Roman

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

^{_{X. Alive - Epilogue}}

---

Matt woke up.

The first thing that hit him was the sudden and startling realization that he was alive. Shortly after that, he realized that being presently alive was no guarantee that such a state would continue into the immediate future. And after that came the crashing waves of excruciating pain, and Matt thought that perhaps death being potentially close wasn't quite so grave an idea after all.

He tried to sit up, only to find himself pushed back down onto the bed - he realized he was on a bed - by a thin rod. He heard the owner of the rod grumble quietly, and then move around Matt and his bed to take a seat next to him.

"Don't you dare move. Took me all night to re-set your bones and bandage you up. You've been damn reckless enough already."

Matt was incredulous. "Stick?"

He heard the old man chuckle dryly. The bubble of wry mirth burst across his face and illuminated the old mentor. There was no mistaking those long, weathered features.

"You thought that swollen bastard was the only one with hidden agents? Very entertaining, that brawl on Times Square. Very public, too."

"Yeah, well, I didn't get a plethora of venues to choose from." Matt shot back, coughing as he spoke. It hurt to breathe, but it hurt more to take Stick's tired old criticism in silence.

"You didn't get a choice, and that's your problem. All your choices have been made for you. You just watched it happen."

"I stopped Fisk."

There was a pause from both men. The statement hung in the air like hovering vermin, and the full weight of the implication hit Matthew harder than Kingpin ever could have.

"I...God forgive me. I killed him."

Stick leaned forwards. "Of all the farcical messes you have embroiled yourself in over the last two weeks, that is the single decision you have made yourself, and the one act I am proud of you for. You did what was necessary to remove evil from the world."

"I killed a man. Criminal or not, I am a murderer."

Stick leaned back, considering the statement, both hands resting on top of his cane.

"Because of what you did, Wilson Fisk will never come back, and his empire will crumble. People will not live their lives in fear. Because of you. The act is done. That is that."

Matt didn't answer. He rolled onto his side away from Stick, feeling something creaking inside him.

"How did you get me out?"

Stick laughed again. "The Hand aren't the only ones who can Hide. They got that from us. Everyone had men in that crowd - us, The Hand, Fisk. We got to you first, and I would think The Hand and Fisk's men thought we were either them or the other. They never considered a third party presence. You're safe, for now, but give everyone a couple days, and they'll realize who we actually were."

Matt frowned. "You say 'we', 'us'. Who are you talking about?"

"Did you really think you were my only pupil?"

Matt floundered. Stick laughed that dry laugh again.

"Son, looking at that shoulder wound, I don't even think you're my best pupil, despite what you accomplished tonight."
The realization hit Matt like a cheap body-blow, below the belt and ugly. He twisted inside.

"...Elektra..."

"Miss Natchios got you good, didn't she? She was always promising, always filled with potential. She represented so much to the Chaste...but that girl loves money and power. And we couldn't offer her either. It's not what we do."

"She knew who I was from the beginning."

"Oh, very likely. Clever and cunning, that one."

"And then when I became a problem for Fisk..."

"She sold her info. There's money."

"So the Hand assassins..."

"Fisk thought he'd hired them, but they always have their own plans. Tests, trials. Maneuvering you into position. Fisk didn't just stop people getting out - he stopped people getting in."

"They were banking on me stopping Fisk."

"And there's power."

Matt rolled back onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Neither of them said anything for a while.

"So now what." Matt asked flatly. Stick took a moment to consider.

"Fisk's empire is collapsing as we speak; no one wields the fear and respect necessary to replace him, so other players will step in to loot and divide what's left. The Hand just had their biggest obstacle removed for them; their Fingers will begin to lay claim to anything they can in the name of the clan. And Fisk's final gift, to you, is the terrible truth delivered: Matthew Murdock is Daredevil, the Man Without Fear. And Daredevil killed the Kingpin. People are going to want revenge. Or glory by proxy."

Matt nodded, and sat up. Stick put a hand on Matt's shoulder, but he pushed it off. With some effort, he rose from the bed, woozy on his feet at first but soon finding his balance. He walked across the room, one arm slung, the other clutching his bandaged ribs, towards a small table, upon which sat a dark cowl with red eyes that had been staring at Matt from the moment he'd woken up. Beneath the cowl were two new batons. Matt lifted the helmet in one hand, staring deep into the eyes of the Devil.

