretty cool. BTK did something (probably like a decade ago), and now it's being cashed in. By him and Elektra. Awesome?

*

Elektra looks at him with a tilted head, her hair splayed over her shoulder, the jasmine scent of it, and says, yeah, it's... cool?

*

So they're in the car.

*

"Did you just get laid or something?"

"Why?"

"You're, um, smiling? I don't remember the last time you looked happy like this, Matthew."

*

Okay, fuck you, Matt can be happy. He can be normal. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

*

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I can be happy."

She snorts and gets out her camera. Snap. Shit, he was smiling. Batman persona gone. A camera's snap is normally an annoying sound, like the flutter of a cicada's wings, clicky and dissonant-- but Elektra's camera is expensive. It's a crisp and satisfying sound.

*

"You should name that thing. Can I? I swear I won't name it Turtle."

"Matthew. We don't need to name everything."

"Oh, come on. How 'bout Ringo? Paul?"

"This is a rather childish habit of yours."

"--John? Who was the other one? Baul? George, George Harrison. How 'bout that? Little Georgie. You're British. You should like it."

"No."

"What? Princess Diana? I'm running out of worthwhile British people here."

"Why do they have to be British?"

"You're British."

"Almost British."

"'Olmost'. You're British, and you're in denial about it. A self-loathing Brit."

"Don't you know how many years I've lived here?"

"And you still won't shake that accent."

"--seven years. I grew up here. And my accent is great; you just want to talk today."

"You'd think after years of assimilating, she'd speak like a Red-Blooded American."

She cracks up a little. "...I'm friends with Brits."

"You have friends?"

She punches him unwarrantedly hard.

*

He still feels good: psychedelic, good. Happy. Alive.

*

What the fuck, right?

*

Happy and alive and all that other shit he wanted. Alive: alive, motherfucker! Sing it from the rooftops of downtown Manhattan: Wind has come alive!

*

The pills saved him in a time he's never needed it more. And Elektra was more right in her life; yeah, he did need pills. Matt needs five concoction-cocktail-mixes of pills. The only reason he was off is because he wasn't on any. Matt wants to ask her where she got them but Matt's not seriously going to do that when Stick could smell it on him.

*

Like. He's back. New York City, he's fuckin' Back. He can hardly believe it, this feeling has never been palpable, and now it's just there on a plate for him. It's plated all gourmet and French-like. Cuisine, suddenly Matt-- whose dad was poor, and whose dad's dad was poor-- can suddenly afford nice shit like this!

Matt can feel it in front of him, in him, in his blood. In his fingertips. He can feel it right there in front of him. He breathes it in.

*

"You should name it Baul."

"Shut up."

*

They're outside the car. Midtown at night is a utopia with empty needles, tourists, and a piss smell. Matt has never felt so much love for New York. Home. Always has and always will, this flawed city, until the end.

*

Hotel has this musty semen scent. Eau de cum. They couldn't get the Vietnamese mayor a five-star hotel?

*

He's probably a communist, so he wouldn't care for a five-star hotel. Still, though. Three, at least. Matt shouldn't judge, anyway, 'cause he can't even afford a two-star.

*

Oh, wait. He probably can. Sell your bullshit, Matt. Come on.

*

"I don't have anything! I lost it!" Mayor wails between Matt's fingers, in surprising English, "No more! Please leave my wife!"

*

Ha ha ha ha ha. You're going to lose a whole lot more than your wife, Mayor Pham.

*

Got him by the throat. Nice throat on this guy; he's like a frog. If only the wife would shut the fuck up. Planning to gut him, 'cause somehow Mr. Mayor is still breathing. Turtle in his hand.

*

Listen for that feeling. Sick release.

*

Ah. Feel it fixing you, feel it slow, don't rush, feel it carefree and easy.

Feel it like a hum. Free-flowing warm blood breathes in cool air for but a moment before it's muffled. Matt's hand is frigid over the mayor's warm, subtropical body. The blood stays in, not yet on the floor, while Matt strangles his gullet still. Listen for that feeling in the swinging rhythm.

  Starts crude, terse, always an animal act, but labor blossoms, and Matt sees in his eye a sport much more refined. Back in his confirmation suit, a bible in his hand. With your blood, banish from him his body, his crime and his sin. Banish, in black payment. Slow but fast, like a sigh, he disappears in its inky sweetness. Like a shot of heroin into the skin, twist, and then into the amygdala. Holy fluid. Faithful Brain Fluid, it discharges into his being.

But better than any feeble drug. It hits faster; it keeps him sharper, aware of this instantaneous ecstasy, with Matt standing upright. Faster, but still with the fucking intense chemical effect, so there's no thinking in this world. No thinking in murder. Feel it, hold him forward, and feel him fade.

He goes, mayor, he folds and goes and moans down over Matt's cold wrist. Through halos, he rolls up into the light. He goes, mayor, and his wrought soul brushes Matt's taut hand along his way. The hand, the wrist holding his old knife, tingles and sounds. Hiss it, sibilant, feel his dead electricity from your wrists, and move it to your lips.

Don't it feel nice? Don't it feel good, so good, soaring over the sky, like a seabird, soaring past their vicious biosphere into a renewed reality as if it were God's sacred will? Feel it born in your skin. Over Mayor's body, it feels like an orgasm. Sweet candy orgasm, swim in an ongoing oasis of it until it's dead and buried.

Over, in true Icarus fashion, it leaves him under.

*

When he's back in the real world, the mayor and his wife are dead. Too easy.

She's doing that thing again, empty, staring at the body. "'lektra? Elektra?"

"What?"

"Hey, you're back. What're we going to do with the bodies?"

"Just call Louis."

"Who?"

"Elizabeth. On your phone."

"What?"

She snaps, "The cleanup guy! Are you stupid?"

Oh.

*

He calls Louis under his alias on the phone. The short ecstasy is over, and now Matt must return to the public, wearing stained clothes. Good job, Matty. You're finally happy. And you only killed one person for it. Not bad.

*

Can't believe it. He's good again; there's no lethargy and painful bullshit around anymore. The noise is gone. Isn't that something? Used to pray all day and night for this. It came free with soda.

*

In the car back, Elektra breathes shallow breaths. Matt hates to hear her empty like this. She's the best kind of person, a good soldier and the model from which Matt chooses his life from. She shouldn't be like how she is now. What would Elektra do? She would try to comfort him if he went empty.

*

How the hell are you meant to comfort a person?

*

"Elektra?"

She hums, still hollow.

"I got a question for you."

"What is it?"

"What kind of pictures do you take with Baul?"

"Are you asking if they're incriminating?"

It's not working.

"No, it's-- do you photograph anything other than us in a car? Can you describe the pictures?"

She moves her head to his face. "You really want that?"

Matt nods. Up and down, his head moves, it's usually automatic but now mechanical. "Describe it. Using colors and stuff, don't just say what it looks like, you know? That's lame. Use adjectives."

"Adjectives," she says, "really?"

Overexcitedly, it's almost embarrassing, "Yes."

"Okay. Yeah, sure-

*

-this one is of you and Mist. She was so pretty, curly yellow-blonde hair and extremely blue eyes. When I first saw her- at the place, I think perhaps a year ago?- I was struck by it. I've always wanted this, to look like her, ever since I was only an innocent little girl," she sighs. "Anyway. Her hair isn't even down in the picture, she's wearing that ugly ponytail. I don't get why they don't let girls keep our hair down and short. It's moronic."

She pauses. So they don't look like his sisters. Matt tries his very best to keep quiet.

