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***
And here I am again, as if nothing had happened in a couple of months. I'm standing on the roof of a dirty, crumbling building that, by its very existence, shows the true essence of New York City.
All around me are empty beer cans, junk food, and other trash left behind by the hospitable owners who are now laughing and playing music on the top floor of the apartment complex, unnerving the residents and neighbours from other buildings.
The loud bass hits my ears, disrupting the aesthetics of the nightlife, making me physically cringe at the similarity. Beneath the rumble of the music they hide the moans of their victims, poisoned by one of the most dangerous poisons in the world.
The wind gusts continue to blow, threatening to turn into a storm, which makes me feel a little better, but it only makes me angrier.
New York. You're testing me again, showing me your rotten gut, filled with scum and criminals.
The last puff of a cigarette is followed by a sad sigh. Sometimes my attempts seem like Sisyphean labour, but I can't do otherwise. Screwing myself up since my rebirth in this world, I dreamed of fighting evil, but I couldn't even imagine how deep and piercing its roots are.
I save one life and the next day ten more are in danger. Endless work, with criminals multiplying like locusts devouring a field of succulent ears.
-But no one says I don't like it-.
Chuckling at my own words, catching the mood, I tossed the junk in a pile with the others, boldly walking into the small loft extension that led into the back of the building.
As soon as I opened the door, the music became unbearably loud. It was ear-splitting, making my heart vibrate with each powerful chord, preventing me from counting the occupants of this den.
Too clever or that stupid a move? Probably the second, because such people have nothing left in their brains, exchanged for the tiny crumbs of pleasure from the mythical pleasure of the next dose. Stupid bastards like to use their own product. No matter how many gangs I've met, they're all eager to indulge in it for free, throwing handfuls of white powder into themselves or pumping millilitres of poison through their veins.
The rundown corridor of the apartment building is covered in graffiti, vile inscriptions full of vulgarity and insults "decorating" every metre of wall in my path, and the debris of broken glass and crumbling concrete crunches under my feet.
I try to listen to this sound, which is many times more pleasant than the escalating music.
Stopping in front of the right door, I uncomplicatedly warm up, preparing for another round of fighting evil. Today I need to act quickly, because soon the police, called by a concerned citizen, will react to the noise, and by the time they arrive I plan to finish, leaving the bastards unconscious, but with a lot of evidence at my side.
-Let's get started.
Hook-Cat throws out a folding blade that easily digs into the old wooden jamb. The soft rotten wood easily surrenders under my pressure and the force of physics, opening the door to my local branch of hell.
-The great man Archimedes-.
The music nearly knocks me off my feet, so terrifyingly loud and reckless it blasted my ears.
-Whoa, man, you should have just knocked if you're so desperate... -Whoa, dude.
Stoned out of his mind, he doesn't even know what's going on, staring at the wall next to me. His movements are jerky and abrupt, almost crossing the line to start tearing the ligaments in his body. Ducking to the ground and slouching, he scoots closer to me, peering at the Rorschach print on his mask before his eyes widen in horror.
-What the fuck is that? A demon! Guys, we got a demon!
At the shouts of his accomplice from the depths of the flat the rest of the sellers start to look out, gathering from all corners, like cockroaches, smelling a new piece of rotten meat.Their eyes are hollow, dumb madness, caused by the arrival, but still among the rare specimens begins to appear understanding, because, as it turned out, my image is becoming known.
-I'm not a demon," the baton folds up and in a precise movement knocks the junkie out, "I'm justice.
***
Camera flashes, the groans of battered thugs and the foul odour of vomit and unwashed bodies. For police lieutenant George Stacey, these were so commonplace that he had long ago learnt to ignore them.
Wandering around the trashed flat, looking at the artwork of another vigilante, the man sipped his cigarette thoughtfully, admiring what had happened.
In public, he would never admit it, but deep in his heart he enjoyed it. The stoned scum had got exactly what they deserved, and now, despite all the connections, tricks and bribes, they wouldn't have time to hide the mountain of evidence that would put the whole gang behind bars.
In the next room, a medical team was grumbling, helping customers of local shopkeepers, while detectives and police officers wandered around Stacy, gathering evidence.
-Sir, it's pretty clear, so you can go home now.
-Thank you, Tom," the lieutenant nodded his head to his old colleague and friend and flicked a handful of ashes from his cigarette onto the floor, walking around the huge pile of illegal substances that had been thrown into the centre of the room like a pedestal, "I will, but I want to look around a little more...