"Those were our gifts to you - a welcome."

Matt put the helmet on, and carefully sealed the clasps. "No."

"There is no refusal here, Murdock. There's us, or suicide. The Hand will find you. What's left of Fisk will break you. And every new name flooding into the city will kill you. Everyone wants your notch in their knife. You need the Chaste."

Matt picked up and sheathed each baton carefully, then turned around to face Stick. With the cowl on, he could feel an old fire sparking within him again, giving him strength."Thank you for the rescue, even if it was only to recruit me. But I am not the agent of some higher will."

"You'll be alone out there, Matthew. Just you, against the entire city."

Matt paused at the doorway. "Fisk was the city. And I've already killed him once."

"It will become chaos out there. Your city will need a saviour."

Matt smiled as he left, leaving Stick behind in a dark room, with an empty bed.

"My city doesn't need a saviour. It already has a Devil."

Roman's Scrapbin

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

T H E L A U G H I N G M A G I C I A N

---

^{_{J O H N A T H AN C O N S T A N T I N E ♦ U N E M P L O Y E D ♦ N E W C A S T L E ♦ I N D E P E N D E N T}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"We are who we are. Eventually."}

Every time I've tried playing Constantine in the past, I've started slap-bang in the middle of his career as an occultist, exorcist, detective, magician, etc etc, and often include nearly every major event of his canon in the biography. And I usually end up directionless after 2/3 posts with no real plan or solid character development to pursue. No more!

This Constantine is young. He's just been released from Ravenscar after an eighteen-month incarceration, with no home, family, friends or life to return to. His sister is still disappeared; his mother is still dead; his father still may as well be. He's a blank slate to carve scars and stories into, and there's a clear vision to begin setting him up as the equally legendary and infamous mage we know from DC today.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

I want to play Constantine because I fucking love the character. I love the morality (or lack thereof), I love the occultism, I love the magic, I love the mystery. I love the psychological horror that John brings to the genre. I want to do all of this with a blank Constantine, I want to inflict my own traumas onto John. I'll immediately start this by dealing with the mystery around John's sister and his unknown heritage, and then work on building Constantine's ability and reputation as a mage befitting his inherited title. Slowly John will build a network of allies and enemies and mixes of both, but I'll always try to keep it grounded in the occult crime-mystery roots I've always adored.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Ravenscar Psychiatric Hospital

A large mental health facility in the North of England, Ravenscar has existed in one form or another for hundred of years, and will exist for a hundred more. The 'treatment' used within is questionable and often outdated, and the staff are often negligent or outright cruel. It is not a place of dedicated healing, and most patients do not leave. John Constantine was one of the lucky few - but the fear that his fragile psyche will lead back to that shadowy building hangs over him eternally.

Cheryl Constantine

John's elder sister, who cared for John during their childhood and did her best to protect the both of them from their father. John and Cheryl enjoy a deep bond with each other via their shared childhood trauma, but also find it difficult to spend time together due to the memories that tend to resurface. Two years ago, Cheryl disappeared in mysterious circumstances, and shortly afterward John started experiencing horrific nightmares and strange visions. Coupled with his grief and the inability of all invovled to find her, he suffered a nervous break, and was committed to Ravenscar. Cheryl remains missing, and John refuses to believe she is dead.

Thomas Constantine

John and Cheryl's alcoholic, abusive, general degenerate father. still in Liverpool. With several misdemeanor crimes on his record, he works basic labour at the docks, and uses the money to drink himself to death. John reckons he's well over halfway there; with a bit of luck, he'll do himself in by the end of the year.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed:

Such place Eternal Justice had prepared
For those rebellious, here their prison ordained
In utter darkness, and their portion set
As far removed from God and light of Heav'n
As from the centre thrice to th' utmost pole."
- John Milton, Paradise Lost.