"I didn't get her smile in time. She's almost frowning, squinting at the camera. Um. A part of you is there next to her, your shabby overcoat. It contrasts nicely with her lapis-blue shirt. It would've been a rather good photograph if I had caught her smiling."

*

"What do you think?"

"You know what I think? You could become a writer." She laughs. "I'm serious! You could make a fortune off of this, descriptions and stuff. I didn't know what anything looked like 'til now. You got a gift."

"A gift."

"A gift!"

"Yeah, right, Matty."

"Oh, come on."

Elektra flips him off. Matt's going to bite her wretched finger off.

*

She's an angel when he's way up and way down. Like when they danced 'round the ring that one time. In the middle, she's the evilest, most horrible hag he's ever met. Luckily, he's way up.

*

"Bye, Matty."

"Bye, Ellie."

"Don't call me that." And the door's closed.

*

2 AM, what day is it?

Still Friday. Stick's not at the apartment. Take the shit to sell and get out. The only pawn shop Matt trusts is in Hell's Kitchen. So Matt takes a train.

*

The night is vivid, like a cowboy movie, but it's downtown Manhattan.

*

Al the homeless guy's still on the corner. He almost moved one cold winter, but the man stays seated like a stately toad.

*

Old-ass homeless guy. When Matt was a kid, Al was there on his corner, and every time they didn't have enough money for groceries, Matt would think about sitting down next to him. Ten thousand lifetimes have passed and the motherfucker is still on that corner. He didn't get promoted or nothing? Hell's Kitchen's cops aren't so nice to the homeless. He could at least move to the Upper East Side.

*

The first time he got stuff to pawn, he got scammed 'cause he was holding his cane. Assholes. Matt didn't know it till Elektra counted his money.

*

"Five thousand."

He has an Indian accent, pleasantly exotic to Matt's ears. The smell of Saffron and spices. Stimulating, though a Spanish accent smooths easier. It gets Matt to wondering what Lucas's parents sounded like. What Lucas's Spanish sounds like.

Fuck. Who brought the Gay-Ass Thoughts to the pawn shop?

"Six thousand."

"Done."

*

This much cash feels illegal. Holy shit, he's loaded.

*

Something in him wants to kill President Bush. A person with this much money could do that. Probably, right? He has to go buy something, so more like five thousand and change. Matt would take that pay to kill the President.

*

And that isn't all the watches he has under his Goddamn pillow. So much more! He was sleeping on gold!

**

Until he is of those who are dead, that little community of dead people Matt's responsible for; Matt will want pills. He will want to feel good. Is that such a crime? This world fucked his shit up, even if he's feeling good now, it fucked his shit up, and it owes him at least this: Pills.

Over the phone, to Elektra. "Where'd you get the pills?"

He feels like he's running for mayor and his campaign slogan is come on, why not.

"A pharmacist, you addict."

Matt can't tell if a person's lying over the phone. Come on! And he allegedly grew up with this chick.

He settles on: "Really?"

"Dude. Get your own shit, you wouldn't be able to afford it anyway."

*

How people turn on you when they see you being successful. Shame. Matt has no other people to call.

*

Life only happens when you shake it by the shoulders, so Matt's out seeking drugs at two in the morning.

*

Score. Drug dealer and his girlfriend have matching hair dye. Good posture, hygiene. It screams transplant from ass-fuck Minnesota. Matt hates them reflexively. But maybe he's into it? All Matt wanted to be as a kid was a rich person. Maybe this is rich people shit, selling drugs for no reason.

"Hey."

"'sup?"

"You got benzos? I like benzos."

"What, like Valium? I got something better than V."

*

It's fine, it's pills, it's not in a needle. It's a college-drug, the guy said.

*

Matt wants to call Lucas but he doesn't want to deal with him being mad.

*

If he can smell the piss from a person's bladder after they die, he can call Luke. The kid who lied to the cops for him. He probably won't even be mad. He'll actually be happy to see him, Luke, who acts like a sorority girl under too many blankets; he would be happy to see him.

*

"Matt?"

"Did you miss me?"

"What do you want? What the hell are you doin', man, callin' me at 3 AM?"

No, Lucas! Bad dog. "Aw. Are you still mad at me?"

"What is it?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Dude."

"Well. I wanted to say sorry, for, you know, not calling you after you did that big favor to me. It was an asshole move and I shouldn't have done it. Hey, I missed you."

Disbelieving, "You missed me?"

Matt hums, "Really. I missed your voice. This phone quality's real bad. Hey, let me buy you a slice. As an apology."

"Are you okay?"

"Don't you like pizza? Remember, at St. Agnes's, you'd get so happy every time they served pizza?"

"Uh. Yeah. Seriously, you're good, right?"

"Yeah. I'm feeling good, Luke."

"I'll get pizza with you. Um. Bianca's should be open. Bring, uh, bring yourself and your wallet. I'm only coming 'cause I'm hungry, man, don't take this no other way."

"Okay. Where's Bianca's?"

"Right..." After a pause, "Gramercy Park, just by the... okay, where do you live?"

"You're pickin' me up?"

"Don't be weird about it, man."

So easy.

*

Matt hears Lucas's heartbeat coming from the opposite direction as he just about makes it to the apartment. Stick's upstairs now, talking to a Japanese man. It's serious, something about the price of speed going up with a supplier? It's pronounced the same in Japanese, just with funny accent. クリスタルメス. Cu-ri-su-ta-ru-me-su. Ha.

It's funny. Lucas, from the hedonist interim life, stands outside the apartment where Stick is discussing the possibility of assassinating a Chaste ally for profit. If Luke saw what was happening he'd probably get pissed all over again. Like a chihuahua. His anger never means anything.

As he comes closer, Matt notices he smells like other people.

"Hey."

"Lucas?"

Listening to women taught him how to use his voice properly, what tones to use when. How soft you make your voice can give you what you want. Hookers get it, Stick does not. This is Matt's time to finally achieve his life's goal: make like a hooker.

"You know it's me," he says. "Is this your place?"

Matt hums, "Not bad for two blind people, yeah?"

"It's fine. It's regular. I couldn't believe it when Adam told me you got adopted."

"Ditto. Hey, it's been a while. How are you? How's your, like- parents, the people who adopted you?"

Lucas huffs a laugh, "You don't care about that. Come on, let's move."

Okay, nice. He's always so sure of himself. Matt doesn't know if he likes that about him or not.

"Yeah, alright."

"Wait," he says, tugging the sleeve of Matt's coat. Woah! Chrissy flashbacks, here.

"Huh?"

"I need to piss."

"You wanna piss at my apartment?"

Is it safe for Lucas to piss at his apartment?

"Does it bother you, Mister Minister, that I take a piss in your holy toilet?"

Fuck it, what does it matter? A beating's a beating and a body is a body.

"Sure, my peasant. Piss in my holy toilet."

*

The pills make everything so much more detailed.

*

They stop a second before Lucas can hear what they say. The Japanese man is dangerous, heavyweight, he's got a new scar from one blade on two parts of his body. Meth smell still on his clothes. Stick smells like Stick. Matt smells like Matt. Lucas smells different. This is weird.

"Hey, Mr. Franklin? I'm here to use your toilet. Hi, other guy."

Matt tries not to laugh. No one says hi back.

"Where's your bathroom?" Lucas asks after a full second of total silence.

"The door after the kitchen."

They're silent until after Lucas locks the door. Stick seems normal, not too mad. Matt's ear is still on the Japanese man, the sound of his scar in the air. There's something dissonant about his presence.

"Lucas," Stick enunciates.

"Yeah."

"Why is he here?"

Translation: why'd you let him in?

"'cause I'm bored. It won't be a problem."

