When The Rest of the World Walks Out (Daredevil Fanfic)

The moves that Matt taught him were quick and brutal, designed to break holds and facilitate escapes. "Once you're free," Matt reminded him, "go. These are defensive moves. Don't stick around to finish the fight."

Foggy nodded. He wasn't usually squeamish, but... "Do I really have to shatter someone's knee?"

"It's a good way to stop them from chasing after you," Matt pointed out. "But, no. Kicking the side of your opponent's knee will make it buckle, rather than shatter. He'll recover faster, though. Or she will," he added as an afterthought. When Foggy was silent, Matt gave him a reassuring smile. "You don't [I]have[/I] to do this, you know."

"What's the matter?" Foggy grinned back. "Afraid of a little competition?"

They shared a laugh.

"Look," Foggy said seriously, "less than a week ago, you were ready to leave, because you thought it was the best way to protect me. I think what we're doing now is better."

"Possibly," Matt allowed. "Okay. Now, if someone has you in a hammerlock, what you need to do first is turn into it... here. Try it on me." He smiled. "Again, turn into it," he demonstrated, "and then follow up with a kick to the knee. Want to try?"

Foggy paused. "What if it works? I don't want to break your knee for real."

Matt grinned. "You're going to go at half speed. I'll talk you through it."

"Okay..."

Matt took hold of Foggy's arm and twisted it behind his back. "What's your first move?"

"Turn into it," Foggy said, moving hesitantly.

"'Slow' doesn't mean 'awkward,'" Matt said. "Try it again. Better. Okay. What next?"

"I'm going to kick the side of your knee," Foggy replied. "If I mess up and kick too hard, I don't want to put you out of commission, for real."

"I can counter," Matt pointed out, "but all right. Give it a shot. Half speed... Hold it. You feel that?"

Foggy's heart rate sped up slightly. "Yeah, I feel... something. What..."

"You're just on the verge of doing real damage," Matt smiled. "The knee can only take so much pressure in that spot. A little more force, a little bit faster, and you'll have it."

"Wow."

"Again," Matt reminded him, "this is just enough to break the hold, but your opponent will recover quickly. When he does, he's going to come after you and he's going to be angry."

Foggy swallowed. "You really want me to try to break someone's kneecap."

"I want you to go through the motion at half speed, yes." He twisted Foggy's arm in another hammerlock. "Go. OWW!"

"MATT!" As Foggy's arm came free he turned and knelt down next to his best friend, who was groaning and holding his leg. "Matt, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

Matt smiled. "If I'd been a real opponent, your next objective would be to increase the distance between us, not—OW!" His hand flew to his arm. "Okay, I deserved that," he admitted.

"Damned right. I thought I'd..."

"I know. But if you ever do end up having to use these moves in a real situation, you can expect that reaction. When you get it, don't stop to admire your handiwork or check if you really hurt the guy. Get out of there, fast." He clapped a hand to Foggy's shoulder. "Enough for tonight. Tomorrow, we'll tackle escaping from multiple opponents."

The thug with the wheezing breath who smelled of bacon grease and too much Aqua Velva was following him again, Matt thought darkly as he left the library. Leaving off his glasses hadn't deterred his tail in the slightest, so after a few days, he'd gone back to wearing them. Not for the first time, he wondered what Fisk was waiting for. It had been nearly three weeks since the hearing and Fisk still hadn't made his move. Matt realized that he was tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was time to speed things along.

He ducked into an alley, walked about halfway through, and waited. Sure enough, it wasn't long before he heard the familiar footfalls. He crouched behind a dumpster and waited.

The man was swearing under his breath and his heartbeat was faster than it should have been from such minimal exertion. Matt smiled. The thug was probably under strict orders to keep him under surveillance. If so, he had to be dreading the thought of reporting back to Kingpin that he'd lost his quarry. The man drew closer. He was walking slowly, his head moving from left to right as he looked for some clue as to Matt's whereabouts. Matt waited until the thug was nearly on top of him before he sprang from his hiding place, pushed the guy against the wall, and pressed his cane horizontally against his throat. "You've been following me for weeks," he hissed. "Why?"

His only answer was a panicked wheeze and he pulled the cane away fractionally. "Why?" he demanded a second time.

"Y-you're laboring under a misapprehending, sir. I w-was just taking an alternating route to my destination. I was not cognoscente of your presence in this thoroughfare."

Matt pressed his cane harder again. "Do me one favor," he snarled. "When you make your report to Fisk, you tell him that I'm done playing his games. You tell him I've got something to settle with him and I'm coming."

He withdrew his cane and stalked off, leaving the half-dazed thug slumped against the wall and trying to catch his breath. The stench of the man's sweat nearly overpowered the Aqua Velva.

References: Daredevil Vol 1. #228

[CENTER][B]Chapter 6[/B][/CENTER]

Matt didn’t need vision to guess the look on Foggy’s face.

“You did what?”

He shrugged. “I told the guy who’s been shadowing me to pass on a message.”

“Oh.” Foggy said with poorly-feigned nonchalance. “Well, just so long as you keep the element of surprise, I guess that’s okay.”

“I didn’t have that to start with,” Matt pointed out. “Kingpin’s been more than a step ahead of me for months. He’s been rattling my chains, keeping me on edge, leaving me wondering what’s going to happen next...” His voice hardened. “I’m tired of it. Maybe it’s time [I]he[/I] started worrying a little.”

Foggy was silent for several long minutes. Finally, he ventured, “Matt... we’re talking about a guy who... who made a few phone calls and completely wrecked your life. Do you really think his knowing you’re on your way is going to shake him up?”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “If he’s smart,” he said through clenched teeth. He smiled grimly. “It may have taken me too long to add it all up. And once I did, I know it took me more time to get my head together. But these last couple of weeks at the gym, I’ve been feeling it all fall into place again. I think I need another night or two... and then I’ll be ready to make my move.”
Foggy exhaled. “Whatever you say, Matt,” he said dubiously. “Whatever you say.”

That night, Foggy watched as Matt attacked a heavy bag with fists, feet, and billy-club. He wasn’t just boxing anymore, though he was landing some solid punches. His feet moved back and forth in a triangular pattern that almost seemed like a dance. Then, he flipped to his hands. At first, Foggy thought that he was about to turn a cartwheel, but then, Mat twisted his hips, and delivered a powerful split-kick to the heavy bag. The bag rocked, the chain creaked, and a light shower of plaster dust fell from the ceiling. “Uh... Matt?”