"It's not always like it is in the books."
- John Constantine

---

Fire. Oh god, fire. Licking flames marred the horizon like the ridges of mountains, burning nothing and everything. It seemed to absorb light rather than emanate it, exuding a thick blackness that, nonetheless, still illuminated the twisted landscape in a way that made John feel nauseous. Far below him, pinpricks of agony went on in their suffering, skewered and crushed and lashed, their torture brazen and subtle and unending. Stronger souls put on airs of resistance, stifling their own screams, while in the distance the more wretched spirits simply writhed in dirt and scum, the pain and torment of this place etched into their very being by the eons. Others had been twisted into obscene parodies of Man, a mocking affront to God through the perversion of His most beloved creation. All was curated by devils, convicts of this prison who had made their cells their kingdoms, and overseen by their demonic generals. John conjured their names to mind, each flitting in and out of his consciousness like nymphs through the glen, their eagerness to be known and dreaded imprinted behind his eyes: Mammon, King of Worms and Wealth, eyes searching ever downwards for gold; Belial, the Impure Lord, destroying all that lies before and behind; Moloch, the False Idol, who feasts upon children; Mulciber, Mockery of the Creator, great architect of sorrows and sin; and Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, devourer of carcasses and mouthpiece of Satan. Ah, Satan, the Most Unclean, the Son of Perdition, the Father of Lies, the Dragon, the Beast, the Adversary; Lucifer, King of the Bottomless Pit. A story old as anything, and John had done his research in Ravenscar. He was here - he was always here - but John would escape his gaze for now.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a light blinked into life among the flames, a burning point of pure white that outshone the oozing darkness of the fire surrounding, piercing through all of Hell's great disgust to focus John's attention completely. He felt himself moving, no longer transfixed by the cavern's horror, and stumbled forwards, legs battling against the mire of dark, sickly discharge that seemed to ebb from the ground itself and coat the earth. His feet were drenched, and as he advanced - somehow passing over the void of agony that lay beneath him, apparently existing on a separate plane - the mire clung to him ever more tightly, climbing past his ankles to lap at his shins, then his knees, each step requiring twice the effort of the one preceding, until John was dragged onto his hands, crawling and dragging his body toward the white light that beckoned him, his journey taking him millenia, but the light never moving, never getting closer, but always reaching out to him, as if to say keep going, John. Keep crawling. Come for me. Just a little bit further...

He slumped into the mire, the mud overtaking him as exhaustion took hold. The ground enveloped him, swallowed John whole, and he could feel himself suffocating, drowning in the viscous, foul liquid for centuries before he was spat out below, the pinpricks he had looked upon so long ago growing larger and larger as he fell to join them. He craned his neck upwards, hoping for any sign of that light, the beautiful, pure shining star that had goaded him forth.
There was nothing but inky blackness.
Not even the flames.
But still, the voice echoed around him.

Save me, John. Come for me. Save me. You put me here, John Constantine. You put me here. Save me, John.

Save me, John.

Save me, John.

Save me, John.

"S A V E M E J O H N ."

---

"I CAN'T." He yelled back, startling himself awake with the forcefulness of his reply. There was a bubble of silence, and then John drew the first ragged, stale breath of the day, and it was broken; the sounds of traffic and the city filtered in through his window, and he could hear the creaking of floorboards above him, the faint sounds of strong, angry words floating down through his ceiling. The sun shone harshly outside, spilling onto his bed, and John threw off his covers, propping himself up as he wiped his face of sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the fourth night of the same dream, and it had always played out the same way. Failure, accusation, and tortured pleading. John sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as shaky hands fumbled around in the drawer of his bedside table to find the lighter and the nearly-empty pack of Silk Cut cigarettes that dwelled within, a fag quickly finding its way to his mouth in one hand as the other flipped the lighter open and lit the wick. He held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply as it caught alight, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and pushing it out in one motion. His heart began to calm itself, though his mind still raced. These were not mere nightmares, imagined illusions of horror born of external stress. These were deeper, more vivid - John would say premonitions were he not a cynic. But a cynic he was, and he was quite content to endure these dreams for as long as they would persist, a subconscious desire to be punished eager to inflict such lucid terror when John's waking mind was not there to suppress his inner demons.