"But it will be, Matty," he said. "Come here."

The Japanese guy's hand feels rougher than it sounded. His name is Hiroshi, 博. When Stick introduces him, he calls him, 風. Wind in Japanese. This is his first time being introduced as Wind in Japanese. Fucking awesome. Then Lucas comes out of the bathroom.

*

On the walk over, Lucas talks about messing something up with one of his girl friends. With a space, 'cause he's not into her, he said, getting closer and closer. Matt paid attention to the whole thing, nodding like a boyfriend. The whole thing, without a pause for breath. Not even with Chrissy.

*

Lucas crosses himself when he passes by a church. It's not a gesture of faith, it's Lucas's muscle memory. Matt is blind to it.

*

Bianca's:

"Who was that guy in your apartment?" Lucas asks, picking up a laminate menu.

"Next to Frank? That was his brother."

Lucas takes off his jacket, a pill bottle moves inside it. It drums and rattles. Matt's borderline salivating. Lucas doesn't notice anything, says, "Oh. Your half-uncle looks tough as shit, man."

"What was that in your jacket?"

"Huh?"

"I heard something."

"Wow. Um. They, ah, got me on Xanax. You know. I didn't know blind people could do that."

Holy shit. Matt pulls out his little pill baggie. Xans on Addys on Xans on Addys. Lucas cracks up.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

Matt puts it away. "We're soulmates."

Beaming, "Bitch, shut the fuck up. Why do you have that?"

"Let me taste."

"Huh?"

Like a hooker, "I've never had a Xanax. Come on, I'll do anything."

*

Tastes like gold.

*

"I thought you were still mad at me," Matt says, eating pizza off a paper plate by a window. Their booth's plastic is worn down, comfortable.

"Guess not."

Matt smiles. Lucas smiles back, residual cinnamon smell on his tongue. Their knees are touching, electricity runs through Lucas into Matt, and it feels pretty, pretty good. The pills aren't even hitting yet.

Matt takes a bite. "Tell me something."

"Like what, man?"

"What does this place look like?"

Lucas laughs. "It looks like a pizza place."

"I'm blind, Luke. Like, actually blind? I want to see it, describe the place."

He pauses. "Okay. It looks pretty regular for Manhattan. The, uh, seats behind you are tan. That's not the word. They're gray-ish beige. There's a picture of Padre Pio behind you." Padre Pio, the way he says it is so nice, "A TV too. I think a Yankee game is playing."

Matt can confirm. "And what else?"

"Not much, I gotta be honest. The walls are dirty. There are only a few people here. There's one guy, he looks like Larry King, and.. he's freaking me out, man. What if that's really Larry King? I don't want him here. Uh," he says, looking behind them. The way he speaks in general is pretty nice. A sound Matt could tolerate for a long time.

"Bro."

"What?"

"There's a picture of Courtney love right behind us. What the hell?"

"You don't like little old Courtney?"

He scrunches his nose, "Nah, man. She's crazy. Why is she here?"

"What if you were Courtney? You wouldn't want to be told you were crazy, would you?" he teases, a look in his eye behind his glasses. Catholic kids like this stuff (he heard from some girl, back in the orphanage), the strange good boy thing priests do. They're conditioned.

He smiles, "What if you were Kurt Cobain? I think you'd want to hear Courtney be called crazy."

"They were married," Matt points out.

"Exactly."

Matt takes a bite of his pizza, scheming.

*

It's five in the morning. Lucas's parents or whatever are asleep. His room is nice. He describes posters on the wall.

*

Tasty.

*

Sweetest little voice on this guy.

*

Matt asked him to sing a song expecting something from the Great American Songbook but he's now rapping in Spanish and it's the funniest shit ever.

*

Matt might have a thing for him speaking Spanish. Like lightning, it hits his spine.

*

He asks if Matt's tired, did he go to school today? Matt says, nah, man.

*

"Wild, man. You don't even know what I look like."

"Can I feel?"

*

It's cheap but it works. Matt was bored.

*

Lucas, Lucas, Lucas on his lips.

*

Nothing matters but them two right now. Nothing like this. Matt is liquid.

*

It's, like, really good.

Lucas clutches at Matt's hair, seriously going to town. They breathe furiously through their noses. Matt tastes the pizza and the weed and his original flavor. Matt didn't know gay people liked to smash faces like this, he thought it'd be all gentle and fairy-like. Lucas is a good kisser.

For breath, "Didn't know you were this good at kissing."

He's so easy, humming, pleased.

*

That's why Adam and Lucas know each other. Through the Secret Gay Network.

*

"God, your hands are rough as--"

*

His hands are roaming in the wrong fields. Matt pushes them away before he can feel a scar. His touch is non-violent, it feels like it's been years.

*

Matt bites Lucas's lip.

"Ouch, what the fuck, man?"

He hums, "Come back, Luke."

He comes back. Pathetic.

*

Lucas might be made for him. There's no one in the world like this. Matt doesn't know what persuades him to do this for him but it sure as hell isn't God.

*

Baby, baby, baby. Matt's starting to think that's his name.

*

Lucas's hair is so tangled. Curly. It feels good in Matt's hand.

*

Fuck it. Whatever.

*

Lucas has always been a fellow man to Matt. He moans like Chrissy, though.

Matt laughs, "That's a stupid sound."

"It's 'cause I--" groan "'m stupid for you, baby."

Ha.

*

Two homo Catholic roommates, who would've thought? Maybe they're turning him gay like zombies.

*

They lay on his bed, blissed out and high. Matt's pulling on Luke's hair, tuft by tuft. It's something to do. Lucas' arm stretches across the front of Matt's shoulders. He's breathing even, healthy. He doesn't want to go back, ever. This is so good. If he died on the next mission, he'd die feeling alright.

"I'll miss this when I have to get up," Matt says, swirling a curl on Lucas's head.

He's not gay, he's not, but he's forgotten how much he liked this attention, feeling like a boyfriend. He likes making people's heart beat happily. He likes this feeling.

He hums, "Don't think about later."

Stick's not going to be awake for a long time.

"I don't want to go."

Lucas shushes him, face in his pillow. He's the same kid in the opposite bed, but somehow so different.

"I did miss you, you know."

Lucas nods. "I know. Missed you too."

"Really?"

He laughs. "You don't believe me?"

"How much did you miss me?"

"Since I left, Matteo. You were so different from my other friends."

"Yeah? Forreal?"

"Yeah, man. You're an asshole but, you know..."

"What?"

"I always worried about you. I couldn't stop thinkin' about what you were doing in those fuckin' streets, all the time. You always worried me, man. It didn't help, how much you seemed to care."

"Oh. Luke, you know--"

"And you won't take your shirt off, Matteo, I know what that means. It ain't over, huh?"

"It's literally not like that. You're freaking out."

There's a mile-long pause. "What you lying to me for? C'mon."

Matt forgot how much he liked Lucas.

"It's not over," Matt says, smiling.

"Thought so," he says, sitting up. "Why not?"

"Not that simple, Luke. You really missed me?"

"Why not?" He replies, playing with Matt's course fingers.

"I thought you hated me for the longest time. Because you left and all."

"Hate? Aw. Never, Matteo."

*

"You're leaving?" Lucas says, his voice high like Chrissy's. She probably asked this question in the same situation, with the same tone.

"I got to go back. I told you."

Tugging on his hand, "Wait. Come here."

Matt doesn't want to but he does anyway. Lucas gives him a kiss on the mouth. He goes, "Gross, man," at Matt's breath, like he doesn't know why it stinks. Saying, gross, man like that gross pool-water taste isn't from his body.