-There's no evidence on the vigilante," knowing the nature of his boss, the sergeant hastily dug through a solid stack of report sheets full of witness interviews and quick forensics, "even the preliminary data is all blank. No one saw him show up, and until the music died down to coincide with our arrival, the neighbours didn't even know what was going on.
-Maybe hair? Blood or something?
-Nothing, sir. Woke up and said it was our new friend in a hat and cape.
Following the lieutenant, Tom read out the bulletins, recounting what Stacy had heard so many times in the last few days. Defeat of the bandits, multiple signs of beatings and mayhem. No footprints except for a couple of footprints on the floor. And the stupid thing is, the calls to the police before the raid on the perps.
-I can't figure out if he's bragging or just trying to make us feel good.
-Maybe he's just trying to help.
-Well, if that's the case," George Stacy said with a hoarse laugh, stopping in front of the dirty, cracked wall, "that would be a good buy...
-At least he realises that it's better to give the case to the police than to sentence them personally.
-You're right about something, Tom. But even so, he's breaking the law and if we ever meet, we'll do our duty.
-I see," said the sergeant, smiling sadly, and turning the last page of the book, where the main clue to the vigilante had been recorded, "but I doubt if he'll show himself to us.
-I wouldn't be so sure of that.
-Sir?
With a negative shake of his head, Stacy sent the sergeant back to his work, while he remained staring at the familiar graffiti on the wall, which matched the photograph in the file. A small drawing that didn't fit in with the general atmosphere of the flat, freshly painted, with traces of smudges. Exactly the same as the vigilante's previous outings.
-Rorschach test. Rorschach test," the lieutenant ran his leather-gloved finger along the wall and picked up a drop of the cheapest paint you could buy at any building shop, "original.
***
I hurried as fast as I could. Matt had finally signalled and asked for an unscheduled appointment today, so without listening to my mother's wailing and my father's nagging, I set off at full speed towards Hell's Kitchen.
As soon as I jumped on the last bus, I noticed the unpleasant situation in the cabin, which made me regret the mask I'd left at home.
A familiar picture for anyone who has ever travelled by public transport at night in the USA. A couple of overworked workers, who have worked extended shifts at their factories for a pittance. Two pretty girls who got on the bus at night and, of course, a group of drunken arseholes who were now actively hitting on those very girls.
-What's wrong with each other, guys?
Arrogantly bursting into this show of cheap pickup, I immediately stand between the guys and girls, blocking the latter.
A cheeky smile, a battered face and a cocky look. Usually hooligans have enough of this, they have a special radar deep inside, which allows them to separate a potential victim from a jerk who, if he can't fight back, will at least sink his teeth into your face, wanting revenge for the last time.
But in our case alcohol has done its job and now alpha males have found a new target, wanting to show their fighting prowess.
-And what? Did he call us fags?
It takes them a long time to get it. No matter how many jokes I made about my dad's bourbon, I never got this drunk. No, seriously. What if there's a fight tomorrow and I'm tired?These guys were a prime example that if you've forged a driver's licence, you shouldn't pour all the alcoholic goods of a convenience store into yourself on the first day.
Staggering and hiccuping, gosh, what a sur, the healthiest one swung around and didn't stay on his feet, slumping into the seats.
For a few seconds we all stood without words, looking at the leader of the group, who was now fluttering about, and each time he tried to get up more and more.
-It's kind of embarrassing....
Scratching the back of my head and my own PSV, because my joke caused female laughter behind my back, I came closer to the rest of the team, frozen motionless and grasping the handrails with all my strength.
-Would you just ride quietly, -I nodded with a hint in the direction of the leader who had fallen in the fights with the green snake, and got an affirmative sniff and an extremely slow wink from the others, -I understand everything with you. You hardly understand me at all.
Returning to the girls, I brazenly sit down on the seat in front of them, turning half sideways.
-Does the hero deserve an award?
Eye rolls, luscious sighs of displeasure and suppressed laughter. A pleasant ride that ended with a couple of token kisses on the cheek and light conversation with a couple of visiting friends.
Yes, I had to stay late and ride with them to the bus stop, but I'm a hero.
-That's what I mean by quest rewards," I checked my watch when I got to Murdoch's room, making sure I wasn't too late.
The lights were off inside, as usual. A bad habit of Matt, who, as usual, put it down to his blindness and didn't give a damn about the opinion of the students.
-Hey, teacher, look, I'm here. Heh-heh.
-Funny," an unfamiliar male voice came from the ceiling, and the next second I was knocked backwards, "I like it.