^{"I am in his kingdom, John."}
John flinched, ducking sharply as he reacted to the vicious whisper that came from just behind his shoulder. He stood from his bed, cold air stinging his naked torso as the duvet fell from around his shoulders. Smoke from the lit cigarette drifted lazily upwards, ash falling to the ground and pooling around John's feet. The room was empty save for him, but the voice had been so clear and direct that even the deepest cynicism John could muster failed to dispell the belief that something - someone - had just spoken to him.
_{"Find the house of Nergal, John."}

"Fuck off." John said loudly, and then he heard a stomp on his ceiling as the 88-year-old lady above disapproved of his vulgarity. The room was still again, and John poised himself for a third intrusion, carefully sucking on his cigarette as he moved across the bedroom to his closet, fishing out a shirt and a pair of slacks, pulling the trousers over his legs and buttoning his collar as the keen silence of his apartment remained steadfastly unbroken. He didn't want to think about who was talking to him, delivering ominous, cryptic messages and pleading commands. Instead, he pushed his tie up to the top of his collar and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his dreams and spectral visitor behind him. In the kitchen, he stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray that sat in the center of the small round table and snatched his coat from where it hung on the door, slinging it over his form while his free hand snatched the flask from the inside pocket, feverishly pulling and twisting at the cap before he swung it to his mouth, taking a large gulp. He stowed the flask again, and held a hand out, parallel to the ground. It twitched slightly, and Constantine drew it into a fist until his knuckles were white and his fingers ached with the pressure. Smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers and he opened them, fire bursting from his palm and smoldering painlessly. He watched the flames dance across his skin, lashing at his wrinkles and hopping the callouses at the base of each finger. The voice from his dream echoed in his head as the flames span round and round. The house of Nergal...

John's cigarette burnt to its last end in the ashtray as the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, another already lit and hanging from his lips as he took the stairs two at a time down towards the building's lobby.

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

NA

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Roman>
Baal from the Wicked + Divine.

@Stein

My god...the possibilities.

My first thought is literal actual incarnations of ancient deities is too OP. But also we have Thor? So like...fuck yeah

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Roman>

Stein's run a Justice League RP several times. Old Guild, New Guild, Iwaku.

I was Alfred Pennyworth who fell into a Lazarus Pit and then joined Bruce as Owlman.

Good times.

@Lord Wraith

Now that sounds like a party.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Roman>
Didn't they GM a Justice League RP once upon a time?

@Inkarnate

God, not that I can remember? But I do take long spells of inactivity sometimes.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Actually v.interested to see which characters Stein would go for. Never took him for a comics RP guy.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

That's DareDevil season one done, folks. Bar an epilogue to wrap up, I've finished season one and will now start planning season two and my second character.

Please, please, please if anyone has any critique, feedback, review, or general thoughts and/or feelings on the character, the season as a whole, any individual posts, plot points, etc etc I welcome it all with frightening fervor.

EDIT: The post catalogue at the bottom of my sheet is fully up-to-date for anyone who needs refreshers in the history or anyone who would like to just read through from start to finish.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

^{_{IX. Done.}}

---

Matthew awoke to cool air and muffled murmurs. There was a large - large - crowd around him, he could feel immediately: - the collective heat of them throbbed, pressing on his skin from all sides; myriad heartbeats drummed a mismatch beat across the surface of his skull; the white-noise whispers washed over him like static from a tuned-out television set. Their sound and heat illuminated his world, and through them he could see he was inside the rear compartment of some kind of vehicle. Matt tried to move to push the trunk open from within with his legs, and realized his hands and feet were bound with plastic zip-ties - they were thick and tight and they dug sharply into his wrists as he attempted to loosen them and wrestle himself free.

He stopped as he heard the doors of the vehicle open and slam shut on one side, and then felt footfall - heavy, two sets - walk around the front of the vehicle - long, tall, boxy, likely some manner of Hummer or stylish APC - and open the door on the opposite side. Two more sets of feet got out, one after the other. One light and deft. The other heavier than either of the first two.