As he's about to leave, he remembers something he's been forgetting to ask. All this training and yet he's still a human. He grabs his stuff before he asks. Glasses, cane.

"By the way-- how did you know Adam?"

"Friend of a friend, man. That kid doesn't know he's gay, it's mad crazy."

"Oh, he knows."

Stupid-for-you probably makes a face. Matt can't respond 'cause he's still blind. "Did you and Adam..."

"No. What? That's fuckin' gross, Lucas, don't ever say that again."

He's laughing, "Why?"

"He's a kid!"

"By only, like, two years! One year, for you."

"I'm leaving."

"Baby."

Like lightning. It feels good, Matt likes it.

But anyway, "I'm leaving."

"Bye, Matteo. Call me, yeah? Be safe. Don't get hurt."

"Okay."

*

Ain't that fun? He's a whole new woman.

***

Saturday morning right by Chinatown. Last night, Matt hid the pills behind a brick somewhere by a bodega. This morning he realises it was a shitty idea, which is rare. Matt's never had a bad idea in his seventeen years of living. Seventeen! He has cash, he has watches; look at him, he's doing pretty alright.

Pretty, pretty fucking alright. Better than that guy, that tweaker trying to move the brick. Seems it was visible from the outside. Despite it all, the training and the konnichiwa bullshit, he doesn't ever know if the shadows will work in his favor.

"Hey, what are y'doing?"

The guy flinches dramatically, "What, this your brick?"

"Yeah, it's my brick. Can you you give it to me?" You have to speak gently to these people. They're probably paranoid-hallucinating like crazy. Matt can't tell what he's on but it's something.

"This brick belongs to Edwina-- Edward Kotch, bitch."

"Kotch? Really?"

"Yurr."

"Okay. Um. Hey, guess what?"

"Y'huh? How do I look?"

"Your mom's over there. Go on. She's, like, waiting, man."

The man goes silent, then tries to swing at Matt. Shit!

Matt dodges a punch. "Aye. Quit it, crack-head."

"Not!" The man wails, trying to get Matt's legs. He has better technique than half the kids on the seventh floor. Well, Chinatown. Matt dodges, still holding his white cane. Lucky there's hardly any people around.

"Dude," Matt goes, tipping the man over. He's just tipping him over. But he used too much force. Aw, Jesus. He hit his head, he's bleeding all over the damn concrete. Oh, man.

The man howls, "Aaauugh! Fuck!"

There's blood everywhere. Shit. Quite a pickle you got yourself into, Matthew. How are we going to fix this one? The only people on this block are kids and tourists. They don't seem to have noticed this tweaker debacle. There aren't any cameras around.

There aren't any cameras around. Thank you, Jesus.

*

Saturday morning on the third floor in Chinatown, Nino's kicking at him till Stick and Elektra come back. His style is kind of cutesy, aerobic, spins and jumps. It's capoeira influenced, he adopted Elektra's style. Mama's boy. They differ in intention: she does it to confuse and intimidate, he does it for the wow factor. The kids love it.

*

In the middle of one of Nino's flashy jumps, (Twio Yeop Chagi, taekwondo), Matt dodges, crowding him by the wall. Their audience gasps.

Matt's about to go for the showstopper when Nino finally uses his right arm to get Matt down and under. From here, Nino's knee is about to make contact with Matt's sternum. Friction point with the arm, can't move backwards.

He chooses to move forward, powering through the knee, taking back control of his arm. Matt has him in a perfect grappling position. Both he and Nino hate grappling. Nino does something interesting, going for a kick. Matt dodges it, moving closer to the wall. The sea of children part as if Matt and Nino were Moses and the Egyptians.

Now Matt's to the wall and Nino has an opening. Do it already. Nino seems confused.

"You have an opening. Take it."

"I don't know what to do."

"Choose something. Come on."

Nino charges against him with his fists, battling against his head. He did something wrong.

"Nino," he says, against headshots. Matt takes his fist in his hand, "Nino, time-out. やめて." Quit it.

"What?"

"I have an escape here. When you do this, remember to come closer, 'cause you're striking my head with both fists, that takes energy, so if I can just escape like that; you wasted your energy and your back is to your opponent."

"If I come closer, this is a good closing move though, right?"

"You'd be better off taking my legs--"

Nino gives an irritated, "Yeah."

"--I still have an out to the side."

Nino whines, "But I don't want to wrestle."

"Do you want to win?"

A soldier's sense of brotherhood is the result of self-indulgence at the sight of horror. Matt sees, fears no horror. He's been too self-indulgent recently. Ha. Matt-rie Antoinette. Now he's imagining himself in those stupid gowns. It's fun to be nice to Nino. Whatever.

"Fine," Nino huffs, and the fight starts again.

*

Matt's head hurts, but he's happy, smiling at Nino. The boy won the fight.

*

"Good job," Matt says, patting his cheek like Dad did.

*

At five, he gets bored.

"Where are you going?" Salt asks.

"Powder my nose?"

"Where are you actually going?"

"Dry-cleaners. Why's it so important?"

"No reason."

*

He went for his pills, really-actually. The guy wasn't there, but he moved the pills to some other brick anyway. Matt picked up the dry-cleaning last night. Or morning. Depending on how you count it.

*

Six, and Stick's still not at Chinatown. Matt wanted food but Nino didn't want to go to a restaurant for whatever fucking reason so they bought peanut butter and jelly jars with toast. Matt bought it, the good kind. It being three jars of peanut butter and three of jelly. Whatever! They're making it on the side of the road.

*

Nino mixes the peanut butter with the jelly before putting it on the toast.

"What the fuck?"

"Huh?"

"What are you doin'? Are you actually crazy?"

"You don't mix it first?"

"No, you freaky bitch! What the hell's wrong with you?"

*

"-- don't you have a person at home to worry about?"

"What?" Nino says, peanut butter-jelly mixture all over his face.

"Your foster mom, you know, " Matt recalls.

"Oh. Uh. N-nah..."

"Nah?"

"She's gone. Like, dead. But she was gone before she died, so I don't really care."

Matt's never laughed this hard.

*

They start offering tourists and crackheads sandwiches. They're good sandwiches, they didn't even do anything to them. The only nefarious thing they do is make some awful bitch pay for hers. This is basically charity. Saint Matthew back at it again.

*

"What if we poison these sandwiches and give them to the Hand and that's how we kill them? Like, in a Godfather way."

"What if I slapped the shit out of you?"

*

Seven. What's in the bo-ox? Nino's bored, wearing Matt's sunglasses.

"Suddenly I feel like I want to be a dick-face," he exclaimed. "Hey, guys, I'm Matt. I'm half-depressed and half an asshole!"

"If only my magic glasses made you feel like being smart."

"Hey!"

*

If they're dead, Elektra and Stick, Matt will have to go get them. Protocol. He wouldn't make Nino help.

*

Seven-thirty. Stick and Elektra turn up a block away, sick of waiting in traffic. Stick says something about how they're sitting on the curb like little orphan Annies. She picks up the pace.

Once she gets closer to them, she snorts and crouches. "Hi Nino, nice glasses. You two've truly embraced the orphan thing, huh? Are you prepared for the fight? Or are you going t'make Nino do all the fighting?"

"Yeah, I'm prepared," Matt says, smiling, "Did you space out before or after shooting whatever fucker you were meant to shoot? Two times in a row, how's it feel?"

She scowls. Her heart sounds upset. "Fuck off," she says, then walks past them, going into the building to get her stuff.

