Chapter Text
The streets of Hell’s Kitchen seem to hum with life, the sounds, smells, and movements of people flooding Matt’s senses.
He feels the air stir as commuters rush past him, and he can smell the diner across the street, serving milkshakes and burgers. He can smell the dumpsters in the adjacent alley, and that they were emptied this morning, leaving the sour scent of decay hanging in the air. There are pigeons skipping through another alley to the left, pecking incessantly at a discarded hot dog bun. Three streets away, two old friends greet each other after ten years, their happiness practically radiating off of them, and in the apartment block to his right, three siblings play hide and seek with each other, laughing giddily.
Matt takes a slow breath, revelling in the input as he picks through it.
His cane moves in rehearsed motions, practically an extension of himself after so many years.
He makes his way through the Kitchen and pushes open the door to his building. Distantly, the bells of Clinton Church sing into the night, though Matt draws in his senses to refine his perception of his building alone.
He drops his folded cane on the side table with his glasses and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the chair.
The evening quickly descends into night, and Matt stuffs the files he had been reading into his bag again, shoving aside the braille display and pulling out the earpiece of his screen reader.
It’s late enough now to justify pulling on the suit and stalking out onto the roof.
Outside, the city has turned to show its underbelly, with the pleasant sounds of the day falling away to reveal the ever-present and all-consuming evil of the human race. Muggers, abusers, dealers, and traffickers crawl the streets in search of their next victims, setting Matt’s teeth on edge.
His anger burns brighter, always just beneath his skin, though the deepest shadows of New York never fail to stoke the fire of his rage. The Devil is eager for release, forcing his lips into a wicked grin as he steps onto the ledge and sets off into the night.
—
Searing pain flares through every muscle and bone in his body as Matt falls. He can’t even get enough of a grasp on where he is to confirm that he is, in fact, falling, though the sickening feeling in his stomach is convincing enough.
He reaches out his senses, met simultaneously with a vacuum of space, and the crushing weight of mass on all sides, forcing him to draw into himself.
He feels fire over his skin and ice in his veins, shattering his grasp on reality. Maybe reality itself has given up and melted into the liquid abyss of pain that is consuming Matt.
Even life itself feels as though it is deserting him, the way all things do: it is the natural order of things.
Matthew Murdock is destined for this: torn apart by the simple act of existing.
It all feels so crushing that the moment it stops hits even harder than the moment it started, though that is quite hard to pinpoint. It feels to Matt as though the pain had always been there, ripping at his very being for as long as he can remember.
He finds himself lying on the floor, cold stone solid against his back. The ground is slightly damp, though not in the way that it is after it rains, more like the sodden must of an abandoned building. Cold air flows over him, ushering in the distinct scent of air pollution.
His fingers find a patch of moss to his left, plucking at it and honing in on the texture.
This seems to dampen the raging buzz that had been in the back of his mind since snapping out of his daze, and allows for a moment of clarity.
This isn’t where Matt is supposed to be.
He had been able to place the sounds and smells, picking through the familiarity of a cityscape like second nature, though they were all slightly off. Not enough to be instantly clear, but upon closer inspection, there is something drastically wrong.
The breeze that brushes over him is tinged with salt, with an intensity that is far beyond that of Hell’s Kitchen. The bitterness of the air is also stronger than he is used to, and underlined with something chemical that is completely alien to Matt.
This alone is enough to rouse him from his position on the floor, and with aching muscles, he pushes himself up onto his elbows.
The room he is in is almost entirely empty, with all four walls, the ceiling, and the floor all being made of concrete. Water runs down the wall in the far corner, dripping periodically and forming a small pool on the floor. An old oil drum sits in the opposite corner, the echoes bouncing off of it revealing the rust that eats at its rim.
Matt eases himself up and shifts to lean against the wall behind him, hissing out a breath as he takes stock of himself.
Every inch of his body seems alight with pain, though it is quickly dispersing now that he is aware and moving. His black fabric mask is still firmly in place, its weight soothing in the way it assures him he is safe and hidden.
Right now, he is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Matt Murdock has been filed away and cannot be touched.
He can’t smell any blood, and his bones don’t scrape or creak in any way that would suggest injury, so all in all, Matt is taking this as a win. At least Claire won’t have to drag herself over at whatever time in the morning it is.