Tumbling, I barely had time to get to my feet before I was hit by a truck. It should have broken every bone in my body, but instead I went for another long flight.
"Good thing I didn't bring my hat with me, or I'd have dented it for sure."
-"Think less, act more!
The assailant's cheerful voice came from very close by, though I knew for sure I had covered a distance of five metres.
"Hustle."
-It's the not listening that's bad.
My feet left the ground and only thanks to Daredevil's training was I able to orient myself in space and fall on my hands, twisting my body and dodging another blow landing on the defenseless floor.
The dense wood, which had withstood many trials with honour, shattered into splinters, some of which scratched my face.
Ignoring the burning and itching, I rushed towards the unknown man, trying to impose a dirty fight at close range, because he was too quick on his feet.
Oh, what a mistake that was. When he missed my first blow to the liver, though it felt like I was trying to storm a steel beam, the stranger threw a hail of blows at me.
Barely managing to block, missing more often and twisting in pain, I recognised the school of thought.
-You're still thinking! Stop thinking! Fight!
The spit comes out of my mouth, hitting my attacker's forehead with a mixture of saliva and blood, and then I try again to break through his defences, at least at his most vulnerable spots.
Eyes, ears, throat, nose, collarbones, joints.... Nothing worked. The asshole was like made of iron and stubbornly accepted all my attacks, chuckling and commenting on each blow. So I had to do the sneaky thing.
I rarely hit people in the groin, and I don't consider criminals to be people at all. Besides, it was clear from the start that this was Daredevil's acquaintance....
"Oh, I've been there."
Being exposed to another blow to the head, I fall down on my knee, staggering and almost losing consciousness, but still I am close enough to write an uppercut with all my might right on the bells, putting the last strength and all my weight into this, always effective, super technique.
-Uh... Fucking hell, - the arrogance and boldness immediately disappeared, and in their place came a husky, almost senile voice, - you can't hit people in the balls, asshole.
My strength came back to me, because it would seem that a man knocked out by a mean blow should come to his senses for a couple of minutes. But the stranger was not a stranger, and now I'm lying next to him, grabbing his crotch.
-What kind of idiots are you? -What kind of idiots are you?
Matt Murdoch came down from the ceiling beams and stood a few metres away, arms folded across his chest.
-He's a kid, Danny.
-What the fuck's a kid? -What the fuck's a kid? Big forehead, you better come and help me.
-Nah, I've seen the film and I know what you're up to.
-Fucking blind sage," squatting down, my recent adversary jumped a couple of times, then held out his hand to me, "Come on man, get up. Damn, it hurts like hell, even Iron Shirt didn't help.-Matt, you promised me you'd bring a friend, not a crotch-hitting shithead.
-What the fuck? You started it!
-I didn't bring you here for that." Murdoch stepped between us and put his hands out to his sides, calming the conflict. At least that's what he thought, because I, as well as the unknown guy, knew Daredevil's abilities, so I played my part sincerely," he said. Oh, for fuck's sake.
As Murdock fell to the floor where we had been writhing, he cursed the couple who had already sung against him.
-It's so sweet of you to call me your friend.
-Я... That-- I didn't. I did.
Murdock rose to his feet, his eyes glaring menacingly, promising me and his friend all the punishments of heaven.
-I've done my job, so you're on your own," Matt softened his tone as he turned to me. I wasn't the one who kicked him in the balls, so I had a better attitude," he said, "Don't look at his bad temper. He's a strong warrior and a good teacher, so you can learn a lot from him.
-Stop cosplaying Mr Miyagi," the stranger waved his hands as if he was chasing away a gnat, and the stranger brazenly intruded into the conversation, once again glowing with positive emotion, "shoo, shoo. Go buy yourself some film or read a comic book.
-Eh...
Shaking his head unhappily, Murdock retreated to his apartment above the dojo, though it didn't matter whether he sat there or here. Thanks to echolocation, he'll be able to hear everything we say.
-Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but it just makes me feel better, that's all. And Matt doesn't like noisy company, you must have noticed.
-We're not that close.
-Yeah? -I didn't think we were," he was probably referring to the fact that Murdoch was teaching me and he'd found a new mentor, "but whatever. My job is to teach you the cool stuff you need to beat up bad guys, not get in your head.
-Well, we understand each other pretty well by now.
-Yeah, I'm glad you understood me back then. Let's get down to business. We don't have much time, so it's better not to drag it out," he threw something in the back of the hall, and the man in a ninja costume pulled his mask off his face, extending his hand to introduce me, "My name is Danny Rand, and I'll take you on as an apprentice!
***
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