Nino's head swivels to Matt, still holding a half-empty jar of jelly, eating it with his finger like an animal. Matt always hated the too-sweet smell of jelly. They're, like, fifty percent sugar. Why's Elektra annoyed?

Stick comes by right as Nino's about to say something.

*

Lucas calls. Hang that shit up. It's only been a day.

*

Weird to be in a car without Baul there with him. Matt probably won't ever be in a car without Stick or Elektra there with him. The last time he was in a car alone was when he was maybe fourteen; a Pakistani cab driver, a headache, bruises, and he could hardly walk his way to 32nd and 5th.

He was so annoying back then.

*

They shuffle into the building and they have an audience. Outsiders, and Matt can't tell if they have cameras or not. Sweaty men in undershirts, clean men in suits. All the women wear lipstick in proper clothes, though some are wearing coats in this New York heat.

*

There are Russians and Italians. They smoke different cigarettes but they speak with the same tone. They say, Fog, Wind.

*

"Did you see any cameras?" Matt asks, a whisper to Nino, as they follow Stick.

"No. There's usually-- there's a guy collecting guns and cameras outside. Didn't you see him?"

"Oh. No."

*

"Is there usually an audience?" Matt asks, because he doesn't know anymore.

"For me?" Nino grins, "Always."

*

He feels like a boxer, his dad. In some other strange building, a third floor room in Chelsea, Matt feels thirteen again.

In a good way, he's electric, fresh; but not naive. A woman that reminds him of Magdalena pats him down, handing him clothes and tape to wrap his hands. She takes Turtle away. Matt was kind of hoping she wouldn't notice.

*

Stick's talking to Eddie's handler like they're buddies.

*

Okay. Well. Shit. There's this big guy waiting for them.

*

The Eddie is a soldier; Matt feels it in the way he's standing, he's not a human. He's a different animal entirely, a mirror of what Matt thinks he might become. His muscles are weirdly displaced. They're not body-builderly, it's more something intolerable to the public, built very specifically for this sport.

Gnarled shoulder, mirroring Matt's. He's more scar than skin. Jesus. Eddie's hurting but he's standing upright. Animal.

Matt knows Eddie doesn't live in the world, not looking like that. Not standing the way he's standing, absent-mindedly, clearly wrung out. It's all wrong. But there is no scared-scent on Eddie and so Matt neither. The fear was beaten out of them a long time ago. Fear no horror.

*

Is Nino ready for this?

*

"Did you do your X-ray thing? What's up? Are we good?" Nino says, looking at their audience. It's a crowd of bored-sounding people, shifting in their metal chairs.

"It's not lookin' good, Nino."

"Uh-oh!"

"Yeah. Yeah."

*

Fists up.

*

The familiar sound in an unfamiliar place. Matt was made, designed for this. You'll be fine. It's fine. Pace yourself.

*

Nino's playing second-man, something he already knows how to do. This means Nino engages first, and there's no pre-fight pacing around. The audience disappears

*

Seeking electricity.

*

Eddie doesn't engage as much with Nino as he does, Matt.

*

Blows to the head makes him smile. Stupid. Dodge. He's got power.

*

Bait. Eddie doesn't take. Do it again.

*

Success.

*

Hit harder.

*

He's on Nino, Matt's on Eddie's back, and they're drawing him out.

*

Shit, heard a bone bruise. It's not Matt's, but it's something close to it. Nino.

*

Distracted, fuck. Why's he hitting so hard? This shit sucks.

*

What for, he hits Matt into the cold, cold ground? Nino, with the hurt something is doing most the work. Get up, man.

*

Whooped him, got a good shot through. This is Chaste's strength, motherfucker.

*

Okay. One of Matt's teeth fell out.

*

Christ. This hurts.

*

Nino's still pulling through, but Matt can tell it's hard on him. Hit harder, Matty. For Nino.

*

You're golden, just pull through.

*

Eddie's down. Come on. You can't miss. You and Nino, come on.

*

Nice, Matt.

*

Nice. Good. Come on.

*

Oh, man. Dude. Okay. Okay, okay. You can pull through like this if you try hard enough. Fists up.

*

Bring it in, use your legs, kick him.

*

Okay.

*

Not much longer, now.

*

Matt hears Stick, then the audience, right as Eddie's lights are out. Won, they beat the big guy. He seems pleased, talking quietly to Eddie's handler. Lightning through his spine, he forgot how great it feels to win with hard odds. Nino's on the floor, groaning, spread like he's making a snow angel. Time was not a concept, Nino could have been on the floor for twenty minutes or for twenty seconds.

He takes his hand, wet, hot. They're exhilarated but quiet. It's Nino's leg that got injured. Ew.

*

It's those types of fights that leave Matt's nose running, his head spinning, and Stick's hand on the back of his neck. Those special times, Matt's favorite. In the land of endless opportunity, everything is polluted, everything is flawed and made to be disgusting. A fight won is pure and perfect.

*

Won, motherfucker. Rejoice! The crowd seems happy, too. They pat his shoulder. The shoulder hurts.

*

Matt's, like, twitching; he's so happy. He could flip a car.

*

Nino will be fine. The Chaste Doc's heart didn't skip a beat, a good sign. He's pissy they're leaving him with the doctor but the kid's going to be alright.

*

Stick, he took him for --guess what! Fucking ice-cream. Even the old man thought his own actions were funny. Vanilla. Matt's ribs hurt real bad but he has ice-cream again. Pretty, pretty good.

*

"What's in the ice-cream, Matty?"

Matt turns to him. Stick never smiles or grins but he does the closest equivalent, nodding. "Come on, like old times."

Like old times. That's nice. Against his tongue, his nose, it smells cleaner than most other New York vendor's food. Undertones and overtones, that's Matt's life. Undertone of a worker's hands.

"Soap, lemon-flavored soap. Copper, dirt, plastic, Febreze, hair, uh... sugar, vanilla extract, and milk?"

"You missed a lot of saliva."

"Maybe he just spit in yours 'cause of your vibes?"

"Shut up."

** **

Sunday morning. He takes, like, three pills too many. Christ. How do people function like this? He feels like Scarface.

*

Five Adderall and he's steady as all hell. Matt's a boy wonder.

*

Later, Sunday night in the Lower East Side. A little more Adderall. Stick's out and the apartment is so dirty.

*

He can taste the dust and the blood everywhere. Stick always made him clean in exchange for most of the bills being paid, but Matt was never not tired. He's awake. It's three in the morning and he has school tomorrow, but he can't sleep and the apartment's a mess.

*

A mess, even in it's old attempts to be clean. There's dish soap all in the cracks of the kitchen floor. The old tenant had a cat. Cat piss on the walls, the outlets, the grout. Disgusting.

*

The Adderall is different from Valium. So different. He's not fucking tired. But the pain in his back, it's still there with the Addys. The one downside. He's on top of the world.

*

Matt feels like a saint, cleaning the apartment. But one of them you'd hear and feel bad for. Like saint Cinderella.

*

He remembers watching it. He could see Stick as the evil haggard stepmother, Elektra as the evil haggard stepsister. Matt in that blue dress. Aw man. He keeps imagining himself in dresses. The gaysian persuasion is getting to him.

*

Elbow-deep inside the cleaning mixture.

*

Scrub the cracks in the wall, mice shit.

*

Lemon-flavored everything. He's convinced it's in his veins now.

*

Weird he has to go to school tomorrow, after everything. The week ended and he was depressed. The week starts again, and he's not, he won't be. He hopes. Maybe the magic soda only lasts a weekend.

*

Scrub the toilet. Nasty.

*

Stick comes back and tells him he should be a French maid for a living. Instead of a lawyer, a sex-maid.