“I know.” Matt sounded annoyed. He moved to a free-standing bag. “I’ve been noticing a problem for the last week or so.”

“Then why keep using that bag?”

Matt shrugged and settled back into that weird triangular dance again. “I like that bag. When I first started sneaking in here at night, that’s the one I gravitated toward. Almost feels like an old friend.” He directed a savage high kick at the belly of the new bag. Foggy winced.

“Nice to know how you treat your old friends.”

Matt balanced on one foot and kicked out again, hitting with the entire sole of his other foot. The bag swayed. “You’re not old,” he smiled.

“I’d like to get there one day,” Foggy retorted. He watched a bit longer. “That doesn’t look like WBA standard,” he said after several moments.

“It’s not,” Matt replied. “Well, not entirely. I’m working capoeira and a few kick-boxing techniques into the mix.” He sighed. “Kingpin’s fast, strong, and in a higher weight class. I won’t beat him with Marquess of Queensberry rules. I need to wear him down by using moves he won’t expect.”

“Like he did with you,” Foggy said shrewdly, as Matt delivered another one of those split-kick cartwheels.

Matt bounced back on his feet and spun back to face him. “Excuse me?”

Foggy shrugged. “He found out who you are and he attacked you with the tools of that trade. He didn’t show up at Nelson and Murdock to punch your lights out or throw you out the window. He came at you through the IRS and the legal system. And now, you’re going after him with your fists.”

“What else can I do?” Matt asked, walking back across the floor and taking a seat next to Foggy. “On the surface, there is nothing to connect Wilson Fisk with any criminal activity. I know. I’ve looked. I know he’s up to his neck in it, but I can’t prove it and even if I could, even if we could, he’s got his hooks into too many people.” He shook his head and reached down for a bottle of water. “I went to see Nick Manolis when I found out that he was going to testify against me—”

“You what?” Foggy demanded. “Matt, you [I]know[/I] better than—”

“As Daredevil,” Matt snapped. “Obviously, it was before I knew Kingpin was involved.” He frowned. “He was drunk. Not just ‘had a couple of beers before I showed up’. Unsteady, lurching on his feet... I surprised him in his kitchen. He told me to leave.”

“There’s a shocker,” Foggy said, but without the heat in his voice that had been there a moment ago.

“I was confused. I know Manolis. We’ve worked together before. I know... knew that he wasn’t on the take. He was a good cop, a decent man... I needed to understand why he was prepared to testify before the grand jury that I’d bribed that witness.”

“Okay,” Foggy replied. “I get that. What happened?”

“He got angry. He was holding a bottle and he smashed it against the counter. It broke. I could tell it was beer from the smell.”

“Gotcha,” Foggy nodded. “Okay, smashing the bottle seems a little extreme, but I guess if he was already drunk, like you say, it could have made him aggressive. Then what?”

“He attacked me with the broken bottle. I defended myself. It wasn’t hard. He was angry, but the alcohol made him slow, sluggish... I slammed him into his kitchen table, more to knock some sense into him than to actually hurt him. He told me to leave again and I knew he wasn’t going to tell me what I needed to know to my face, so I left... but I didn’t go far. There was a ledge outside his window. I waited to see what he’d do next. He made a phone call.”

“To...?”

Matt shook his head. “He never said. “What he did say—to whoever was on the other end—was that I’d just been there. He’d been expecting me to show up. Or been warned that I would. Same thing, I guess,” he admitted, with a frown. “That wasn’t all he said, though. He mentioned that his son needed some treatment soon—treatment Manolis didn’t have the money for. He was ready to say whatever they wanted at the hearing in exchange for the funds to pay for it.”

Foggy sucked in his breath. “Great. So you overheard him admitting that he was going to lie, but you couldn’t prove it in any way that would stand up in court.”

“Exactly,” Matt sighed. “I didn’t have a tape recorder on me. Even if I did have one, if the mike had been sensitive enough to pick up Manolis’s conversation, it would have also picked too much background noise to be coherent. Outside, there was wind and traffic. Inside, he had loud music playing. It created enough interference that I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, and my ears pick up more than any recording mike I might have carried.”

“And even if you had, somehow been able to record it,” Foggy groaned, “it would have been inadmissible under the Federal Wiretap Act in the first place. You would have needed one of those two parties to consent to your taping it.” He sighed. “This time, I don’t blame you for not mentioning this to me before. It would have left me about as frustrated as it left you.”

“Thanks,” Matt said, not sarcastically, but sincerely. “Anyway, Kingpin knows who to enlist and which buttons to push to get them to do what he wants. We’re not going to beat him at that game, so I’m going to have to challenge him to mine. And win.” He gave Foggy a tired smile. “Give me another twenty minutes. I want to hit the free weights. Then, we’ll go over a few more defensive tactics. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Foggy smiled back. His smile dropped away as Matt got up and headed for the weights area. “Just be careful, Matt. I don’t think Kingpin’s done pushing your buttons, yet. You could be playing right into his hands.”

Although he spoke in an undertone, he was sure that his best friend had heard him, but Matt never broke stride or turned around.

“You’re really going through with this,” Foggy stated two days later. “You’re just going to waltz into Fisk’s office and beat him to a pulp.”

“He’ll be expecting Daredevil to break into his home to threaten him,” Matt pointed out. “He won’t be expecting Matt Murdock to show up unannounced at his place of business. He’ll assume I’m going after him through the court system and I’m coming to give him one last opportunity to come clean. He’ll be curious to know why I think I stand a snowball’s chance against him, curious enough to hear me out. The one thing he won’t be expecting will be an attack. There’s my edge. I beat him, he gives me my life back, and we go on from there.”

Foggy frowned.

“You don’t think I can do it,” Matt said flatly.

“I... I don’t honestly know,” Foggy admitted. “But it seems to me you’re presupposing a lot, here. Fisk didn’t make a move on you until he had everything in place and, I’m sorry to say, Matt, he trapped you very neatly when your back was turned. Why would you assume he’s no longer interested in you now? He’s had you followed for weeks, for crying out loud.”