That being said, something does feel off.
Carefully, and with the security of a baby deer, Matt pulls himself to his feet and brushes off his legs. He feels wrong, as though his limbs are too long, but somehow he’s not tall enough. He feels like he could move a lot faster and with much more ease than he could this morning, and the more permanent aches and pains as a result of his time as Daredevil seem to have disappeared.
The thought draws a frown out of Matt.
He feels younger.
With a shudder, Matt carries himself stiffly over to the window that had been letting in the breeze.
It turns out to be simply a large, square hole awaiting a frame and glass pane, though that hardly matters to him. He lets his senses reach out and finds himself on the first floor of some unfinished apartment block. He picks through the sounds primarily, hunting for anything that might give him an idea of the time or where exactly he has ended up.
He hears the ticking of a clock about 2 blocks over, but it doesn’t give him anything useful.
The air is still cold, and given that it’s late August, that would suggest that the sun is yet to make an appearance, though Matt finds that relying on the temperature is not always a reliable way to tell the time.
At that moment, he hears someone flick on a car radio, static humming for less than a second before a voice crackles into focus.
“... arity gala! We’ll have more on that shortly. Here is the evening news at 11 with …”
Perfect.
With the context of it being 11 pm, a lot of the input Matt receives becomes clear. People retreating into their apartments, lights being turned off, businesses closing, chatter spluttering into silence like the dying engine of a car.
But beyond it all, the rolling of waves persists.
Matt tries not to dwell on that thought.
He makes his way down the bare steps and out into a patch of wasteland with rough, brick walls framing the space. There’s a small, doorway-like arch in one wall that leads out onto the street.
Luckily, the city seems to be fundamentally similar to New York, with pools of liquids Matt doesn’t dare to identify sitting in the gutters, rats scuttling down the alleyways, and a steady thrum of electricity in the streetlights overhead.
He sticks to the shadows, keeping out of sight taking a great deal more energy than it normally would have. Really, he needs to find a jacket to counter the cold beginning to set in, and hopefully a pair of glasses. Something a little more civilian.
Maybe even a cane if he’s lucky.
Stopping beside a dumpster, tucked out of view of the main street, Matt once again reaches out into the city around him.
It takes a while, and he feels irritatingly drained from the rush of sensory input, but he places a seemingly abandoned apartment a street over with a distinct stench of weed, but the general shapes of clothes and potential supplies inside.
It’s good enough for him right now.
After waiting for a pair of men, each wielding a bottle of something bitter, to meander past, Matt drags himself across the street and up the fire escape in the opposite alley as quickly as he can.
With a quiet grunt, he pulls open the window and slips inside.
The smell is nauseating, though he manages to push past that as he rifles through the piles of clothing dumped in the corner of the musty room.
He pulls out four jackets, though one feels like high-vis, one is spotted with blood stains, and one is too tight. Luckily, one of them is only slightly large and feels like the same kind of canvas that is usually some sort of dark colour, like black, or navy, or green.
He tugs the jacket on, grimacing at the slightly musky smell, and heads through into the apartment’s kitchen.
There’s nothing remotely edible that Matt can smell, so he doesn’t bother with any of the kitchen cabinets, though there is a laundry cupboard across the room, which seems promising.
The door swings open with a high-pitched creak.
Inside are a half dozen towels, an old duffel bag, and a surprisingly soft blanket.
He takes the bag, stuffing the blanket and one of the towels inside, and turns back to the rest of the apartment.
Matt doesn’t find anything else of use, and so he heads back to the window, stepping out onto the rickety fire escape. He tugs off his mask, shoving it into the bag and throwing it over one shoulder.
He hadn’t been able to find any glasses or anything cane-adjacent, and so he opts to keep his head down and avoid people as best he can.
After half an hour of walking aimlessly around the city, Matt is finding it increasingly difficult to maintain his understanding of the world around him. He periodically runs his hand over the wall beside him to keep on track and avoid drifting into the road.
His world on fire is dampened by fatigue, leaving him with a vague suggestion of the space he occupies.
The overwhelming pain from before, paired with the strain on his senses in an unfamiliar place, has drilled a bone-deep exhaustion into him, and suddenly, just dragging himself through the city is becoming borderline unbearable.
