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Just Another Summer Evening
Jul. 13th, 2015 03:12 pmThe sun hasn't even set; not fully. Waves of heat radiate upward from dark macadam, blistering from the summer warmth which holds Hell's Kitchen in its throes. It's barely been a couple of months since Matt began the whirlwind ride which resulted in the birth of Daredevil, but already the days are beginning to have a particular rhythm to them, bearing a form of predictability that could hardly be confused for mundane.
Take days like today for example. The ambient temperature has lingered around the high 80s, the humidity at 23? - no, 25 - percent with a light breeze blowing southwest at 2 miles per hour. With any luck, it'll descend down to the low 70s overnight, but it'll be far past the time where that might help Matt any.
Another shower will precede sleeping half-naked tonight, he thinks. He'll be pouring sweat even before he takes off the cowl and dehydration will threaten to make the already existent aches that much worse. As Matt approaches the stairs to his apartment, he begins to wonder what might be the next thing trying the boundaries of physical endurance for him. What thing about this new life of his will rise up to level the next challenge?
A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. Aches and pains and hairline fractures - dizzy spells or migraines - seem like they should be the least of his worries. Shadows have danced around him ever since Fisk was put away in prison and Matt has yet to figure out the puppet master behind this marionette play. The appearance of Stick after so many years bears ominous undertones and while the old man seems to have faded into the distance again, his damn war has been brought to the forefront of Matt's mind, interacting with the other pieces of the puzzle Matt's been left with.
Like Nobu and the Japanese. The Chinese heroin dealers, which seem to have disappeared in the smoke which razed the building that formed their base of operations. Matt has been around every corner of Hell's Kitchen, tracking every drug dealer and lawbreaker who crosses his path, but they all bear the burden of being hopelessly ordinary. A criminal element which belongs in the world which existed before the otherworldly rained from the sky. Nothing has been the same since then. The neighborhood has been taken over by a feeling in the air that's had the skin on the back of Matt's neck prickling, his hair standing on end.
Somewhere in the distance, there's a warning signal that it seems like only he can hear.
Both hands tighten around the grip of his cane. Air fills his lungs, held in and exhaled after a few tense moments before he finally digs for his keys and makes his way upstairs. Tonight, he'll venture around the docks, listening - always attentive and trying to determine from what corner the next contender will emerge. It isn't over. It's far from over, in fact, and as he shuts himself inside his home, the act vanishes; the practiced facade gives way to the man who was taught how to see better than even the sighted and box with the very shadows threatening his city.
He takes a deep breath. It'll be a long night and, heaven help him, he'll be yawning his way through work, leaning on Karen's coffee like a crutch while trying not to show to Foggy how much he burns the candle at both ends these days. He'd deny that he's been drafted into this war, and would refuse to believe he might have actually signed up willingly, but somehow, he still believes he can have it all. His friends. His career. His double life. There might be strain around the edges and an awkwardness between him and Foggy he wishes wasn't there, but this is a brave new world, he reminds himself, and he's on the front lines of it.
Slowly, Matt paces to the cabinet which houses his costume, peeling one suit off layer by layer to clothe himself in the other. The two sides of him on display; the angel and the devil playing together in a heart filled with equal parts violence and compassion. Tomorrow, Matt Murdock will have sins to atone for, wrought by the vigilante he becomes night after night.
For now, it's Daredevil's turn to come out and play.
Take days like today for example. The ambient temperature has lingered around the high 80s, the humidity at 23? - no, 25 - percent with a light breeze blowing southwest at 2 miles per hour. With any luck, it'll descend down to the low 70s overnight, but it'll be far past the time where that might help Matt any.
Another shower will precede sleeping half-naked tonight, he thinks. He'll be pouring sweat even before he takes off the cowl and dehydration will threaten to make the already existent aches that much worse. As Matt approaches the stairs to his apartment, he begins to wonder what might be the next thing trying the boundaries of physical endurance for him. What thing about this new life of his will rise up to level the next challenge?
A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. Aches and pains and hairline fractures - dizzy spells or migraines - seem like they should be the least of his worries. Shadows have danced around him ever since Fisk was put away in prison and Matt has yet to figure out the puppet master behind this marionette play. The appearance of Stick after so many years bears ominous undertones and while the old man seems to have faded into the distance again, his damn war has been brought to the forefront of Matt's mind, interacting with the other pieces of the puzzle Matt's been left with.
Like Nobu and the Japanese. The Chinese heroin dealers, which seem to have disappeared in the smoke which razed the building that formed their base of operations. Matt has been around every corner of Hell's Kitchen, tracking every drug dealer and lawbreaker who crosses his path, but they all bear the burden of being hopelessly ordinary. A criminal element which belongs in the world which existed before the otherworldly rained from the sky. Nothing has been the same since then. The neighborhood has been taken over by a feeling in the air that's had the skin on the back of Matt's neck prickling, his hair standing on end.
Somewhere in the distance, there's a warning signal that it seems like only he can hear.
Both hands tighten around the grip of his cane. Air fills his lungs, held in and exhaled after a few tense moments before he finally digs for his keys and makes his way upstairs. Tonight, he'll venture around the docks, listening - always attentive and trying to determine from what corner the next contender will emerge. It isn't over. It's far from over, in fact, and as he shuts himself inside his home, the act vanishes; the practiced facade gives way to the man who was taught how to see better than even the sighted and box with the very shadows threatening his city.
He takes a deep breath. It'll be a long night and, heaven help him, he'll be yawning his way through work, leaning on Karen's coffee like a crutch while trying not to show to Foggy how much he burns the candle at both ends these days. He'd deny that he's been drafted into this war, and would refuse to believe he might have actually signed up willingly, but somehow, he still believes he can have it all. His friends. His career. His double life. There might be strain around the edges and an awkwardness between him and Foggy he wishes wasn't there, but this is a brave new world, he reminds himself, and he's on the front lines of it.
Slowly, Matt paces to the cabinet which houses his costume, peeling one suit off layer by layer to clothe himself in the other. The two sides of him on display; the angel and the devil playing together in a heart filled with equal parts violence and compassion. Tomorrow, Matt Murdock will have sins to atone for, wrought by the vigilante he becomes night after night.
For now, it's Daredevil's turn to come out and play.