For a moment, Matt’s face fell and Foggy thought that he might actually be getting through to him. Then his expression hardened. “I’m not just going to give up, roll over, and play dead, Foggy. And, while I appreciate everything you’ve been doing,” he placed a hand on Foggy’s shoulder, “more than you’ll ever know,” he added, “I can’t just... stay here, living off of your savings, while you sleep on the sofa in your own home.”

“It’s just until we deal with the IRS,” Foggy pointed out. “And I don’t mind.”

“I do.” Matt shook his head. “Besides,” he sighed, “we both know that this isn’t going to get resolved overnight. It might take months. Maybe years. I can’t stay here that long.”

“Fine, but you don’t have to move out right now,” Foggy shot back. “And you don’t have to deal with Fisk right now, either. Wait him out. He’s not going to have people tailing you forever. Sooner or later, he is going to get tired of it. That’s when you go after him.”

Matt shook his head once more. “This has gone on long enough. It ends today.” He smiled. “It’ll be okay, Foggy. I’ve got a plan, now. I know what I have to do.” He got his coat from the closet and pulled it on. “I’ll see you later.”

The door closed behind him with an ominous note of finality. Foggy sighed. Then he went to his filing cabinet and pulled out a bulging folder containing all the data relevant to a case that had consumed his waking hours for over six weeks. Matt’s. Assuming that Matt was right and his play was successful, Foggy wanted to be sure that all bases would be covered, all ramifications considered. Matt had praised his attention to detail. Foggy meant to keep meriting that reputation.

After three quarters of an hour though, he shoved the folder away with a sigh. He couldn’t concentrate when he was this worried, and he wasn’t going to stop being worried until Matt came back, safe and sound. Meanwhile, he wasn’t doing anyone much good by pretending to look at documents that might end up being irrelevant, assuming Matt was successful.

...Assuming Matt was successful in his attempt to get his life back by walking directly into the headquarters of an archenemy, a building that had to be crawling with security, to confront head-on a man with serious connections on both sides of the law, who had—from the sound of things—managed to utterly wreck Matt’s world with a few well-placed telephone calls.

Outside the window, the sun was setting. Foggy shook his head silently. He wasn’t sure whether it was morbid curiosity that made him get his own coat and head to his car. He told himself that even if Matt won, he’d probably appreciate having a lift back and not needing to brave the subways, assuming he even had the fare on him. He ignored the voice in his head that tried to remind him that if Matt could take out the Kingpin, the subway wasn’t going to be a major hurdle. He just knew that sitting and waiting was worse than going out after Matt. Maybe there wasn’t anything that he could actually do, but a drive down to Fisk Industries would make him feel better, all the same.

He made sure to lock his door before taking the elevator down to the parking garage.

Matt had walked the last twenty blocks to Fisk Industries. One final brisk workout to warm up for the coming confrontation. Besides, there was only so much he could take of the cacophony of heavy metal songs leaking out from over a dozen radio headphones. He could handle bitter cold and long walks far better than he could echoing tunnels and discordant... well, he knew that [I]some[/I] people called it music, though he considered it a stretch.

It was nearly six when he reached his destination. For the first time, it occurred to him that the main doors might be locked, but they slid open automatically at his approach. Running his fingers quickly over the directory with its engraved metal nameplates told him the floor he needed. He crossed the foyer, listening for the faint hum that would tell him where the elevators were located.

There was a security guard at the desk, Matt could hear him breathing. He debated making some excuse about needing to pick something up from one of the offices, but then he heard the sound of a pen making a brief scratch on a piece of paper. “Good evening, Mr. Murdock,” the guard greeted him. “You want office 2500. Go right on up. Elevator’s to your left.”

It was Matt’s first inkling that things were not going to go according to plan. He squelched the small doubt ruthlessly. Of course, Kingpin knew he was coming. He’d had people following him for weeks. His latest tail had probably phoned in as soon as Matt’s destination had become clear. He smiled and murmured his thanks to the guard.

Arriving at the twenty-fifth floor, he was greeted again—this time by a receptionist with a warm smile in her voice, who held the door for him. “Come right in, Mr. Murdock,” she said. “Mr. Fisk is expecting you.” She led him down a long hallway past evenly-spaced potted reed palms. She held another door open for him without a word.

He didn’t need eyesight to know that he was in a gym. His radar sense gave him the contours of various large pieces of fitness equipment and free-weight racks—not to mention the two basketball hoops at opposite ends of the room, but there was also an odor of stale perspiration that no amount of disinfectant would ever eradicate and the edge of the thin exercise mat that his feet touched when he walked three paces into the room. There would be no basketball today.

Kingpin was standing several yards away, his back to Matt. He waited until Matt had nearly cut the gap between them in half before he turned. He uttered no word. He simply stood, waiting.
Matt held his ground, mentally sizing up his adversary. Fisk was calm. He didn’t know why that perturbed him. Fisk was always calm, always deliberate. It was his stance. Kingpin was standing, barefoot, clad only in a pair of briefs, arms down, hands a bit more than shoulder distance apart, feet spread, wordlessly inviting Matt to take his best shot.

That was his first mistake, Matt told himself, as he lifted his cane and swung it two-handed into his enemy’s mid-section. It hit Fisk’s belly with an impact that jarred both of his arms, but didn’t even stagger Fisk. He dodged, sliding under Fisk’s counter-attack and surging upwards to bring his cane down hard on the bridge of Fisk’s nose. There was a satisfying “thwack” and the smell of hot blood filled the air. Fisk snarled and Matt struck out once more, swinging his cane into the side of Fisk’s skull.

The cane broke.

Matt crouched low, preparing for another attack, but Fisk was moving now, faster than he had a right to, after sustaining those hits. He should have been reeling. He should have been dazed.

He’d been toying with him.

As the realization struck, so did Fisk, seizing him by one arm. Matt swung what was left of his cane into Fisk’s shoulder, but the blow glanced off. And then a massive fist plowed into Matt’s abdomen and he would have fallen to the ground if Fisk hadn’t kept hold of his arm, yanking him off of his feet. He let go and Matt fought to keep his footing. A right cross to the jaw knocked him heavily to the mat. For the briefest instant, Matt considered succumbing to the unconsciousness that threatened to claim him—a deeper darkness than the one he habitually lived with—but that would have been a betrayal of everything he stood for. It would have been a betrayal of his father’s last charge. And so, Matt fought to raise himself from the ground, to rally enough strength for another swing. He wasn’t sure whether he actually spoke his defiance or merely thought it.

