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[right][sub][b][color=ed1c24]Volume 1: Revelations[/color][/b][/sub][hr][sup][b]Chapter 2:[/b] [i]Intercession[/i][/sup][/right]
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[color=fdc68a]"Leather gloves? Damn it, Matt, don't tell me you're moonlighting as a chauffer."[/color]

He couldn't see Foggy's face clearly, but he could always hear the smile in his voice. Matt smiled back, hands still running over the braille pages. He was slower than usual, the thick leather muting the tactile paper. But the last thing Foggy needed to see were the bruises on his knuckles, so the gloves stayed on.[color=ed1c24] "Hard to get away with the glasses at night."[/color] A faint, almost inaudible chuckle escaped Foggy's lips. He readjusted the papers in his arm, causing Matt to tilt his head.

Foggy paused, looking for the right words. That was never a good sign. [color=fdc68a]"Doreen... she fell last night. At least, that's what she told me when she called. I already called a temp agency, seeing if they can send someone over to fill in."[/color] There was a hesitation in Foggy's voice. They both knew that something was wrong... and worse yet, they didn't have the money for a temporary assistant. Matt gave a small nod, standing up from his desk. He plucked his cane off his desk, walking towards the door. [color=fdc68a]"Hey, Matt, where do you think you're going?"[/color]

Matt gave a small smirk over his shoulder as he nimbly squeezed past his partner. [color=ed1c24]"Discovery."[/color]

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12th and 45th was a less than pleasant part of the neighborhood. While the east side of Hell's Kitchen was more gentrified, the west side still bore the roots of old Manhattan. A smokestack or two, now crumbling and certainly a safety hazard. Old warehouses, a towing company, and an old boxing gym sitting over a couple boarded up storefronts. On first look, from the outside, it was easy to see why some of the buildings were getting torn down to their foundations.

Matt stopped into an alley way behind the gym, his hand reaching up to touch the walls. Where one there had been exposed brick, he felt his hand run over layer upon layer of crumbling old paper. The remnants of old fighting advertisements: boxing, music, farmer's markets.  He didn't know what they looked like now. Maybe they yellowed... maybe they got replaced with newer fliers. Somewhere among the layers lived the memory of Battlin' Jack. Somewhere deeper, there was an older name.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

He smiled faintly at the memory. The costume was ridiculous, especially on a heavyweight drunk irishman. The horns on the mask were made of card-board, Matt's own suggestion. It was all for a showy entrance, something to get the crowd riled up. For someone who looked down on the over-produced wrestling Matt sometimes watched on their old tv, Jack would have made a great heel. People loved to watch him fall.

But the Devil... the Devil always got right back up.

Its why his name was changed. Battlin' Jack was just a man.

The Devil was a force of nature.

Matt turned his head away from the posters, his mind focusing and rifling through the sounds ringing in his ear. A familiar voice, high-pitched and frustrated. Another familiar voice, deeper in tone and equally combative. Rent hike... buyout.

Doreen.

Matt lifted his cane up, quickly slamming it on the bottom of a suspended ladder to the fire escape. It was jostled loose, squeaking and squealing as it slid down a few feet. He folded up the cane, tucked it into an inner coat pocket, and jumped up. He kicked the wall on the way, propelling himself another few inches so he could just barely grab hold of the ladder's lowest rung. He scrambled up the fire escape, and into an unlocked window on the second floor. The apartment was empty... most were in the building. Empty rooms echoed the sounds of scurrying critters that had made their home here. Doreen was a floor above. So was her landlord, Frank. Matt stomped his feet on each step as he climbed up the apartment stairs, removing and unfolding the cane from his pocket to keep up appearances. The argument paused as the attorney entered into view. 

[color=ed1c24]"I'm sorry I'm late... My name is Matt Murdock. I'm Miss Doreen's attorney."[/color]

[color=lightgray]"You should consider recommending your client take the payout I'm offering, sir."[/color] The landlord's tone was short, with a strong whiff of disrespect and annoyance. Frank Farnum was a special breed of scum. He never truly had to work to maintain his dismal lifestyle. He had been given a few properties around Hell's Kitchen, purchased ages ago by a great uncle who had been able to swindle his way into a good deal. While Matt couldn't see the type of metal it was made from, the ticking of finely tuned gears was an indication that Frank was sporting a new watch. An expensive watch.

That was the play, then.

[color=ed1c24]"How much did they offer you for the building?"[/color] A quickened heartbeat. A shot of adrenaline. Fear. The faintest whiff of stale sweat. He had to press it. [color=ed1c24]"Certainly a lot more than the paltry sum you've offered my client to move out."[/color]

[color=lightgray]"Maybe it is."[/color] Farnum was getting confident. His heartbeat was fast, but his breathing more steady. Farnum's muscles were tensing. Fight or flight, and something told Matt he was the flight type. [color=lightgray]"It's the best deal she's going to get. Offer is still valid until midnight. I'll be waiting on your call."[/color] Farnum brushed past Matt, who remained firm where he stood. He was just another bully, and Matt had seen far worse.

Doreen's heart was beating fast. She took a quick look at her boss, before shaking her head. [color=white]"He's right, Mr. Murdock. It's enough to hire some movers to help with my things, and cover a security deposit and rent at somewhere uptown."[/color]

Matt raised an eyebrow. Frank could have started much lower. If this was his starting offer...

[sub][color=lightgray]"Doesn't sound like she's going to take it... her lawyer showed up, started asking questions. I gave her till midnight... no, I didn't say anything."[/color][/sub]

Matt's grip tightened on his cane and he ground his molars. He didn't want to be right... conspiracy was left for nutjobs in the Midwest, after all. But here, in his neighborhood, it was clear someone was pulling strings.

It was going to be a long night.

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