The three waited for the one, and as the one moved away, walking straight forward, the light set followed and the first two walked back around the vehicle to the trunk where Matt was. The muffled crowd exploded into vibrant clarity as the lid was flung open. The two men regarded Matthew for a second as he did the same, then caught his feet in their hands as he tried to kick at their chests from his awkward position. One of them buried a fist in Matt's stomach, and the other wrested Matt's remaining baton from its holster, hitting him across the head with it - Matt's head erupted and he felt a splinter crack across his cowl. Dizzy and winded from the blows, Matt struggled feebly as he was roughly seized, wrenched up and out of the trunk, and tossed out of the vehicle. Matt rolled as he his the ground. Concrete, asphalt. The back of his head hit a curb. He was close to the edge of the crowd, and through the growing noise Matt could pick up a few scattered conversations.

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen!"

"Shit, that's the Devil!"

'Fuck, man, he's got Daredevil!"

"Yo, that's the dude that's been fucking up Fisk!"

Across the blank space in front of him - the crowd, he could feel now, were being dispersed in a wide oval by masked men in body armour and armed with rifles - another voice came. Matthew shook to his bones to hear it.

"Cut him loose."

The two men that had tossed him now approached again, this time brandishing large knives they had pulled from their belts. They cut Matt's binds and stepped back as he pushed himself up off the ground, breathing heavy as he did so. He felt groggy still from the toxin; his side ached from his puncture wounds; his arm flared with hot pain from his shoulder whenever he moved it; his head rang with a thudding migraine from fatigue. Matt was wounded, exhausted, poisoned, and his state made it difficult to focus his radar, instead swimming in the buzz of noise and heat from the crowd - but all concern for his physical condition melted away as he tuned his senses onto the man stood not twenty feet across the empty space from him.

God, but he was a behemoth. Wilson Fisk stood seven feet tall, every inch of him rotund and straining against his suit. He rippled with carefully sculpted muscle hidden behind a veneer of obesity, but Matt knew his secrets. This confrontation had to be fast. Fisk would crush him with a single hand if Matt allowed it to drag on. Kingpin chuckled low, regarding the unsteady Murdock with disdain.

"They call you the Devil, the Man Without Fear. But this..." Fisk threw his arms out, gesturing widely at the open air and the crowd that circled the two men. "This is what happens when you meddle with a real demon. New York is a fine city full of fine men, Daredevil, but it needs dark men just as much. We are two sides of the same coin, two opposing forces keeping society in balance. Witness Times Square, a monument to self-destructive consumption. Men like me keep the billboards on, keep the companies ticking, keep the city from crumbling. Men like you..." he cracked his knuckles, sneering. "Men like you let the common people think they don't need men like me. But they do. Without me, New York collapses. You've had your fun, you've peeked behind the curtain. You've set me back a day, maybe two at most. And where has that left you? Poisoned. Exhausted. Bloodied. Beaten. At my feet, begging for mercy. But you will find none."

Fisk moved with surprising speed, dashing towards Murdock and clearing the space in a matter of just a few seconds. He launched a fist towards Matt's chest and Matt brought both arms up crossed across his breast to block the blow, stumbling back as the force of Fisk's fist hit him hard. He launched a feeble counter swing but Fisk grabbed his forearm and yanked, dislocating Matt's already injured shoulder and throwing him ten feet. Matt skidded on the ground, and around him he could feel the electric buzz of recording phones.

"You are to be an example of what happens to vigilantes who try to destabilize the empire I have crafted, the empire that is the foundation of EVERYTHING THIS CITY IS AND EVER WILL BE! There will be NO MORE 'Devils', NO MORE 'superior men', NO MORE MASKS!"

Fisk crossed the gap again and this time seized Matt's cowl in one hand, squeezing until the splinter down Matt's forehead ruptured and cracked completely. Fisk tore Matt's mask from his head and crushed it beneath his feet. There were scattered gasps and screams from the crowd as Matt's face was exposed, and in the distance, Times Square billboards lit up with Matt's bloody face as the news was live-streamed on every channel.