[I]“Never give up... Never...”[/I]

His world exploded in pain and he knew no more.

The Kingpin looked down at Murdock, noted that his foe was still breathing, and smiled. It wouldn’t do at all for Murdock to expire here, in an office where respectable business people met and respectable business was carried out. No, there must be nothing to tie Murdock’s demise to Wilson Fisk or Fisk Enterprises.

He walked over to the wall phone. “Have you procured the taxicab? And the driver? You have him in a secure area? Very well. Eliminate him. I’m sending down the necessary weapon now. Ensure that you wear gloves when handling.” Murdock groaned. Kingpin paused for a moment in his instructions, but when the man gave no other sign of coming around, he pulled his attention back to the conversation. “When that deed has been carried out, report back here with Topper. Give the weapon to Kirkland. Ensure that [U]he[/U] is also wearing gloves. He and Fuller are to go to the following address...” He gave it from memory, “...Apartment 5B. They should find within one Franklin P. Nelson. They are to make certain of this before proceeding further. Once they have ensured that he is, in fact, within, using the same weapon, they are to eliminate Nelson and anyone else whom they might find there. If Nelson is not present, they are to take no action. Report back to me when they return. Is that understood? Excellent.”

He smiled down at the unconscious man before him. “There will be no questions about your death, Murdock. No investigations. Well. I suppose that someone might wonder what would entice a blind man to get behind the wheel of a checker cab after beating its owner to death, but there will be no reason to pursue that line of questioning. It will simply be chalked up as one of life’s little mysteries. Perhaps,” he said with a soft chuckle, as he reached into a supply locker and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, “they will blame the alcohol...”

Parked across the street from Fisk Industries, Foggy got out of his car and put another quarter into the meter. He’d been waiting for nearly an hour and there was no sign of Matt. He wondered whether Matt had ever even got there. Perhaps he’d thought things through on his way over, realized that confronting Kingpin now wouldn’t be the wisest course of action, and was even now, back at the apartment, waiting patiently for Foggy to return. It was a nice idea, anyway.

Waiting in a car was just as nerve-wracking as waiting at home, he decided. He debated whether to stay put, drive back, or get out of the car. What would Matt do? He knew the answer to that one, but then, Matt was Daredevil. Matt was likely to do many things, not all of which were courses of action Foggy should consider emulating. He closed his eyes. He’d gotten himself into this in the first place because he couldn’t turn his back on a friend. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered, as he got out of his car.

He stole a look at the building directory and smiled. As he’d expected, there were several offices that had nothing to do with Fisk Industries, apart from renting space—including a familiar law firm.

“May I help you, sir?” a uniformed security guard asked from behind his desk.

Foggy nodded. “I’m with Patterson, Harris, and McCormack,” he said, giving the name of the firm where he’d interned during his JD program. “I’m supposed to pick something up from Solly Brownstein’s office in 1400. He said he’d leave it at the desk, if he wasn’t in.”

“I’ll call up,” the guard said. “Name?”

There was no way that Foggy was going to give his real name. Not when Kingpin knew where Matt had been staying. “It’s um...” he smiled, “Michael Franklin, but I don’t think they’ll know it. Just the name of the firm.” He walked toward the elevator and quickly pressed the button.

“Sir, you can’t...”

The door opened and Foggy was about to step inside when he realized that the car was occupied. There were three men inside. One’s head was down. There was blood on his shirt, he reeked of cheap whiskey, and he was being supported by the other two. Foggy thought he might be passed out. “Goin’ down, Mac,” one of the men said. “Yeah, sorry,” Foggy mumbled. “I can see...” The doors shut again as his heart plummeted to his stomach. He’d recognized the clothes, even if he hadn’t been able to see the middle guy’s face. That had been Matt!

“Sir!” The guard was approaching him now. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nobody answering the phone in the office. I can’t let you up at this hour unless someone vouches for you.”

Foggy shook his head, barely listening. “That’s okay,” he mumbled. “I’ll call in the morning.” He nearly ran out of the building.

He was shaking as he got back into his car. What was he supposed to do now? Calling the police was an option, but if that elevator had been going down, if the Fisk building was like most others, then there would be a parking garage on the lower level. If they were trying to get Matt out of the building, they could be gone while Foggy was on the phone. They’d probably ask him a bunch of questions he didn’t have time to answer, too. Had Matt even been breathing? He closed his eyes, squared his shoulders and, although he didn’t consider himself a particularly religious man, thought a quick prayer to whoever might be listening. Then he opened his eyes once more, started the engine, and put the car into drive. He circled the building slowly, looking for a garage door or a loading dock, some way that those men might be leaving—if they hadn’t already gone while Foggy had been trying to decide what to do next!

There [I]was[/I] a garage door on the opposite side. As Foggy watched, the door rose slowly and a cube van drove out. The passenger window rolled down and a hand tossed a lit match out of the cab. Before the window rolled up again, Foggy got a good look at man in the seat. It was the same one who had announced that the elevator was going down.

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he followed the van toward the East River.

At Pier 41, the van stopped. Foggy found a place to park, then slipped out of his car and cautiously edged closer. There were a number of wooden crates and barrels nearby and he crouched next to them, trying to lose himself among them. As he watched, the back of the van opened and the two men let down a ramp from the back of the truck that ended just at the edge of the pier. Then, they walked up the ramp and disappeared into the van. From Foggy’s angle, he couldn’t tell exactly what they were doing, but a moment later, a yellow checker cab rolled slowly down the ramp until it was halted by the safety chain surrounding the pier’s perimeter. His eyes narrowed. Was it just his imagination, or were the metal posts pitching slightly forward as the taxicab’s front bumper strained against the chain? There was a figure in the driver’s seat of the cab, slumped over, not moving. Foggy’s heart sounded like a drum solo in his chest. Matt. It had to be Matt. Now, was there some way that he could get to the taxicab without being spotted?

A beam of light shone into his eyes and he yelped as a meaty hand clamped down on his neck, pulled him forward, and let him drop to the ground. “I told you we were followed!” a harsh voice snapped. For a moment, he lay on the slushy pier. Then the guy with the flashlight reached down, grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and hauled him to his feet.