*

If he goes to school and comes back depressed, he's going to lose it for certain.

*

Prune fingertips. It's pretty gnarly with his fucked-up nails too.

*

The kitchen is dirtiest of all. They don't cook, but Matt uses the counter-top as a workbench to clean his wounds. Also, the last tenant liked sushi. In the crack between the fridge and the cabinet, old fish. Matt moves everything to clean it.

*

Clean the cracks again.

*

Again.

*

The alarm rings and he's cleaning his room's floors. This is the closest he's ever been to worried. He needs an Addy before he gets to school but his train is kind of far from the brick where he put it.

*

He feels good at school.

So it's fine. And he does good on the test, of course he does. He's Matt Fucking Murdock. He's undefeated, undisputed (Except that one time) so there's no alternate reality in which Matt doesn't get a good mark on the biology test. It's about leaves, for Christ's sake. He studied.

*

Pills, for Matt, somewhere in the Lower East Side. Lucas, somewhere in Manhattan. Things are changing, hastening. It's exciting, but Matt's too busy to think about it too long.

*

It's been refilled a few times. Cash is at about five thousand.

*

There's no real thinking when he goes lightning speed. Not the kind he's used to, the endless, over, and over, and over; think about it, think again, what does he think?, just think; type of thinking. It's refreshed. The thoughts are useful.

Feels like a fight he's winning.

*

After school, Tuesday, to Chinatown. Matt's walking from the train to his pill stop. There are so many Asian tourists in the city this month. August brings Asians. There must be some sort of holiday.

A tourist wails, "道に迷いました." Ah. I'm so lost, seemingly to herself.

Matt wants greasy food. Chicken and fries and sauce and soda. Or that orange juice Sister Judith used to make.

"何探してる?" he finds himself saying. What are you looking for?

She flinches at his voice. "え!" Eh! then conducts herself, "No. It is okay. Um. 助けはいらない." I don't need help.

"でしょう?" But don't you? He's surprised at how easy the words come to him.

"No."

"No, あなたは欲しいって言ってた." No, you said you did.

"いや　私じゃない." No I didn't.

"やった." Yes you did.

"No."

"Yes."

So they're standing on Hester St., impeding foot-traffic, her staring at him, him pretending he's not blind again while holding his folded cane behind his back. She sighs and he wonders why he spoke in the first place.

Hesitantly, she says, "One-four-three west thirty street?"

*

He recounts this story to String. She does not seem impressed. Matt's conquered Manhattan and she's not impressed.

*

Elektra asks what's wrong with him, like she's worried. But Matt had to go. He might have been too snappy, but who gives a fuck?

*

Stick noticed. He's been listening to Matt since Friday, he can tell 'cause Stick goes all still when he's focusing.

"What's with you?"

Stick says. Matt's reading the newest book he had made for him, Kant. Critique of Pure Reason, because he thought he gotta be a serious person if he's applying to all these fancy schools. There's too many blown cells for a book Matt paid a pretty dime for. Can't read a braille book if half the words are falling. He abandons the book and finds an apple in the fridge. Stick's sitting at the table sorting through mail.

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you happy? Are you on something?"

Bite. Again with this question! They see Matt doing okay and they automatically assume there's something wrong. This is the first time something's right.

"Nah. What are you, nuts? You'd be able to tell, anyway."

"If you're on something I'll crack your head open."

Stick's been touching a letter for too long, feeling the print on the outside too long. Could be a letter from a college. It's a small one, though. Good news comes in small letters!

"Yeah, whatever. What's that letter?"

"I don't want you to get too happy. You're less annoying when you're depressed."

Aw. "Yeah. What's the letter?"

"Columbia University. I'll let you see first if you don't cry about whatever you got."

"I don't wanna see first."

"Afraid you'll cry?"

"Fuck off."

*

"What is it?"

Stick's heartbeat is-- you guessed it! Level.

"C'mon. What is it? I'm dyin' here."

"Can you shut the fuck up?" Stick says, still running his fingers through the letter.

"Stick, it cannot possibly take that long to read a tiny letter."

"Aren't you Catholics supposed to be obedient? Trained you, for what?"

He's still reading it.

"C'mon."

"Dear, Matthew Murdock," he starts, gruff. "We are sorry to inform you that--"

Damn.

"Alright, fine."

Stick's scowling, huffing. Matt goes, "What are you mad for? This means I'll have to leave the city if I want to--"

"I'm fucking with you."

*

"What?"

*

"You should've known , it was--"

"Don't play with me. I got in?"

"Don't get too excited."

Matt punches a hole through the table.

*

He got in. Holy shit. What the fuck? 2003 is so his fucking year. Yes, God! Yes!! Yes! Matt snatches the letter out of Stick's fingers.

*

Matt can't get himself to read the letter. Stick gets a beer.

*

"Good work, Matty. You're paying for the table."

"I did it!"

*

Stick hands him a beer. Matt tilts his head at it. Stick says, "What, do you prefer drugs? Take it."

Matt does what he's told. It tastes like shit. His hands were already sore, he didn't need to punch the table.

"This tastes like shit from an ass."

"Shut the fuck up."

This is so funny, Stick's handing him beers like he's some type of fun uncle? Why is he doing this? Matt's smiling into the beer. Okay, Stick.

*

God. Columbia, what a dream.

*

Matt wants cake. Cake would be good.

*

He tells everyone. Elektra won't answer the phone, she's still pissed, but at least the social worker with a forgotten name is happy for him. Lucas said he prayed for him. Ha. Stupid.

*

Stick says not to tell everyone 'cause he says it'd give him bad luck. He then hits Matt for calling Stick weird.

*

Meekly, Lucas asks if Matt wants to go to one of his friend's house party to celebrate, over the phone. It's tomorrow, a Thursday, which is pretty much Friday. Matt says sure. Cash in his wallet. He doesn't sleep that night, back to the ground.

*

They hold hands going to it, which Matt doesn't like because he can feel Stupid recoil at the texture of his hand. He kind of wants to hit him for it. They let go eventually and Matt fiddles with the seams on Lucas's jacket. Matt feels like a baby without a toy.

The rest of the walk is spent with Matt talking about babies.

*

The party is loud when they get there. It smells like sweat, weed, and cheap beer. The drug dealer and his girlfriend from earlier is there. Funny, now he has his cane.

*

Lucas is standing apart from him. Okay. Fuck off, whatever.

*

"--and this must be Blind Matteo. Howdy."

"Hi."

*

Matt hears Lucas and a girl who smells aggressively like shampoo talk to each other in Spanish. Cool. Lucas introduces her as his cousin from Greenpoint. Brooklyn people...

*

They sit on a couch and Matt has a beer in his hands. Lucas is very carefully sitting an appropriate distance away but Matt's hands are occupied with tearing apart the beer can. Stick's not here to tell him off.

On the couch, everything has an air of rich kids pretending to be working-class. Everyone is thin and breathing through their mouths like emaciated Victorian coal-miners, though really this one kid claims to be the Medici prince of vintage jackets. Matt hears people actively trying not to ask what does your father do? All of them, with French perfume. Everyone but the four of them on the couch. Lucas, him, Lucas's cousin, and Lucas's cousin's quiet friend.

The cousin is telling a story about her love for sheepdogs. Matt's bored. Then about Chihuahuas. Bored. She talks about what the fuck is Charlie Sheen on? That was kind of interesting. Then she talks about the cello. Matt's so bored.

When she starts talking about doing lines off someone's bald head Matt starts talking, too.

*

But it's still annoying, Lucas not engaging the way Matt's used to, from him. Lucas invited his blind friend to a party. You can't have the friendship with a blind person Lucas is pretending he has. Do any of these people in this big apartment know where they come from?