It’s at this moment that a voice cuts through Matt’s thoughts, and his entire body goes rigid.
How had he let someone sneak up on him?
Stick would’ve beaten him to a pulp for this.
“What’re you doing out, kid?” It’s the voice of a man; mature, but still smooth with youth, and tinted with suspicion.
Matt turns slowly, using all his strength to assess the man in front of him. He’s solid with muscle, hardly obscured by clothing. He must be wearing something unnaturally tight.
A vigilante, perhaps? Matt finds himself thinking back to Spider-Man, occupying another territory in New York.
“Got lost,” Matt lands on, deciding it best to be vague until he knows more.
“Lost?”
“Mhm.”
He hears the shifting of fabric (Lycra, maybe?) as the man looks him up and down.
“It’s past curfew, y’know,” he gets after only a moment. The man’s heartbeat is pitched slightly in concern, and it stutters at the moment he must notice Matt’s unfocused eyes.
He tries not to think about that.
“Lost my cane. I think I took a wrong turn,” Matt huffs. It makes him uncomfortable to dwell on, but being a walking lie detector has made Matt a pretty good liar, and right now that might be useful.
The man’s heart skips again, like a scratch on a record.
“Lost it or had it stolen?” His voice turns gruff, lacking surprise and instead dripping with disgust.
“Mn…” Matt maintains his vague explanations.
“Right. Uh, is there anything I can do to help you… get back?”
He seems unsure, giving Matt a bit of an upper hand.
“Where am I?”
“Uh,” this, for some reason, seems to confuse the man, “The Bowery?”
After another moment’s silence, he seems to catch on that Matt is after specifics, and clears his throat.
“You’re on Cooke Avenue. Crime Alley is a street over. You really should be careful, kid.”
Crime Alley? Really? At least The Bowery sounds a little more familiar.
“Thanks,” Matt mumbles, beginning to back away. He really needs to get out of this conversation without any more questions.
A headache is beginning to set in, and he feels a little queasy.
“You’re sure I can’t help you get back? You don’t sound like you’re from around here, Gotham, I mean.”
Matt pauses.
There isn’t much difference between their two accents, but now he recognises a slight lilt in the man’s voice that isn’t present in his own.
More startlingly, Matt has never heard of anywhere by the name of Gotham. And if their accents are hardly any different, it must be close to New York.
Where is he?
“I… Yeah.”
“New York?” He seems hesitant to ask.
At least New York is still a place, wherever he is.
Matt offers a sound of affirmation, “Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Hm.”
That seems to satisfy, as the man retreats a step towards what Matt assumes is yet another alleyway.
“You have got somewhere to go, right?” Nevermind.
“Yeah, yeah. Just… needed to catch my bearings,” Matt takes a few steps away, beginning to turn back to the street, “Thanks,” he finishes, striding away with purpose.
“I’ll keep an eye out for any canes around,” he hears as he turns a corner.
The heartbeat behind him skips like the wings of a bird, seemingly anxious.
Matt really needs to work out where he is and how to get home. But for now, he needs to make it through the night.
Exhaustion tugs at his eyes and weighs down his limbs, making each movement lethargic. He needs shelter, and maybe something to eat. Water if he’s lucky.
Steeling his resolve, Matt continues through the streets of this alien city, giving all he has to find somewhere to rest.
—
Dick leaps gracefully onto the roof, rolling to his feet.
He had been patrolling for a few hours now and felt his muscles starting to ache.
He makes his way slowly across the rooftops, something playing on his mind. He simply can’t shake the image of that boy wandering aimlessly through the streets, running his hand over damp, brick walls and stumbling over cracks in the concrete.
The way his eyes had failed to track as he turned to face him, and the fatigue etched into his expression. Dick is no stranger to Alley kids, but this boy seemed lost and tired in a way no child should be.
He couldn’t have been older than 16, but when Dick had approached him, he had instinctively responded with a fighting stance. It seemed subconscious: he wasn’t even sure the kid noticed he was doing it.
“Oracle,” he sighs, tapping his earpiece, “Keep an eye out for any stolen mobility aid canes.”
“That’s a new one,” spoke a crackling voice in his ear, laced slightly with worry, “I’ll keep you posted.”