It occurred to Foggy that he’d asked Matt to teach him exactly how to get out of situations like this. What if they were armed, though? What if his struggle to get away ended with his getting shot? And what if his tactics failed and all he managed to do was get these people mad? He offered no resistance as his captor pushed him closer to the van and the cab.

“Who’ve you got, Topper?” the second man asked. He frowned. “I recognize you. You’re that guy from the lobby. Who are you? What’s your stake in this?”

Foggy pressed his lips together and tried to assume a defiant expression.

The other man shrugged. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way. Hold him, Topper.” A moment later, Foggy’s wallet was in the other man’s hand. He rifled through it and blinked. “Franklin Nelson, eh? Well isn’t this a coincidence. We’ve got a couple of people out looking for you right now.” He glanced over Foggy’s shoulder.

“Don’t let go of him, Topper. I’m going to see how the boss wants to handle this.”

Foggy watched as the other man walked briskly toward a phone booth. He entered, made a call, and spoke briefly. Then he came back, a grim smile on his face. “We don’t do anything yet,” he said. “Not to him, not to Murdock. Kirkland and Fuller are on their way over with the cane. Boss wants Nelson eliminated first, then Murdock. We just gotta hold him until they get here.”

“Got it.”

There was a creaking sound. The metal posts that supported the safety chain were definitely straining forward now. Before Foggy’s horrified eyes, the cab rolled another inch closer to the river.
His blood ran cold. Why would Kingpin want to be sure that he died before they pushed Matt into the river? The thug had said something about a cane...?[I] Matt’s cane! [/I]That had to be it. They weren’t just going to kill Matt, they were going to make it look as though Matt had killed him. But in order to do that, they had to wait for the cane to arrive here. They had to keep him alive until then. Which meant... [I]They couldn’t shoot him. [/I]They. Could. Not. Shoot. Him. Foggy smiled. Then, just as Matt had taught him, he turned into the hammerlock and delivered a powerful kick to his captor’s knee.

There was a sickening crunch and Topper screamed a profanity as he released Foggy and fell to the pavement, clutching his knee.

Foggy ran for the cab, knowing that the other man would be on top of him in a moment. Then he heard the last sound he wanted to hear. The creak-and-snap of rusting metal as it gave way. Taxicab, chain, and support poles plunged into the East River.

For a moment, Foggy stood, frozen in horror. Then running footsteps behind him galvanized him into action. He turned and looked about wildly for a way out. No good. He was trapped between Kingpin’s goons and the East River. He was a dead man. Either way, he was a dead man. [I]But, [/I]he thought to himself grimly, [I]nobody was pinning this on Matt![/I]

He ran toward the edge of the pier. How far down was it? Could he survive the fall? How long could he last in the water? Damn it, he was still a young man. He didn’t want to die.

The other thug was nearly on top of him now. He turned to face him. It wasn’t courage or even bravado. It was the realization that if he faced the river, he was probably going to freeze up and stay where he was. As it was, years later, when he recalled this moment, he would never be completely certain whether he jumped back or simply slipped on the slushy, icy, asphalt as he tumbled off the pier and into the murky depths of the river below.

A/N: Thanks to the folks at Livejournal’s Little_Details community for advice on medical treatment for falling into polluted water and hypothermia. Although I have, for the most part, been trying to keep this story set in 1986 with regard to technology (Kingpin’s goons calling from pay phones instead of carrying cells, for example), I’m introducing one bit of anachronistic detail here. Today, many advance-practice nurses can prescribe medication (Source: “The Only Thing that Truly Separates Doctors from Nurses” by Shirie Leng, MD, appearing on Medpage Today’s[I] KevinMD[/I] blog for April 3, 2013). I do not believe that this was true in 1986, when Frank Miller wrote [I]Born Again[/I]. It may have been true in 2004, when the Night Nurse made her first appearance in Daredevil canon (Volume 2, #58) in Bendis’s [I]King of Hell’s Kitchen [/I]arc. However, as there has never been any indication that there is a doctor making rounds at the Night Nurse’s clinic, and as we have canon support for Matt being given prescription-strength painkillers by the Night Nurse (Volume 2, #58 again!), I’m using it.

A/N: References: Daredevil Vol. 1, Nos 16–17

[B]Chapter 7[/B]

Foggy felt the cold December night air whistle past him as he plunged toward the East River. The wind ripped into him like an icy blade and the odors of rotting fish and sewage rose to assault him. The surface of the water felt like concrete when he hit and then the water accepted him, wrapped around him, poured over him, into his coat sleeves, down his collar, into his boots, numbing him, freezing him. He was dead. He was dead, he was dead, he was...

...Jerked abruptly upwards by something snagged on the back of his coat. His stomach lurched as his feet stopped treading water and started churning air. He thought something might have wrapped around his waist, but it was night and his vision was blurry from the water and he was cold and soaked to the skin, so maybe he wasn’t thinking all that clearly. The wind tore at him again. He gasped and started to cough. And then, he was sitting on hard ground and someone bending over him in... Was that a wet-suit? He blinked his bleary eyes and tried to focus, even as he started to shiver. No. The suit was black and form-fitting, but its white eyes and the spider symbol on its chest told him that it was no wet-suit.

“Are you all right?” his rescuer asked. “Here’s a tip for you: next time you want to go swimming in the dead of winter, try an indoor pool.”

Foggy started to reply, but was seized by another coughing fit.

“Hey,” Spider-Man said, sounding a good deal more concerned than he had a second ago. “Hey, are you okay?” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “No, of course you’re not okay. You just took a dive into the East River in the middle of an Arctic cold snap. I’d better get you to a hospital.”

“N-no!” Foggy gasped. “N-no, you’ve g-g-gotta save M-M-Matt!” His arms felt like they weighed a ton, but he struggled to clap his hands to Spider-Man’s shoulders. “K-Kingpin,” he said, struggling to make himself understood.

Spider-Man tensed. “What? Wait...” He drew marginally closer. “You look familiar. Did I ever...?” He sucked in his breath. “I remember. I yanked you out a window once, because I thought you were...” He took another breath. “You just said ‘Matt’. Matt... Murdock?”

Foggy nodded emphatically. “Down there,” he jerked his head toward the water and hoping that Spider-Man could still understand him through his chattering teeth. “In a taxi. Kingpin had it dumped off the pier. He... he knows.”