*

They start playing music and Lucas and the cousin go and dance. It's him and the quiet girl now.

*

"This music fucking sucks."

The girl groans. "That's so true."

*

Her name is Donna. She goes to Midtown on scholarship. She talks Matt's fucking ear off.

This girl is strange, clearly one of his people, but she's so sheltered that her vocabulary is other. She clearly reads too much. It's like she picked up a thesaurus and memorised it.

*

"I'm not absolutely certain about it, do you understand?"

She waits for him to respond. "Yeah."

"Because, and the aspect is, I could do it uncomplicatedly, but--"

*

"Has anyone ever told you your vibes are off?" Matt asks, doing origami with a cut up beer can.

"My vibes?"

"Your vibes are terrible. I'm scared for you."

"You mustn't be scared for me, Matt," because of course she says mustn't, "I can fend for myself."

*

They're back. Finally.

"Dee-dee, guess who I fuckin' saw tryna come in?"

"Who'd you witness?"

*

He's still so far away. Lucas and Cousin are on both ends, with Donna and Cousin talking to each other over Matt.

*

What-fuckin'-ever. Matt's pretending to be blind, reaching over to rub his middle finger all over Lucas's face. He's uncomfortable. Fuck you. Cousin and Donna are both laughing. Fuck you, too.

*

Lucas tells Sophie, who announces to everyone that Matt's been accepted to Columbia. Random people start patting him on the shoulder. Matt did win the fight. Donna's, like, screaming. Random nasty-ass cake is put in his hands. They take off Matt's glasses to take a picture. The camera is not like Baul.

*

"Hey, so, what-the-fuck was your name, guy?" Cousin asks, writing on the back of a Polaroid.

"Matteo."

She giggles. "Irish boy named Matteo. My name's Sofie. Pleasure to meet you-ou!"

They take each other's hand. "Pleasure!"

*

Sofie's other friend, Melissa, treats Matt like a dog, cooing whenever he says anything. Matt can tell she's pretty. She asks what Matt thinks she looks like. Matt says, How the fuck would I know? and she laughs and laughs, saying, you're so-o-o weird! Fuck this girl too.

Lucas thinks its funny how much he hates Melissa but it's not funny. Chrissy would understand. She'd be whispering jokes about what a cunt she is. She'd never invite him to this lame-ass party.

She and Sofie canter off to the bathroom together. Melissa is talking about coke, but what she has on her is not coke. It's H. Scag. Chiva. Heroin. Matt doesn't know what to do. Lucas is laughing about something, and Matt doesn't want Sofie to do heroin with Melissa.

*

It's probably fine. It's fine. They're laughing; it's all good. Drink your beer.

*

"Addy guy?"

Lucas tenses, still miles away. Asshole. The girlfriend isn't there with him again. There's nothing dangerous in this party, no risk of needing to do something a drug would prevent him from doing. Thank fuck he came up first.

"Hey, man."

"I got some K, if you need it. Fresh shit, cleaner than before."

Weird he just came up with K like that. Matt's never tried it, but Manhattan has. It's not dangerous. As Matt's getting his wallet out, Stupid says, "Matt, you know this guy?"

"Yeah, our mothers jumped off the same roof. How much?"

"Um. A baggie's forty bucks."

Ketamine is cheap, not like coke or anything. This isn't the most outrageous price Matt's heard, but it's up there. Way up there. What the dealer guy has is K, but it's disgusting; plastic, sugar, and gluten particles in it. It's weird. Normally a dirty drug is dirty because it's cut with something else, or it's poorly made. This ketamine is pure and good, surrounded by dirt, but good. Matt smells it.

"Fuck you, forty dollars," Lucas says, "Don't scam him 'cause he's blind, I'm right here, man."

Matt smiles. "Don't scam me 'cause I'm blind, man. Twenty for two."

"A'ight. Whatever."

*

Ten minutes later, "Twenty dollars, I'll do it."

"Okay."

*

When he lived there, Matt had his eyes on this one guy in Hell's Kitchen, he always thought he was the real deal, 'cause of the sheer amount of shit he brought everywhere. In his coat, like a cartoon. Everyone in the Kitchen seemed to know him, called him Jackie; his real name was Nathaniel. And he was old as fuck, but he was still called Nathaniel. 

Matt thinks about Nathaniel sometimes. Was he real or a dream?

*

Lucas's face is turned towards him, quiet. He uses Matt's train card, cutting lines. Sophie squeals when she sees them in the bathroom with her. She, thank fuck, didn't do H with Evil Hag Melissa. Where's Donna?

*

Sophie calls him bourgeoisie for using a card instead of those nasty tokens, but Lucas defends him. "They're being discontinued anyway, you're the bourgeoise one for still having tokens." Which is a nonsensical argument, but the topic closes when Sophie says the lines are clean enough. Like she's the arbiter of clean lines. What is she, a sidewalk expert?

*

He laughs. "Matteo, you're, like, totally off the fucking... uh, target. Wait," he moves Matt's head to the right, careful not to touch him too suspiciously. "Okay, now go forward with your nose, man."

They're huddled, crouching over a sink like a group of mice mining for gold in a dumpster. This bathroom is regular-small, so Lucas is closer than he's been.

"Go forward with your nose," Matt echoes. "Amazing."

"I don't know! Snort it, Matteo, fuck."

"I know how to snort, Luke. I'm not five years old."

"Yeah, because people learn to snort on their sixth birthday. Boy, just do it already."

Sophie's laughing. "You two know nothing about drugs."

Matt says, "And he's telling me to just do it when he hasn't even done his yet."

Lucas gestures, "But you doing it first will, like, asegurar-- reassure me. You know? Like, I'm scared, b- uh, Matteo. If you do it first, I'll feel better. I've never put something in my nose like that."

"Wow. Okay, Lucas, and you're trying to teach me--"

"Come on!" Sophie yells.

*

This is his first time snorting something. If Elektra were here, she wouldn't stress him out like these people are.

*

Lucas does a movie thing after his line. "I said, Goddamn!"

*

It hits fast. Holy shit.

"Are you okay?" Lucas says. His voice takes the clearest path to Matt's ear, then to his brain. The angle at which this happens is perfectly matched and distinct, mathematical, perfect, but it moves things around. Matt feels drunk, but a stimulated drunk.

So weird. He doesn't see Lucas but he feels him, all lines, not touching him but touching him. And shit. Man. Weird, but fun. It didn't hit for Luke yet. There's an energy radiating off him, like a halo, orb, whatever it's called. Aura. It's magnetic, an energy no seeing person can perceive.

Feels like God, his quiet love.

*

"What'd you say?"

"Are you okay? What's the high like?"

*

Drug dictionary.

Weed is nice and slightly hazy, but Matt didn't do too much.

Xanax is like Valium but shitty 'cause it's short.

Valium is whatever, like a nap on the floor. It used to make him hungry. It used to do a lot for him, sometimes letting him sleep, sometimes making him feel okay. Then it stopped working.

Adderall works. It makes everything so much more there. Like, he can hear more on Adderall. He's more alive on Adderall.

Ketamine is weird?

Wow, it's nothing at all. There's more, in those pills Salt used to hand him. Pretty sure. He always used to put it in the bowl of his hand like Matt was a bird or something. It wasn't always Valium. Matt never understood where they got the drugs.

*

"Uh. Weird, Luke."

Someone knocks the door at around a hundred-and-twenty-five degree angle off of Lucas's body. "Hey! Open the door, I gotta piss."