"You may have thought you could topple me, Mr Murdock. You may have thought you were RIGHTEOUS enough, ZEALOUS enough, MORAL enough." With every word Fisk put another fist to Matt's face, cracking his nose and jaw and teeth and lips. Matt felt only pain. Behind the pain, anger began to rise. "You are a MAN, Mr. Murdock. Just a man, with fear, and weakness, and no true power. You hoped to leave a legacy by becoming my undoing, but your only legacy will be a warning. A warning to any other would-be 'hero', any other vigilante who believes they can affect ANYTHING in MY CITY! After tonight, EVERYONE will see what happens when they cross the Kingpin. And no one EVER. WILL. AGAIN."

Fisk picked up Matt by the collar and punched him in the stomach. Matt felt ribs break and coughed blood, the hot red spray staining Fisk's suit jacket. Another punch, a punctured lung. Fisk slammed Matt to the ground, kicking him in the stomach and then marching over to the two men who had pulled Matt from the car in the first place. He held out a hand, and they gave him Matt's baton. He walked back towards Matt, who had rolled over to his back to face Fisk. He was numb to pain, and behind his eyes the Devil rose with white-hot fury.

Fisk raised an arm to bring the baton down. Adrenaline flooded his system. Matt made his move.

He snapped up a broken shard of his cowl and dug it viciously into the back of Fisk's knee. Fisk yelled as his leg buckled and Matt kicked at his opposite ankle, breaking it and sweeping the leg out and bringing Fisk to both knees. Fisk tried to grab Matt but he rolled sideways and then picked himself up, putting the toe of his boot in Fisk's solar plexus, winding the giant, and then brought his leg up to break Fisk's nose with his knee. Fisk put his empty hand on the ground and Matt stomped the wrist, snapping it clean; he snatched the fallen baton from the floor and brought it down on Fisk's kneecap, shattering his patella, and then again, and then the back of his head, and again, and again, and again. Fisk grunted with each blow and Matt felt the loosening of bone and heard the cracking of the skull from behind his scalp as the skin tore and split, ravines of flesh opening and letting loose rivers of blood that poured down his back and dyed his white suit red. Fisk put a hand up and behind to catch the baton; Matt grabbed the fingers and pulled them sharply backwards, snapping them and Fisk shouted again and cradled his hand. Kingpin spoke, gurgling through the blood streaming from his nose and wheezing.

"You can't stop me...you can't put me down...I'll be back...I'll always be back..."

Matt loosed the cable of his baton and wrapped it quick and tight around Fisk's neck. He stomped on his back, pushing Fisk to the floor, and grabbed both ends of his baton, pulling up hard with everything he had left. His shoulder, broken and stabbed, screamed with pain that Matthew could not hear over the ecstasy of the Devil. There was a gurgle as Kingpin tried to say something. Matt didn't hear him.

There was a snap in the base of Fisk's neck, and he shuddered and lay still.

Just a man.

Matt let go of his baton and stumbled backwards. The crowd was silent. Kingpin's men were silent. Matt fell to the ground, spent completely. The world went dark, and before he blacked out completely, for a solitary, tranquil moment, Matt felt like his great struggle was done.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Roman>

Alright, so am I clear to nab Hand agent status for Shado, because what I'm hearing is that you're less inclined to use them and wouldn't mind but I might be misunderstanding.

@Dblade26

Yeah, go ahead. The Hand is a big enough organisation for the two of us. Just shout me if you're planning to use any of the leaders so I can adjust my season 2 plans.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Since we have Batman Beyond, Batgirl, Captain America and Daredevil around, what's the status on groups like Hydra, the Hand and the League of Assassins?

I was thinking of making Shado have ties to either The Hand or the League instead of her usual nebulous Yakuza employers as a way to tie Star City in with the wider 'verse but I don't wanna step on any toes.

Also Connor's sheet's been updated to include more of his NPCs and his post catalog, trying to think if there's anyone Marvel that I'd be able to incorporate that fits well with him without grabbing up somebody that should go to someone else...

@Dblade26

The Hand are in New York and Elektra is an agent, but other than that I don't really have any plans for them until late season 2. They were just a useful outside source of mooks and I needed Elektra for Matt's season 1 arc. To be honest The Hand and the storylines around them are my least favourite parts of Daredevil's mythos.