Spider-Man flinched. “Knows? You mean...?” He took a deep breath. “Okay. You said he was in a taxi. Were the windows rolled up?”

“What?” Foggy couldn’t believe this. “Why are you asking me all this? Why aren’t you going after him?”

“Listen to me,” Spider-Man said, his voice cutting through Foggy’s anger like a whip. “I just fished you out of an ice bath. You need to get warm fast. If the taxi’s windows were up, that buys us some time and I can get you to a hospital and then come back here with a flashlight, blankets... maybe some other stuff. If they weren’t...” He hesitated.

“Go on.”

“I...”

Foggy dug his fingernails into the black costume. “If. They. Weren’t?”

Spider-Man shook his head. “Nothing. I still get you to the nearest hospital now and... And I come back to see if I can... but... Look. You... you were just in that water. I’m not going to risk leaving you out here—not when it might kill you—not if there’s a good chance that...”

[I]...That Matt was already dead.[/I]
Foggy closed his eyes. “I wasn’t close enough to see the windows,” he admitted. “But...”

Spider-Man gripped Foggy’s arms with both hands. “Let me get you to a medical center; there’s one close by that won’t ask you a bunch of hard questions and will give me those supplies. He’s my friend, too, you know. I won’t give up until I know for sure. ”

“Yeah.”

Spider-Man slid an arm around his torso. “Are you okay with heights?”

Hang on a minute, Foggy thought. “Wh-what?”

“You don’t see me cruising around the city in a car, do you? If you get dizzy, close your eyes.”

Foggy sighed. “Th-that photographer who always snaps your picture for the [I]Bugle[/I] isn’t anywhere around right now, is he? Because if I see any photos of this in the paper tomorrow, I’ll...”

“Yeah, you’re a lawyer, right? Guess you’d know if you could make a case stick. Anyway,” he said, lifting Foggy effortlessly over one shoulder, “don’t worry.” There was an odd note in his voice that sounded almost like amusement to Foggy. “If Peter Parker’s out there tonight, I’ll talk to him,” he said. “Because,” he went on, “as much as I’d like to see someone sue the pants off of Jameson, it’d probably end up costing the guy his job and I know he needs the money.”

He kept his eyes closed for most of the trip, although there wasn’t much he could do about his stomach feeling every rise and dip. He tried to convince himself that he was on a roller coaster—no, that he was [I]safer [/I]than being on a roller coaster. He was trembling because he was freezing, not because he was terrified. He was... He was so glad that he hadn’t had supper before he’d driven off in search of Matt.

“We’re here,” Spider-Man announced finally. “Just put your feet down.” And Foggy realized that Spidey was bending forward, that his legs were currently gripping Spidey’s torso, and complied. Almost immediately, his knees buckled, but Spidey was holding on to him and keeping him upright. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was standing in some kind of waiting room, in front of a large desk with a woman in a white nurse’s uniform seated behind it. There was nobody else in the room, which was odd. Emergency rooms were never this empty.

The nurse gave them a once-over and her hand moved to the edge of her desk. A tone sounded once. “We can take it from here, Spider-Man,” she said. “From the looks of things, the paperwork can wait. I’ll assume you have a good reason for bringing him to us?”

“I’ll fill in the blanks when I get back, Nurse,” he said. “For right now, I need the best flashlight you’ve got and a bunch of blankets. Stick ‘em in a garbage bag or something so they stay dry.”
The door behind the desk opened and another nurse approached pushing a wheelchair. “Sir?”

“Looks like your carriage waits,” Spidey said, helping the nurse to bundle him in.

“Find Matt,” Foggy mumbled. His tongue was feeling heavy and his words were slurring, so he wasn’t sure if he was making sense, but Spidey nodded.

“I will. Stay warm.”

As the second nurse wheeled him off, Foggy could hear Spider-Man reiterating his need for the supplies.

They undressed him and wrapped him in an electric blanket until his teeth stopped chattering and his heart stopped pounding. Then, while he downed a cup of far-too-sweet hot chocolate, one of the nurses finally got around to asking him his name and why Spider-Man had brought him here.

As soon as he told them that Spidey had fished him out of the East River, they practically threw him into a decontamination shower. The cascading water stung, but the caustic soap was worse. About the only thing that kept him from running away screaming was that they had his clothes and, as bad as swimming in the East River was, streaking through Lower Manhattan in the dead of winter couldn’t be all that much better. After the shower, they pumped his stomach. By then, he was beginning to understand what people meant when they talked about the cure being worse than the disease. His understanding deepened after they stabbed a needle into his thigh that felt like a kick from a horse.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” one of the nurses said when he was finally permitted to put on a set of surgical scrubs and a bathrobe and wheeled to a cot. “A fall from the pier could have broken a few bones if it didn’t kill you. And if you’d gone into that water with any cuts or abrasions...” She let her voice trail off ominously. “But, as I said, Mr. Nelson,” her voice turned gentle, “you were lucky. Now rest. You’ve been through a lot tonight, but I think you’re past the worst.”

Sleep wasn’t going to be hard. He was exhausted from his ordeal. But... “Did... Did Spider-Man come back?”

The nurse frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I can try to find out for you.”

“Do you know if anyone else has been brought in?”

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said again. “That would be confidential. Rest.”

“Spider-Man?”

“I’ll ask. You rest.”

[I]Rest. [/I]They must have given him something to make him drowsy, or else he was finally crashing from an adrenaline high, because even though he tried to stay awake until the nurse returned, his eyelids lowered and he sank into a dreamless sleep.

When he opened his eyes, it was morning and he ached everywhere. When he turned his head, he found that he wasn’t alone. Spider-Man, looking somewhat comical in a hospital-issue bathrobe sat in a corner chair, reading a magazine.

Foggy cleared his throat. “New costume?”

Spidey set the magazine down. “I’ve had it for a little while. Usually, I just wear it at ni—” He glanced down as though suddenly aware of what he was wearing. “Oh! You mean the... no,” He chuckled. “No, it...” He paused. “It seems that if you dive into the East River, even if it’s for a good reason, the nice ladies here insist on treating you for possible shock, hypothermia, bubonic plague... but I guess you know all that, huh?”
Foggy’s lips twitched. Spider-Man seemed far too relaxed to be the bearer of bad news, but he still needed to hear what had happened. He struggled to sit up. “Is Matt...?”