*

Sophie guides him around to some other room. The room is a music note, harmonic, sweet. Donna's here, home from a nervous breakdown. Sophie's in the air, Lucas blowing with her in an arc, the period of a cosine wave. There's a dog in this room who Matt recognizes as a kindred spirit.

*

This dog smells so good. He smells like a dog dipped in pure powdered sugar.

*

Ketamine's pretty, she's pretty like Chrissy. She's almost singing, sweet ketamine.

*

The tenor of everyone in the corner of Matt's mind form a beautiful melodic harmony. It's music and it's math he could stick his fingers in. Keep at it, this is a good rhythm.

*

Singing mangled angles, not clear enough to hear proper, but she communicates an idea in her way. Life is good. She sings one clear message: Life is good.

*

It's the corny bullshit he used to laugh at. But he feels it in the music, on this piss-stained carpet. He's starting to believe.

*

Hey.

*

They spend a lot of minutes with the dog, who is a sun to Lucas, Matt, Sophie and Donna's planets.

*

Lucas finally touches him, hands overlapping while they're petting Frankie the dog.

*

He's a star, Lucas, a pentagram. Ketamine makes Matt understand math. Bubbly, like beer, every sound is a polygonal fizzy shape in space, and Lucas is a star. The more Lucas moves, the more Matt understands. The movement gives him energy, making him more bubby, more electric.

*

Why is there a baby here?

*

The baby is a circle. Sweet, circular baby boy.

*

The baby is also called Frankie. Frankie the baby. Lucas the guy. Matt the soldier. We're all our own people, he thinks.

*

Sophie and the girl run off somewhere and Matt is loose, musing to Lucas who is not listening, about how the walls aren't walls and how the ceilings aren't ceilings. It makes sense to Matt.

*

Turns out, it wasn't K singing, Cocteau twins was just on the speakers.

*

Pleasant.

His hand around Lucas's shoulders, he feels pleasant. Synapses connect. Lucas's warm hand rest around his back, touching again. He's staring deep into Matt's back, he can feel it, there on his skin. They're hugging. The loud music and the hazy dancing outside this room are trying to distract but don't. Lucas is here with his index and middle finger patterned against Matt's spine. It doesn't hurt. There are no scars.

His breath hitches then lets loose, and Matt matches it, feeling the gas in his lungs, feeling each liquid pop of kidney, internal but open to no one but Matthew and Lucas. Their only disconnect is in Matt's closed eyes.

"I love you, Matteo."

*

Matt presses on Lucas's rib with his thumb, laughing.

*

"I mean it. Everyone loves you, Matteo, I love you!" he says, those beautiful words.

"Do you?"

"Yeah, man!"

Matt pauses, heart beating differently.

"You're serious?"

Smiles in his voice, "Why not?"

*

Pulling away, "No, don't do this to me."

"What? I can't love you?"

"But you don't."

"Matteo," he's still smiling, "why are you afraid?"

"Dude. Stop. Why are you saying this? You just met me." How could you do this to me?

"I didn't just meet you. We were roommates in the orphanage, remember? Only queers in the whole joint."

Hope, love. Stupid fucking words. Matt had hope Lucas would be simple hedonism. Why would he say this? Not stupid, he knows what Lucas wants, some sick power over Matt. Not stupid. What could he want? It's so disappointing. Lucas could very well be with whoever he wants; a normal, seeing guy who no one would be weird about. What does having power over Matt mean to him?

"Don't say that, Lucas, quit playing with me."

"Baby, I'm not playing with you. What are you talkin' about? With the, 'you just met me'. We know each other, I've seen you. It's not such a huge deal, you can love things, man."

*

Matt doesn't know what to say. He should say okay and forget, but.

"I really don't need this right now."

Lucas steps back, then catches himself. "God, Matt."

In front of him is a person who said he loves him and meant it, and Matt stepped on it reflexively, hurting Lucas. He's horrified. Matt doesn't understand what the hell he's meant to do. He misses five minutes ago.

"Lucas," Matt says, inflecting sloppily, "I'm." He doesn't know what to say. "I'm kind of nauseous. Could you please get me water? Or something? I think your friend gave me his cough. Can you get me water, please?"

He's Wind, he's strong as steel. This can't affect him. No one can manipulate him. Lucas tried, but he won't.

"Okay. Okay, Matty."

"Don't call me that."

"I'm sorry?"

*

Lucas goes to the kitchen, leaving Matt to follow him with his ears. Christ. That was rough, Matt. That was bad. Disappointing. He feels it's gross hot breath on his shoulders, disappointment. When was he ever soft enough to get disappointed, betrayed like this?

When he was a kid. Eighth grade might have killed him. This is all a dream.

*

This is a dream. His sisters are waiting on him, wanting him to wake up. When he does and tells them all about the dream, they'll call him stupid. He will wake up, and Lucas will be there and laugh and hold his hand and say it's okay.

*

In real life, Lucas hands him the bottled water and leaves, going to talk to Donna or some shit. In his life, Donna doesn't exist and Matt killed her. And half the people in this city. They won't exist.

*

Breathe. Breathe deep and use your brain, like String taught you. Air, used to be clean, now is dirty, from outside Matt, to his lungs, and out. He's almost meditating. He breathes in. Forget about everything; it doesn't exist yet. Breathe out. Forget about the noises and the tag on your shirt. Breathe in.

*

Matt thinks he might be forgetting more and more each time he does this.

*

Now what?

*

Lucas fucked up his high.

*

Whatever. Matt's out of here. This don't mean shit.

*

Lucas is talking to his friend, the host of the party. Sophia's making out with Donna in a corner. There are too many queers in his life. It feels like the fight has stopped going his way.

*

Walking out of the party, he feels like a whore exiled by the wife.

*

It's not late. He's hungry and he realized he forgot his glasses and watch on the couch. He needs to stop doing this shit, fucking himself up like this. He misses the cake.

*

At the deli, there are only two other people there. A smoking couple and Matt. He gets a grilled cheese and orange juice.

*

He was so hungry, and now he can't stomach the fucking grilled cheese. It's a regular grilled cheese. He takes a bite. He gags, and his face gets hot. He takes a sip of his soap-flavored water. He gags again. What the fuck?

*

It dawns on him how embarrassing what he did is. A boy he had no business fooling around with told Matt he loved him, and he walked out like a coward. Matt failed to explain anything to him, instead playing a game of cat and mouse, going, 'fraid not, 'fraid so, like they're haggling over a price.

Matt's good enough for Columbia. He's Chaste-educated. What's wrong with him?

*

God, Matt. You get so upset when people speak truths about you. You were too harsh.

It felt good, Lucas feels good. The kisses and all the fun reminded him of his humanity, got him out of losing it. It felt so good to be with him for a flicker of a candle. For a brief but horribly important moment, Lucas was there for Matt in a time he could have become someone else, that Eddie.

But. You're a fucking idiot if you don't think that means it's bad, Matt. If it feels good, it's going to turn bad. For Chaste. You can't do things like a person because you're not like a typical person. You've been overindulging; if you keep doing this, you're going to burn yourself. You can't live in a fairy tale forever.

*

He can't lose him. Matt doesn't want to become Eddie. He can't. His ribs still hurt.

*

Only a few bites more, but he can't do it. He puts the sandwich down.

Forget. Stick is waiting for him at home; he's so concerned. Elektra and Mist are both awake, too. They'll see he's fucked up and he couldn't eat a damn grilled cheese. Eat it for them. Come on.

*

He's so tired. He goes to the brick with his pills and takes a couple. He needs something.

*

When Matt gets home, he finds real-life Stick pissed.