“He’s here. They were working on him, but he was in pretty bad shape when I found him.” He shook his head. “He looked like he’d been run over by a Mack truck. What happened?”

“Um...” How much had Matt told him? “I...”

Spider-Man sighed. “Okay. Last night, you said that Kingpin knows. Just to make sure we’re on the same page, I’m guessing he knows that Matt Murdock has a thing for red leather and billy clubs?”

Foggy nodded.

“Oh, jeez. Fine. What [I]can [/I]you tell me? I heard about his house blowing up a few weeks ago. I thought it might have been a gas main, but I’m guessing now it wasn’t?”

“No,” Foggy let out a long breath. “We don’t... Matt’s been trying to figure out how he got the information, but a few months ago, he—Matt—got a summons to appear before a grand jury on a charge of bribing a witness to perjure himself. This is public record; it was in the papers, so I’m pretty comfortable sharing that part. It’s also completely untrue. Almost at the same time, his bank notified him that he’d missed two mortgage payments. That was also untrue.”

“Uh... Reverend?” Spidey said, sounding embarrassed, “I’m the choir. The congregation’s thataway.” He waved toward the opposite wall.

Foggy gave him a pained smile. Then he took another breath and let it out. “By the time Matt called me about helping him with the grand jury,” he continued, “which he did the next morning, it was from a pay phone. His own had been disconnected. As was his power. More missing payments he knew he’d made. Oh, and the IRS was investigating him for tax fraud. It still is, which means that his assets are currently frozen. It was a bunch of things, all of them adding up, wearing him down. It made it hard for him to focus on the upcoming hearing. I did my best—which was good enough to keep him out of prison, but not good enough to keep him from getting disbarred.”

“Oh... sheesh.” Spider-Man shook his head. “That’s...”

"Yeah. On the one hand, I know I did everything I could, but on the other hand... anyway, after a day like that, I just... I couldn't bring myself to go home and see what was on TV and put the hearing out of my mind, you know?" It felt good to talk about this, but he knew he had to be careful. Just because Spidey happened to know that Matt was Daredevil didn't mean that he knew everything else. Matt definitely hadn't confided to him what had been going on, which made Foggy wonder just how much Matt would want Spidey to know now. "While I was on my way over with the pizzas, Matt's house blew up. I found him next to the rubble holding the remains of his costume. He's been staying with me ever since."

“Wow. And Kingpin...?”

Foggy sighed. “Look, don’t get upset, but maybe you should talk to Matt about that one.” He frowned. “You said he was in bad shape. What does that mean?”

Spidey sighed. “I’m not exactly a medical expert, but I guess I don’t need to be to recognize when someone’s been beaten to a pulp. I can’t believe he lasted as long as he did.”

Foggy’s frown deepened. “Wait. You led me to believe he’d have enough air in there for you to chance getting me here and going back. Or was that just a trick to get me to go quietly?”

Spider-Man shook his head. “No, it wasn’t a trick. It’s just that when I took that dive—and I’m glad you told me that the car had just been run off the pier; it meant I had a pretty good idea of where to start searching—I found the taxi pretty fast. There was a hole in the window big enough to paddle a canoe through.”

“Oh my G...” His mouth was suddenly dry. “B-but you said...”

“It was smashed from the[I] inside[/I]. From what I could tell, it looked like he was strapped into the driver’s seat and couldn’t get the belt open. He smashed the window, cut himself free with a glass shard, and started swimming. If I’d waited about a minute more, I probably would’ve been there to see him surface and I could have saved myself an ice bath. And a decon shower.”

“Sorry. If I’d known he could get out on his own, I...”

Spidey half rose from the chair. “Hey. Whoa, whoa, whoa! First of all, unlike you or me, he was bleeding, whether from that Mack truck or reasonable facsimile thereof, or from the glass, or both. Swimming in the East River with an open cut just about guarantees some kind of infection. Second of all, he probably swallowed some of that water on his way up. Third of all, he was injured, disoriented, and freezing. Fourth of all? Given the all the stuff he can normally do, I don’t know if his little vision problem would interfere with his ability to find the shore under normal circumstances, but with everything else? I am very glad that I happened to be patrolling by the waterfront last night.”

“Uh...yeah.” He felt his face grow hot. “I... I didn’t thank you for saving my life yet, did I?”

There was a pause. “First time or second time?”

“Huh?”

“Well, there was that time I yanked you out of a window and didn’t let you go ‘splat’—even though I thought I was mad at you. Well, I was really mad at Daredevil. At least... I thought it was Daredevil, but it turned out to be some crook disguised as Daredevil who attacked me and then I found the real Daredevil and attacked him and then I tracked him back to your office where I... seriously underestimated the blind guy. But [I]technically[/I] speaking, I did save your life.”

“Technically speaking, it wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t yanked me out the frigging window!” Foggy snapped.

“Details, details. And...” he let out a long breath, “...one very long overdue apology. I was way out of line. I would have been way out of line, even I’d been right about your being Daredevil.”

“Yeah. Well, it was a long time ago.” And he’d been scared stiff. “Out of curiosity, how old were you?”

“Then?” The question seemed to surprise him. “Seventeen, maybe eighteen. It was my senior year; that’s one thing I’m sure of.”

“Ah. Well,” Foggy managed a tired smile, “I guess teenagers are allowed to be a little irresponsible sometimes.” He frowned. Had he just seen the masked man flinch? “What did I say?”
“N-nothing. Sorry.” He got up hastily. “I just... need some coffee. I’ll...”

Foggy leaned toward him. “No. Wait. I did say something, didn’t I?”

Spider-Man hesitated. “Not really,” he replied, but his good cheer sounded forced. “Hey, you want me to grab you a cup, too?”

“Sure. Uh... Spidey?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For telling me about Matt. And... thanks for saving my life. The second time.”

Some of the tension seemed to leave the masked hero. “Any time.”

Then he was gone, leaving Foggy to puzzle out exactly what had been going on beneath the surface of the conversation.

He returned empty-handed less than five minutes later, seeming a good deal more agitated. Foggy felt his heart sink. “What’s happened?”

Spider-Man closed the door gently behind him. “I was walking by the nurse’s station. They were talking among themselves. I don’t think they knew I was there or knew they were talking loud enough for me to overhear, but...”

“But...?”

Spider-Man hesitated. “From what I could overhear, when I brought him in, he had a couple of broken ribs. One of them punctured a lung. They... they’re giving him oxygen now and waiting to see if he’ll need a chest tube.”

Foggy let out a long breath. “Oh... golly.”

Spider-Man sank back down to the chair where he’d been sitting earlier. “Yeah.”

A/N: I'm still trying to keep the story set in 1986, when Born Again was first written. Although HIPAA was not passed into legislation until 1996, it's probable that an outfit like the Night Nurse's clinic, which caters to costumed heroes with secret identities, would have strong privacy protocols in place. These may or may not line up perfectly with HIPAA procedures. Also, while I have been researching treatments for broken ribs, it is possible that the procedures that I'm describing would not have been commonly used in 1986. If I need an in-universe explanation better than "a wizard did it"? Reed Richards and/or Tony Stark shared some techniques and cutting-edge equipment. Dr. Strange had some input, as well. (In other words, a wizard and two scientists did it!)

References: Daredevil Vol. 1 #229, Vol. 3 #28, Spectacular Spider-Man #107–110.



[CENTER][B]Chapter 8[/B]
[/CENTER]
Foggy took a deep breath. "Okay," he said slowly. "Okay. He's in a hospital. That's the best place to be if there are complications. There are doctors and nurses here who can help, right?"

Spidey nodded slowly. "Well... nurses, anyway. This is a clinic, not a hospital, by the way. We came here because it's close to where I fished you out of the river, plus it's a place known for being friendly to guys like me. And Matt. And... well, a guy who'll go jumping off a pier to save a friend, so I'm pretty sure you'd qualify, too, if anyone asks."

Foggy smiled, feeling for the briefest instant, a warm glow at being included. Then honesty won out and he looked away. "I don't remember if I jumped or slipped," he admitted. "I wasn't exactly thinking straight."

"Well, you wouldn't let me bring you here until you made sure I knew about Matt. You came through loud and clear on that one," Spidey maintained. "That still counts as heroic in my book. And a good thing, I went back for him, too," he added. "He was half-drowned when I fished him out. Lucky thing I know CP..." his voice trailed off. "Oh no. No, no, no..."

"What?"

Even though Spidey's mask covered his face completely, from the sick sound in his voice, Foggy could hazard a guess as to his expression when he said, "CPR... cardio [I]pulmonary [/I]resuscitation. Do you... Do you know what that involves?"

"Uh... yeah. Sure. Theoretically," Foggy replied. He'd spent every summer between the ages of ten and sixteen at overnight camp. Although CPR had only been part of the swimming program for senior campers aiming to become certified lifeguards, some of the basics had been taught to the junior campers and weaker swimmers—of which he had been one—as well. Mostly stuff like 'if the drowning victim shows any of the following symptoms, CPR will be necessary. If you can't do it, find someone who can, fast.'

"If the victim isn't breathing... Sorry, I have a hard time thinking of DD as a victim, but... if he isn't breathing, which he wasn't, then the rescuer needs to perform... chest compressions. I... you know I'm a lot stronger than the average guy. My doing that, especially if he already had [I]cracked[/I] ribs..."

"...Saved his life," a new voice interrupted. Both men turned to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway. The woman, her eyes rimmed with fatigue, gave them a tired smile, as her hand flew to her forehead and pushed back short, blonde bangs. She sighed. "I can't tell either of you the specifics of any patient's case without their permission, but I[I] can [/I]talk about treatment and procedures in general terms. So, speaking [I]generally[/I]," she continued, the corners of her eyes crinkling as her smile grew broader, "if a person were hypothetically fished out of freezing water with severe injuries and was given CPR at the earliest possible time, then even if said person suffered broken ribs as a result, his odds of survival would be far, far better than if he'd been brought to a hospital or clinic DOA and we'd tried to revive him here. This, even though hypothermia would actually work in his favor in our hypothetical scenario, as it slows down a patient's bodily functions, thus minimizing damage to heart and brain." She nodded at Spidey's unvoiced question. "You did the right thing. That doesn't mean that there aren't repercussions, but it does mean that they're likely less severe than if you hadn't done it."

Foggy sat up straighter as Spidey slumped in visible relief. "Can I see him?"

The nurse shook her head. "Not now. They're still working on him and he's heavily sedated. When he regains consciousness, we'll tell him you're here."

"Look, he's my best friend. He's also my client. I'm his lawyer."

The nurse beamed at him. "Then you can appreciate the need for confidentiality," she said.

"I'm his emergency contact."

"Do you have paperwork to support that?"

Foggy groaned. "In my filing cabinet. At home. Wait. His GP... I think it's a Dr. Rivera on West 42nd. Call him. He'll vouch for me."

The nurse's eyebrows shot up. "We can do that. Normally, we'd check ID to make sure you are who you claim to be, but as I understand it, you didn't have any on you when you came in. Is there a security question?"

Foggy groaned again, remembering that Kingpin's thugs had taken his wallet on the Pier. "I don't know, but if I was some... some assassin bent on finishing the job, don't you think I'd be smart enough not to take a dive into the East River chasing after him? Besides, you people are holding my clothes somewhere. Did you find anything in them resembling a high-powered assault rifle?"

The nurse brought a hand to her mouth an instant too late to fully muffle her laughter. "I'll make the call, Mr. Nelson. Meanwhile, rest. Even if that doctor vouches for you, we're going to be working on your friend for a while, yet. Don't count on getting to see him any time soon."

After the nurse left, Foggy turned to Spider-Man. "How long are you hanging around?"

Spidey looked pointedly down at his bathrobe. "I'm stuck here until my duds get back from the laundry and something tells me that they're going to be washing a lot of whites before they get around to solids and colors. Oh." He got up quickly. "Guess you probably want to be alone, though."

Foggy made a face. "Not really. Unless that was a polite way of saying you want to get out of here."

"Dressed like this?" Spidey chuckled. "Not really." He settled back in the chair, half-sitting on the forgotten magazine. He pulled it out from under him and rested it on his lap.

Foggy relaxed. "So, uh..." he cast about for a safe conversation topic, "...When did you find out about Matt?"

Spidey gave up any pretense of going back to reading and tucked the magazine in between the seat cushion and the armrest. "Last summer. I don't know if you remember that Sin-Eater business, but..."